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Chapter 4 – Mischief and New Directives

The exhaustion effect of the scroll was much worse than I could ever imagine. After being forced to stay in bed, I spent the entire night and half of the next day trapped to that mattress, staring at the ceiling without being able to move properly. The simple act of trying to get up was a true humiliation: my legs trembled violently every time I even tried to put my feet on the cold floor.

My knees gave out in uncontrollable spasms, as if my muscles had completely forgotten how to support the weight of my own body, forcing me back under the covers.

It was an exhausting and limiting weakness. Besides all this torment, I was only able to walk decently, without looking like I was about to collapse at any moment, during the course of the next day. This irritating delay only worsened my situation and gave me even more time to ruminate on my inner anger.

— The world hates me. First this unhappy monk who wants to make my life a living hell, and now there is a papyrus that makes me bedridden?! — I fumed in my thoughts, feeling my blood boil with revolt. — My perfect vacation has been ruined! Now I want him to feel what I feel! Since he likes to make others suffer, I'll make him taste his own medicine!

Determined to pester my teacher's life, right after breakfast, I began to observe which rooms Alistair usually entered as soon as he returned to the castle. I concluded that the library would be the ideal setting; after all, because of the characteristic smell of old scrolls that accompanied him, I deduced that he must spend most of his time there.

I lay in wait for long minutes, analyzing every detail of the environment until the mental click happened, clearing my mind with a brilliant and terribly chaotic epiphany.

— Well, the plan is simple: I have to collect waste in a container, create an impact circuit, and finally, spread something very slippery on the floor! — I reflected, a wicked smile sprouting on my face.

I sneaked with extreme care through the familiar walls of the castle, slithering stealthily until I reached the rustic latrines to gather the ingredients for my masterpiece. To ensure the odor stuck to him irreversibly, I decided to mix cat urine with wild boar dung. The result would have a devastating tactical effect.

— This is going to be excellent! — I enthused over my outlandish plan, holding back my laughter so as not to alert any guard patrols.

I collected all the waste I could find and stored it in an old bucket I found along the way. Then, I headed toward the library to trace the magical activation circle. The logic of the spell was rudimentary: as soon as the physical circuit was broken by the opening of the door, the accumulated mana would be abruptly released, generating a small explosion that would hurl the bucket directly at my teacher's head. To certify that he wouldn't escape by miracle, I expanded the impact area and planned to sabotage the floor with a slippery substance.

— Now only the last stage of the invention remains — I thought, organizing my actions into a real-time mental list for the execution of the trick.

With that focused, I began to look for Nella. In my childish six-year-old naivety, I blindly believed that she would hand me the material needed to complete the trap without asking any questions.

Since the maid operated in the north wing, near the archives, it was easy to locate her. As soon as I spotted her in the corridor, I exclaimed:

— Hi, Nella! Can you help me with a task?

— What exactly can I help you with, young master Lycon? — she replied, adopting her impeccable professional posture. She took a step forward and tilted her head slightly: — And, please, tell me what this peculiar odor is that accompanies you this morning.

— Oh, it's nothing much! — I replied hastily, trying to change the subject and hide my dirty hands behind my back. — Do you happen to use something very slippery to clean the floor or walls? Could you bring me some?

— Yes, I use a thick oil-based wax to polish the antique wood. It leaves the surface quite slippery if not diluted and dried correctly — she explained, keeping her tone of voice perfectly level and politely ignoring my flimsy excuse, although her clinical gaze made it clear she hadn't been fooled. — I can provide a flask. But which area of the castle does the master intend to "clean" exactly?

A drop of cold sweat immediately broke out on my forehead under the pressure of her gaze.

— It's a surprise! — I retorted, trying to look as innocent as possible.

— As you wish, young master — she let out a very light sigh, maintaining a perfectly imperturbable expression. — I'll bring the flask in a moment. I just ask that you try not to damage anything of high value during your surprise. And, above all, I pray that I am not assigned to clean up the consequences of it later.

As soon as she returned and handed me the flask of pure wax, my eyes widened with enthusiasm. — This is it! Now I'll be able to finish my supreme trap! — I thought, my body almost jumping with joy.

I spent about two hours structuring all that commotion on the ceiling and at the library portal. By destiny's luck, I managed to spend all that time without being detected by any sentinel. To watch from a privileged box seat the monk crash with the invention, I sat in one of the back armchairs, pretending to read the tome The Pillars of Alluvian Calculus, an arithmetic book that I had liked quite a lot.

After long hours of waiting, I began to find the calm strange and to judge that my target would not return in that cycle. — Could it be that he's not coming today? Come to think of it... That damn guy never informed me of his exact return schedule. How annoying!

While I was wandering in my thoughts, a firm hand emerged from behind the armchair and picked up the book from my fingers abruptly.

Cold sweat trickled down my temple. My eyes widened in pure panic and I slowly turned my neck backward. Focusing on the image, there he was, glaring at me with his glacial countenance: Monk Alistair.

— Finally decided to show your teeth. You prepared that entire structure specifically for my reception, correct? — he muttered, his harsh voice echoing through the hall. — It doesn't matter the result. Push-up position! This time it will be thirty repetitions, and we will maintain this load for a while! — He ordered, moving no muscle other than his mouth.

As soon as the last syllable of that harsh order echoed through the heavy wooden shelves of the library, my body acted out of pure survival instinct.

— Thirty push-ups under those mechanical conditions?! No way! — I screamed in my thoughts, feeling an inflamed mixture of rebellion, wounded pride, and pure despair burn in my chest as I made my decision to flee.

I spun my heels in the opposite direction, thinking agilely: — Does he think I'll bow down as usual? Idiot! I'm not staying here serving punishment! — I bolted toward the exit as fast as my six-year-old legs allowed.

However, my heroic escape lasted exactly three steps. As soon as I started to run, the monk didn't even need to exert himself. He merely extended his long arm, grabbed me firmly by the collar of my jacket, and lifted me off the floor with pathetic ease. There I hung in the air like a disobedient kitten, kicking the empty air with dangling legs, while all my grand villain pose evaporated in a single second.

— I asked for a support position, boy! — exclaimed Alistair, throwing me "affectionately" back to the floor and stationing himself right between me and the library door, blocking any new escape route.

Before I could start the movements, the roar of the trap echoed violently through the side corridor of the north wing, followed by a dead silence that lasted only a single second before being broken by a shrill scream of pure feminine indignation.

— By the ancient gods, what does this mean?! — My mother's voice, Baroness Isis, echoed furiously down the hallway, her tone muffled by disgust as she tried to clean the soot and viscous residue that had hit her imported dress from the capital.

Baron Horus, completely covered in lubricating wax and with remnants of cat urine dripping from his broad shoulders, took a few seconds to process. He spat out a piece of leaf that had flown into his mouth, looked at the broken contraption fallen at his feet, and, to my complete biological dread, the corners of his mouth began to curl upward. His severe expression gave way to a rough, booming laugh.

— Hmph... It seems the boy possesses initiative — muttered Horus, wiping his face with the back of his calloused hand, although his severe gaze soon fixed back in my direction. — A bit reckless in using the north wing's own corridor as a tactical testing ground, I admit... But it was creative.

— Creative?! — Isis glared daggers at her husband, crossing her arms with a feature twisted by revulsion, while Nella already appeared running with buckets of water and rags, pale with terror at the scenery. — He almost buried the personal guard with garbage and wild boar dung! If Alistair weren't nearby to witness the audacity of this "piece," I myself would make this boy transcribe the fiscal records of the province of Alluvia for the entire year!

The sound of calm footsteps ceased right at the library entrance. Alistair emerged from the shadows of the portal, crossing his arms with an enigmatic half-smile on his face. He evaluated the mess in the corridor, looked at me, and finally turned to my parents.

— My, the pedagogical methods are bearing practical fruits — commented the monk, with a deeply irritating calmness. — Twenty push-ups for having wasted materials and mana on the trap... And another forty for having almost hit Lady Baroness. A total of sixty repetitions. Start now.

Horus shrugged, accepting the punishment stipulated by the monk without complaining. After all, for a veteran warrior, getting his hands dirty was part of the learning—even if the mother still muttered curses about the smell that would take over the west wing for the rest of the week.

— Lycon... Or rather... Monk Alistair... — exclaimed my father, staring fixedly at me with narrowed eyes and a contained smile. — I ask that you consider forcing him to execute the sixty push-ups immediately, without breaks for rest.

— With the utmost pleasure, Baron — replied my teacher, dedicating a genuinely sadistic side smile to me.

— Great, now I have to pay sixty push-ups for sheer impulsivity. The only idiot here was me! — I thought, feeling my ears turn red with shame and my blood boil while executing the millimeter movements on the library floor.

There is an old saying that goes "nothing is so bad that it cannot get worse," and in this case, the physics of the law was applied perfectly. As soon as my father wiped part of the dung from his face, he called Nella firmly.

— What can I help you with, Baron Horus? — asked the maid, her polished voice completely clashing with the chaotic scene I had created.

— I ask that you clean all this manure from the corridor... and tell me: how did he manage to make this floor so slippery? — inquired the Baron, keeping his eyes fixed in my direction.

— Certainly, Baron sir. I will take care of the sanitation of the perimeter and the first aid to Lady Baroness's attire — replied Nella, without even wrinkling her nose at the horrible smell, keeping her posture erect as if she were at a royal ball. — Regarding the floor... Young master Lycon demonstrated a sudden and quite peculiar interest in my pure wax supplies earlier. I deduce that his industrial application technique was a bit... excessive.

— I see... — The Baron seemed so bitter and irritated that the veins on his forehead bulged, demonstrating his despair to formulate a decent response in the face of the maid's complaint.

After reflecting for a few seconds, he ordered:

— Clean Isis first, see how to remove that odor from her skin. Then I'll decide what to do with my own uniform.

As soon as he finished his instructions with Nella, he marched directly in my direction. I was already on my tenth perfect push-up, with my arms begging for a truce.

— You, young man... Today you're screwed! — decreed Baron Horus, destroying any hope of escape I still harbored. — You will only leave this hall after cleaning every centimeter of this filth and completing every last repetition of Alistair's punishment!

With expectations of freedom annihilated, I continued executing the exercises under my father's watchful gaze. The damn monk remained static on the side, turning his face away to try to hide his laughter every time I looked in his direction. — How many forms of torture and pedagogical humiliation must be passing through this executioner's head right now? — I muttered mentally.

Four months. That was the exact time it took for my organism to begin responding to Alistair's absurd training methods. At just newly turned six years old, looking in the rustic mirror of the quarters and noticing minimally defined muscle structures in my infantile frame felt like a bad biological joke. However, heavy calisthenics coupled with daily exhaustion did not forgive the body's weaknesses. My skin was calloused, and with each dawn, the sensation that I was forging a fragile carcass out of iron was palpable.

Since that fateful corridor episode, my leisure routine had been completely destroyed. I was summarily forbidden from playing, exploring the castle wings, or enjoying any minute of idleness. To crown my misfortune, the monk drastically elevated the workload: the daily quota of ten push-ups and ten sit-ups jumped to painful thirty repetitions of each exercise.

In the first few days of that cycle, I genuinely thought my body would collapse and my life would end there. Each morning proved to be a mechanical torture. However, the human body is a curious and irritatingly adaptable structure. As the weeks passed between puddles of sweat and mental curses directed at Alistair, I noticed a subtle fluctuation: the violent tremors that previously made my knees buckle gradually diminished. My arms, which previously looked like two old, soft ropes, began to support my own weight without collapsing miserably against the cold floor, and my abdominal wall no longer burned as much with every rise. Pain still existed, of course, but my frail six-year-old body was slowly building fiber and getting used to the military shock.

Witnessing my forced effort, the damn monk ended up throwing me a promise: if I stayed firm for three consecutive months, without messing up a single posture or faltering in a single movement, he would reduce the daily punishment to fifteen push-ups and fifteen sit-ups. It was a biological bargain for which I was willing to sweat blood.

And as if physical wear wasn't enough, even my diet suffered a hard blow. My fortified breakfast, which previously featured a generous and juicy slice of apple pie, suffered a severe "disciplinary reform." That slice was reduced to sheer wind, for since then I hadn't even seen the color of an apple on the table, being replaced by extremely healthy and terribly tasteless foods provided by the castle apothecary.

Already during the course of the second month of this grueling routine, when my body had finally aligned with the rhythm of a punished soldier, my parents summoned me to a special lunch in the main hall. They wanted to have a serious conversation with me.

As soon as I pulled the oak chair to sit down, I looked around and noticed with immense relief that my teacher was not present in the room. — Phew... At least I won't have that executioner's eyes staring at me while I chew — I thought.

After Nella served the dishes to everyone with her habitual elegance, my mother adjusted the linen napkin over her lap with impeccable grace. Before touching the silver cutlery, her attentive eyes scanned my posture in the chair, detecting the slightest inclination of my shoulders.

— Straighten your back in the chair, my son. An heir of the House of Horus does not slouch at the table, no matter how cruel the monk's training has been — began Lady Isis, with a melodious and soft tone of voice, but loaded with unquestionable firmness. She took a small sip of water before glaring at me with a severe look: — Two months have already passed since that sad episode in the north wing corridor, but I still demand a formal explanation regarding your behavior.

She rested her cutlery for a second, demonstrating deep aristocratic indignation in her features.

— Using cat urine and wild boar dung inside the fortified dependencies of the castle is a filthy attitude and terribly unworthy of your name! Poor Nella had to scrub that pavement for days on end with strong essences just to make the library air breathable again! Not to mention the extreme irresponsibility of casting mana near our collection of scrolls. Had your magical activation circle gone wrong, you would have stained or burned extremely expensive tomes that would cost a true fortune to be replaced by our House! Do you understand the danger and the total lack of consideration in your attitude?

— But, mother... — I let out a short sigh, trying to formulate my structural defense. — Monk Alistair is very mean to me, he shows not the slightest remorse if I almost collapse during training! I executed that trap because of his provocations. — I finished explaining, sighing again to contain the anger upon remembering our daily routine in the courtyard.

Baroness Isis shook her head slightly, maintaining an impeccable posture while glaring at me with a sharp calmness.

— Understanding your mechanical frustration does not mean accepting your barbarism, my dear — she replied, in a soft yet categorical tone. — Your teacher is strict because he knows the limit of your raw potential, and your own physical evolution over these months proves that he is not trying to destroy you. What you call "defense" was merely an impulsive act that exposed your parents to ridicule, dirtied the house's structure, and almost destroyed a valuable heritage of Alluvia. If you truly wish to be treated as someone capable and mature, start acting like one instead of resorting to low tavern tricks.

At that instant, my father intervened in the debate. He let out a short sigh and let his shoulders drop in a relaxed manner.

— And it's not like you're going to die because of a little physical exercise, is it, my son? — The Baron smiled slightly. — Besides, Alistair speaks very well of you in his reports. He even praised the complexity of the trap you set up. He mentioned textually that "the boy finally stopped acting passively and showed his teeth," although your mother was quite irritated with the mess. — He finished, letting out a light military laugh.

— I find it fascinating how you manage to extract humor from this situation, Horus, considering you were just as soaked in boar waste as I was that afternoon — pointed out the Baroness, in a calm tone of voice, yet sharp as a steel blade. — And as for the monk's praise... "Showing your teeth" is a military virtue, my dear, but having to spend two full days subjected to aromatic baths to extract the odor from the skin is something quite different. Do not encourage your son's atrocities at the dinner table.

— I warned him that you were severely irritated! — exclaimed the Baron, solemnly ignoring his wife's scolding for a moment and turning back to me, who watched everything trying to hold back laughter. — Anyway, I apologize. The floor is yours.

— I hope you know how to disguise that audacity better than you disguised your trap on the ceiling, my son, because the conversation now demands extreme seriousness — resumed Lady Isis, maintaining her aristocratic tone. — We recognize that you possess a raw and dangerous talent for mana manipulation—no matter how miserably applied it was in that episode. Since Monk Alistair is a warrior focused on close combat and not an arcane user, we decided that you need someone capable of teaching the structural theory of magic before you accidentally bring this castle down.

My eyes widened toward my mother upon processing that information.

— So... You mean I'm going to have a new magic teacher?! — I exclaimed, losing my formal posture for a second, but composing myself quickly. — I sincerely hope his methods aren't identical to Alistair's.

My father promptly replied, serving himself a piece of meat:

— Your mother would never permit the hiring of another executioner of that level, especially since this new tutor demands a strict payment of five gold pieces a month to instruct you! He only didn't charge a higher fee because he evaluated your background and found you extremely talented. He became very enthusiastic about your profile.

My mother closed her eyes for a brief instant, delicately bringing two fingers to her temple as if trying to contain a mild headache generated by her husband's interruption. Then, she cast a firm gaze at me.

— Control your posture and the tone of your voice at the table, boy. You almost knocked over the juice glass with that start — she warned, although the corner of her lips betrayed a minimal trace of relief upon witnessing my enthusiasm. — Alistair is an elite combatant, but he lacks the slightest delicacy to teach the molecular theory of mana. We recognize your value, Lycon, and we know that five gold pieces is the market price to keep a tutor of this rank here... But we will demand practical results.

She rested the linen napkin on the table and leaned her torso slightly in my direction.

— Your new magic teacher will arrive at the castle shortly. He is an educated and certified Mage, and I demand that you treat him with the institutional respect you lacked when dealing with Alistair. If I receive any report about another trap involving feces, oils, or elemental explosions... I myself will make a point of confiscating your apple pie until your twelfth birthday. Was I perfectly clear?

Without any tactical margin for negotiation, I was left with no choice but to nod.

— Yes, mother.

— The monk teaches you to take hits in the dust, roll in the courtyard, and scrape your knees, but completely forgets to polish your aristocratic education — concluded the Baroness, ending the table interrogation. — This glaring lack of posture of yours that I witness now is living proof that his method is incomplete and raw. Your new magic teacher will have the mission of instructing your mind and, above all, polishing this lack of courtly etiquette.

After the end of that long lecture on manners and new hires, the tacit permission to finally start eating felt like the greatest prize of the day. After an entire month living on strict meals and seeing my beloved apple pie reduced to sheer wind at breakfast, that lunch was a true divine experience for my battered palate. The tender meat, the perfectly seasoned vegetables, and the rich sauces felt like the most delicious banquet of my entire existence.

However, enjoying that meal was a true test of endurance and focus. For every delicious bite, I had to actively remind myself to keep my spine as straight as an oak plank, my elbows tucked tightly against my torso, and the silver cutlery handled with almost surgical delicacy. A single millimeter of carelessness and my mother's sharp gaze would pierce me right where I sat.

As soon as I swallowed the last piece, I wiped my lips with the linen napkin with impeccable precision, making a point of acting out all the refined elegance that the Baroness so demanded. Before standing up from the chair—executing slow and calculated movements so as not to generate any mechanical noise against the floor—I made a slight bow toward them.

— I thank you for the excellent meal, mother, father. With your due permission, I will retire to my quarters — I declared, embellishing the polished and solemn tone.

— You may go, my son. Remember to keep a firm posture on the way through the hallway — replied my mother, granting me an approving nod that sounded like an authentic medal of honor.

I walked to the exit of the hall with the impeccable composure of a little duke. As soon as I crossed the curve of the corridor and stepped out of their line of sight, I began to bounce with pure joy off the walls: I had escaped further physical punishments and, best of all, the new teacher certainly wouldn't be a rigid brute like Alistair!