The First Lecture and the Power of Active Thinking (I)

Asdras slept a rare, deep slumber that whispered of possibilities beyond what he was used to. No nightmares stirred, no dreams clung to the edges of his consciousness. Yet waking was a different kind of assault. He could not recall how he came to be in this room — which he deduced was his own — and darkness veiled his thoughts with a somber mist.

It was a modest room. It bore no extravagant detail, and its simplicity lay in a beauty that surpassed anything Asdras had ever known. The centerpiece was a makeshift wooden bed, and from the church's bed in the village, his back experienced the luxury of a surface softened by a hefty, well-worn blanket. At its foot, an old chest stood guard. Against one wall, a narrow shelf clung stubbornly, displaying a modest array of essentials and tools. Behind a low partition lay a small bathroom.

Grateful for such privacy, Asdras rose and made his way to take a bath. The sensation of warm water cascading over him stirred memories, jarring his senses. He recalled bathing only the day before, or even before that, in Rine's inn. It was like a gap crashing his skin, narrowing his feelings like a ball rolling left to right within a distorted tunnel where time and experience diverged.

'What in the world happened? Was it real? Were they actual people? Or just a nightmare? I hope they explain it to us. And does everyone who awakens go through what I did?' As hot water poured over him, his thoughts drifted, filled with more questions than ever. 'Asdras Morie... I know my name is Asdras, but my surname was always unknown to me. That voice... what was it? It knew my name. And that crow? It seems like it knows everything about me. Will I see it again?'

His eyes drifted to his palm, where the etched crow pulsed with a subtle energy. It beat in time with his blood, as though summoning him. He recalled the murmured words, the cryptic messages that had mingled with the night — his name whispered alongside that of a crow, and the enigmatic text aflame in his memory.

Even as these thoughts spun relentlessly, his mind shut out memories of the villagers. Their faces, blurred by the trauma of events past, refused to form distinct images in a mind desperate to protect itself from pain. Instead, his focus turned to what he could grasp — the practical, the immediate. His thoughts raced as he dressed in the uniform issued to those newly awakened.

A nagging worry, half forgotten but never vanquished, lurked at the back of his mind. The idea of a path, of sacrifice, brushed against him. There were mechanisms in the mind, defenses forged from trauma, that sealed off painful corridors of memory. It was ironic. The very act of forgetting had left behind subtle scars, hollow imprints that echoed with guilt and loss. It was as if every act of suppression carved a tiny wound in the fortress of his consciousness — a fissure destined to widen if not questioned.

At the door to his room, he hesitated, reaching out as though expecting a tangible handle. Instead, he met only the smooth, inscrutable surface of a carved rune that beckoned him forward. The academy's rooms functioned like portals to the subterranean labyrinth below. Reaching into his uniform's inner pocket, he retrieved a folded map. Yet as he rifled through his belongings for the small flask Yoozi had entrusted him with — a flask that Javier had so carefully instructed him to deliver — he halted. The flask remained, empty.

"I can't just hand it over… Hope it's not vital," he muttered under his breath as he secured it in his pocket.

The long corridor ahead, known as the Groundway, stretched before him like a long river. This massive passage was lined with runic doors, each glowing with different hues. Many students walked purposefully through its maze, poring over their maps as they sought the correct door to their classes. The instructions warned him: stray not toward the red or orange portals, but seek the familiar blue or white ones.

As Asdras lingered over the map, pondering which door to go. A burst of raucous laughter broke through his reverie. A trio of young men barreled past him, jostling and calling to one another, "Hurry! We need to get the best view of the class!". Deciding that overanalyzing would serve him little purpose today, he followed.

He arrived at a lecture hall that towered before them. An austere, meticulously designed space where order reigned even among the whispered chaos of youthful minds. Sturdy desks, each paired with a single wooden chair polished by countless hands, were arranged in precise rows, all directed toward a central stage.

Industrial pipes crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, their metal sinews polished by intermittent droplets of moisture, and lanterns hung in strategic clusters, casting a warm yet flickering glow.

As he walked, his soft footsteps echoed briefly on the stone floor before being swallowed by the myriad voices that filled the room — whispered confidences, half-formed debates, and the occasional piercing remark. Every desk was occupied by youth animated by its own unique torment: some sat rigidly upright, eyes alight with an almost feverish hunger as anxious fingers tapped rhythmic patterns on the worn wood; others slumped forward in resignation, their heads cradled in trembling arms.

Near the rear of the room, a girl with jet-black hair toyed with a stray lock, her slender fingers absently twisting it as her nails trailed faint scars across her wrist. In a low murmur meant for the solitude of her own thoughts, she confided, "Felt like drownin' in all that noise… Like everybody's talkin' over me. Now I'm just… here. Ain't sure if I lost myself or caught somebody else's."

Beside her, a gaunt-faced boy let out a humorless chuckle. "Reborn's for lambs in spring. They slit me belly clean at the butcher's block. One me bawled. T'other? Laughed at the crows peckin' his guts. Guess which me you're talkin' to."

In a more shadowed corner, a youth appeared transfixed, his hands gripping the edges of his desk with the desperation of a drowning sailor clinging to wreckage. "It was beautiful," he breathed, his tone reverent, as if he had witnessed a sublime vision. "Every nerve, every cell, alive, singing. I felt the pulse of something grand, something eternal. How can you not see it? You'd trade your soul to feel that."

Amid these voices, Asdras felt a quiet relief stir within him — a sense that he was not alone in his torment. He recognized in their voices the same creeping terror that haunted his nights, the same gnawing uncertainty about what was right or inevitable. A bitter chuckle escaped him as he realized that while the darkness might persist, at least it was not utterly silent.

Surveying the room through eyes both weary and watchful, he sought an empty space to settle himself. Fortune intervened when a student stumbled against him, causing him to pivot and glimpse an unoccupied chair tucked away at the far top left of the room. Seizing the moment, he moved quickly, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that no one else advanced toward the same way.

A thought flickered in his mind, halting him in his steps: 'Oh, it's her!'

Reaching the vacant chair, he addressed the girl already seated in the next spot with cautious politeness. "Mind if I sit here?" he inquired, tilting his head slightly as he regarded her.

"Sure," came her quiet reply.

Asdras eased into the chair, taking deliberate care to adjust himself while stealing a furtive glance at Lisandra. Her expression held the wistful melancholy of someone adrift in thought, and her fingers absently scratched the surface of the desk as if tracing invisible patterns. A stream of curls framed one side of her face, concealing the other half in a subtle, almost mysterious shadow.

"Hi, Lisandra," he offered gently.

She exhaled a soft, drawn-out sigh before lifting her gaze to meet his. For a moment, the silence between them deepened, charged with an unspoken understanding, as her eyes fixed intently on his palms. It was as if time itself had hesitated at that moment. A brief cough escaped her, shattering the delicate tension. "Yes, Asdras, right?"

He scratched his nose, his expression mingling uncertainty with the need for connection. "Yes. Do you have any idea which class this is?" he asked.

Lisandra lifted a slender hand, retrieving a small booklet from the folds of her bag, and with a slight, knowing smirk replied, "Didn't you read the introductory book?"

Perplexity furrowed his brow as he scratched his head in genuine confusion. "No… Where can I…"

Her smirk deepened in a way that unsettled him. He had never been one to fix his gaze upon a girl with the same intensity Brian once did, yet he could not deny that her smile held a beauty he couldn't grasp the meaning of. For a fleeting instant, his eyes lowered, and his blood ran cold as a sliver of memory — the little girl's warm smile, the doll, flashed unbidden in his mind, and the sword.

"In your room," Lisandra said softly.

Before Asdras could muster another question, the atmosphere in the classroom shifted perceptibly. The murmuring of voices stilled as if a spell had been cast. All eyes turned toward the central stage, where a man now strode forward, carrying a thick, leather-bound book that seemed as ancient as the ruinous corridors of their world.

"Good morning everyone; I'm Teacher Vidar Ingolfsson, here to lecture on awakening," he announced, his voice resonant with authority and grave sincerity.

Teacher Vidar stood with an imposing presence, his sharp blue eyes glinting with both stern wisdom and the unyielding demands of duty. His neatly groomed beard framed a face marred only by a single, distinctive scar.

"I understand many of you have questions and seek clarity," he intoned, pacing slowly before the students, "but remember this: from the moment you awakened, everything shifted fundamentally. One key aspect is our newfound ability for active thinking."

He paused, allowing his words to settle over the attentive silence. "Many of us could think before awakening — surely — but not actively engage in self-dialogue or reason with ourselves in our own voice as we can now. This skill will become more intuitive over time; for now, keep it at the forefront of your mind."

A ripple of uneasy understanding passed through the students. Asdras, nodding silently to himself, thought, 'Now that he said it, it's true. Before, I could think, and now I can think while hearing my own voice in my head. It's so strange to think about it.'

"Alright then!" Teacher Vidar declared suddenly. "Normally, I don't entertain interruptions or questions at the start of class, but today's special. Who wants to go first?"

Eager hands shot upward in waves. Yet amid the collective chorus, one voice rang out, higher-pitched and trembling with a mix of fear and awe. "Was it a dream or an illusion? It's gotta be — I mean, logically — but the smell… pine needles and… and blood? These things with too many joints… chasing till I tripped on roots… A skull-faced man helped me. Tell me. Please tell me."

At these words, Teacher Vidar's presence became even more formidable. With a measured, deliberate stride, he stamped lightly upon the floorboards, silencing the rising clamor of voices. His eyes singled out the student with the desperate query before he answered in a firm tone. "No doubt. It was as real as it should be, and based on what you've described, if you venture there again… well, let's just say survival isn't guaranteed."