「 ✦ Rimuru Tempest ✦ 」
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.
I blinked.
One second, I was laying on a rooftop with Daisy curled on my chest, and the next—I was standing in a convenience store.
Neat rows of packaged bento, plastic-wrapped sandwiches, and seasonal onigiri lined the shelves. An air conditioner hummed somewhere above the drink aisle. Outside the glass doors, Tokyo moved like a muted dream. Sunlight poured in like syrup.
Beautiful and nostalgic.
And leaning against the instant noodle section, looking annoyingly familiar in that too-loose office button-up, was him.
"…For real?"
Satoru Mikami turned his head toward me with that half-lazy grin he always used when he was about to say something smug. "Took you long enough."
He looked exactly like I remembered—mid-thirties, tired eyes, a little bit of that salaryman, general contractor slump in his shoulders. I didn't say anything. Just stared.
"You've been busy," he said, pulling a cup ramen off the shelf and turning it over to read the label. "Classic fantasy fare."
"You're not real," I replied flatly.
"Neither are you," he said with a shrug, then gestured at the drink fridge. "Wanna grab a melon soda? I think we need one."
I hesitated, then sighed and walked over. My hand went right through the glass door. Cold air and condensation hit me anyway. We walked around the store. Like old college friends who took different paths but still remembered how to be annoyed in sync.
He poked at a rice ball. "You always liked the tuna-mayo."
"I like the salmon better now."
"Ohhh, excuse me, Your Majesty. You evolve taste too?"
That earned a side-eye. He grinned wider, then bit into a fried chicken stick he hadn't paid for. No clerk in sight. No one ever entered. We were alone in this plastic memory.
"Let's talk about that," he said, through a mouthful of food. "You killed two humans back there. Didn't even blink. Remember when you used to feel guilty real-talking friends?"
I grabbed a sandwich and peeled the plastic like it was the most important thing in the world. "They weren't innocents."
"Neither were you," he said. "But you used to care. Now you just rampage around like a god having a tantrum."
I chewed. Tuna. Not bad.
He leaned closer, voice softer. "When did I disappear? Was it when you absorbed Ifrit? When you gained human form? Or did you shed me the moment you stopped crying over Shizu-san?"
I didn't flinch. Just looked him dead in the eye.
"I didn't shed you. I built on you."
"Oh, is that what this is?" He twirled a lollipop between his fingers. "Growth? Evolution? Is that the word we're using now?"
"I'm not human anymore," I said.
"Neither were the ones you killed," he snapped back. "But I didn't think that mattered to you."
Silence.
We stood there, surrounded by heat-lamp croquettes and candy bars.
"Back then," I said, voice low, "I hesitated. Every choice tore me apart. I waited for people to prove themselves, gave second chances. Some of them backfired."
"So now everyone gets one chance?" he said. "What's next? Public executions for jaywalking?"
"I killed two thugs who tried to rape a woman and kicked my cat into a wall," I said, voice like steel. "If that's a moral line for you, go haunt someone else."
He whistled. "There it is. The dragon spine. You sound like you're proud."
"I'm resolved." I dropped the sandwich wrapper in a nonexistent trash bin. "That's the difference."
He stared at me, the smile finally gone.
I met his eyes.
"I'm not heartless," I said. "But I've stopped trying to be someone who flinches at every drop of blood. If I did, I'd be dead a hundred times over. You know that."
"…You're right," he said after a beat.
The admission surprised me more than I'd admit.
He grabbed a pudding cup, peeled the foil lid, and took a bite. "Still think you're an asshole, though."
I chuckled. "You always did."
He looked at me again, and this time there was no mockery in his expression. Just something tired. Maybe even sad.
"I'll be back," he said quietly, tapping the spoon against his lip. "I'm not going anywhere. You can call it evolution all you like, but I'm still in there. You're gonna see me again. Probably when you start wondering how many more you can kill before you forget how to stop."
The lights flickered.
The hum of the A/C faltered.
I reached out—maybe to say something, maybe just to hold that last moment—
—and woke up.
Daisy was snuggled against my chest, tail twitching slightly.
I could still taste pudding.
And tuna-mayo.
"…Tch," I muttered, brushing hair from my face. "Asshole."
··—–—⚜—–—···
The curtains rippled slightly in the morning breeze.
Five floors up, the window yawned open. I stood at the edge, hotel bathrobe fluttering just slightly over hanged clothes. Daisy was nestled lazily in the crook of my arm, purring with the slow smugness of a cat who knew we'd gotten away with something.
Which we had.
Because I hadn't paid for this room.
I'd just... appeared inside it sometime after midnight.
The guest, a traveling noble from some countryside barony, hadn't even noticed. A minor perception interference spell (a little something I picked up back at Engrassia's Freedom Academy library) had him snoring like a possessed vacuum cleaner while I enjoyed the king-sized bed and miniature chocolates.
I took a step onto the windowsill, balancing easily despite the height.
Daisy flicked her ears. "Meow?"
"Yeah, yeah. Five stories. You'll be fine."
Then I jumped.
The wind rushed past us in a soft roar. I landed on the alley's stone floor with a muted thump and kept walking. Daisy hopped gracefully to my shoulder like she hadn't just participated in a petty crime.
The city stretched before us in its busy sprawl—smoke curling from chimneys, merchants yelling out deals that sounded suspiciously like scams, and adventurers milling around like underfed stray dogs.
I blended right in.
Well, I would have If I didn't look like an androgynous beauty dragged out of a fairytale, hair a little tousled, eyes too clear, skin too smooth, and build too slim for anyone to assume I had a spine.
Their mistake.
At the end of a street downtown, the Adventurer's Guild stood like a proud, beer-stained beacon near the town center—half tavern, half bureaucratic black hole, with a side order of body odor. Eugh. A wooden sign swung above the door, painted with a chipped sword and a faded emblem that promised both danger and glory.
Daisy leapt down and strutted ahead like she owned the place.
I followed.
The moment I stepped in, the air was overpowering—smoke, sweat, and the smell of spilled ale. A couple dozen eyes slid toward me, assessing. Most moved on.
One didn't.
He was big. Maybe six-foot-five. Bald. Covered in leather armor that looked like it had never been cleaned and probably smelled like wet dogs and failed dreams. His group—three other equally unpleasant types—eyed me like wolves spotting an unguarded lamb.
"Hey, sweetheart," the brute said, licking his lips. "You lost?"
I didn't answer. Just walked past him toward the registration counter.
He blocked me with one arm, muscled and veined like a ham roast. His hand reached out—brazen, slow, the way a man reaches for something he doesn't think can fight back.
He touched my shoulder.
"Maybe you need help looking for a bed—"
Wrong move.
There was a snap, like a twig being crushed underfoot.
Then a crack—wet and sharp.
He screamed loudly. His wrist hung at an unnatural angle. Bones visibly shifted beneath skin. His fingers twitched, spasming as he cradled the ruined hand and stumbled back, howling like an idiot who'd never been taught cause and effect.
"Consequences," I muttered softly. "Rules and consequences, right?"
The guild hall fell silent.
I dusted imaginary lint off my sleeve and kept walking.
The receptionist blinked once, then again. She was young—probably in her twenties—wearing standard-issue Guild garb and the expression of someone wondering if she should call security or offer me tea.
"Uh… how can I help you?"
"I want to register," I said, calmly. "New adventurer."
She looked at the man still groaning behind me, then back at me. "Right. Okay. Name?"
"Rimuru."
"...Just Rimuru?"
"Sure."
A beat passed.
She handed over a rectangular piece of metal, plain and a dull, weathered blue—the color of someone with no reputation, no achievements, and, presumably, no future.
"Status Plate. Give it a drop of your blood," she said. "Five silver to issue. Also serves as identification and tracking. Basic enchantments. Don't break it."
I dropped five silver coins onto the counter, money freshly lifted from a pompous merchant whose coin pouch had been begging to get robbed.
"Thanks," I said.
The receptionist nodded slightly. "Welcome to the Guild, Rimuru. You're officially ranked Blue—entry-level. Uh, maybe... try not to shatter any more limbs?"
"No promises."
I pocketed the plate, turned around, and walked back toward the exit, brushing past the adventurers still watching with thinly masked wariness. Daisy padded behind me, tail flicking smugly. The man whose hand I'd broken glared at me with hate in his eyes. I smiled, just a little.
It wasn't my most threatening smile. Just a polite one.
He looked away.
Good choice.
The sun hit my face as I stepped back into the street, freshly stamped as the lowest of the low.
"Blue rank scum, reporting for duty," I murmured, unable to suppress the excitement of adventurer life in another world. "Guess everyone starts somewhere."
Daisy meowed in agreement.
And we walked on.
The capital unfolded itself beneath the noonday sun. Daisy and I wandered it all. She perched on my shoulder like a very tiny, very judgmental queen, tail flicking every time someone got too close. Which was often. Apparently, an effeminate guy carrying a snow-colored kitten was a rare enough sight to warrant stares—and, from the dumber ones, ill-advised pick-up attempts.
None ended well.
Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.
By midafternoon, I decided it was time to secure Daisy somewhere safe before tonight's plans kicked off. We returned to the same five-star hotel from last night—the one I had, technically, trespassed into without payment. This time, though, I walked in through the front door like I owned the place.
With a yawn, I fished out the coins from my pocket—freshly made using Material Creation after an intense ten seconds of observing, analyzing, and perfectly replicating the local currency. As I handed the heavy gold coins to the stunned concierge, I couldn't resist a comment.
"I'm sure counterfeiting's illegal or something. Oh well." I smiled brightly. "Long live economic instability."
The man only nodded robotically and immediately offered me the best suite.
No reaction? Boring.
I plopped Daisy down onto the luxurious bed, fluffed a pillow under her head, and scratched her behind the ears.
"Stay here," I said. "Be adorable."
Daisy blinked once. Twice. Then tucked her paws in, looking unbearably smug. With that settled, I left the hotel, slipping into the growing dusk.
Eventually, night fell.
The city became a quieter, meaner thing. The royal castle stood tall ahead—walls of white stone and towers gleaming like fangs against the starless sky. I approached casually until the main gates came into view.
Then I blurred.
Haze.
I melted into the night, invisible and undetectable, footsteps lighter than feather.
The guards at the gates chatted about ale and women, oblivious me slipping past them. I breezed through the outer grounds, past polished marble halls and pompous gardens, past endless tapestries celebrating forgotten kings and pointless wars.
The deeper I went, the quieter it became. No more polished corridors. No more golden chandeliers. Just simple stone pathways and rusting gates leading toward the castle's backyard—the supply zones where nobody important went unless they had to.
Perfect.
A cool night breeze greeted me as I crossed into the open-air courtyard.
Moonlight silvered the ground. And there, in a lonely corner surrounded by crates and broken barrels, I found her.
A girl—no, a young woman. Black hair tied back into a simple tail. A sharp, graceful frame wrapped in simple training gear, soaked in sweat. Her sword—a katana, slender and gleaming—whirled through the air in brutal, mechanical, somewhat exhausted precision.
Strike. Parry. Step. Strike. Strike.
Again. And again. And again.
Each motion was perfect and desperate.
Anxiety hung over her like a stormcloud.
Her shoulders tensed with every movement.
Her breathing was shallow and sharp and ragged at the edges.
I watched silently.
Her name was Shizuku Yaegashi. One of the Heroes summoned from another world. A swordswoman polished to a mirror's edge. Supposed to be calm, collected, the "dependable big sister" of her group as I had observed during the brief time I had accompanied them.
Supposed to be.
Right now, she looked more like a girl drowning underwater.
Strike. Step. Strike.
The edge of her blade trembled imperceptibly.
The kind of tremor that said she wasn't sleeping well.
The kind of tremor that said she was fraying apart, slowly, invisibly, under the pressure.
I leaned against a half-collapsed crate, folding my arms, still cloaked in Haze. There was no need to announce myself. Not yet.
Some struggles deserve their solitude.
Some truths are uglier when dragged into the light.
Besides... I was curious.
About how long she could keep dancing on the edge of her own breaking point.
Shizuku swung her sword one more time—hard enough to send a gust of wind slicing through the courtyard.
Then she dropped to her knees, panting with her head bowed, hands trembling against the hilt. Not from exhaustion, but from fear and doubt and guilt—the invisible monsters far more vicious than any beast.
Above, the moon stared down indifferently.
And I stayed there, hidden and patient.
Watching the slow, invisible battle unfold.
The night was young.
And some tragedies were best appreciated from the front row.
··—–—⚜—–—···
「 ✦ Shizuku Yaegashi ✦ 」
The night was a suffocating thing.
It clung to my skin, weighed down my sword, crawled into my lungs with every shallow breath I took. Again.
I slashed. Again. Parried. Again. Stepped forward, pivoted, struck. My muscles screamed in protest, my arms sluggish, my legs trembling, but I ignored them. I had to. There was no other option.
The katana in my hands blurred, cutting through the darkness in wide, desperate arcs. Each strike was a distraction. Each movement, a flimsy bandage pressed against a wound I didn't know how to heal.
Keep moving, I told myself. Keep breathing. Keep striking.
Because if I stopped, even for a moment—
If I let myself think—
If I let myself feel—
I would drown.
The nightmares had been worse lately.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
Hajime Nagumo.
Falling into the abyss of the Great Orcus Labyrinth. His face twisted in shock, in pain, in fear. No matter how many times I told myself he was alive—no matter how many times Kaori hoped so—the memory stayed with me. We're heroes, we were told. Chosen ones.The sword and shield of the humanity of this accursed world.
But that moment... that one, blinding moment... proved what none of us had wanted to face: We weren't invincible. We could die. We would die. This wasn't a game. This was war. And war was ugly and brutal and indifferent.
I knew this would happen the moment I agreed to come to this world. A war to save a foreign land. Heroes to be crafted from normal students. It sounded noble. Righteous, even. It sounded clean.
But it wasn't.
People died.
People screamed.
People broke.
Heroes weren't invincible. Hajime's fall proved that. We could die. Easily. Meaninglessly. And when that realization took root, it never left. It gnawed at the back of my mind during every mission, every battle, every uneasy night spent staring at the ceiling, pretending I didn't hear Kaori crying quietly two beds over.
War. Killing. Death. Violence.
Over and over again.
The faces of enemies I had cut down blurred in my mind, stacking on top of each other until they formed a tide of blank, bleeding faces. Voices screamed accusations in a language I didn't understand. The worst part was that I was getting used to it.
I was supposed to be the calm one. The strong one. The one who kept everyone steady. And yet here I was, alone, fighting shadows and nightmares in a forgotten courtyard under the watchful, pitiless gaze of the moon. The katana slipped slightly in my grip. I stumbled—just a little—then righted myself with a grunt.
Again.
I didn't stop until my body gave out. Until the sword fell from my hands with a dull clang, and I dropped to my knees, gasping. The stone beneath me was cold. The night air sharp against my burning lungs. My hands trembled, my heart raced wildly against my ribs, and my mind...
My mind was a storm of broken glass.
I don't want to die.
The thought was childish, selfish, pathetic—and yet true.
I bowed my head, letting the sweat drip from my forehead onto the stones. Letting the shame eat at me in silence. The world was vast and cruel.
We were so small. Was it cowardice to admit that? Was it betrayal to fear it?
I didn't know anymore.
I hated this weakness.
I hated the fear curling in my stomach.
I hated—
"You know,"—a voice broke through the spiral of my thoughts—"Those who fear death the most are often the ones trying hardest to live properly."
I jerked my head up, heart leaping painfully into my throat.
There, seated casually atop a broken crate not ten feet away, was—
"—Rimuru?!"
I scrambled back instinctively, reaching for my sword out of pure reflex before realizing who it was. He sat there, smiling that lazy, almost teasing smile, legs crossed neatly, one hand propping up his chin. The moonlight framed him almost unfairly well—silver hair catching the faint light, clothes fluttering slightly in the breeze.
The impression of something ageless, untouchable, lingered around him.
"What—how—how long have you—?" I stammered, still half-convinced I was hallucinating.
He chuckled softly.
"Relax, Shizuku," he said, uncrossing his legs and standing from his seat. "I'm not here to haunt you."
I opened my mouth to protest, to demand an explanation, but the words tangled uselessly in my throat. Rimuru walked toward me, slow and unthreatening, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His next words stopped my heart cold.
"You fear death not because you are weak," he said softly, "but because you still have something you're desperately trying to protect... Am I right?"
I stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to just his voice, his presence. The night, the castle, the whole heavy weight pressing down on me—it all faded into a dull in the background.
"You think fearing it makes you unworthy?" Rimuru tilted his head, studying me with a gaze far too sharp for his youthful face. "It doesn't."
He smiled again—not mocking, not pitying. Something gentler. Something almost understanding. "You've been carrying too much," he said. "Pretending you have to be the unbreakable one."
I clutched my katana tighter, the tremors in my hands refusing to still.
"But if you're so afraid of falling apart," he murmured, stepping closer until he stood only a few feet from me, "how do you expect to hold others together?"
The words hit me harder than any sword blow.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I could handle it. That I had to handle it.
But I couldn't.
Because deep down, some part of me already knew.
Rimuru knelt so that we were eye level, his expression steady.
"You're allowed to be scared," he said. "You're allowed to be tired."
The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain.
"And you're allowed," he said more softly, "to not carry all that weight alone. It's like you bleed just to know you're alive."
I blinked furiously, forcing the wetness in my eyes back.
"Why..." My voice broke. "Why are you saying this?"
Rimuru gave a small smile, standing and brushing nonexistent dust off his coat.
"Because," he said, turning away, voice almost casual again, "I know what it's like. And if you keep training like this, you'll collapse before you even draw your blade when it matters."
I sat there for a moment longer, the cold stone leeching what little strength I had left.
Then—
"Get up," Rimuru said, voice brisk.
Before I could fully react, he tossed something toward me.
My katana. When did he…?
I fumbled slightly, catching it with both hands, the familiar weight grounding me more than I wanted to admit. He, meanwhile, bent down and picked up a stick from the side of the courtyard—a discarded, half-splintered branch.
He twirled it lazily once.
I blinked, confused.
"...What are you doing?"
Rimuru grinned.
"I'll humor you for a while," he said lightly. "Let's see if you're even in shape to whine about dying."
Before I could fully process the insult, he moved.
Fast.
I barely managed to raise my blade before his stick cracked against it with a sharp snap, the force jarring down my arms. I staggered back, and before I could reset my stance, Rimuru was already there, sweeping my legs out from under me with a casual, almost lazy strike.
I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
"What the hell—?!" I gasped, trying to scramble upright.
"Again," Rimuru said coolly.
No waiting. No mercy.
He pressed forward without hesitation, without a heartbeat of pause. Over and over, he knocked me down like I was a child flailing against an adult.
My strikes were deflected with effortless movements. My footing was destroyed before I could even establish it. My strength, already fraying, felt pitifully small under the relentless pressure he exerted with nothing more than a stick.
It wasn't just strength. It was intent. Overwhelming, smothering, unstoppable intent. I grit my teeth and threw myself forward again, shouting—this time putting all the frustration and fear boiling in my chest into my swing.
He sidestepped without even blinking.
The next thing I knew, my feet were off the ground and my back slammed into the dirt again.
"You're sloppy," Rimuru said, voice flat and unamused. "You're slow."
I forced myself to rise, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek. I knew he was holding back. That knowledge burned worse than the bruises.
Again I charged.
Again I was brought low.
"You hesitate," he said, circling me like a predator. "You second-guess. You pull your strikes at the last second."
I tried to speak, to deny it—But before I could, he flicked the stick against the back of my knees and dropped me again like a sack of grain. I lay there, panting, furious, humiliated—And still listening.
Because there was something real in his voice despite the harshness of it.
"That mindset of yours," Rimuru continued, standing over me like a judgment, "is weaker than any sword skill. You don't want to die." His tone was pitiless, almost cold. "You don't want your friends to die. You think that's enough to keep you standing in battle?"
I clenched my fists against the stone floor, the shame burning under my skin.
"You think fear will stop an enemy's sword?" he asked, voice growing sharper, slicing through the night like a scalpel. "You think hesitation will protect the people you care about? No… use fear to drive yourself forward, not to hold yourself down."
I squeezed my eyes shut. The images came back. Blood. Screams. Hajime Nagumo falling. Enemies laughing.
"You want a world where no one dies," Rimuru said, almost scornfully. "But you're too weak to make it real."
His footsteps came closer, stopping right next to me.
"You fight like you're begging the world to be kind to you," he said. "As if mercy can be won by asking nicely."
I opened my eyes. Rimuru was staring down at me, unreadable.
"And that's why," he said, voice almost gentle now in its cruelty, "you'll lose."
The silence that followed was heavier than any blow.
I lay there, breathing hard, body battered, mind reeling.
Rimuru's presence was like a monolith—unshakable, immovable, absolute.
It made me wonder—What had he gone through?
What kind of battles had carved such ruthless certainty into his soul?
There was no hesitation in him. No conflict. No self-doubt. Only a pure, overwhelming aggression that disregarded everything else.
He would move forward. He would win. No matter what he had to do. No matter who or what stood in his way. I realized then—He wasn't just strong because he had power. He was strong because he had already made a choice. A terrible, absolute choice that I hadn't yet found the courage to make.
And until I did—
I would always be weaker.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up onto my knees.
I met his gaze, trying to steady the shaking in my limbs, the rattling in my heart.
And Rimuru—Rimuru just smiled faintly, tilting his head as if to say:
Finally ready to start, are you?
I forced myself to my feet.
My body screamed in protest. Every bruise, every ragged breath, every throbbing joint begged me to stay down. But my heart was louder now.
I gripped my katana tighter, lowering my stance. No more hesitation. No more pulling back. I didn't wait for a signal.
The moment my balance shifted forward, Rimuru's eyes sharpened slightly — almost imperceptibly — and I moved.
Fast. Hard. With everything I had left.
I drove forward, a low thrust aiming straight for his center. A move I would have hesitated on before, afraid to hurt, afraid to cross a line. This time, I didn't care.
Rimuru's stick intercepted my blade with a simple flick — effortless, almost lazy — and the force of it vibrated down to my bones. But he wasn't laughing. There was no mockery in his face. Only a detached focus, as if measuring me, weighing me on some invisible scale.
I pivoted, using the recoil to spin into a low slash — one that should have caught him off-guard if I had been facing any normal opponent. Rimuru stepped just an inch to the side. The katana whistled through empty air.
Before I could recover, the end of his stick jabbed sharply into my shoulder, numbing the arm instantly. I stumbled. Teeth gritted, I shifted my grip to my left hand and struck again. And again. And again.
Each strike faster, sharper — less restrained. Desperation tightening around my throat like a noose.
He blocked them all, dancing around me with maddening ease, never once countering fully, never once bringing me down — but never letting me touch him, either.
I poured everything into my assault — not just skill, but all the terror, all the frustration, all the helplessness I'd been carrying since the Great Orcus Labyrinth. The fear of war. The fear of death. The fear of losing everyone I cared about. I screamed it into every swing.
This was what it meant to make fear drive you, not hold you down. I only understood then. And yet still—
Still I couldn't reach him.
Rimuru's stick met my sword one final time, locking it out of line, and with a slight twist of his wrist, he disarmed me — the katana clattering uselessly to the ground. I gasped for air, trembling, staring up at him.
He looked at me for a long, heavy moment.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Better," he said, voice low. "But still not enough."
I felt something hot and bitter burn at the back of my throat.
"What do you want from me?" I rasped, the words ripped out of me, raw and cracked.
Rimuru tilted his head slightly, considering.
"Not what I want," he said. "What you need."
He took a step closer, the stick lowering at his side.
"You want to protect people? Good. Then stop being afraid of what you have to become to do it."
Another step. I was frozen. Listening. Hurting.
"You're not fighting the enemy out there," he said, his stick tapping lightly against my forehead. "You're fighting the enemy in here."
I squeezed my eyes shut, fists clenching uselessly at my sides. Because I knew. I knew he was right. The enemy was the fear that made me hesitate—the fear that held me down. The enemy was the guilt that made me hold back. The enemy was me.
Slowly, painfully, I forced myself to meet his eyes again.
And in that moment—
I understood something about the boy named Rimuru Tempest.
He wasn't cruel because he enjoyed it.
He was cruel because he knew what it took to survive. Because he had already bled for that knowledge. Because he had already killed that weakness inside himself.
And if I couldn't do the same—
I wouldn't survive the war ahead.
Neither would the people I wanted to protect.
I swallowed hard. My voice shook as I said, "Teach me."