Dialogue on the Nature of Thought, Being, and Society. The title embossed on the cover of the 500-page tome was heavy, promising.
Arthur sat on a stool facing the open window, the book resting on his lap. He had been reading for ten hours. To an observer, he looked as if he were deep in ponderous reflection. In truth, he was looking out at the sky, watching the students scuttling toward their classes, watching the world beneath him.
He believed himself to be the sun, hanging high above it all. He grinned. He knew the truth, and they did not.
Time passed; setting changed. Somewhere in the background, a lecture was droning on:
"To be marked present, you must wear your shoes, your socks, your pants, and your underpants. Your shirt must be buttoned under your vest, held together by your coat and tie. And they must all be clean. Some of you failed to meet these requirements. Remember to wear something else when in your Magic Combat class if you do not want to wash your clothes."
Arthur heard none of it. By the third word, he had deemed it unworthy of his attention.
I'm special. Of course I am, he thought, his internal voice smooth and cold. I developed my consciousness long before anyone else.My eyes can see beyond external appearances. Look at them… not even able to put on their clothes properly.These are my peers? What a joke.
He turned a page without looking at it.
My intellect is unmatched. I am simply limited by my physical body, he mused. When I decide to stop holding back, I will be unmatched as a mage as well.The instructors see it. The Headmaster sees it! Cedric is talented, I might consider him my equal in that regard, but he is still an immature, ignorant child like the rest of them.
"Hey, do you want to join our group to write the essay together?"
A student standing next to him broke his reverie. Arthur glanced over. The rest of the row behind the boy was looking at him, hopeful.
They are so adorable, Arthur thought, a sneer curling his lip. Like a herd of lambs. They need me to survive, but this world has no shortage of them.
"No," Arthur said flatly.
He turned back to the window.
I'm sure I came across as arrogant, he reasoned. But if I try to explain myself, I'm sure they'll see me as weak.I doubt they'll change their minds regardless of what I say, not that I'd care for their lesser opinions. They are probably hoping for me to fail. They are so simple-minded.
Speaking to them—any of them—is pointless.
A simple man would not notice it. An intelligent man would not make enemies. But those who are untouchable would not care about any of that.
Arthur smiled at his reflection in the glass.
Of which, I am the latter.
"Alright, who can tell me the answer to this equation?"
The mathematics instructor tapped the blackboard with a thin wooden pointer, the rhythmic clack-clack echoing against the silence.
X - 8 = 15
Arthur stared at the chalk dust floating in the sunbeam hitting the board.
How elementary, he thought, stifling a yawn behind his hand. The answer is 23. But there is no point in me wasting energy to raise my hand.
He leaned back, watching the other students scramble to scribble on their parchment.
I'll prove myself to instructors who still doubt me in assessments, but there is no need for me to demonstrate my abilities to children.
"Alright, everyone, take up your wooden swords again, and find your partner from yesterday."
The afternoon sun baked the training grounds, turning the white sand into a shimmering reflector of heat. Arthur stepped into the section he had occupied the day prior. A temporary outline scratched into the earth by a thin branch separated his designated battlefield from the rest, a fragile border between safety and violence.
"Remember, no usage of sword aura is allowed unless I tell you!" the instructor shouted. His voice, usually booming, quickly dissipated, swallowed by the vast, open air of the field.
"Ugh, I can't believe I have to do this again with you."
Arthur's opponent loomed over him. He was a mountain of a boy, broad-shouldered and thick-necked.
"Don't run like you did last time," the boy sneered, rolling his neck with a sickening crack. "Or I'll aim for something more painful."
Arthur held his wooden sword loosely, his stance low.
He is, without a doubt, larger and stronger than me, Arthur analyzed, his eyes scanning the boy's posture. His lack of pity and compassion makes me deduce he's not a commoner. This is within the realm of reason, as the Magic Combat class is the one class we share.
He watched the boy adjust his grip.
However, a noble with all their backing would not have stopped if their opponent could no longer wield their weapon—how chivalrous. Therefore, he must be the son of a knight. Of course, this would mean that they have probably been training with the sword since they were young.
Arthur tightened his grip on the hilt. In short, this means that I will probably lose this fight.
That doesn't mean I can't win. If it was a fight to the death, there is no question. But because this won't even be graded, there's no point in showing off.
To his left, on another mat, a student dropped their sword and frantically clawed at their eyes, screaming. "AHHH!!"
Arthur didn't flinch. Throwing sand is so barbaric. If he won't use cheap tricks, I won't either. No, I won't do that. But the point of this exercise is to win.
"Are you ready?" the boy asked. His tone was irritable, eyebrows arched, eyes staring daggers into Arthur's chest.
Yes, that's right. For better or for worse, the mind adapts, Arthur thought, his internal monologue racing. The body will not want to use more energy than it needs to; it will want to conserve it. If he was able to beat me yesterday in his sleep, his brain would have concluded it's unnecessary to use the energy he did to finish the fight.
Therefore, he will use less energy. He will go easier on me, and I can take advantage of that overconfidence. Well, that is unless he's mad and wants to kill me—which he seems to want—but I can take advantage of that as well.