A Most Peculiar Professor
"We're here!"
Just as the three men were utterly bewitched by Ingrid's charms, the carriage finally rolled to a stop at the driver's call. Like waking from a dream, Bayul's smile vanished in an instant, and reality came rushing back.
"Am I too early? There's hardly anyone around."
Beyond the wide-open castle gate stretched a broad expanse of grassland, and behind it, the majestic figure of Carrington Academy rose proudly into the sky.
Gulp.
Every nerve in his body woke at once, clamoring in a chorus. The day he'd been waiting for had finally come.
"Thanks to you, I got a free ride. Much appreciated, Bayul."
Tucking Ingrid back into his fedora, Aidan hopped down from the carriage.
"Let's meet again soon!"
Then he was off like a shot, before Bayul even had the chance to say goodbye. He was so fast he might as well have been a flying squirrel.
As Bayul stared blankly after that retreating figure, Bail came suddenly to mind. It was always like this when a trying moment approached. Then, when they were together, and now, when Bail was gone—the one who gave Bayul the most strength had always been Bail.
You can do this. Hang in there, Bayul.
Silent encouragement filled his ears.
Right. For Bail's sake, too, I can't run away.
Hesitation was over now.
If he couldn't avoid it, then he had to face it.
Clutching the pendant around his neck tightly in one hand, Bayul stepped down from the carriage with his head held high. The morning sun beat down hot upon him as he walked toward the academy.
Chapter 2: We've Met Before, Haven't We?
"If you'll wait here a moment, the professor will arrive shortly."
The instant Bayul stepped onto the academy grounds, someone appeared as though they had been waiting for him. The man, who introduced himself as a member of the academy's administrative staff, offered a brief, perfunctory greeting before escorting Bayul somewhere.
Perhaps because he had arrived early, there were hardly any students to be seen. Not wearing a uniform, Bayul stood out all the more for it. Every time he passed a student, he could feel curious eyes flicking over him. He forced himself to keep a composed expression, but with each encounter, his tension crept steadily higher.
"Well then, I'll take my leave."
"Whew."
Once the staffer left and he was alone, a long sigh escaped him unbidden. His rigid body gradually relaxed, and a small measure of relief settled in.
My real academy life hasn't even begun yet, and I'm already like this. How pathetic can I get?
It had been mere minutes since he'd steeled himself thinking of Bail. He could hardly help laughing at himself for struggling with a single staff member.
"Young Master, you are the sole heir of House Randert. No one at the academy will dare look down on you. Face everything with confidence and pride."
Those had been Ian's parting words at the castle gate. But did he understand? That very fact was an enormous burden on Bayul's shoulders.
The foremost house of the Polska Empire.
A living legend made flesh.
The place where the Knight of Stars and the Lord of the Moon resided.
The epithets showered upon the House of Randert were beyond counting. Bards sang of them constantly; the published biographies about them numbered too many to count; no telling of imperial history was complete without them.
His father was a man to whom comparison itself was impossible. In every respect, they were so different that even Bayul sometimes doubted he was truly that man's son.
A frail child born into an extraordinary house.
That was who he was, and so Bayul always felt as if he were committing a sin.
"Hey there. You're Bayul, right?"
Just as Bayul was floundering in his self-reproach, the door burst open and a man strode in. He was in his early thirties, with hair like a magpie's nest and a scruffy layer of stubble on his jaw. He wore an unmistakable look of welcome on his face, as though he and Bayul were already old acquaintances.
"Hello, it's an honor—"
"Ah, just stay seated."
Waving off Bayul as he rose to his feet, the man hurried over to his desk.
"Hold on, where did I put it…"
Then he began rummaging for something, his movements frantic.
"I'm sure I left it here yesterday…"
Put used things back where they belong. That was the sensible way to live; that way, you could find them again easily next time.
As a child, Bayul had fought endlessly with Bail over exactly this issue. Unlike Bayul, who was naturally tidy, Bail never organized anything—and he was a champion mess-maker to boot.
A desk buried under a mountain of miscellaneous junk with barely an inch of free space, a floor strewn with books that left only a narrow path to walk, and in one corner a tower of trash stacked so high it might as well have been a decorative ornament.
Only now noticing the room around him, Bayul found it a complete disaster.
This is worse than Bail's room…
The moment Bayul frowned, the man's head popped up from beneath the desk as if on a spring.
"Oh, found it!"
A cigarette?
Sure enough, in his hand was a half-smoked cigarette.
"Huh? Now where did the matches go?"
Joy was short-lived. The whole scene repeated itself all over again. Whether or not he was aware of Bayul's presence, the man had entered some selfless trance.
By now, Bayul was genuinely doubtful of the man's identity.
The staffer had said the professor would arrive soon. Hadn't the nameplate outside read "Professor Rotius Jane von Winter"?
He wasn't in uniform, he looked far too old to be a student, and—decisively—he searched the room for his cigarettes and matches with practiced ease.
Even so, Bayul's doubts wouldn't fade.
This man is really a professor? Aren't professors usually elderly people brimming with dignity and refinement?
Every private tutor Bayul had ever met had been exactly like that, so he simply could not connect this man to the word "professor."
"Sorry. I was a bit out of it, wasn't I?"
While Bayul was wrestling with his thoughts, the man seemed to have succeeded in his match hunt. Muttering, "Now I finally feel human," he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"First, let's get the window open. The smell gets pretty thick in here."
It was only then that Bayul realized the peculiar scent that had been hanging in the room all along wasn't an exotic perfume at all—it was cigarette smoke.
"Right, now that's done! Shall we get down to business?"
Cigarette clamped between his lips, the man walked over to Bayul. Hazy smoke drifted in on the cool breeze alongside him.
"I'm Professor Rotius. I teach history. Do you like history?"
"…Yes, to some extent."
"Really? Then, one question. Why do we study history?"
Stumped by the sudden question, Bayul found himself at a loss for words. What he had expected was talk of class schedules or dormitory assignments—not a pop quiz like this.
"You said you liked history, so of course you'd know at least that much."
Grinning as though Bayul's flustered state were great entertainment, the man leaned down to meet his eyes. Beneath the tangled hair and rough stubble, a pair of remarkably clear eyes that Bayul hadn't noticed before caught and held his gaze.
Perhaps that was why. Hesitating, Bayul opened his mouth almost without meaning to.
"…I don't know it well, but—isn't it so that we don't repeat the mistakes of the past?"
"Mistakes?"
"Yes. History tends to repeat itself, and if we know in advance what was wrong, things can turn out better than before."
"Oh."
A smile spread across Professor Rotius's eyes, as though satisfied with the answer.
"That's right, exactly. We learn from history. History is the story of our ancestors, and their lesson—memories we must correct and build upon. His Grace the Duke Randert clearly didn't raise his son's education carelessly."
At the mention of his father, tension shot through Bayul's body on reflex. When will I ever be free of this reaction? It was a trauma all his own, one no one else could ever understand.
"You suddenly fell ill, so you couldn't take the regular entrance exam, I hear?"
"……?"
"All better now?"
"…Yes, I'm fine."
So this was the excuse Father came up with. His frail body was a genuine problem, so it wasn't entirely a lie.
"From the look of you, you're still not in great shape, but eh, that's a matter for the temple to sort out. Ugh, what a waste! That was my last cigarette butt!"
Mid-sentence, he writhed in disappointment and ground out the remaining stub in what Bayul presumed was an ashtray. It was so thickly carpeted with dead cigarette butts that its original shape was anyone's guess.
"Here, take this."
Out of nowhere, Professor Rotius thrust a sheet of paper at him. It was a class schedule, scrawled out in a hasty hand.
"Students normally arrange these themselves, but since you're a transfer student, I'm making a special exception and drafting yours for you. I can't tell you how relieved I am that you like history."
Ah.
Only after examining the schedule did Bayul understand why the man had asked about history. Classes ran six days a week, Sundays excepted—and three of those days were history lessons.
"Any questions?"
"Um—which dormitory am I assigned to?"
"Ah, blast, I forgot the most important thing. That's how my head is these days. Sorry, sorry!"
"It's quite all right."
"If you have a particular dormitory in mind, I can send you there, but what I settled on for now is Stone Lion. There's one student there without a roommate."
"Do I get to choose?"
"Of course. Professors do sometimes assign students based on personality and aptitude, but if you want, you can choose. This is Carrington Academy, after all. A paradise of freedom!"
Professor Rotius spread his arms wide and beamed.
"Stone Lion, Black Falcon, and Turtle King—three options, right?"
"Yep, but there's only one place with a lonely student missing a roommate, and that's Stone Lion."
"……"
"Our academy's dormitories are famous for their facilities, you know. The rooms are enormously spacious. Now imagine having all that to yourself. Wouldn't that be dreadfully boring?"
"…I'll go with Stone Lion, then."
"Ooh, really? Excellent choice! No changing your mind later, now!"
It had been a question engineered from the start so that no other answer was possible. Bayul had watched the man's eyes glint every single time he mentioned the lonely roommate-less student—three times, no less. Having seen that, Bayul hadn't the heart to pick anywhere else.
I guess I won't be seeing much of Aidan.
Thinking of the owl he'd seen in the carriage stirred a faint regret. Aidan was the first friend he'd made since arriving here (though who knew if Aidan considered him a friend at all)—Bayul had privately been leaning toward Turtle King.
"That's everything you need to know! If anything else comes up, ask the fellow outside, and I'll see you in class. I'm going to catch a bit more sleep—you woke me up early for this, so I'm dead tired. yawwwn!"
There was no time to say goodbye. With a yawn stretched so wide his tonsils were on full display, the man flopped face-first onto the sofa. Then he was snoring and fast asleep with such speed that it was hard to believe he'd been conscious moments before.
Some people are so absurd that you simply go numb—and Bayul was exactly that now. Everyone had their own quirks and distinct personalities, sure, but he had never seen anyone this unique.
Were all the other students like this too?
Then again, come to think of it, Aidan hadn't exactly been ordinary either. Boarding a carriage that belonged to a total stranger without permission (and showing not a shred of remorse for it—quite the opposite, in fact), and strolling around with an owl perched on his head—hardly the picture of normalcy.
Ah, I should have asked who my roommate is.
A worried curiosity surfaced too late, but there was no waking a sleeping man now. He'd find out by the end of the day anyway. Setting his regret aside, Bayul opened the door and stepped outside.
Scramble!
"Huh?"
What on earth—? The instant the door swung open, what met Bayul's eyes was the retreating back of a boy scurrying away as fast as his legs would carry him.
Who was that? Oh!
The question lasted only a moment, for he remembered Professor Rotius telling him to ask the fellow outside if anything else came up.
But why did he run off…?
Bayul was bewildered by the boy's inexplicable behavior. He had only just arrived at the academy—of course he knew no one, and of course there would be no end of things he needed help with. He didn't even know where he was supposed to go for class. Suddenly left all alone, he was utterly at a loss.
Should I chase after him now?
The thought came too late; the boy had already shrunk to a distant dot and vanished from sight.
"We meet again, huh."
Just then, a voice spoke up out of nowhere.