Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

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Master Hale's mouth tightened and then let go. "Headmaster," she said, and now her tone held something like wonder, "you have not taken that word in longer than I have been here."

"I have been waiting," Snake said simply.

Fizz leaned close to John's ear. "Say yes fast," he whispered. "Then I can eat cookies faster."

John did not say yes. Not yet. He looked at the old man with the long silver beard and the hooded eyes and the small hookah that burbled like a calm creek, and he asked the only question that could make sense of the size of the offer. "Why should I trust you?"

Snake did not flinch. He nodded once, as if he had put the question into the air himself. "You should not," he said. "Not because I plan to harm you, but because trust is a tool and tools must be earned. I can give you my word and my record and my books. They are not the same as the thing itself. So I will say what I can say cleanly. I want to teach you because I am greedy for truth. I want to see what you will become and know that I did not let the world break you before you found it."

He tapped the desk gently. "And because if you try to do this alone in the open, they will eat you. Not just boys with blue thread on their sleeves and cousins who whisper into corners. I mean the slow mouths with crowns on their heads. The fat hands that think they own fire. The careful men who make laws out of fear and call it duty. You are a story they do not know. They like to end those."

John held his breath for one long count, then let it go. "What are the rules," he said. "If I say yes."

Snake's eyes warmed. "Simple rules," he said. "Hard rules. First: no one knows I am your master. Not a soul. Not Sera. Not your friends. Not the cat. Not even the parents." He tipped his chin at the tall thing on his head with a glint. "Second: I bring you in under the rare-talent quota. That is a door saved for a few each year when the exam cannot measure the shape of their work. People will hate you for it. They will say you stole a seat. They will sniff if they are poor and sneer if they are rich. You will not answer them. You will show your work. Third: I will not save you from the mud. You will be pushed. You will be tricked. You will be tested. If you break rules, you will pay the price. If you start fights, you will finish them or bear the bruise. If you cry, you will cry where the floor will not tell your story for you. I will not be your shield in public. I will be your hammer in private."

He held up two fingers. "If you refuse me, you are not a fool. You will sit the wild-card exam in two months. It is a special round for those the machine misread. You will likely pass. You will come in with a clean record and no secret. That path is slower, and more honest to the world. This path is faster, and more honest to yourself. Choose."

He leaned back. "You may have time," he said. He gestured toward a small side door. "There is a little balcony there. Quiet. Go and put your head into the wind. Come back when your bones agree. Do not take so long that decisions think they can make themselves."

John did not move. He sat still and let the light touch his face. He thought of Sera's letter, now folded in his bag. He thought of Elara's warning: do not use names that are not yours. He thought of Fartray's smile with no warmth in it at all. He thought of Brann's neat eyes. He thought of Fizz singing in a circle of students as if the world were a friendly stage. He thought of the forge, the flag with whiskers, the men in the village who had learned to stand taller because they trusted their hands. He thought of a river and an old ferryman who kept two coins until the right hands came.

He did not think of revenge. Not for this choice. He pushed that hot coal to the back of the stove and shut the iron door.

Then he did the thing he did when he could not find the measure by himself. He spoke within.

"System," he thought. "Old fart in my bones. Tell me what you see. Can I trust this man? Can you carry me if I say no. Do I need a master who cannot do what I do?"

The answer came in the quiet, clean voice that had lived with him long enough now that he felt it like a second pulse.

[System notifications: The system does not make choices for the host. The system supports choices the host makes.]

[System notifications: The system can guide the host in skills unlocked by rank, mission, and growth. The system cannot replace teaching. The system can show use. The system cannot give a theory that does not exist in the host's world.]

[System notifications: Scan: no hostile intent detected from the subject "Snake" at this time. Emotional pattern: focus, curiosity, restraint. Purpose: instruction. Risk: envy from peers; attention from powers.]

[System notifications: Either path leads forward. The path with "Snake" is faster and more dangerous early. The path with "wild card" is slower and safer early. Long-term risk equals out. Long-term growth may be higher with "Snake," if the host accepts pain and hidden work.]

John let his eyelids fall for one breath. He listened to the words settle like pebbles in a jar. Then he told the quiet voice something it always wanted to hear and rarely got from him. "Thank you."

[System notifications: You are welcome.]

He opened his eyes. He did not go to the balcony. He did not need wind. He had already lived in the wind for years. He looked at the old man across the sea of books and old ink and new jokes, and he said the small word that changes the shape of a life.

"Yes."

Fizz squeaked with sheer relief and clapped midair with both paws and his tail. One cookie fell off the plate from the force of his joy. He caught it without looking and stuffed it into his mouth at once. "He said yes he said yes he said yes—" he sang around crumbs, then stopped and swallowed and tried to look dignified. "Ahem. As his manager, I approve."

For the first time, the old man let a full smile show. It was a quiet thing, a thin line across a map of old storms. "Excellent," he said. "An old man gets his wish. A young man gets his work."

He turned his head a fraction. "Hale. Venn."

Both teachers straightened as if a small bell had rung behind their hearts.

"Rare-talent admissions," Snake said. "Immediate. The boy will sign the book and mark the slate. He will be given a new token. He is not to be announced on the board. I will handle the larger politics. You will shield him with boredom and paperwork."

Master Hale gave a sharp nod. "Yes, Headmaster."

Master Venn's eyes crinkled. "He can write," he said dryly. "We have proof."

Snake's gaze returned to John. "You will go with them now," he said. "You will sign with your hand and your breath. You will get a key to a small room that is not much to look at. You will get a locker and a rule about night time. You will get a timetable and a list of books you do not yet know how to read. Later this week, you will come to a different door and knock once. Only once. The door will open. That will be my door for you."

John held his ground a moment longer. He looked at Fizz. "And him."

Snake's eyebrows rose. "Yes?"

"You said you had a job," John said. "Is it dangerous?"

Fizz shoved the last cookie into his mouth in a hurry so he could speak. "He did say job," he added, crumbs everywhere. "And pay. Fair pay. I heard pay. You all heard pay."

Snake's eyes softened. "I did," he said. "And no. Not dangerous. Not even a little. It is work that fits a small, brave, clever being with a mouth that runs very fast. He will deliver messages / knowledge to some people inside these walls whom I cannot visit without causing problems. He will watch two places for me for one hour each day and report anything that smells or done wrong. He will be paid in coins. Actual coins." He tipped his head toward Fizz. "It is a responsibility."