Blessed, and Blessed Indeed (4)
A day passed.
Six students came to my office to submit their assignments. Not a single one was missing—they were all from the theology department.
Class 1-A had a total of thirty-two students. That still left twenty-six who hadn't figured out the correct answer yet.
The assignments submitted by the theology students were utterly satisfactory. They matched almost exactly with the answer I'd envisioned, and the length stayed within the ten pages I'd specified.
But that was exactly it. Perfectly adequate as assignments, but as the fruits of prolonged inquiry, they fell a bit short.
Still, I wasn't stingy with praise. I showered compliments on those six theology students. Partly in hopes that the ones who hadn't submitted yet would redouble their efforts.
And another day passed.
With only one day left until the deadline, the anxious ones—the hot-tempered students and those who'd finally cracked it—came rushing to my office. Twenty of them in total.
My office, empty of classes that day, was booming. Students lined up in the hallway just to hand in their work.
Professors from other departments passing by looked stunned. No wonder—the kids looked utterly wrecked, like they hadn't slept a wink.
I took their assignments and reviewed them slowly. Grading twenty at once wasn't easy, but thanks to Vice Priestess Sophia's help, I made it home before dawn.
The twenty assignments weren't quite as polished as the theology ones, but they cleared the bar.
What satisfied me most was that all twenty-six submissions so far were written in completely different ways. Their conclusions clashed sharply, sparking entirely new outcomes.
This was what I'd been waiting for. Twenty-six assignments, all different. Not a single overlapping paragraph among them—it was nothing short of miraculous.
In other words, not one student had copied or referenced anyone else's work.
They had to explore on their own and reach their own conclusions.
Just as I'd intended, they hadn't borrowed anyone else's hands. They'd written everything with their own strength alone. The polish might lag a bit, but for that alone, I wanted to rate those twenty-six highly and give the students a standing ovation.
At that point, with one day left before the deadline, six students still hadn't submitted—including Chloe, Eirin, and Laura von Adelaide.
The cutoff I'd set was when Friday's class began. In other words, they had until 9:30 a.m. tomorrow.
I didn't hound the remaining six. I just waited patiently, leisurely.
To savor the finest fruit, one must endure the wait for it to ripen fully.
And so time flowed on.
Finally, Friday arrived.
Before class started, six students showed up at my office.
With Chloe and Laura von Adelaide bursting in last, panting for breath, every single assignment was finally gathered.
I skimmed the six late ones—too pressed for time to read fully—and tucked them under my arm.
Not a single straggler in Class 1-A had failed to submit.
It was exactly one month since the first day of class.
Chloe glanced anxiously at the clock. The hands seemed to crawl slower than ever, filling her with resentment.
And she wasn't alone.
Every student in the lecture hall was glaring at the wall clock, united in their desperation.
"Ugh... I think I bombed my assignment..."
"You just wrote whatever, didn't you?"
"Professor Antonelli's gonna rip us apart."
"I didn't sleep at all last night..."
"Didn't you submit yours this morning?"
"Yeah... pulled an all-nighter, but I think it's trash..."
How long had they waited, necks craning?
Finally, the clock hit 9:29 a.m. The students swallowed hard, tension knotting their throats, silently counting down the seconds. Chloe was no different.
57 seconds... 58... 59... And...!
The door slid open with a rattle.
All eyes, backs ramrod straight, snapped to the front entrance.
Step. Step. Step.
The same calm footfalls as always. Precise intervals, like a metronome piercing the silence of the room. Vice Priestess Sophia, her golden bob swaying, scurried in behind him.
Sophia climbed the podium clutching her stack of papers, and Professor Antonelli placed his theology tomes and Bible on the lectern as usual.
"Good day, everyone."
The usual greeting. But today felt different.
"We won't be doing theology today."
The students closed their books. Naturally, they pulled out notebooks and pens, ready to take notes. The motion was so fluid, like Pavlov's well-trained dogs.
Once they were set, Professor Antonelli continued.
"Instead, I've prepared something a little different."
That's when Vice Priestess Sophia sprang into action, distributing sheets of paper to every student.
Perplexed, they passed the stacks forward from the front row, hand to hand, until all thirty-two had one. Blank white paper, nothing written on it.
"Set the paper aside for now. We'll use it shortly."
At his words, they carefully placed the pristine sheets on their desks, lest they smudge.
Professor Antonelli nodded approvingly, then began pacing the podium slowly.
"Have you ever thought about it?"
About what?
Before the question could fully form, his voice drilled into their ears.
"Before this past month of working on the assignment—did you ever once have a valid question that drove you to act on your own initiative?"
Heads tilted in confusion. A valid question prompting autonomous action? It didn't make sense. Unintelligible, really.
"To enter Caldea Imperial Academy, you must have poured blood and bone into your efforts. Of course, some of you—born a step ahead—might not have worked quite that hard."
But here's one thing.
He raised a single finger. The students stared, mesmerized.
"In all your life so far, have you ever explored something on your own, solved it yourself, and felt satisfied with the result you claimed?"
The students sank into thought.
Had they? Really? They recalled their first steps into learning, into cognition.
Some remembered studying magic for the first time.
Others, theology.
Some, gripping sword and shield; others, brush and pen.
"I'm not asking about mere learning experiences. I'm talking about choosing a path different from others, walking it without doubting your own initiative."
They rummaged through memories again. In their minds, learning was always following paths paved by teachers or parents. They just had to walk forward.
"Probably never. I guarantee it."
No. It was true.
Like falling into hypnosis, the students were drawn into Professor Antonelli's words. Obsession with their assignment results had long faded.
"Over this past month, you've immersed yourselves in theology more intensely than ever before."
It was true. Every student had thought, while writing, Have I ever dived this deep into theology?
"But what I wanted was more than just studying theology."
He circled the podium and returned to the lectern, surveying the room.
"I've reviewed your assignments. I only skimmed the six from this morning due to time... Now, look at the paper I gave you at the start of class."
Eyes shifted to the desks. The papers remained spotless, pristine white.
And he continued.
"Let's play a simple game."
A game? Suddenly?
Confusion spread like ink. Heads cocked as he spoke.
"From now on, when I give an instruction, just follow it. Understood?"
Simple enough: Do as Professor Antonelli says. No one missed it; all nodded.
"First, fold the paper once."
Fold it once? Utterly vague—open to endless interpretation.
But no one asked, "How exactly?" They just obeyed silently.
Some folded in half horizontally, others vertically; one diagonally into a triangle, another a random corner.
Watching them, Professor Antonelli said,
"All folded? Fold it once more, just like that."
They complied. The crisp white sheets were now half their size, doubly creased.
"Now, from there, fold horizontally once, vertically once. Finally, tear off the protruding corners."
The papers lost their form, mangled into bizarre shapes with jagged edges littering desks.
"If you're done, unfold them."
Ragged sheets unfurled. No trace of original flatness; one student even tore theirs halfway through.
"All unfolded? Now look at your neighbors' papers."
Laughter rippled as they compared. Some hilariously shredded, others ruler-straight.
But no two were alike. Professor Antonelli addressed them.
"If anyone has the exact same shape as a neighbor, raise your hand."
No hands rose. Each was unique. He shrugged.
"Isn't it strange?"
They stared. Strange? How? He pressed on.
"I gave the exact same instructions to everyone. Why are the results all different?"
......
Silence. Utter stillness. Not a breath in the room.
He had. Same instructions. So why different outcomes?
They gazed blankly at their papers. He spoke to them.
"While working on this assignment, you surely overcame a wall. Or shattered it, even."
True. Every student had felt it strongly: crossing some inexplicable barrier. They'd grown a step. Undeniably.
"Do you know what it was?"
No idea. They stayed silent.
"Among the assignments you submitted, amazingly, not one overlaps in content."
"......!"
"Just like these papers, despite the same task."
They glanced around, eyes meeting neighbors'.
"Too early to be surprised. Want to know what's more shocking?"
Instinct told them: This was beyond a mere lesson.
They focused utterly.
Professor Antonelli dropped the bombshell.
"Of the thirty-two assignments on this lectern, not a single one is wrong."
All had the right answer.
And amazingly, all different.
One problem from Professor Antonelli: Why can't non-priests use Divine Power, and how to solve it.
Thirty-two correct answers to that one question.
Shivers ran through them. The supreme enigma of Divine Power—worthy of "earth's greatest riddle"—had revealed thirty-two facets in a single month.
"The true purpose of this assignment wasn't purity in theology, nor the essence of wielding Divine Power. Nothing like that."
And they finally realized: The rigid, formulaic milestones of learning that had boxed them in all their lives.
"Exploring on your own, deriving your own answer. Reaching truth without walking someone else's path."
Themselves—their trapped selves—had been the assignment's greatest obstacle.
"That was all."
And the nameless wall they'd overcome—
"Ah..."
—was themselves.
Professor Antonelli drew out the Bible. His low, soft baritone resonated.
"In Peter's view, all flesh is like trees, and the fruits they bear are all the same fruit. Thus he lamented:"
When the Lord created the world, the roots of all nations differed, their foundations varied. Why then did the Lord impose such sin?
To this, the Lord's first servant, Paul, replied:
"It is your trial and your wall, to lead you along the Lord's blessed path. Love yourself and your neighbor, but let your thoughts never stray from the Lord's will."
That suffices.
He closed the Bible and scanned the room. The students stared back, dazed.
They had finally named the riddle's revelation.
"Congratulations, everyone."
What Professor Antonelli had hoped for in this class. The meaning of "blessed, and blessed indeed."
"You have claimed the greatest grace of the Lord, the shining totality of wisdom: humanity's free will."
Thinking for oneself and acting accordingly. Reclaiming pure, autonomous thought without succumbing to evil.
That was all.