Exam day. After a completely wasted night, No. 7 had devoured his books until dawn, the throbbing in his face all but forgotten. Only when the patrolling instructor barked at him did he reluctantly succumb to sleep.
He dreamed of the old woman again. This time, however, he wasn't passive. He'd snatched up a stool, and side-by-side with the "kindly" crone, they'd stormed the Bishop's office, the sound of slaps echoing satisfyingly.
Waking, No. 7 found his right cheek still a swollen mess, though marginally better. He prodded it gingerly. The sharp sting had subsided into a dull, persistent ache.
Sunlight poured through the high windows, rendering the dormitory in almost painfully sharp detail. These new eyes… he still wasn't accustomed to them. The world, in its hyper-clarity, induced a peculiar, disorienting vertigo.
"Well, look who's awake. Our star pupil."
No. 8, lounging against the opposite bedpost with crossed arms, smirked. "How'd you enjoy your stay in the purification room? Finally got a taste, eh? Took you long enough."
No. 7 dressed in silence, his movements carefully measured to avoid jarring his injured face.
"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" No. 8 sauntered over, relentless. "Putting on airs with those silver needles in the training yard, weren't you? Cat got your tongue now?" He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial, malicious whisper. "Serves. You. Right."
No. 7's hand stilled on his belt. He turned, the grotesque swelling lending his expression a certain ferocity. "Finished?"
The intensity in No. 7's gaze made No. 8 flinch back a half-step, though he quickly puffed his chest out again. "What? Itching for another fist from Silas…?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, shut your trap!" No. 6 materialized in the doorway, balancing two steaming cups. She shoved one at No. 7 and, with a contemptuous flick of her wrist, emptied the other near No. 8's feet. Scalding liquid splashed his boots. "Exam's starting. Save your venom."
Yelping and cursing, No. 8 hopped away. No. 6 watched him go, a dismissive snort escaping her pouted lips.
No. 7 took a tentative sip of the soup. Its warmth was a small comfort. "Thanks," he mumbled.
No. 6 just shook her head, producing a small tin of ointment from her pocket. "Here. Again."
The salve was cool, minty. No. 7 let out a soft sigh of relief. No. 6's touch was light, though her fingertips were calloused—a testament to the endless chores she undertook. She kept their shared space immaculate; everyone adored her for it.
As No. 7 idly scratched his cheek, he noticed a faint blue luminescence tracing the veins and tendons of his hand. *The developer.* He'd been subconsciously gathering Tidal Force, ready to strike No. 8, and the tell-tale glow had reappeared.
"Still potent after all this time, huh?" He scrubbed his hand vigorously against the rough bedsheet, the azure streaks dimming.
"Come on," No. 6 urged. "No. 3's waiting."
The corridor teemed with anxious students. No. 3 materialized, slinging an arm around each of their shoulders.
"Hey! Guess what I cooked up?" he stage-whispered, his loose white linen robe billowing dramatically. He shot furtive glances left and right, then, with a conspiratorial flourish, flipped up his cuff. The underside was a dense tapestry of minuscule, fly-speck script.
No. 7 sucked in a breath. The penmanship was far too neat for No. 3's clumsy hand.
"Are you certifiably insane?" No. 6 hissed, yanking his sleeve down. "They'll string you up if you're caught!"
No. 3 just grinned, utterly unconcerned. "Relax. I snagged a seat in the corner." He winked at No. 7. "Want in on this? No. 1 himself prepped it for me. I swear, I'm saving him my meat patty at lunch today, no matter what."
No. 7 stared at No. 3's earnest, guileless smile, then scanned the crowd for No. 1. The thought of *that* No. 1—the one who usually took an eternity to string two words together—aiding in such blatant cheating was almost laughable. But No. 1 was nowhere to be seen.
"No thanks," No. 7 said finally. "You just watch yourself. Though, seriously, I wouldn't risk it."
No. 3 clapped him on the shoulder, then bounded off to catch No. 4, who flinched as he approached. Soon, the two were arm-in-arm, their laughter echoing.
Rounding a corner, they faced the arched entrance of the examination hall. Silas stood sentinel, his hawk-like gaze dissecting every student who entered.
As No. 7 passed, Silas's eyes flickered to his swollen face for a nanosecond before moving on, as if he'd seen nothing at all. No. 7 offered a wry, lopsided grin. Yesterday's punch still ached, but deep down, he knew Silas hadn't wanted to throw it.
Inside, a dozen wooden desks stood in neat rows. Marina was perched on the high platform, cradling her head in one hand, clearly already battling one of her infamous headaches as she watched the students file in.
"Two hours. Anyone caught cheating gets a personal escort to the purification room," she announced, her gaze fixed on the exam papers before her, as if each additional word was a fresh torment.
No. 7 found his assigned seat, uncapped his pen, and jotted down the first answer, all while covertly monitoring No. 3, seated diagonally ahead.
Not even three minutes in, No. 3 made his move. With a comically exaggerated arm-scratch, he surreptitiously lifted his cuff for a peek. *Subtlety, thy name is not No. 3.*
No. 7 kept one eye on his paper, the other on the unfolding drama. The female instructor patrolled, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm that frayed his nerves.
Reaching No. 3, she paused for a beat, two, then strolled on as if he were invisible.
Silas, stationed at the rear, arms crossed, exuded an aura of icy vigilance. His gaze swept the room, yet somehow, it slid right over No. 3, as if the boy were made of thin air.
*Weird. Did everyone collectively go blind today?* No. 7 mused. This was…not normal. He risked a glance towards Marina.
"No. 7! What are you gawking at? Fancy another night in the purification room, do you?"
"N-no! Nothing! Just… my face aches. Stretching it a bit." Soft snickers rippled around him. No. 7 ducked his head. *Right. So they're not blind after all.*
Two hours later, the bell clanged, signaling the exam's end. No. 7 exhaled, long and slow. He'd nailed it. First place again, most likely. He was a good student, and frankly, No. 3's get-rich-quick schemes always rubbed him the wrong way.
*He's getting extra tutoring later, whether he likes it or not,* No. 7 resolved.
The refectory buzzed like a beehive. No. 7 and No. 6, trays in hand, navigated to their usual table. No. 3 was already there, beaming and waving, his tray groaning under the weight of two meat patties.
"Look! Scored an extra one for No. 1!"
Following his gaze, they saw No. 1 seated alone by a window. Sunlight, fractured by the stained glass, dappled him in kaleidoscopic light, setting his golden hair ablaze. He chewed his greens with meticulous, almost reverent care, like an alpaca on a sacred pasture.
No. 3 hefted his tray—the one clearly laden with the special offering—and trotted over with an air of grave importance.
No. 7 and No. 6 exchanged a knowing look and fell in step behind him.
"No. 1! This is for you!" No. 3 plunked the meat patty down, his voice a conspiratorial rumble. "Thanks, man. Seriously, I was toast without you."
No. 1 looked up. His eyes, a startling, pale grey, met theirs. "I do not consume flesh." His voice was a mere breath, yet it carried with crystalline clarity. He gently pushed the patty back. "God teaches us the body is a cage for the soul, to be kept unsullied."
He added, "Assisting others requires no recompense. God loves all, and He will especially aid those in need."
"Even if that aid involves… helping them cheat?" No. 7's tone was sharper than he intended.
"The examination is but a worldly formality." No. 1's gaze drifted, his composure unruffled. "True piety resides within. No. 3 required assistance; therefore, I assisted. Should any of you have queries of a spiritual nature, you may approach me at any time."
With that, he collected his tray and glided away, his white robe whispering behind him.
"No. 1's a real oddball, isn't he? Goes to all that trouble making me a cheat sheet, then wants nothing for it," No. 3 grumbled, thoroughly mystified.
"Perhaps that *is* piety," No. 7 mused, watching the retreating figure. "He bails you out, and you immediately call him odd. You've got a ways to go in the gratitude department, my friend."
"He *is* a bit strange, though," No. 6 interjected. "For someone so learned—he's practically a walking encyclopedia of the scriptures—why is he still languishing here with us? Shouldn't he be off for advanced study in the capital? He looks a good ten years older than any of us, at least."
"Who cares about him," No. 7 declared, demolishing his own meat patty in two savage bites. His gaze then swiveled, with predatory intent, towards No. 3's remaining portion.