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There was no loud bell this time. No beast trying to eat him. Just a piece of parchment slipped under his door, marked with the academy seal and a single line:
> "Mandatory Lecture – Spire of Mind, Hall D. Attendance: Required. Dress: Functional."
Functional? Aster stared at the paper like it had insulted him. What did that even mean? He threw on the uniform—white, slightly scorched in one corner—and hoped that was functional enough.
He made it to the Spire just before the doors closed.
The classroom—or lecture hall, more like—was carved into the side of a tower. Rows of stone seats spiraled downward toward a circular platform, glowing slightly with runes. The ceiling curved high above, layered with silver etchings that shimmered like starlight. No windows. Just faint hums of mana, like whispers behind the walls.
There were maybe forty students present. A mix of expressions: wary, bored, calculating. No one looked relaxed. A few had their weapons on display—sheathed, but there. Aster considered doing the same, but his starter sword still felt like a borrowed prop from a stage play.
He sat in the second-to-last row.
"Should've guessed the murder academy would schedule Philosophy before breakfast," he muttered.
Then the door at the bottom opened.
And in walked him.
The man had a presence that didn't match the setting at all. Robes a little too relaxed, hair tied in a loose knot, eyes half-lidded with the kind of tired that felt... deliberate. His sleeves were rolled up. His hands were ink-stained. And he carried two things: a walking cane and a tea set.
He walked to the center, placed the set down with care, then turned to face them.
"Good morning," he said, voice low and velvety. "I'm Deadeye."
Aster blinked.
The man gestured vaguely at a board that hadn't existed five seconds ago. It shimmered into being—lines of chalk written in a looping hand.
> "Survival is a routine." "Routines dull the blade." "Dull blades die."
"I teach the Philosophy of Survival," Deadeye continued. "Which is, more accurately, the art of not dying. And the first rule of survival at Valebourne is this: Routine will kill you."
He smiled faintly, eyes scanning the room.
"I've seen hundreds of gifted students fall. Not in duels. Not in exams. But because they believed today would be the same as yesterday."
He poured himself tea.
"Now then. Let's begin."
---
The next hour was a blur of stories. Not theory—stories.
Deadeye spoke about students who refused to change their patrol route and were found dissolved in a hallway. About a top-ranked mage who always cast the same spell first and got reflected into paste. About a boy who forgot to check under his bed.
Each tale ended the same way: sudden, brutal death. Usually in one sentence.
Aster was frozen halfway between fascinated and deeply concerned. The students around him scribbled notes like these were equations. One girl even raised her hand and asked, earnestly, "Was it a full-body dissolve or localized?"
Deadeye answered. In detail.
Aster's internal monologue was melting into static.
> Okay. Okay. This is fine. I didn't need peace of mind anyway. Or breakfast. Who needs eggs when you can have existential dread served hot with a side of horror anecdotes?
Midway through the lecture, a system window popped up behind his vision.
> [Hidden Quest Unlocked] Title: "Needle to the Brain" Objective: Ask a question that makes the lecturer pause. Reward: ???
He stared at it.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me."
He looked back at Deadeye, who was now explaining the logistics of magically rigging doorknobs to explode if turned clockwise. Half the class was nodding like this was basic hygiene.
Aster hesitated, then slowly raised a hand.
Deadeye looked up. "Yes, contender?"
"…Do you consider survival more a matter of awareness… or inevitability?"
The class stilled. Aster wasn't even sure what he'd asked. The words just… happened.
Deadeye's gaze sharpened.
He didn't answer for a long moment.
Then, finally, he smiled—wider than before. Not warm. Not kind. But… intrigued.
"Hm. Both," he said. "But awareness at least lets you watch inevitability approach."
He nodded slowly.
"I'll remember that question."
The system pinged again.
> [Hidden Quest Complete] Reward: +1 Perception. Commentary: "Congrats. You've startled a professional lunatic. Small victories matter."
Aster exhaled slowly, unsure if he should feel proud or afraid.
---
As the class ended, Deadeye clapped once.
"Routine will kill you. That's all for today."
He poured a second cup of tea. "Next lecture: 'Do Not Trust Furniture.' Bring your own chair."
The students filed out in various states of unease.
Aster lingered.
He stepped down toward the platform, watching Deadeye sip his tea like a man who hadn't just described fifteen ways to be dismembered.
"You drink a lot of tea for someone who talks about death," Aster said.
Deadeye didn't look up. "You'd be amazed how often the two intersect."
"…Right."
"I brew my own," the man added, gesturing to the small pot. "Jadeleaf blend. Found it growing on a corpse once. Terrible way to go. Excellent aroma."
Aster blinked. "You and I are going to get along disturbingly well, aren't we?"
Deadeye chuckled.
Then he looked up—eyes like fading stormclouds.
"I think you'll survive, Aster. If only because you're too confused to fall into patterns."
A beat.
"…That's either the nicest or most insulting thing anyone's said to me here."
"Both," Deadeye said, pouring another cup.
---
Aster walked out into the hall, brain fried, soul wrung out, and surprisingly calm.
Today wasn't about magic or weapons or combat.
But somehow, it had been worse.
Valebourne didn't just want contenders who could fight. It wanted contenders who thought like monsters. Or tea-drinking philosophers of death.
He looked up at the high, spiraling ceiling of the Spire.
"…Routine kills," he muttered.
Then, dryly:
"Guess that means I'll be learning how to improvise death for breakfast tomorrow."
---
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