He gave a thoughtful hum, lifting his cup again. After a small sip, he set it down and leaned forward just slightly, his voice warm and light.
"A long time ago," he began, "cores were discovered inside our bodies."
His voice was smooth as velvet, rich with an accent that curled his words like silk ribbons. They floated gently through the quiet room, like something he'd told a thousand times but never grew tired of.
"Back then—shortly after the universe began, or at least what we think was the beginning—our knowledge was... rather pitiful, I'm afraid. We weren't especially clever, couldn't communicate well, and spent most of our time trying not to be eaten by wild beasts or frozen by the cold."
His playful tone made the corners of my mouth twitch. A smile, small and silent.
"But as centuries passed," he said, folding his hands, "some began to notice something unusual. Something deep inside them—buried in both mind and body. A strange force that couldn't be explained. At first, they thought they were alone. Special. Chosen by something beyond understanding."
He gave a slow nod, as if agreeing with the thought.
"And with time… study, failure, a little more failure, and then practice—eventually learned how to use that force."
His fingers tapped lightly against the side of his cup, once.
"They named it cores."
The word was spoken clearly, almost reverently.
"Of course," he went on, "most people didn't know such things existed. So when someone began throwing fire from their fingertips or healing wounds with a whisper, well… it wasn't hard to see why others believed they were blessed by the heavens."
He tilted his head, his expression amused.
"More centuries passed. Villages became towns. Towns became empires. And among those empires, the thirst for knowledge grew. Those lucky enough to receive education began to ask questions—what are these powers? Why do only some people seem to have them?"
I listened closely. The soft ticking of a nearby clock filled the space where his voice briefly paused.
"Eventually," he said, his voice growing more thoughtful, "technology advanced. Tools were created. And the most curious scholars—those stubborn, brilliant minds—began to study cores in earnest."
He smiled to himself, like he could picture them hunched over their strange instruments and books.
"And at last, they discovered something incredible. Cores exist inside everyone."
He looked right at me, letting the words settle in the air.
"Everyone. Even the ones who never thought they had anything special. The only difference was… understanding. Some people had learned how to use them. Most hadn't."
My brows gently pulled together. I lowered my eyes to my tea.
His tone stayed gentle, but there was a glint of quiet pride in his eyes now.
"With this discovery, the scholars shared their findings with the emperors of each empire. Naturally, some of them laughed—what ruler doesn't enjoy dismissing things beyond their control? But the evidence was undeniable. And in time, even they believed it."
He leaned back, adjusting his posture with casual ease.
"That moment changed everything. Empires began to invest in research. Schools were built, libraries expanded. Knowledge became the real treasure. And the study of cores… it became a foundation for society."
A pause, Just long enough for me to lift my gaze again.
"But that wasn't the end of it," he said, voice dipping slightly. "They discovered something else. Something a little more… scandalous."
He glanced toward the sunlight, as if he were watching history unfold through it.
"Each royal family—each ruling empire—shared a dominant Lycoris core. A unique color that marked their bloodline."
I tilted my head, listening more carefully now.
"But… when they started examining others," he continued, "they found a few individuals whose core colors didn't match their supposed lineage. Which meant—" a faint smile tugged at his lips, "—a few of those called 'royalty'… weren't royal at all."
Silence settled between us for a few seconds.
He looked back at me, not with drama, but with a gentle seriousness.
"You see, the truth of a person," he said, fingers tapping lightly on the cup, "is not always written in their name or their crown. Sometimes, it's hidden inside them, quietly glowing... just waiting to be found."
He smiled at me then, a little sigh escaping his lips. I figured that maybe that line meant something more than it seems.
"There are four empires," he continued, settling more comfortably into his chair. "Each one tied to a color, a meaning, and a deity."
Eyes twinkling with mischief. "Let's start with the least interesting one, shall we?" he teased. Then, he laughed lightly and gave a quick glance behind me—toward Ms. Vesta, I assumed. "I'm joking, of course."
He cleared his throat, then proceeded.
"The Empire of Ephamour—home of the violet Lycoris—is known for its deep love of culture, history, and art. It's a place that remembers. A place that holds onto the past not out of fear, but out of love."
I listened closely.
"They're surrounded by lakes so clear they look like glass, and their skies are often soft and pale, like the morning after a long rain. Ephamour isn't built on power or wealth… it's built on memory. On meaning."
He paused for a moment, letting the image settle in my mind.
"There, old poems are still whispered into spells. Warriors carve symbols into their blades—not to make them sharper, but to honor masters from the past. Every little detail matters to them. Every story, every song, every brushstroke. They don't throw away the old ways just to chase something new. But they don't stay stuck in the past, either. They carry it forward."
I nodded slowly, beginning to understand what he meant.
"In Ephamour, art is sacred," he continued. "Painting is more than just color—it's a way to bring something back. Dance is more than movement—it's history told through the body. Their buildings still echo old styles, but they bend in ways no one's ever seen before. Even their battles look like a kind of dance. Graceful. Precise."
He smiled softly, almost to himself.
"But they don't do it all alone. Watching over them is their goddess—Lysveria. The Veiled Bloom, they call her. She's quiet, like their memory. But strong. And ever-present."
As I listened, I realized something. His words reminded me of things I'd seen before.
The patterns carved into the walls of Palace Kunzite. The way the halls were lined with paintings of women, like stories caught in still frames. The little details that seemed too delicate to notice unless you were truly looking.
Even outside the palace, when I stayed at the tavern with sir Exios, I saw it. In the way the people spoke. In how they moved. Calm, careful. Like they were all carrying something important—something they didn't want to forget.
Professor Sagra's eyes drifted toward the shelves behind me. Sunlight spilled through the windows, brushing across the room, and the little objects resting there seemed to glow—quietly holding the light like it belonged to them.
"She is the goddess of cultural memory, artistic rebirth, and reflective evolution," he said softly. "A divine keeper of forgotten beauty… of broken knowledge… of emotions carved deep into things left behind."
His voice slowed, almost like he was reciting something sacred.
"They say she walks barefoot across still waters, her veil trailing behind her like painted silk."
I could almost see it.
"A tall, graceful figure," he went on, "her body shifting with color and quiet music. Her gown is like a painting worn thin by time—made of old fresco and starlight sewn together. Her face is hidden beneath a porcelain half-mask, cracked with time. Sometimes, silver tears slip from behind it… but her voice—"
He paused, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
"Her voice sings in the dreams of poets and architects. Whispering things they don't know they remember… until they wake up and begin to create."
I stared down at my hands, feeling something stir in my chest.
"She remembers what the world forgets," he said. "And she offers those memories back—to anyone brave enough to shape them into something new."
There was something both heavy and gentle in his words, like holding a book too old to touch but too precious to look away from.
"Lysveria…" I murmured, the name felt soft in my mouth. "What a beautiful name."
Professor Sagra smiled, pleased. "Beautiful—as the goddess herself."
He leaned back a little, his eyes hazed with some distant memory.
"When I first studied her, years ago… I still remember the moment I heard her name spoken. I went completely silent. Just… stunned. Not by facts or history. But by how she was described." He chuckled softly. "I hoped I could capture that same feeling now."
His gaze returned to me, amused. "And judging by the look on your face… I think I did a pretty good job."
I quickly hid behind my teacup, trying not to show how embarrassed I felt.
His laugh warmed the air around us before he carried on.
"The Empire of Sluxiston. The green Lycoris."
Again, with his tone that shifted gently as he began.
"Sluxiston is nestled deep within a wide, living ring of forest and riverlands. Unlike villages built with tall towers or shining spires, this empire sinks into the earth. It doesn't rise—it settles, like roots claiming their place. The buildings grow with the trees, blend with the stone bones of ancient temples. Everything feels alive there. Waterfalls sing through the night. Villages sit quietly beside ponds that reflect the stars."
I closed my eyes for a second, imagining it all—lush, green, breathing.
"The people of Sluxiston don't live on nature," he said, "they live alongside it. They wear loose cloth made from wild-grown fibers. They don't fight with blades or flame. They fight with their bodies—their breath, their bones, their stillness. Martial arts aren't just for war. They're for balance. A sacred expression. Every movement is a kind of prayer, a kind of poem."
His way of words trailed like the rivers he described of this Empire.
"Sluxiston teaches this: to live is to grow. And to grow is to feed what comes next. Real power doesn't come from ruling over something. It comes from harmony. From listening. To your own body. To the forest. To the river's voice."
I didn't even notice myself leaning forward. My mind had already drifted far away—into a world that felt so different, yet somehow familiar.
"Even in battle, they say a Sluxiston warrior will do everything they can to end a fight before blood is ever drawn."
He smiled, eyes falling at the porcelain cup. "Their green Lycoris blooms with renewal, resilience, and life. The kind of life that protects, endures, and heals."
I stayed quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is the… Sluxiston?" I paused, unsure if I said it right.
Professor Sagra gave a small nod. "Perfectly said."
"Is the Sluxiston Empire far from here?"
"Oh, yes. Quite far," he replied, while I lifted my cup. "It would take a week or two to reach them by horse or boat. The other two empires? Even farther. Sometimes three weeks or a month of travel."
I took a sip from my tea, finally. It had gone lukewarm, but I didn't mind. I was too caught up in the world he was unfolding around me.
"They call her Virelya," he said next. "Though the trees once called her something older—something only the rivers remember."
The words made me pause.
"She is the goddess of abundance, of healing, of cycles that begin again. They call her the River-Womb. From her came the first water, the first seed, the first breath of mana. She is mother. She is warrior. She is the root beneath all things."
I pictured her before he even described her—deep, still, ancient.
"She's a goddes of deep time. The kind of time that shapes mountains and covers them in moss. The kind that waits, and grows, and never rushes. Waiting for things to come back in their own season."
He paused.
"No one ever sees Virelya the same way twice. Some say she appears as a towering woman, with skin like rich soil, and hair tangled with vines and freshwater pearls. Others see her as an old woman, small and bent, with eyes like riverbeds."
Then he added, almost in a whisper, "And to those who dream deeply enough… she is the river itself. Flowing through the body like breath."
Mesmerized by the thought of her appearance always changing, even to something as silent as the pond or a deer that's solely purpose is to live in ways that are different than ours is fascinating.
'…Because she may be the only one who could truly understand every single soul, even a rock that can be neither good or bad—'
"I see you're lost in deep thought," Professor Sagra said suddenly, his voice light and curious. "What are you thinking about, exactly, to make your eyes wander off like that?"
"Huh?" I looked at him suddenly. My gaze fell to my lap, where my hands were resting on the folds of my dress.
'What?' I asked myself.
'Had I said something?' Said what?
'What is it that I said?' I tried to recall what I had thought a few seconds ago. But it felt strange.
Like I could remember the thought, but not the words. As if something had passed through me.
"Oh, just… the thought of her changing appearance is really captivating," I said quietly. "And how Ephamour and Sluxiston are kind of alike, in their own ways. Ephamour loves to remember the past… while Sluxiston seems to carry it forward, like a tradition that keeps moving. It's like their goddesses reflect that too. One stays the same, but changes the world around her… and the other changes form, but keeps her soul and her ways unchanged."
For a moment, Professor Sagra just looked at me. His expression shifted slightly—something between curiosity and surprise, like I had said something he hadn't expected.
"I see you've been paying attention," he said, smiling. "It's good to hear your thoughts, little one. Never be afraid to speak them aloud. That's how the best minds begin—by wondering." He smiled, giving me a warm approving nod.
"Now this next Empire," he said, voice lowering with a bit of a smirk, "shouldn't be underestimated." As if he was about to share a memory only he truly understood.
"They may not care much for art or reflective thought like Ephamour or Sluxiston… but when it comes to their Empire? Oh, they're as serious as stone."
He gave a playful cough, adjusted his sleeve, then let his words fall.
"Between the mountains and forests of red-leafed bamboo, the Empire of Everereal stands like a heart made of stone and fire. Their villages cling to cliffsides, high above glacial rivers that run cold and fast. It's not a gentle land. But it's alive—pulsing with something ancient and unshakable.
"They don't build their pride in words or scrolls. They build it in breath. In blade. In the sound of sparring grounds that echo like great drums under the moon."
He paused for a moment, caught in the rhythm of his own thoughts.
"Their palace," he continued, "is a fortress of polished quartz, bright even beneath the storm. It reflects every generation that's sworn to protect it. And believe me, they all do. Willingly. Fiercely. Passion isn't a hobby there—it's survival."
His voice softened, thoughtful.
"The people of Everereal aren't warm because they're gentle. They're warm because they burn. With pride. With memory. With the weight of those who came before them. Even their children are taught that combat isn't just for fighting—it's a language, a way of standing for something. Every movement, every breath, every swing of a weapon carries meaning. A child learns not to kill, but to understand."
I could almost see it—the warriors in training, the mountain winds, the heat of silent resolve.
"In Everereal, war isn't glory. It's duty. And if battle comes, they don't treat it like chaos. No... they treat it like a poem written in blood, for those who must never be forgotten."
He tapped a finger gently on the table.
"The red Lycoris blooms strongest there. It's a symbol of sacrifice, of devotion that doesn't fear its own end. That flower knows it will die. But it still chooses to bloom."
This Empire felt heavier than the other two.
"And then," Professor Sagra said, his voice almost a whisper now, "there's Kaereth."
He straightened up slightly, the air around him shifting as if out of respect.
"The god of devotion, sacred warfare, and flame-born will. They call him many names: The Ember-Bound King. The Crimson Oath. He-Who-Burns-But-Stands."
His eyes looked deeply into mine.
"He isn't the god of mindless fire. No—Kaereth is the god of controlled flame. Of pain turned into strength. Of standing longer than the world expected you to. His flame isn't for destruction. It's for proving that you endured."
'He seems very fearless and scary.'
"They say Kaereth appears as a warrior made of volcanic stone and glowing embers. His armor flows like molten metal. His hair is braided fire. And carved across his chest,"—he made a slow motion with his hand—"are the names of every fallen warrior who once fought in his name. Glowing. Eternal. Never forgotten."
I didn't know what to say. But I could feel it in my bones—that this Empire was different. Harsh. Proud. Yet full of something honest.
Something that burned.
"This one seems a pretty scary Empire." I said to him.
Professor Sagra chuckled kindly. "Most think so. And yes, they can be intimidating. But when you get to know them, they're just like anyone else. They love. They protect. They carry traditions and stories—just written in fire instead of ink."
His eyes glinting with quiet affection.
"Every Empire has a different rhythm. A different soul. A different way of honoring what they believe."
"Now," Professor Sagra said with a grin, puffing up just a little, "for my beloved Empire."
There was a twinkle in his eyes, the kind that made me feel like I was about to hear something close to his heart. He took a slow sip of tea before continuing, voice filled with quiet pride.
"To an outsider, it might seem too perfect. Too neat. Cities shaped like spirals, everything clean and precise. Towers made of mirrored glass, humming softly with mana like a song only machines can hear. But if you stand still—just for a moment—you'll feel it. That low, steady beat. The sound of thoughts becoming blueprints… and blueprints becoming the future."
His hands moved as he spoke, sketching shapes in the air.
"The Empire of Akeotretus, home of the Yellow Lycoris. We live by one simple truth: the world can be better. And someone has to build it."
He leaned in, as if letting me in on a secret.
"We are thinkers first. Tinkerers, architects, scholars, engineers. People who wake up not wondering what is—but what could be. For us, invention isn't just useful. It's sacred. And the past? It's not something to protect in glass cases. It's something to take apart, understand, and make stronger."
I imagined their people—not dressed in armor, but in coats covered in ink and burn marks from their own creations.
"When war comes," Professor Sagra continued, "we don't charge in with swords drawn. We draw… schematics. Machines, traps, spells that move like light and vanish like mist. We don't overpower. We outthink. That's not cruelty—it's defense at its smartest."
He chuckled. "Why spill blood when a well-placed calculation will do?"
Then his tone shifted, growing quieter.
"Our people believe in precision. In impact, not legacy. We don't fight to be remembered—we fight to solve the problem. And if you manage to break through our walls, past the wires and the wards and the strange, humming doors... then you'll meet the sharpest weapon we have."
He tapped the side of his head gently.
"A mind that's not afraid of change."
I could tell he truly meant that. There was no arrogance in his voice—only certainty. Admiration.
"Our yellow Lycoris blooms with brilliance and clarity," he said. "It stands tall beneath the sun, its petals shaped like stars. It doesn't bend to survive. It adapts. It calculates."
He let that settle, then added softly:
"And at the center of all that innovation, there is Elarion."
He said the name like it belonged to someone both ancient and endlessly new.
"Not a god of fire or thunder. Elarion is the Architect of All Paths. The one who sees not what is—but what could be, if the right minds guide it."
I listened, drawn in.
"He isn't worshipped through prayer or praise. He's honored in invention. In discovery. In the moment something works after hours, days, years of failure. You won't find his blessings in churches… but you will find them in workshops, in formulas, in the spark that lights up a scholar's face when they finally understand something."
For a while, I thought he would say more. But then I realized—he was waiting.
He'd gone quiet, watching me with a soft smile. Like he was curious what I thought.
"That is the place where you grew up?"
He chuckled before answering. "Indeed. Where else would a brilliant mind like mine be forged, if not under the guidance of eccentric professors and very patient parents?" He placed his hands together, letting them rest calmly on his lap.
"So? What do you think? Were you able to follow all that? I may have wandered into a more… sophisticated narrative here and there. But I didn't see even the slightest hint of confusion on your face."
"Oh. You finished?" I blinked.
He laughed gently. "Yes, yes. That's all for today, I'm afraid. Our little lesson on the Empires has come to a close. But if there's anything you didn't quite understand, don't hesitate. I'll gladly explain again."
"Well actually…" I started, trailing off for a moment as my thoughts lingered on everything he'd shared. "I understood everything. It's just that… I'm a bit sad it ended so soon. I thought maybe you'd keep going. That there was still more." I sighed.
When I looked at him, he had paused—eyebrows slightly raised. As if he was taken aback to what I said.
"You… understood everything?" He repeated.
"Yes… well, I really enjoyed listening to each Empire," I said, my gaze lowering to the tea cup I hadn't touched much earlier—now only a little warmth remained at the bottom.
"I still find their names hard to pronounce," I added with a small smile, "but I loved every part of them. Every difference, every idea. I guess I just… wanted more. The way you described them—it made me want to know everything."
Professor Sagra was quiet. He blinked once, then twice at my response, as if a part of him hadn't expected it.
His eyes briefly flicked toward Ms. Vesta behind me, then he cleared his throat lightly.
"Well," he said, adjusting his posture in a way that tried to mask his satisfaction, "I'm glad to hear you found the lesson… fulfilling. It seems when someone is truly interested in something, understanding comes naturally. You listened well, Liliana. And I, too, quite enjoyed teaching you the values and curiosities of each Empire."
He paused—and just when it seemed he might settle into a satisfied silence, something lit up in his expression.
"Oh!" he suddenly said, as if struck by inspiration, "Have you ever been given homework before?"
I blinked at the question. "Homework? Hmm... I don't think so. But I used to help Sir Exios with small tasks at the tavern—like cleaning, sorting deliveries, helping with orders. And in my free time, I usually draw."
"Aha!" he declared triumphantly, already leaning down to rummage through a leather satchel by his chair. He looked like a treasure hunter unearthing something rare.
Then, with a delighted grin, he placed a leather-bound notebook on the table—along with a glass box of black ink and a feathered quill.
"This," he said, dramatically setting the items before me with a bit too much enthusiasm, "is your homework!"
I stared at them, then at him. "What... do I have to do?"
He tilted his head, smiling like he'd just asked the most exciting question in the world. "Well, you'll write down your thoughts! Notes. Opinions. Whatever you understood from today's lesson. There's no pressure—no wrong answers. Write reflections, doodles, ideas, even contradictions if you have any."
I gently took the items into my hands—the notebook, the ink, the delicate quill.
"Ah… okay," I said softly.
"I expect great things," he said, steepling his fingers in mock seriousness. "Don't hold back, Liliana. Use that clever mind of yours. Be honest. Be creative. Be critical, even. This notebook is yours—it's meant to grow with you."
The sun had dipped almost fully beneath the windows now, casting long shadows across the shelves. Only the candles glowed quietly, their light dancing on the wood and glass around us. Professor Sagra, still half-lit by the warm amber flicker, smiled at me like we had just finished more than a lesson.
"See you in the next lesson, Lady Liliana Einar."