[Yesterday, Midday - Professor Livia Valeria's Office]
After the morning lesson, I retreated to my office with only one student on my mind: Octavian Corvus. Every year, I see dozens of young people crushed by the vastness of the campus, filled with the fear of stepping into a new life. But there was something different about that boy.
When I found him in that panic-stricken state at the top of the stairs, there was no pretense of shame in his eyes. In this day and age, it was rare to see such genuine embarrassment.
And then he said that name. Alaric Hektor Abel.
Ah, Alaric... A man whose intelligence was as sharp as a razor, but who struggled just as much with his own shadow. Octavian, being his nephew, suddenly put all the pieces in place. That invisible weight on his shoulders, that anxious depth in his eyes... This wasn't just first-day nerves. This was the weight of a legacy.
Most young people would wear such a connection on their chest like a medal of honor, while Octavian tried to hide it like a flaw. That's when I knew I needed to help this boy.
When I called him to the board, he didn't disappoint. His answer to the probability question... Flavia would call it an undisciplined mind, I know. But I saw a budding genius there. He didn't just solve the problem—he questioned the problem itself. The material of the dice, the center of gravity... This was an approach far beyond the rote thinking the system teaches.
That's also why I gave him simple tasks like erasing the blackboard and forming groups—not to humiliate him but to slowly draw him out of his shell. The easiest way to become part of a group is to provide a benefit to that group. He might think I'm making fun of him, but I gave him a tool to socialize without realizing it.
I looked out my window toward the campus courtyard. Students were walking in groups toward the cafeteria. I hope he's not alone, I thought to myself. This boy would either be crushed under the weight of his name and his own anxieties, or he would learn to fly. I was betting on the latter.
[Today, After the Encounter - Professor Flavia Fulvia's Office]
"Well done."
The word left my mouth as I continued walking down the corridor, showing no expression. But in my mind, the astonishment on that boy's face—Octavian's—was vivid. Good. Astonishment keeps the mind alert.
After class ended, I gathered my notes in my office and thought about today's lesson. That boy... Octavian Corvus. At first, I had seen him as no different from the others. Another member of a generation inflated by the test system, lacking real discipline, ready to crumble at the slightest pressure. Even his casual face-scratching had triggered my intolerance for such frivolity. That's why I called him to the board. To throw his fragility in his face from day one, teach the rest of the herd a lesson.
His momentary angry reaction to my criticism was... unexpected. Others would cower, apologize, or even cry. But he showed his claws. It might have been like the feeble hiss of a weak kitten, but it was still a hiss. At that moment, I noticed a small piece of steel among the grains of sand.
When I rechallenged him, he didn't just correct the solution. He broke it into pieces, explaining each step so even the dumbest student could understand. This wasn't just intelligence. This was the ability to adapt under pressure. It showed that he understood my language and instinctively grasped what discipline was for.
I imagine Livia sees this boy's "different perspective" as a spark of genius. I see it as raw, unprocessed, and dangerous potential. If not disciplined, that potential turns to arrogance and failure.
This boy is a sword waiting to be forged. And I'm the one who will forge that sword.
[Yesterday Evening - Restaurant "Senatus Umbra"]
That evening, Flavia and I met at our usual place. Restaurant "Senatus Umbra" was a small but select establishment tucked away in the narrow streets of Apexia's old quarter. The wooden facade standing in the shadow of the Senate Building reflected the warm atmosphere inside.
We sat at our usual corner table. After the waiter took our wine order, Flavia got straight to the point.
"How's this year's material?" she asked, sipping her glass. "Same as always? An empty, shapeless pile of clay?"
"There are some interesting pieces among them," I said. "For example, there's a boy in my Computational Statistics class. Octavian Corvus."
I saw a glimmer of recognition in Flavia's eyes. "Ah, yes. He's in my class too. Showed his claws from the first day."
"He also mentioned his uncle," I said slowly. "Alaric Hektor Abel."
"Of course I know him," Flavia said, setting her glass on the table. "Talented but undisciplined. A man enslaved by his own intelligence. We met at that conference, didn't we? You were there too."
"Yes, how could I forget the day I dropped my cane?" I laughed. "But I saw something different in him. A profound thinker, a sensitive person."
"That's exactly the problem, Livia," Flavia said. "That sensitivity had weakened him. The boy has the same potential. I saw Octavian's admiration for him—he could fall into the same trap."
"Or perhaps," I replied, "he can reach where his uncle couldn't. I asked him a question, and his answer wasn't an ordinary formula, but a different perspective."
"A differently functioning mind is an undisciplined mind," Flavia said sharply. "If he doesn't want to lose himself in the shadow of his own brilliance like Alaric, that boy needs firm intervention."
"You throw metal into fire, Flavia," I said. "I try to teach him how to fly."
"This boy... is he a bird or a sword? Time will tell."
"Maybe," I murmured, "maybe he's a sword that can fly."
I knew we were both thinking the same thing. What Alaric Abel couldn't accomplish, perhaps this boy could. And both of us, in our own ways, were eager to bring out that potential.
The restaurant had settled into the quiet bustle of the evening. At other tables sat academics speaking in low voices, a few student couples, and elderly Jurants. The flickering light of candles illuminated the antique book replicas on the walls, creating a bridge between past and present.
"We'll see," Flavia said finally, swirling her wine. "Whether he becomes the sword or breaks under the forging."
"I have faith," I said quietly. "Sometimes the most beautiful blades come from the most unexpected metal."
I wondered what tomorrow would bring for young Octavian Corvus as we finished our wine. Between my gentle guidance and Flavia's harsh discipline, he would either find his true strength—or discover which of us was right about his nature.
The candles flickered lower as we prepared to leave, but the question lingered in the warm air between us: what would become of the boy who carried Alaric Abel's legacy in his blood, yet seemed determined to forge his own path?
Time, as always, would be the ultimate judge.