Thousand Tongue Mage

As the sun set, the halls of the academy's main campus echoed with the unhurried clamor of end-of-day release.

Polished boots clicked, lacquered sandals scuffed, and muted chatter reverberated between the pale archways and stone corridors. The buildings themselves murmured with late footsteps and doors swinging shut. Students passed through the hallways in waves—some with the clipped gait of trained soldiers, others wandering leisurely toward the inner plazas or the academy's many clustered dormitories—and through it all, Zora walked side by side with Enki, heads hung low.

Enki, on his right, was quiet as ever. Not that he needed to speak. Zora could feel the boy's exhaustion in the way his pace was slow and his shoulders were drawn slightly inward. A long day of lectures and military jargon would do that to anyone, even to a pseudo-immortal who never seemed to tire in battle.

He didn't blame the boy.

Honestly, he felt just as exhausted.

Some classes were tolerable. 'Tactical Symbolism' had its charms—its strange reverence for flag design and movement as coded language—and 'Literature of the Northwestern Collapse' was, at the very least, intellectually honest. But the others? 'Battle Morale Metrics'? 'Speech Optimization for Noble-Blood Orders'? 'Formal Logic in Political Warfare'?

"How brittle on the ears," he muttered aloud.

Enki didn't reply, of course. The boy knew just as well that there was a terrible, terrible difference between learning about battle and actually being in the mud, but it seemed as though most of the Noble-Bloods in this academy would never see true battle.

That made their classes feel… disingenuous, to say the least.

Oh well.

We're not here to actually attend classes to begin with.

The cadence of foot traffic thickened as they crossed into the main courtyard. Bells in the distance tolled for the sixth hour past midday, and students passed them in tighter flocks now, gossiping about the recent infirmary brawl and about the rising price of krill noodles in the southeast refectory. Zora caught a few snippets. None were worth remembering.

"... Registration for the Annual Grand Ayapacha Tournament," he murmured. "It should be nearby. We should register before it closes on us."

Enki nodded curtly. "Okay."

But the moment they stepped out of the courtyard and into another long hallway, a familiar voice broke through the din.

"I figured out where to register for the tournament, Master Alvay, Master Eryn," Ifas said, grinning from ear to ear under his mask as he leaned against the wall. "Would you please follow me?"

Both of them paused and stared at their driver-slash-servant.

"You look far too proud for someone loitering beside a pillar," Zora said.

"Hey, someone had to figure out where the registration box was." Ifas shrugged. "I spent all day looking for it. Will I be getting a reward, Master Alvay?"

"How efficient. You'll earn yourself an extra ladle of soup tonight, Mister Servant."

Ifas gave a sweeping bow. "From your hands, master."

Enki, as ever, said nothing.The two of them turned and followed Ifas around the inner court, winding past the statue of several late War Generals, and up a small staircase flanked by flickering mushroom-shaped lanterns. Their footsteps echoed quieter here, the corridor emptier save for the low whisper of breeze passing through the arched windows.

At the end of the hallway stood the faculty office, and beside its door, like some antique votive shrine, sat a lacquered wooden box inset into a marble pedestal. Inked quills sat rested on a table nearby, bundled neatly beside slips of parchment.

Of course, they weren't alone by the box.

Two figures were already there.

Zora heard them long before he could speak: the quick, bouncing shuffle of a little girl and the slow, measured scrape of boots placing one foot exactly before the other.

As the three of them made their way over to the box, Eria whirled and smiled at them, her voice rising at once. "Oh! You're here?"

"Wouldn't dream of missing it," Zora replied.

Kita turned, her voice polite as always. "Cousin Alvay, Cousin Eryn. Are you planning to join the tournament as well?"

Zora gave a courteous nod. "Of course. The Salaqa name will not redeem itself through footnotes and monologues. For the honour of the Salaqa Lord who toiled to ensure the two of us could transfer into this academy in a timely manner, we will bring glory to the household.

There was a pause. Then, expectedly, Kita returned a courteous smile.

"How honourable," she said softly. "I will also be participating. That makes the three of us."

… I should've expected that, huh?

She stepped toward the table beside the box and retrieved three slips of papers, twirling the inked quill in her other hand.

"Given registration is closing by the end of the hour, I shall write down all of our names," she offered, "if you don't mind."

Zora inclined his head. "Please do."

He listened as the paper drank the ink and the gentle scratch of strokes—looping, clean, and unhurried—drew each name. Then, just as smoothly, Kita dropped the slips one by one into the ornate box.

One.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Two.

Three—

Another sound followed.

A new slip. Not Kita's. The fourth entry fell into the box with a crisp whisper, and then all four of them of the Salaqa name turned.

Ifas stood casually next to the box, returning his quill to the ink bottle.

"... There is no rule saying a servant of a Noble-Blood's household cannot join the tournament, is there?" Ifas said cheerily. "In that case, if it is alright with my masters, I would like to join an academy event at least once in my life."

Zora's mouth thinned into a line. "This isn't a potluck, Mister Servant."

"Sure it isn't. It's much more exciting than that."

"Listen here—"

"It is only fair, though," Kita interrupted. "The Annual Grand Ayapacha Tournament is designed for all men and women of the empire to take part in. As long as the name reaches the box, you will be considered a participant. I see no issue in a servant taking part."

Ifas bowed at once. "The little heiress of the Salaqa Household is too kind." Then he immediately looked down at Eria, bending forward slightly as he did. "And you, Miss Eria? Would you not be joining as well?"

Eria shook her head so fast her curls bounced. "No, no, no! I'm too clumsy! And I can't even hold a shield properly!"

While Eria rambled about tripping on flat floors and how she once threw a practice javelin backwards, Zora clicked his tongue. Unsurprisingly, the fair heiress of the Salaqa Household didn't object, so Zora pinched Ifas' ear and dragged him a little off to the side before hissing into his ear.

"What are you doing, man?" he snapped. "This infiltration mission is already troublesome enough. With you joining the tournament as well—"

"The Salaqa lord never said who has to win," the driver offered. "Just that one of us—someone under his employment—needs to win the tournament in order to gain an audience with Vantari in it. That is the mission is it not?"

"But you don't have a system, do you?" Zora hissed back.

"Oh, no."

"So you have no class. No mutations. No Arts."

"Oh, no."

"Nope."

Zora exhaled through his nose. "The Noble-Bloods in this academy may be snide, pampered, and practically starched, but they are still Noble-Bloods at the end of the day. They've been eating bug meat and training since before they learned to sign their own names. Some of them can rip apart steel with their bare hands."

"Sounds fun."

"You'll get yourself hurt."

"Oh, you're right. I'll probably lose," Ifas said casually, "but I meant what I said earlier. I've never participated in an academy event before, so a tournament sounds fun."

Zora clicked his tongue again. He considered yanking Ifas' slip out of the box, but before he could do anything, Eria's voice broke in.

"What are you two whispering about?"

Both men straightened instantly.

"Nothing," Ifas said first, clearing his throat. "In any case, the sun is getting quite low already, is it not? Would anyone care for dinner? I can drive everyone here to the cafeteria building. I have been told their stone-ox curry is not too terrible."

The cafeteria's high windows drank in the last threads of daylight. Inside, soft amber lanterns burned low against marble walls, and the scent of dinner—simmered roots, glazed ricecakes, and thick pepper-broth—settled across the tables like a second atmosphere.

Zora heard everything, of course. The hush of velvet uniforms shifting as students sat down. The gentle clink of gold-cutlery against lacquered trays. The hollow clatter of boots coming to rest beneath stools carved from ardenwood. And, by one of the more modest tables by the east wall, the five of them sat together, unburdened by academic thorns.

He sat at the head of the table, his tray laid out with Mori Masif style cuisine: chilled buckwheat curls, dried seaweed parchment, and miso sweetroot with grilled orchid-stalk. Clean flavors. Sharp on the tongue and light on the body.

Mori Masif food never gets old.

Enki sat on his right alongside Ifas, eating mechanically, and only lifting his mask in the precise moments required to feed himself. He noted how much sound the boy actually made while chewing—he supposed it was only natural that a boy who didn't have to eat to survive would suck at eating quietly, even though at one point, the boy was just a normal human like the rest of them.

Across the table, Eria's tray jostled every few seconds as she fumbled with her spoon.

"I'm still worried about you, Kita," she said quietly between bites. "I mean, the tournament could be dangerous. What if you—"

Kita chuckled from her place beside Eria, patting the little girl's shoulders. "I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. I am the heiress of the Salaqa Household, after all. It would be improper for me to lose in the first round."

"Confidence is a good sauce," Zora murmured. "But it spoils quickly if left unchecked."

Kita simply hummed in acknowledgment. Across the table, Ifas tapped his chopsticks thoughtfully against his bowl of seaweed.

"So, Miss Eria," he said lightly, "if Master Alvay and Master Eryn hail from the northwestern branch of the Salaqa Household, which branch are you from?"

A faint pause.

Then a longer, heavier one.

Zora leaned back slightly. He could hear the scratch of Eria's foot brushing the floor as she started fidgeting, and he could hear the tiny hitch in her breath as her voice caught in her throat.

"I, um… uh…"

The words didn't come easily, so she flinched when Kita gently patted her head.

"Eria is from a very small branch family northeast of the Salaqa Region," Kita answered smoothly. "I wasn't even aware of the branch until Eria was made to enroll here six years ago. We've been roommates ever since."

Eria, for her part, smiled like she'd simply forgotten the script.

"Yes!" she said, a beat late. "That's me!"

Zora's brow furrowed just slightly. Before he could press the matter, however, a low hum rolled through the cafeteria like thunder trapped in velvet. The central chandelier—a massive hive-shaped mushroom slung from the ceiling with chains of golden vine—began to glow. Its gills pulsed with light, and then a low voice echoed from deep within its flesh, resonating through the air in a clear and well-pronounced Ayapachan dialect.

"Attention, please," the voice announced. "All participants of this year's Annual Grand Ayapacha Tournament, please listen closely. Registration has concluded. This year, there will be sixty-four participants in total."

Around the cafeteria, the scrape of chairs halted. Students turned upward. Some gasped, others whispered, but all listened closely.

"There will be six rounds of battle," the voice continued. "The matches have been determined based on the faculty's general assessment of your current skill levels. The goal is to ensure a fair but brilliant spectacle, so please listen closely to the following matchups."

Well, it's nice to hear they're doing their best to balance the opening rounds.

No academy would want their star students crippled in the first round. It'd ruin all the fun.

As the voice started rattling off names against names, Kita leaned forward, smiling with a tease. "Looks like you boys' first opponents will be soft, then," she said. "Transfer students and outsiders always get an easier start because the faculty has no idea how strong you are."

Ifas perked up. "I certainly hope so. I didn't sign up to get flattened immediately."

The mushroom hummed again, and quickly, Ifas' false name—'Asif', servant of the Salaqa Household—was called against someone unfamiliar. Ifas smiled under his mask immediately.

"A no-name against another no-name," he said happily. "It'll be a fun first round for me, at least."

Then came Enki and Zora's fake names, and the moment their opponents' names were read aloud, the cafeteria's tone shifted.

All at once, the air thickened with murmurs. Whispers. Zora could hear them all as clear as birds in a quiet glade:

"What?"

"No way."

"Who's Alvay?"

"Who the hell is Eryn?"

"I thought the pairings were meant to be fair."

… Zora set his cup of tea down gently.

"What is it?" he asked Kita, who was also staring dumbfounded at the mushroom chandelier like everyone else in the cafeteria. "Who are the two of us matched against?"

No answer at first.

Then, he heard her exhaling slowly through her nose, shifting her weight in her seat. Her shoulders were tense.

"... It is unfortunate," she murmured at last, "but I suppose it also wouldn't make for a good show if the strongest students knocked each other out in the very first round, so someone else has to be knocked out first."

With that, she stared pitifully at Zora and Enki, as though she were offering her condolences in advance.

"Both of you have been matched against one of the Five Princesses, the current strongest students in the academy. Your first preliminary matches will be in a week."