VCAM 67

Chapter 67

 “The Demonfolk’s Whimsy” [Demon Princess Arc ⑦]

The morning bell rang three clear times.
The shadows of the spires were short, and the air was dry — a perfect day for physical training.

“Alright, time for morning exercises. Safety first. You get points off for being reckless.”
Kai stood at the center of the schoolyard, whistle in hand.
The first-year students answered in unison, “Yes, sir!” — though their eyes sparkled a little too brightly.

“Warm-ups. Shoulders, hips, ankles. Don’t overdo the momentum—”

Before he could finish, one of the first-years lightly hopped —
Pop! Like stepping on a pebble, and in the next instant, the student soared higher than the treetops.

“W–whoa!!”
“Look, teacher! I can feel what it’s like to be a bird!”
“Birds don’t fly in that kind of trajectory!”

Another student grabbed the horizontal bar, performing a string of front flips from an underhand grip.
With each spin, light flashed — and the spectators’ murmurs spread like waves.

“Hey, hey, hey! This ain’t a circus. You’re not competing, you’re centering yourselves.”
“Yes, sir!”
Their answers were perfect — if only their interpretation of “lightly” didn’t translate to “full power.”
Soon a line of one-handed handstands appeared, and one kid even darted across the top of a ladder as if escaping through ropes.

(Their body control is flawless from the start… but they don’t act like they’re ‘special’ at all.)
Kai pressed his temples and blew the whistle.

“Gather up. One last thing — if your strength breaks the rhythm around you, that’s not ‘power,’ that’s just ‘rampage.’
Real strength is being able to match your stride with the person next to you. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
The reply fell across the schoolyard a bit quieter than before.

After class.
When Kai brushed off the sand and was heading back toward the classroom, two first-years ran up.

“Teacher, what was wrong with my jump today?”
“The first step. Don’t kick the ground, stroke it. If your impact’s too strong, the shock leaks out around you.”
“Stroke it…?”
“Yeah. Try that next time. If you pull it off, you get extra candy.”

Their smiles bloomed like spring flowers.
Sweet rewards worked better than any magic.

The morning lectures covered the basics of calculus and a review on “rounding boundaries.”
As the chalkboard filled, the first-years’ hands moved quickly.
They added tiny correction lines in the margins, smoothing out formulas as they went, eyes fixed straight ahead.

(They absorb too fast. But that’s not bad. And it’s not shallow, either — it’s just that I can’t see the bottom.)

During the lunch break, a pleasant smell wafted down the hall.
“Teacher! We brought you something!”
Around the corner came a group of first-years pushing a small cart with a pot and a basket of bread.
Inside the pot was clear soup, sprinkled with fine herbs.

“We did it right today!”
“Wanna taste?”
“Before tasting, let’s talk about heat control. Yesterday your steam turned rainbow colored.”
“We learned our lesson!”

The aroma teased his nose. He took a spoonful.
The flavor spread gently across his tongue, with a faint sweetness at the end.

“…Good. Who came up with the recipe?”
“We all tested it together and adjusted it — kind of like your ‘rounding the boundary’ formula!”
“Stop using formulas to make soup. …Well, actually, it works. It’s good.”

Laughter rippled around them.
Someone from the second-year class shouted, “The ‘bird’ from earlier makes soup that’s light as air too!” — which made no sense, but drew more laughter anyway.

The afternoon was cleaning time.
From one end of the hall to the other, rags raced across the floor.
The first-years seemed oddly delighted.

“Teacher, look! It’s like a mirror!”
“Careful not to slip now.”

Before he finished speaking, one second-year nearly skidded — only to be caught instantly by two first-years, who cushioned him at perfect angles.

“…You’re polishing too well. Remember, the floor’s a stage, not ice.”
“Yes, sir.”
They nodded, dipped their cloths in fresh water, and adjusted the strength of their strokes — learning “moderation” through their bodies at an incredible pace.

After school.
The gatekeeper came with a message: “The shopkeepers are asking for you.”
When Kai went to see what was up, the market women laughed.
“These kids of yours are too good at haggling!”

Sure enough, the first-years were working at a food stall, deftly turning skewers over the grill, waving through the smoke.

“Teacher! We tried grilling a few ourselves!”
“Remember, ‘a pinch’ of spice, not ‘the whole jar.’”
“We learned that!”

He took one skewer and bit in.
The surface was crisp, the center tender, the spice giving way to a chase of sweetness.

“Tasty. …Just don’t haggle too hard, alright? And here — this isn’t ‘tuition,’ it’s a tip.”
He handed over a few coins, and the vendor smiled kindly.
“Kai-sensei, you’re such a good man.”
“Tell folks my real job’s teaching, not bargaining.”

They laughed together.
Nearby, some students holding skewers were staring at a theater poster.

“We wanna see this next!”
“It’s a tragic romance. You’ll cry so hard your throats’ll dry out.”
“If that happens, we’ll have your candy, teacher!”
“I’ve only got so much stock.”

Still, his candy jar felt a little lighter again.

Toward sunset.
In the courtyard, a mix of first- and second-years practiced “light sparring.”
No clang of metal — just soft touches of “forms” meeting, angling, deflecting, flowing back.

Rutia noticed and approached.
“You’re not doing anything dangerous, are you?”
“No, senpai.”
Then Liricia came and stood beside her, arms crossed.

“Their form matching has improved,” Liricia said quietly.
“At this rate, I might be able to spar with them without leaving a hole,” Rutia added with a teasing smile.
“Are you praising them or threatening them?” Kai muttered.

The group laughed in unison.

As he watched, a second-year tripped — and three first-years moved instantly, each from a different angle, catching shoulder, elbow, and waist, redirecting the force smoothly into the ground.
No one fell. Not even dust rose.
The saved student blinked in surprise, then smiled shyly.

“Thanks. That was… really good.”
“We practiced what you taught us — the ‘rounding’ method.”
“Stop treating ‘rounding’ like it’s a magic spell.”

By now, laughter was the class’s shared language.

As the sun sank, Kai stopped by the faculty room.
The headmaster stood by the window, the pomegranate-colored sky glinting in his glasses.

“Kai-sensei. Lively day, isn’t it?”
“More than lively. …Intense.”
“Intensity keeps boredom away.”
“My stomach disagrees.”
“Your candy will protect it.”

The headmaster brushed off the complaint with his usual half-smile, the wrinkles at his eyes deep and kind.

On the walk to the teachers’ dormitory, Kai felt eyes on his back.
Turning, he saw several first-years following at a distance.

“What’s this? Practicing tailing someone?”
“No, sir… we just wanted to make sure no one bothers you on the way back.”
“Who’d even try?”
“There’s a rumor about a ‘powerful barrier’ in the alleys recently… just in case something happens again—”
“You’re a cautious bunch. I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine till the dorm.”
“Then at least to the gate.”

They wouldn’t budge.
In the end, they walked him all the way to the dorm gate, stopping neatly under the lamplight to bow deeply.
The bow was natural — not something they’d been taught, but something that came from within.

(They’re genuine. Honest in their strength… and that same scent of instinct again.)

Before opening the door, Kai turned back.
“Following orders is easy. But if you only follow, you don’t learn.
Tomorrow, bring me one formula that’s entirely your own.”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, their voices sounded calm and grounded.

That night, the cafeteria was lively as ever — almost like a small festival.
The group that had gone to the theater tearfully reenacted famous lines,
the cooking team debated spice ratios,
and the martial arts group discussed what “moderate” floor polishing meant.

At a corner table, Liricia quietly opened her notebook, while Rutia beside her pointed things out with her pen.
Their shoulders brushed occasionally — neither minded.

Watching from afar, Kai poured tea for a first-year sitting across from him.
“Add your own sugar.”
“What about you, teacher?”
“Three lumps. Always.”
“That’s too much.”
“It’s for brain work.”

Laughter gently rippled across the table.

Back in his room, a stack of papers awaited him — the first-years’ independent study work.
Each sheet was full of auxiliary lines, tiny notes, and corrections.
One student’s formula was annotated by another, then circled by yet another.

“They’re grading each other already… Well, I don’t mind.”

As he added red marks, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
He popped a candy into his mouth and opened the window.
A cool breeze flowed in, mixing with the chalky scent of the papers.

(They seem whimsical, but their eyes see deeply.
They seem free, but there’s structure underneath.
I just have to make sure that structure doesn’t stop at ‘obeying the strong,’
but grows its own legs — right there on the blackboard.)

Looking down at the courtyard, he saw a few first-years still there, walking slowly under the lamplight.
Not running, not jumping — just practicing matching their steps.

Walking.
Such a simple act — yet so beautiful.

From afar came laughter.
Nearby, the chirp of insects.
The spire shadows melted into the night, and stars began to blur.

Tomorrow morning, it would start again — with the whistle.
And the blackboard.

The blackboard never lied.
And in that truthful space, Kai Cross would keep giving his students the freedom to think for themselves.