The staff member left him at the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
Silas took a slow breath before knocking on the wooden door.
"Come in," an old, rasping voice replied.
Pushing it open, he was met by the faint fragrance of aged parchment. The office was lined wall-to-wall with bookshelves, tomes stacked neatly in perfect rows. The room had an elegance to it-though the man seated at the desk was anything but ordinary.
A bald, hunchbacked elder in a black robe raised his eyes, dull like dead fish yet carrying an oppressive weight.
"You're the breeder recommended by young Roxanne?" the man muttered.
"Yes, sir," Silas replied with deep respect. "My name is Silas. I'm a junior breeder."
From the casual way the old man addressed Roxanne, Silas knew instantly-this was no ordinary principal.
The elder waved a bony hand, a crooked grin flashing yellowed teeth. "Don't mind this old body. I've got one foot in the grave already."
Yet Silas stood carefully by the door, not daring to step forward. For all his frailty, the man radiated authority-the kind only those long accustomed to command could carry.
The silence was broken by the door creaking open again.
"Grandpa Muto!" Roxanne hurried inside, dignity momentarily forgotten as she jogged toward the old man. "Why didn't you eat the breakfast the cafeteria prepared? You'll hurt your stomach again."
Her voice was gentle but laced with scolding worry as she helped him sit straighter.
"Little Roxanne, why trouble yourself over this old man?" Muto chuckled hoarsely.
Watching quietly, Silas soon understood: this was the former Rustboro Gym Leader, Roxanne's teacher. His respect for the elder deepened.
Roxanne soon led Silas away, through bustling hallways. Students greeted her with deference, their crisp uniforms flashing in white, gray, and black-marking the Academy's three grade levels.
"You'll be serving as a temporary tutor," Roxanne explained softly. "Focus on training methods. Here's your class list-only about a dozen students. Elite education means small groups."
Silas scanned the names, tucking the paper away as they reached the classroom door. He steadied himself. Some of these students were even older than him and now, he was expected to teach them.
Taking a breath, he pushed the door open.
Instantly, a dozen curious eyes turned toward him.
Silas counted heads, then let a gentle smile settle onto his face. "Hello, everyone. Starting today, I'll be your temporary instructor for the next week."
The words had barely left his mouth when one student raised his hand.
Silas recognized him—the arrogant boy who had jeered during his last visit with Roxanne. Felton. A wealthy background, a sharp tongue.
"How old are you, Teacher?" Felton asked, his tone laced with doubt.
"I just turned seventeen," Silas answered evenly.
Gasps rippled across the room. The students exchanged shocked glances.
Felton smirked. "Seventeen? You're barely older than us. Are you sure you even have the ability to teach?"
Silas's smile never wavered, but in his chest, something darker stirred. The pirate in him-the boy raised among blades and blood-whispered that, at sea, this brat would already be dead.
He reined it in. Barely.
The others leaned forward, eager to see how their new teacher would respond.
Silas stepped down from the podium, his steps calm. Reaching Felton's desk, he casually picked up a textbook, rolled it into a tube-
Thwack!
and smacked it against Felton's forehead.
"You—!" the boy stared at him with anger flashing in his eyes.
"Next time," Silas interrupted smoothly, his voice low but carrying across the room, "address me with respect. That is the least you owe a teacher. Respect the one guiding your path."
Felton froze. His family's wealth had always shielded him, even teachers giving way before his arrogance. But the cold weight in Silas's eyes were sharp, merciless which cut deeper than any authority he'd known.
That gaze was not of a boy his age. It was the gaze of someone who had seen lives snuffed out like candles.
Felton's voice died in his throat.
Silas returned to the podium, his movements measured. Taking up a brush, he wrote characters boldly across the curtain:
Silas.
"This is my name," he said firmly. "I am a junior breeder. Teaching you the art of raising Pokémon… is more than enough for me."
The classroom fell into stunned silence.
Then, realization struck. Some students were heirs of local families, others from distant regions. All of them had been warned by their families of a new prodigy-a seventeen-year-old who had passed the breeder exam.
And now, he stood before them.
Not just a peer.
A teacher.
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(End of chapter)