For Whom Do the Rules Exist
Approval granted for the pilot operation of discussion-based Introduction to Philosophy classes.
The sentence itself looked reasonably impressive.
The problem was everything attached beneath it.
Weekly submission of auditor rosters.
Advance summary of lesson topics.
Teaching assistant observation logs.
Student emotional safety review.
Confirmation of compliance with discussion operating principles.
I stared at the approval form lying on my desk.
"……."
I had saved the philosophy class.
That was clearly something to be glad about. The course would not be cancelled, and I could continue accepting auditors. The Administration Bureau had even agreed to watch for a month.
Yet somehow it did not feel like victory.
Because the price of saving one class was five new species of paperwork.
As expected of a hyper-realistic trash game.
There was no free salvation.
"Professor."
Martin stood beside the desk.
In his hands were today's class-related documents. Under his eyes the shadows had grown even darker than yesterday.
"Today's lesson topic summary."
"Thank you."
"The auditor roster."
"Thank you."
"The teaching assistant observation form."
"…Thank you."
"The post-class student emotional check-list."
"……Thank you."
"And the seating chart for Administration Bureau observers."
I stopped.
"Observers?"
Martin nodded with dead eyes.
"Yes. Since this is the first pilot session, the Administration Bureau is sending observers."
"How many?"
"Two."
"That's manageable."
"And one from Academic Affairs."
"……."
"One ethics professor from the Holy Department."
"……."
"One student-life guidance professor from the Sword Department."
"……."
I slowly removed my glasses and polished the lenses with a handkerchief.
"Martin."
"Yes."
"Is today a class, or a trial?"
Martin thought for a moment.
"Administratively, it's a class."
"Philosophically?"
"It feels… a little closer to a trial."
An honest assistant.
I put my glasses back on and looked in the mirror.
The man in the mirror looked just as sinister as ever.
Rather than someone who had wrested pilot approval from the Administration Bureau yesterday, he looked like a shadowy mastermind plotting to harvest students' souls under the banner of a "pilot program."
I forced the corners of my mouth down.
"Today I really must not smile."
Martin nodded with sincere eyes.
"Yes. Truly."
"Give me a signal from the side."
"What kind of signal?"
"If it looks like I'm about to smile, cough."
Martin regarded me for a moment.
"I'm worried I'll be coughing through the entire class."
"That bad?"
"When a good question appears, Professor, your expression turns… strange."
"……."
I could not deny it.
Good questions were dangerous.
Especially dangerous for me.
I was a philosopher. The moment a student dragged a question up from inside themselves and threw it at me, my heart raced. That was exactly what I had waited for in my previous life.
But this body was the worst possible vessel for expressing laughter or emotion.
Ian Werner's face turned villainous when it tried to show joy. When moved, it grew even more sinister. Looking warmly upon a student made him look almost exactly like a corrupt official who had just successfully taken a bribe.
So today, as always: conduct.
I picked up the lesson summary.
Lesson Topic: Rules and Power
Core Question: For whom do rules exist?
Objective: Guide students to examine rules through the lenses of oppression, protection, and responsibility.
Martin asked,
"Today's topic looks ordinary."
"Does it?"
"Yes. No words like monster, sacrifice, or hero, so I'm a little relieved."
"But today we will be dealing with power."
Martin's complexion worsened again.
"Professor…"
"What is it?"
"A candidate for the throne is listening…"
"I know."
"There are Administration Bureau observers…"
"I know."
"And you're still going to talk about power?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
Martin closed his eyes.
"I can already see the report title…"
"What would it say?"
"Preemptive Concern Report Regarding the Potential Occurrence of Sensitive Remarks on Royal Authority During an Introduction to Philosophy Class."
"The title is too long."
"The Administration Bureau likes long titles."
A terrifying organization.
I folded the documents.
"It will be fine."
Martin looked at me.
I added,
"This time it really will be fine."
"When you say that, Professor, I only get more anxious."
"This is not a class that condemns rules."
I said,
"It is a class that asks why rules are necessary."
Martin regarded me a moment longer.
"Will the Administration Bureau understand that distinction?"
"We will make them understand."
I shrugged into my professor's robe. The black cloth settled over my shoulders; the silver embroidery caught the light.
On the desk lay philosophy texts, chalk, and the discussion operating principles received from the Administration Bureau.
I gathered them all.
Philosophy and administration.
A truly mismatched pair.
Yet right now, my class could only survive if both were present together.
"Let's go."
"Yes, Professor."
We headed for the lecture hall.
The large lecture hall was already more than half full.
No.
Not half.
It was nearly packed.
"……."
I paused at the doorway.
There were even more people than last time.
Official enrollees. Auditors. Students who had come on rumor alone. Observing professors. Two Administration Bureau staff.
And in the back corner, students who looked suspiciously diligent about preparing to take notes.
Why has it grown this much?
This was Introduction to Philosophy.
Definitely Introduction to Philosophy.
A thoroughly inefficient class that raised neither sword proficiency nor magic slots and offered no immediate affection rewards.
Yet the room now looked almost like a popular elective.
My previous self might have cried.
Of course I could not cry now. With this face, tears would make me look like a loan shark who had come to collect a debt and then been emotionally shaken.
I walked in calmly.
The lecture hall fell quiet. Students' gazes followed me.
In the front row sat Elise Morgan. Her book was open; the bookmark was still stuck in the assignment sheet I had handed out last class.
By the window sat Leonora Wallenstein. Arms crossed as usual, yet her assignment sheet lay properly on the desk.
In the center was Serena Arcelia, quietly reading the discussion operating principles.
Toward the right rear sat Karen Astra. She was smiling again today, but the smile sat a little lower than before. Not quite so bright.
And in the rearmost auditor seats was Rina Everett, clutching her pen while still conscious of the people around her.
Five of them.
The future calamities. And the blank slate of the original story.
All of them were in my lecture hall.
I stood at the lectern.
And I did not write on the board first.
Instead I held up a single sheet of paper.
"Before we begin today's class, we will first confirm the rules."
Students looked puzzled. The observers' eyes brightened.
Good.
The Administration Bureau was listening.
Then I would make them hear it.
I read slowly.
"First. In this class, personal confessions are never compelled."
The room was quiet.
"Second. Anonymous assignments are not graded for points."
A few students looked relieved.
"Third. We do not publicly interrogate any particular student's wounds."
Serena exhaled, very softly.
"Fourth. Dangerous remarks are not punished immediately."
The corner of Leonora's mouth lifted.
"Instead, they are re-examined through questions."
Elise's pupils shifted.
"Fifth. After class, any student who feels anxious or confused will be connected to the teaching assistant or a counseling officer."
Martin nodded from behind me.
"Sixth. The professor will not conduct prolonged one-on-one interviews with students alone."
Several students looked at me.
I added calmly,
"Especially considering my face, this clause is extremely important."
For a moment the lecture hall went still.
Then somewhere a small laugh burst out.
"Pfft."
Someone immediately covered their mouth.
Leonora openly shook her shoulders. Karen laughed softly. Rina ducked her head and tried to hold it in.
Martin covered his face from behind.
The observers looked flustered.
I kept my expression blank.
Good.
Self-deprecating humor, used sparingly, loosens tension. Used too often, it hardens into truth.
Once was enough for today.
I set the paper down.
"Rule confirmation is complete."
I walked to the blackboard and picked up the chalk.
For whom do rules exist?
The sound of chalk filled the hall.
"That is today's topic."
Students' eyes gathered on the board.
"We live inside rules."
I said,
"Academy rules, house rules, national law, religious precepts, military orders, class operating principles."
The Administration Bureau observers began taking notes.
"Some people call rules protection."
I wrote on the board.
"Some call rules oppression."
"Some call rules order."
"And some call rules a chain forged by the strong to bind the weak."
At that moment Leonora Wallenstein laughed.
"I rather like the last one."
Martin coughed from behind.
"Ahem."
Probably the signal not to smile.
I did not smile.
Instead I looked at Leonora.
"Miss Wallenstein."
"What is it, Professor?"
Her speech was still insolent.
But no one was greatly surprised anymore.
Leonora was that kind of student. And I had no intention of forcibly breaking every such attitude.
Respect is not the same as obedience. What a lecture hall needs is not obedience but thought.
I asked,
"Are rules chains meant to bind the strong?"
Leonora answered with arms still crossed.
"Most of them are."
"Why do you think so?"
"Simple."
She looked at the board.
"The strong can originally take what they want. But rules tell that strong person to stop."
Her red eyes gleamed.
"Do not kill the weak. Do not seize the weak's property. Even the weak have the right to a trial."
She snorted a laugh.
"Aren't those all words that bind a strong person's hands and feet?"
The lecture hall went quiet.
One Administration Bureau observer scribbled rapidly.
I muttered inwardly,
Another report title just got added.
But it was fine.
A good question.
An excellent question.
Martin coughed again.
"Ahem ahem."
I managed the corners of my mouth.
"Good."
I wrote on the board.
Rules = chains that bind the strong?
"Then let me ask."
I looked at Leonora.
"In a world without rules, is the strong person truly free?"
Leonora's brows moved slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"If there are no rules, the strong obtain what they want."
I said,
"But what happens when someone stronger appears?"
The air in the hall shifted.
Leonora did not answer.
I continued,
"If you possess the freedom to dominate the weak, then someone stronger than you also possesses the freedom to dominate you."
Chalk moved across the board.
No rules = freedom for all?
Or terror for all?
"A world without rules looks like a world convenient only for the strong."
I said,
"But more precisely, it is a world convenient only for today's strong."
Leonora's fingers began tapping the desk.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
"If someone stronger appears tomorrow, today's strong becomes the weak."
I set the chalk down.
"Then are rules only for the weak?"
A brief silence.
"No."
I said,
"Rules are necessary for the strong as well."
Leonora laughed.
"Insurance for when the strong become weak, is that it?"
"That is one reason."
I nodded.
"But not the only one."
"Then?"
I wrote a new sentence on the board.
Rules are the mechanism that converts power into responsibility.
The hall fell quiet.
Leonora's gaze changed.
I said,
"Power alone is violence."
A pause.
"Power that has passed through rules becomes authority."
The chalk tip tapped the board.
"And authority is accompanied by responsibility."
Leonora said nothing.
I asked her,
"Miss Wallenstein. There is a high possibility that you will one day stand above people."
An Administration Bureau observer's pen stopped.
Words spoken to a royal candidate. They could be dangerous.
But I chose the phrasing carefully.
"When that time comes, will you need a stronger sword, or more legitimate rules?"
Leonora rested her chin on her hand.
"Both, I suppose."
"A good answer."
I nodded.
"With only a sword you become a tyrant; with only rules you can become a scarecrow."
Several students wrote rapidly.
"The problem is the order."
I said,
"Will you create rules with the sword,"
I wrote,
"or bind power with rules?"
Beneath it,
Leonora's tapping stopped.
"Professor."
"Speak."
"In reality, the one with power ultimately makes the rules."
Her voice was low.
"No matter how pretty the packaging, law is not a poem written by the weak. It is a command written by the victor."
The atmosphere in the hall sharpened.
The Sword Department professor in the back stiffened. The Administration Bureau staff nearly glowed as they took notes.
Martin's coughing grew a little frantic.
"Ahem, ahem ahem."
I bit my tongue lightly to keep from smiling inside.
Ah.
This was truly good.
An excellent attack.
Realism. The origin of power. The violence of law. The record of the victor.
These academy students asked far too well.
I asked as calmly as possible,
"Correct."
Leonora paused for a moment.
"You admit it?"
"In part."
I wrote large on the board.
Law cannot stand without power.
"Rules cannot move people by sentences written on paper alone."
I said,
"Someone must enforce them."
I drew a line under the sentence with chalk.
"Therefore law always requires power."
The corner of Leonora's mouth rose.
"Then my words were right."
"No."
I said at once,
"That power is necessary, and that power is itself legitimacy, are two different things."
Leonora's smile stopped.
I continued writing.
Power may be a condition of law.
But it is not the reason for law.
The hall grew quiet.
"You need a sword to guard a door."
I said,
"But the mere possession of a sword does not make that door yours."
Leonora's eyes narrowed.
Good.
It had landed.
"A king needs an army."
I spoke slowly.
"But the mere possession of an army does not make the king right."
One of the observers in the back cleared his throat.
Probably thinking the remark was sensitive.
I immediately added,
"That is why even a king needs rules."
The Administration Bureau observer's pen moved again.
"The moment a king stands above the rules, he ceases to be a person who possesses a nation and becomes a person who mistakes the nation for private property."
Leonora looked straight at me.
I asked her,
"Miss Wallenstein."
"Yes."
"If you become king someday, do you wish to stand above the law?"
The entire lecture hall held its breath.
Leonora Wallenstein.
Heir candidate of a border duchy. The woman who would one day be called the Demon King.
She looked at me for a long time.
Her red eyes flickered strangely.
"A king under the law looks weak."
"That can be true."
"If a king is bound by law, he cannot move in a crisis."
"That can be true."
"If rebels pour in, if enemy nations invade, if nobles abuse the law—"
Leonora spoke low.
"Is it right for a king to lose the country while keeping the law?"
The hall fell quiet again.
Another good question.
This was the collision of idealism and reality.
I was silent a moment.
Then I asked,
"Then do you believe that in a crisis, the law may be broken?"
"If necessary."
"Who decides that it is necessary?"
Leonora stopped.
I asked again,
"The king?"
"……."
"Then if the king says it is necessary, may he break any law?"
Leonora did not answer.
"In that case the law no longer binds the king; it becomes an ornament kept only when the king feels like it."
I wrote on the board.
Who decides the exception?
The moment I wrote that sentence, the air in the hall grew heavy.
This was an extension of the previous class.
The exception I grant myself—can I grant it to everyone else as well?
Today that question returned in the form of power.
I said,
"Every rule has exceptions."
An Administration Bureau observer's brow moved.
"But the statement that exceptions exist is dangerous."
I lifted the chalk.
"Because those with power often consider themselves the exception."
Leonora's lips tightened.
"Because I am the king."
One line.
"Because we are at war."
Another line.
"Because I know a greater purpose."
Another line.
"Because I am different from other people."
The chalk stopped.
"These sentences are all indulgences wearing a crown."
The lecture hall froze.
Martin no longer coughed.
He had probably given up.
The Administration Bureau observers had stopped writing and were looking at me.
I knew.
It was a dangerous remark.
But it was necessary.
To Leonora a crown was not mere decoration. In the future she would wear the name Demon King instead of a crown. But the essence was the same.
Power that places itself outside the rules.
That is what would make her a calamity.
I looked at Leonora.
"If you truly wish to become king,"
I lowered my voice,
"you must most carefully guard the moment when you begin to want to be the exception."
Leonora was silent for a while.
Then she asked,
"Then are you saying you would grant a king no exceptions at all?"
"No."
I shook my head.
"Exceptions can exist."
"Then?"
"But an exception is not something one declares alone. It is something one chooses with the resolve to be judged for it later."
Leonora's eyes wavered.
I said,
"If there truly comes a moment when the law must be crossed in a crisis,"
I wrote slowly on the board,
An exception is not a right. It is a debt.
"That exception is not a king's privilege."
I set the chalk down.
"It is a debt that must later be repaid before the people."
Silence.
A very long silence.
Leonora's hand had stopped on the desk.
She did not laugh.
She did not grow angry.
She simply looked at the sentence on the board.
An exception is not a right. It is a debt.
Good.
That sentence would remain.
At least for today.
Then Elise Morgan raised her hand.
"Professor."
"Speak, Miss Morgan."
Elise asked coldly,
"You said rules are protection."
"I did."
"But rules often betray people."
The room's gazes turned to her.
"The law fails to protect the weak, contracts are interpreted in favor of the powerful, and promises are discarded according to circumstance."
Her deep purple eyes settled.
"Then aren't rules ultimately also a matter of belief?"
Ah.
I struck my knee inwardly.
Good.
Truly good.
The distrustful student had begun to doubt even rules. It was far too natural.
Martin coughed urgently.
"Ahem ahem."
I desperately pressed down the corners of my mouth.
"Correct."
Elise's brows moved.
"Rules also stand upon belief."
I wrote anew on the board.
Rules stand upon belief.
"Writing letters on paper does not make something a rule."
I said,
"It becomes a rule when people believe it will be kept, believe that responsibility will be demanded when it is broken, and believe that it applies to them as well."
Elise said,
"And if that belief breaks?"
"The rule becomes a husk."
I answered,
"And a rule that is only a husk is the most dangerous of all."
"Why?"
"Because on the outside it still looks like justice."
Elise closed her mouth.
I said,
"Unjust violence is quickly recognized as violence."
A pause.
"But an unjust rule wears the face of justice and crushes people."
The hall grew quiet.
Serena bowed her head very slightly. Karen stopped her pen. Rina wrote quickly.
Elise looked at me.
"Then do you believe in rules, Professor?"
Here it came again.
Elise often stabbed like this.
Do you believe in people? Do you believe in rules? Ultimately, what do you believe in?
I thought for a moment.
Then I answered,
"I do not believe in rules unconditionally."
Elise's eyes narrowed.
"But I believe even less in a world without them."
She stopped.
I said,
"Rules fail."
I wrote on the board.
"People fail, institutions fail, promises fail."
The next line.
"Without rules, what remains is power."
I looked alternately at Elise and Leonora.
"Power is hard to repair. Power tries to answer only by winning or losing."
Elise was silent.
I said,
"So believing in rules does not mean believing they are perfect."
Slowly.
"It means believing they can be fixed."
Elise's pupils wavered.
A small wavering.
But it was there.
Good.
I do not tell a distrustful child to simply believe. That is an insult.
Instead I reduce the size of the belief required.
You do not need to believe in perfection. Believing only in the possibility of repair is enough.
That much is enough to begin.
Serena carefully raised her hand.
"Professor."
"Speak, Miss Arcelia."
Serena hesitated for a while.
Then she said,
"Can precepts… also be repaired?"
The hall fell quiet.
The Holy Department professor's gaze sharpened.
An extremely sensitive question.
Precepts. Religion. The Holy Department. A Saint candidate.
Martin was no longer even coughing. He had simply gone pale.
I answered slowly,
"Some precepts are made by humans."
Serena looked at me.
"And what humans make can be wrong."
The Holy Department professor's brows rose.
I continued at once,
"But for a person of faith, the words 'repair a precept' are not a simple change of regulation."
Serena's hands clasped on her knees.
"It is a frightening thing."
Her eyes wavered.
"Am I not betraying God?"
One sentence.
"Am I not lowering a sacred duty simply because I want to be more comfortable?"
Another sentence.
"Am I not mistaking the desire to cherish myself for selfishness?"
Serena's lips trembled.
I spoke carefully,
"Therefore the work of repairing a precept must never be done lightly."
The Holy Department professor's expression eased a little.
"However."
I looked at Serena.
"If a precept is destroying people rather than saving them, then at the very least one must ask."
I wrote on the board.
Whom does this rule save?
"Rules exist for people."
A pause.
"People do not exist for rules."
The lecture hall drew a collective breath.
Serena bowed her head.
Her hands were clenched tight.
That sentence had landed too.
Probably deeply.
I had to be careful.
The goal was not to shake her faith. The goal was to keep Serena from mistaking herself for a sacrificial offering to that faith.
Then Karen raised her hand.
"Professor."
"Speak, Miss Astra."
Karen was calm today as well.
"If keeping the rules means more people die, and breaking the rules means more people live—"
She looked at me.
"Must one still keep the rules?"
Martin finally muttered softly,
"Again…"
I said the same thing inwardly.
Here it came again.
Karen's questions always went toward life and consequences. And those questions smelled of blood.
I asked,
"What situation are you speaking of?"
Karen thought a moment.
"For example, a village where a plague has spread."
The hall grew quiet.
"By the rules, sealing the village requires the lord's approval and confirmation by the Holy Empire's mandatory priest corps. But if one waits for that procedure, the disease spreads to surrounding villages."
Her voice was clear.
"If a Hero candidate then seals the village on her own authority, she has broken the rules."
A pause.
"But she may also save more people."
The Administration Bureau observers' pens sped up.
True to a hyper-realistic trash game, plague and approval procedures appeared naturally.
I thought.
This might not be a mere hypothetical.
In the original story Karen might well have made a similar choice. Sealing a village. Confining the few. Saving the many.
And afterward she would have grown used to it.
I said,
"Breaking a rule and escaping responsibility for the rule are two different things."
Karen looked at me.
I wrote on the board.
Violation ≠ Irresponsibility
"There may truly be moments when time is so short that a rule must be broken."
An Administration Bureau observer looked my way.
Conscious of him, I added,
"But even in that moment, one must record it."
The observer's pen stopped.
Good.
Administration-Bureau-friendly phrasing.
"Why it was broken."
One line.
"What other methods were considered."
Another line.
"Who was harmed."
Another line.
"How that harm will be answered for."
The final line.
I looked at Karen.
"The first thing a person who has broken a rule must do is not declare themselves a hero."
Karen's pupils wavered.
"It is to bring their choice to a place where it can be judged."
The hall was quiet.
I said,
"If it truly was a necessary violation, one must explain it."
A pause.
"And if it is revealed that it was not necessary, one must take responsibility."
Karen closed her mouth.
I added,
"Being a hero does not make one an exception."
At that sentence Karen's hand trembled, very slightly.
An extension of the previous class.
Do not be deceived by the name Hero.
Today I had spoken that sentence in a slightly more refined form even in front of Administration Bureau observers.
Being a hero does not make one an exception.
In the back an Administration Bureau staff member quietly nodded.
Good.
Change the expression and you survive.
As expected: conduct.
Then Rina raised her hand.
"Professor."
"Speak, Miss Everett."
Rina hesitated a moment.
"If rules make a person,"
Her voice was small but clear,
"am I made by the rules I choose, or by the rules others decided for me?"
The hall grew quiet.
Very like Rina.
It always returned to the self.
I said,
"Both."
Rina looked at me.
"When you were born, many rules already existed."
I folded my fingers one by one.
"How your name would be called. What status you would be recorded under. What examinations you would have to pass to enter the academy. What attitude a commoner scholarship student ought to show."
Rina's shoulders stiffened, just a little.
"You did not choose those rules."
I said,
"But now you can choose which rules to accept, which to doubt, and which to try to repair."
Rina tightened her grip on the pen.
"Then if I want to make myself…"
"You must look at the rules you follow."
I answered,
"A person comes to resemble the rules they repeatedly obey."
I wrote a new sentence on the board.
I come to resemble the rules I have repeatedly permitted.
Rina gazed at that sentence for a long time.
"So be careful."
I said,
"If you repeat without question the rules others have attached to you, you will come to resemble the sentences others wrote."
Rina's pupils wavered.
"But if you reject every rule, you may be unable to write any sentence at all."
A pause.
"What matters is not rejection."
I said,
"It is examination."
Silence settled over the lecture hall once more.
I looked at the board.
Protection. Oppression. Order. Chain. Power. Responsibility. Exception. Debt. Belief. Repair. Violation. Irresponsibility. And examination.
Today's board was a mess as usual.
A philosophy classroom board is supposed to look like a battlefield.
I set the chalk down.
"Today's conclusion."
Students raised their pens.
I wrote large in the center of the board.
Rules exist for people.
Yet without rules, people easily devour one another.
The hall was quiet.
"Therefore do not worship rules."
Serena lifted her head.
"But do not take them lightly either."
Leonora looked at me.
"If a rule fails, repair it."
Elise's pupils moved.
"If you have broken a rule, take responsibility."
Karen's hand stopped.
"And do not finish yourself with only the rules others gave you."
Rina drew a breath.
I said,
"That is today's class."
The bell rang.
Dong.
Dong.
Dong.
Class was over.
But as always, no one stood up at once.
It was almost becoming a tradition.
When Introduction to Philosophy ended, students froze for a moment. Each of them fumbled with something inside themselves. Then they slowly breathed again.
I organized the documents on the lectern.
"Today's assignment."
Students raised their pens in unison.
"I will not collect last week's assignment."
The pens stopped.
"Because the question is not finished yet."
I tapped the board lightly.
"Write today's question continuing on the back of that same paper."
Reactions to assignments had changed.
Students who had once looked disgusted now wore faces that understood: the assignment was the next question.
Good.
Very good.
Of course I must not smile.
I wrote on the board.
What is the rule I have most taken for granted?
Whom does that rule save, and whom does it silence?
Students quietly copied it down.
I added,
"Do not write the correct answer."
Pens stopped.
"Doubt the sentences that look like correct answers."
Several students bowed their heads again.
"Class dismissed."
I gathered the attendance book and documents.
Then one of the Administration Bureau observers in the back raised a hand.
Ah.
Please no.
I steadied my breath inwardly.
"Yes?"
The observer carefully rose from his seat.
"Professor Werner."
"Yes."
"It appears the class operating principles were observed."
Martin's shoulders loosened a little.
"However."
However.
The most terrifying word in the Administration Bureau.
The observer looked down at his papers.
"Student reactions are stronger than anticipated. The post-class counseling referral system will need to be made somewhat clearer."
I nodded.
"I agree."
The observer regarded me a moment.
"We will send you additional forms."
Martin's face died.
I closed my eyes briefly.
Additional forms.
Philosophy shakes people with questions; administration shakes professors with forms.
Powerful.
Far too powerful.
I answered meekly,
"I will review them."
The observer bowed his head and sat.
Class was over.
Students rose from their seats one by one.
The lecture hall gradually grew noisy.
"Today's class was insane."
"Rules being a debt… wasn't that a bit much?"
"I thought it would just turn into 'I hate school rules.'"
"Did you see Lady Leonora's face?"
"Senior Karen kept taking notes the whole time."
"Was Introduction to Philosophy always this kind of class?"
No.
Originally it was a sleep debuff.
I answered inwardly.
Then Leonora approached the lectern.
Martin immediately took his place beside me.
Good.
Conduct was becoming automated.
Leonora did not look up at me. She looked almost straight on. She stood like someone who had never learned how to lower herself.
"Professor."
"Speak, Miss Wallenstein."
"You said an exception is not a right but a debt."
"I did."
Leonora was silent a moment.
Then she said,
"And if that debt is never repaid?"
The noise in the hall lessened a little.
Several students glanced our way.
I looked at Leonora.
"Then a king is not a debtor. He is a plunderer."
Leonora's pupils wavered.
Very slightly.
"A plunderer, is it."
She laughed low.
"A professor who says such things to a king will not live long."
"You are not yet a king."
I answered.
The corner of Leonora's mouth rose.
"Then when I become one?"
Martin swallowed a small breath.
I thought a moment.
Then I said,
"Then I will have to try to be able to say the same thing."
Leonora looked at me for a long time.
And snorted a laugh.
"I like that."
A dangerous statement.
A very dangerous statement.
A professor who receives words of approval from a Demon King candidate.
But outwardly I nodded calmly.
"Submit the assignment."
"A boring finish."
"There are Administration Bureau observers present."
Leonora glanced toward the back.
Then she shrugged.
"Then we'll continue next time."
She turned.
Red hair swayed slowly.
I watched her back and thought.
First Elise had wavered. Second Karen had stopped. Serena had begun to look at herself. Rina had begun to look outside the question.
And today.
A small crack had appeared in Leonora's crown.
Still very small.
But a crown can split from a single crack.
Martin spoke carefully,
"Professor."
"What is it?"
"Today… was better than I expected."
"Administratively?"
"By a hair's breadth."
"Philosophically?"
Martin considered a moment.
"It was frightening."
"Was it."
"But strangely… it seemed necessary."
I looked at him.
Martin averted his eyes.
Good.
Martin was learning to ask questions as well.
Then an Administration Bureau observer approached again from behind.
He held documents to his chest.
I tensed inwardly.
More forms?
The observer looked at me.
And said a little awkwardly,
"Professor Werner."
"Yes."
"Among the sentences you spoke in class today—"
He hesitated a moment.
"The one that said rules exist for people."
"Yes."
"May I quote it in the report?"
I paused.
Martin paused.
An Administration Bureau observer wanted to quote my sentence in a report.
I could not decide whether this was good or bad.
But at least it did not seem bad.
I nodded.
"Of course."
The observer bowed his head slightly.
"Thank you."
And added,
"I will of course cite the source accurately."
As expected of the Administration Bureau.
Even sentences needed sources.
I nodded.
"Please do."
The observer left.
Martin stared blankly after him.
"Professor."
"What is it?"
"Even the Administration Bureau seems to be getting a little… permeated."
I adjusted my glasses.
"Is that so."
"Yes."
"Is that a good thing?"
Martin thought a moment.
"It also raises the possibility of more reports."
"……."
As expected, there is no free salvation in this world.
I brushed the chalk dust from the lectern.
Sunlight was coming in through the large lecture hall windows.
Rules. Power. Exception. Responsibility.
Today again the students left carrying questions.
And I would receive new documents.
Philosophy does not pay.
Administrative work does not pay either, and it only multiplies.
Yet strangely.
I looked forward to the next class.
Because far too many good questions still remained.