William Salwors could not recall his birth in images or sounds, and it might be said that his earliest memory was more of a data event. When he first opened his eyes, the world did not flood him with colors or warmth; instead, he saw a series of abstract patterns.
The doctors called him a quiet baby. His parents, high nobility of ducal rank from the highly respected Salwors family, considered him a blessing. But William knew, with the non-verbal understanding he possessed at the time, that he was profoundly different.
His parents took him to various doctors and psychiatrists. The term "autism" was mentioned, but it was an inadequate label. William had no difficulty understanding emotions.
The worst part was not others' confusion, but their pity. At age six, Dr. Henwald, a psychiatrist with breath that reeked of tobacco and despair, leaned forward during their third session and spoke in that insufferable tone adults often use when they assume children cannot grasp difficult concepts. "William, do you know why your parents brought you here?"
"Because my behavioral patterns deviate from statistical norms by approximately 4.7 standard deviations, causing them psychological stress they cannot process logically," William replied without a trace of resentment in his voice. "They believe you can recalibrate me to acceptable parameters."
Dr. Henwald's pen stopped moving entirely. From that day forward, for about fourteen years afterward, he entered the academy with remarkable tranquility and was able to live his life without dwelling on unnecessary matters.
Then Welt Rothes came to the academy.
From the first day, the file labeled "W-01" became the most active subject in William's mind. This boy was an impossibility that had emerged from nowhere. His background indicated he was a gifted orphan. His initial test results showed extraordinary Essence potential. His behavior in practical classes demonstrated consistent and deliberate failure. None of it made sense.
...…
My memories of the past feel like dust floating through an ever-expanding universe. In this world, they taste like the bland bread and distilled water provided by the academy. My soul, or whatever remains of it, craves indulgence. I need something to remind me that I am not merely someone pretending to be a demon in pursuit of something greater.
I need mushroom noodles!
And I am not talking about the elaborate dishes served in the nobility's dining halls, where servants in rigid uniforms present portions so small they mock the very concept of eating. I need a steaming bowl of noodles from a shabby stall in the Old District on the outskirts of Clockthon, synonymous with gas lamps fighting against fog and the aroma of charcoal mingling with the scent of sewers. That food was my lifeline in the life I left behind. The only dish that could remind me what it felt like to truly live, with desperation and honesty.
Leaving the academy for a single night was no problem. My status as a "patient" granted me certain freedoms, as long as Grisa Rash did not report any major deviations. The girl possessed observational skills equivalent to an exceptionally dense brick, so maintaining her ignorance required minimal effort. My first step was to recruit a social shield.
I found Finnian in his room, staring at a calculus textbook with the expression of someone who had just been personally insulted by mathematics. His hair stood at impossible angles, and the ink stains on his fingers suggested he had spent more time scribbling over problems than solving them.
"Finnian," I said, deliberately keeping my tone flat. "I am going out for dinner. Your face resembles failed bread dough that never properly fermented. Fresh air and warm broth might improve blood circulation to your brain."
He startled as if I had slapped him. "Go out? But... we're not allowed..."
"We are allowed if it is for medical reasons. I have 'lost my appetite' for dormitory food. You are 'stressed from studying.' This is proactive action to maintain our health." I delivered this logic with the certainty of natural law. Finnian's mouth opened and closed several times before he finally nodded slowly, perhaps too mentally exhausted to construct an argument.
The second piece was more challenging. Irene Cheva. Asking her directly would trigger a chain of social protocols I did not want. It would be interpreted as romantic interest, leading to rumors, then attention, then destroying the profile I had carefully built as a harmless oddity. I needed bait that appealed to her intellect, not her social instincts.
I found her in the folklore section of the library, buried deep among shelves where even dust particles seemed to smell strange. She was reading a book titled "Things About Something in the Corners and Essence in Inanimate Objects," clearly a text considered heretical by the academy for its claims that Essence could inhabit non-biological objects. Her green eyes moved across the pages with meticulous care.
I approached the adjacent shelf, ostensibly searching for something completely unrelated. After a calculated pause, I whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Common misinterpretation, perhaps? The author conflates 'consciousness' with 'resonance trace.' Stones do not possess Essence; they merely capture and store traces of Essence that once passed through them."
I felt the shift in her attention like a change in atmospheric pressure. Her reading stopped. Her breathing altered slightly.
"Resonance traces should fade over time," she responded. "This text documents resonance that has persisted for thousands of years. That is clearly not normal."
"Not if the medium has a perfect crystalline structure and is protected from external Essence fluctuations," I replied, pulling a random book from the shelf without looking at its title. "Like the black salt found in the deepest caves. But that is purely theoretical speculation, of course."
I turned and left, pulling Finnian from his awkward position near the door. As we passed the circulation desk, I spoke at a casual volume, knowing she was still within earshot. "The noodle stall in the Old District reportedly uses a rare mushroom called 'GlimmerCap.' According to some apocryphal texts, these mushrooms only grow in ruins contaminated with long-settled Essence residue. Perhaps that explains their faint luminescence."
I did not wait nor look back. I walked out with Finnian following like a confused puppy. But I did not need visual confirmation to know that approximately fifteen seconds later, a third set of footsteps, clearly belonging to a woman, followed us into the corridor.
The streets of the Old District were living archaeology of bygone times. The cobblestones were uneven and worn smooth by countless footsteps. Thin fog crept through narrow alleyways.
Finnian looked as though he expected assassins to leap from every shadow. His head swiveled in all directions, and he jumped whenever someone laughed too loudly or walked too close. In contrast, Irene moved through the maze of streets with quiet confidence. Her green eyes took in the surroundings around us.
"Aren't you afraid?" Finnian asked her, his voice trembling as if he were frightened enough for all three of us.
Irene looked at him with a slight tilt of her head, a gesture she typically made when mildly puzzled. "Afraid of what, specifically? Poverty? Disease? The uncertainty that we might not return to the academy tonight?" Her tone carried no sarcasm. "Fear is unproductive without a clear threat."
Finnian's mouth moved soundlessly for several seconds before he gave up trying to respond. I almost smiled. The girl had just delivered a more rational psychological analysis than most professional psychiatrists managed in a full session.
The noodle stall occupied a niche between two leaning buildings, feeling like a hidden gem. Weathered wood topped with patched canvas, tended by an elderly man with a deeply lined face. His hands bore scars and calluses from decades of honest work, stirring a large cauldron of broth that filled the cramped space with sufficiently rich aroma.
We sat on rickety wooden benches that had clearly survived decades beyond their intended lifespan. I ordered three bowls without consulting my companions. This was not a democracy.
When the bowl was placed before me, the entire world narrowed to one point of perfect focus. The broth was slightly cloudy and indescribably complex, its surface decorated with fragrant droplets of oil. Glimmer Cap mushrooms floated in the hot liquid like luminescent jellyfish, emanating a pale blue glow that pulsed gently. The noodles themselves were thick and irregular.
The mushrooms melted on my tongue with extraordinary tenderness, while the noodles provided complementary chewiness.
We both enjoyed our meal and left promptly after thirty minutes.
"How much does it cost?" I asked.
"Seven grior total," the old man said once our bowls were empty.
The price hit Finnian like a physical blow. His eyes widened comically and he choked, as if his vocal cords had forgotten how to function. Seven grior was approximately a week's allowance for most academy students. For street food, it was daylight robbery.
I calmly withdrew a small leather pouch from my inner pocket and counted out seven large silver coins, placing them in the vendor's weathered palm as casually as tipping a servant. The vendor nodded without surprise.
As we walked back through streets now shrouded in evening fog, Finnian's curiosity finally overcame his shock. "Seven grior, Welt! Where did you get that much money?"
I did not answer. I simply continued walking with my gaze fixed straight ahead. In my mind, I replayed a scene from several months before entering the academy, specifically in an opulent sitting room where a fat, sweating Viscount had laughed at the prospect of a logic duel with a small child. He had wagered three gryn coins, sixty grior, on his ability to defeat someone a quarter his age.
In the end, he lost in disbelief, but a deal was a deal. I had not stolen anything, and I "owned" that gold coin fair and square after betting with the old Viscount who had been visiting the capital.