In the marble-floored corridor outside the Dean's office
Miss Peterovana—pale skin, jet-black lipstick, crimson nails tapping impatiently on her ebony staff—eyes narrowing at Inglen's gardener's tunic: Must you parade around like some greenhorn peasant? Your… gardening tricks bore me."
Lucien Devereaux, knees knocking, voice soft as velvet "Ah, Miss Peterovana—your presence is like a midnight poem. Even the shadows envy your grace."
Miss Peterovana—turning on him with a huff—"Save your flowery drivel for those who care, Lucien. I'm scarcely interested in your … odes."
Inglenswallows, stepping forward "M-Miss Peterovana, I—"
Miss Peterovan raises a gloved hand, cutting him off "Spare me your apologies. I have neither time nor tolerance for fools."
Lucien Devereaux leans closer to her, voice pleading, You wound me, my dark queen. Is there no inch of your heart that softens for us mere mortals?"
Miss arches a brow, lips curling "Mere mortals … indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more… refined matters to attend to."
Lucien Devereaux, watching her retreating silhouette, murmurs, murmurs"Until we meet again, my enchantress of shadows…"
Miss Peterovana over her shoulder, without breaking stride "Don't hold your breath, Devereaux."
Inglenquietly to Lucien, Are you all right, sir?"
Lucien Devereaux straightens his jacket, forcing a grin with his saddened self. I'm… inspired, Inglen. Come—let us keep our appointment with the dean. Perhaps your talents will prove more… agreeable."
(They hurry off, Lucien stealing wistful glances down the hall, Inglen clutching his shears, spirits unseen but ever-present at his back.)
[Inside
the Dean's Office—A quiet, wood-paneled room filled with old tomes and incense smoke]
Inglen stepped in cautiously, expecting to meet the short, round-bellied Dean he'd seen from a distance before. But instead, sitting behind the ornate desk, feet barely touching the floor, was a slim, frail-looking boy—with sharp silver eyes and pointed ears.
Inglen blinked hard. "W-What…?"
The boyish figure smiled gently, lacing his fingers. "Ah, you must be the new student. Don't be alarmed—yes, I am the dean. I was appointed last week. The old man finally retired."
Inglen was about to nod politely—but then recognition hit him like a brick. His eyes widened. "You… I saw you! A week ago. Cheol pulled you out of trouble. Those street bullies—they were—"
The dean gave a small nod, almost shyly. "Yes. Your friend was quite… heroic. He has a fierce kick for someone with such messy hair."
Lucien raised a brow at Inglen but said nothing. The dean turned his attention to Lucien, eyes glinting slightly.
"It's been a while," he said. "It's nice to finally meet a comrade from the war again."
Lucien shrugged, lighting another cigarette and waving off the smoke. "Those were long days. I barely remember them."
Inglen wanted to ask questions—what war? How old is Lucien actually? What kind of war has an elf-kid for a dean? But he kept his mouth shut, standing still with his hands behind his back.
The dean's eyes lingered on him, studying him like a riddle. "And who is this young boy you've brought to my office? He seems… interesting to me."
Lucien stepped forward, gesturing toward Inglen. "His name is Inglen Thoithoi. I want him registered under me. I'm making him my disciple."
The dean blinked once, expression unreadable. "Your disciple?" he repeated. "Lucien, are you sure about this?" He stood, walking around the desk. "By his looks, he's barely passed the first year. His uniform suggests he's a gardener. He hasn't received any formal education… and yet you want this boy?"
Lucien met the dean's gaze calmly. "Yes."
The dean's eyes narrowed, not out of anger, but concern. "Even after what happened with your first disciple…? The betrayal?"
Lucien looked down at the cigarette in his hand, then exhaled slowly. "Exactly because of that," he said. "It's time I made a better choice."
Inglen shifted slightly, unsure if he felt honored or doomed.
[Dean's Office—Continued]
The young elf Dean folded his arms behind his back and paced slowly, the hem of his elegant robes brushing the floor. His voice, though youthful, carried the weight of age and authority.
Dean:
"It's against Academy policy to allow an undergraduate—especially one who hasn't passed his first year—to become a direct disciple under any professor. Let alone… a head researcher."
Inglen's heart sank a little. He looked at the floor, fists tightening. Lucien stayed silent, unreadable.
The dean stopped, turned slowly, and locked eyes with Lucien. Then, a slow smile spread across his lips.
Dean:
"But… I, Elserian d'Avrel Luthenweld, will let this one pass—because it's you, Lucien."
Inglen's head shot up. Lucien raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Dean (softly):
"Make sure he keeps his faith in you. Don't let him drift, Lucien. In my long life, through all the kingdoms I've passed, I've only met one man I believed worthy of the title 'nurturer of geniuses'…"
(He paused, then smiled.)
"...and it was you."
Lucien shrugged, flicking ash into the dean's very expensive ashtray.
"Teaching warheads how to stop setting their robes on fire isn't exactly a miracle."
Dean (chuckling):
"Maybe not. But you always had a way of lighting fires the right way."
He stepped back toward his desk.
"You're both free to go. I'll make the paperwork vanish like all bureaucratic sins."
As they turned to leave, the dean added casually,
"Oh, and Lucien—how are your hobbies progressing?"
Lucien's expression brightened with the smallest, rarest glint of real joy.
"I'll send you the sketches in a week."
Dean:
"I look forward to them. Don't forget to sign them this time—I still have a fake Rembrandt with your handwriting in the corner."
Lucien chuckled. Inglen, walking beside him, glanced between them with confusion.
Inglen (quietly):
"You two are… friends?"
Lucien (lighting another cigarette):
"Unfortunately, yes. He's my oldest fanboy."
Behind them, the Dean only smiled and muttered to himself,
"Lucien, send me those sketches quickly."
As they stepped into the corridor, Inglen couldn't hold it in anymore. He glanced sideways at Lucien, curiosity bubbling up.
Inglen: Sir… The dean said you were a nurturer of geniuses. What exactly… was your title during the war?"
Lucien didn't slow his pace. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a flick of his thumb.
Lucien (casually): I was the teacher of the Battle Mages during the war between the humans and the Cyclopses of the Donghu Forest. Eastern border."
Inglen nearly tripped on the smooth tile. "You were that Lucien?! Are you really that great?"
Lucien shrugged, smoke curling around his head. "To be precise, it wasn't that big a deal. A few thousand cyclopses, a few regiments of soldiers, or a minor forest fire or two. Just a small battle in the grand scheme of war. Not worth rewriting history books over."
Inglen (half-laughing, half-awestruck): Yeah, just casually battling a few thousand cyclopses…"
Lucien smirked but didn't respond.
Inglen: So… what's my first lesson?"
Lucien glanced at him with a small grin. "Simple. Come to my office after you're done with your gardening work today."
Inglen blinked. "That's it?"
Lucien added, "But before that, you'll need some help. Ask your friends."
Inglen: My friends?"
Lucien tilted his head slightly. "Yes. Those cute little things following behind your back since we left the dean's office."
Inglen froze, eyes wide, and turned sharply—
Two small water spirits blinked at him innocently, hovering near his shoulders like floating fish-shaped lanterns.
"Wha—Hey! You guys were following me again?!"
The spirits spun in playful circles, rippling like drops in a pond.
Lucien chuckled softly. "You'll need their help to pull this off. Gardening's one thing, but channeling Ki through wet soil? That's something else."
Inglen: Understood! I'll finish my work and be there!" (He took off at a jog, the spirits zipping after him in a swirl of mist.)
Lucien watched him disappear around the corner, then slowly exhaled, a shadow falling across his face.
Lucien (quietly, to himself): To think… I'm training someone with even more potential than him."