Thousand Tongue Mage

The lecture hall quieted into a taut hush. The silence in the shift of weight in chairs was palpable, and so was the airless pause before the rustling resumed: light clothes brushing against desk edges, the faintest breath drawn and held, and around Zora, Noble-Born students muttering behind cupped hands.

Their voices, though hushed, rang sharp and smug. Zora tilted his head slightly, lips pressed, and let the sounds shape the room's contours in his mind.

At the front of the lecture hall, the professor's stitched face creaked faintly as he smiled.

"Well," he said, "that is a good topic, I suppose, for being particularly relevant to recent events. Very good. Let us use the Thousand Tongue as a case study today."

Chalk whispered against the board in a circular arc. Zora ignored it. It would be names and dates, citations and shorthand—things he could keep track of, but would rather push aside in favour of listening to the sound of a man who liked to hear himself speak.

The professor's voice rose again. "Has everyone here read the journal that has been stirring quite the conversation as of late? The Mage of the Long March. It is a controversial compilation, to say the least. Everyone turn to the clipping of the book on page twenty-two."

Chairs creaked and pages flapped as students adjusted themselves. Zora sat still, deep in thought. He couldn't say the title had reached his ears before, but then again, he hadn't exactly had a lot of time to read the past two years.

"The journal is an anthology," the professor continued. "A fine collection of opinion essays written by various academics and gathered by a mysterious editor known only as 'S'. Inside, you will find anecdotes, letters, and even eyewitness accounts—true or not—that detail the exploits of the Thousand Tongue across the past two years."

Zora's lips twitched.

"The journal recounts his story as once a humble language teacher at Amadeus Academy, the poor castle besieged by an Insect God two years ago," the professor said, pacing before the lectern. "No detail is spared. Going all the way back to his roots as the former head of the Fabre Household, the journal documents his life as a child, his arrival at the academy, the Witch-Killing, and then, of course, his 'Long March' into the Attini Empire, where he has been conducting battles of terror with some of our empire's most esteemed companies.

"Naturally, the timeliness of this journal's release has given it quite the traction—even among the less literate quarters of the empire." The professor's boots clicked as he paced again. "Of course, its popularity has only grown in recent weeks. It was not that long ago that he was last spotted constructing massive, five-pointed star-shaped effigies across the northwestern regions with giant ant carcasses, as though he is staking claim to earth within our divine sovereignty."

Then he paused.

With theatrical ease, the professor turned around to face Eria, who was still standing rigidly and anxiously.

"Since you have brought us this topic, Miss Eria, answer me this," he said, tone deceptively gentle. "Why do you suppose the Thousand Tongue—along with the others your fellow classmates named—is regarded as a 'Walking Legend', and not simply as another powerful soldier mankind can make use of?"

The room held still. Zora could hear her swallow.

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Eria cleared her throat. "It's because…" Her voice wavered, but didn't break. "Because Walking Legends… they have traits—abilities, magic, or ways of thinking—that don't fit neatly into military command structures."

Then she hesitated, searching the floor for steadiness before looking up again.

"They're strong," she said more firmly, "but they aren't obedient. They don't belong to a rank or a banner. Every Walking Legend is the kind of person no army can keep on a leash. That's why—even in the other Swarmsteel Fronts—they're seen as dangerous. Or untrustworthy. Or both."

Her hand trembled slightly at her side. Zora listened to the pitch of her breath, the courage she gathered like fragile glass.

"Humanity is losing ground," she said conclusively. "We need unity, and the Walking Legends are wild monsters. Power without predictability. That makes them... unreliable."

The chalk scraped. Zora could hear the strain in the professor's joints as he reached to write something across the board. No doubt it was a quote pulled straight from the journal in question.

"And if you do encounter the Thousand Tongue or the Worm Mage or any of the Walking Legends," the professor said, back turned to the class, "what,then, is a Noble-Blood's duty?"

A brief silence. Then Eria replied, nervous and small, as if she were asking permission rather than answering.

"... Negotiate?" she offered hesitantly. "Or maybe talk to them, and then we can figure out how to... work together?"

The snickers started before she'd finished the second word. The air around her bristled with mockery. Murmurs from two rows behind, laughter coughed into sleeves, and one boy making a show of sighing heavily. It was the kind of juvenile disdain bred in noble courts and polished into cruelty by prestige.

He heard Eria shift in place, squirming. "I mean, they sound like good people," she tried again, stumbling. "They don't really hurt the soldiers they come across, and… they even help the locals wherever they go, don't they? They help villagers build new homes, give them points, and—"

The professor raised a hand, and the hall snapped back into shape.

"Miss Eria," he said smoothly. "Please remember that you are in the royal military institution. We train officers here. It would be prudent of you to be very careful what words roll off your tongue."

Eria stood frozen, her breath tight in her chest, and the professor let the room simmer just long enough before striking again.

"And tell me now, Miss Eria," he said, light as ever. "What is the punishment for a Noble-Blood found harboring enemies of the Empire?"

Eria said nothing. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She stammered once—then again—but the laughter from the back of the room only grew softer and crueler. She wasn't just younger than the rest of them. She was smaller. Easier to bruise.

Zora's hand moved toward his desk as he prepared to stand, but he didn't get the chance.

One seat over, Kita rose first.

"The punishment," she said crisply, "is death by divination."

The professor glanced over his shoulder and beamed at her. "Excellent. As expected, Miss Kita is ever the reliable student."

He waved a hand, gesturing for both girls to sit down. Eria obeyed numbly. Kita did so with grace.

… Zora leaned back slightly in his seat. He could still hear Eria's uneven breathing, but now there was a quiet rustle as Kita shifted closer , resting her hand gently on Eria's shoulder and murmuring something beneath her breath. A sentence wrapped in softness. Whatever it was, it worked. Eria's breathing started to slow as the older girl comforted her.

The professor cleared his throat and turned to the class once more.

"Well then," he said cheerily. "Now that we have all had our little brush with treason, let us study it properly."

There was a rustling sound as he opened a drawer, then the papery clack of several slim journals being set on the desk in a neat stack.

"I just so happen to have several physical copies of 'The Mage of the Long March' with me," he said, almost gleeful. "A student, please—come collect these and pass them around."

Someone stood. Judging by the stiff leather shoes and the barely-there perfume of ant silk, Zora could tell it was one of the Capital-born nobles—the kind who never volunteered unless there was attention to be earned—and pages rustled. Books were passed hand to hand. For his part, though, Zora was just like Enki now: completely disinterested in anything else the professor had to say.

He could understand now, perhaps more clearly than before, why Enki had little patience for this pretend student mission.

He didn't want to sit through more of this either.