The flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows on the worn academy walls. Another night spent hunched over dusty tomes, fueled by watery soup and the dream of a decent meal. My stomach grumbled in protest, a constant companion in these austere dorms.
Life at the Imperial Academy was a far cry from the whispers of privilege that haunted my fragmented memories. Here, I was Toshiro, a scholarship student with threadbare robes and a gnawing sense of anonymity. The other students, children of nobles and dignitaries, barely acknowledged me. Except for the usual jeering trio, Wan, Ken, and Renji, who seemed to relish making my life a daily gauntlet.
Today's torment involved "accidentally" spilling ink on my precious borrowed notes. The ink seeped through the parchment, blurring the meticulously copied spells. Frustration gnawed at me, but arguing with them was pointless. Instead, I retreated further into my studies, the rhythmic scratching of my quill a shield against their taunts.
A soft sigh from the desk beside me startled me. I glanced up, surprised to see another student, a girl with eyes the color of burnished copper, silently gathering my ruined notes.
"𝑯𝒆𝒓𝒆," she mumbled, placing a stack of pristine notes in front of me. "𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆."
Taken aback, I stammered, "𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖?"
A hint of a smile played on her lips. "𝑨 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅, 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔? Just 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒖."
Rimuru. The name had a pleasant lilt to it, like wind chimes on a gentle breeze. A stark contrast to the storm that had been my night.
"𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑹𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒖," I said, my voice rough from disuse.
The hall was empty, her quiet act of kindness a beacon in the cold indifference of the academy. Clutching the new notes, a spark of hope flickered within me. Maybe, just maybe, this place wasn't entirely devoid of warmth.
YOU ARE READING
Rise Of Royal Phantoms And Qixi Festival
FantasyThis story unfolds a tale of a young boy who trainees much as he can to become the best vision of himself no limitations
