After helping Siles move his three boxes to his dormitory, Bertram left.
Siles’s dormitory was in a building at the front of a row of apartments, located at 6 Hayward Street. The building mostly consisted of three-story suites for families, but Siles’s single apartment was a converted unit.
The first floor was a shared space, mainly a kitchen and parlor; the second and third floors had private bedrooms and washrooms, each with a separate balcony and small study.
Siles was quite satisfied with the dormitory—he didn’t plan to cook much anyway.
He lived on the third floor. From the balcony, he could see the distant castle and what was likely the library. The expansive, open view washed away his morning fatigue.
He took a deep breath, resting briefly.
Then, Siles gathered cleaning rags and cloths and went alone to his literary history professor’s office on the fourth floor of the main castle.
It was still as he and Professor Bright had left it on Monday. They had tidied the chaotic papers slightly, but dust and stains were beyond them.
This time, with rags, Siles cleaned thoroughly, reorganizing Professor Kabel’s materials.
Learning his lesson, he avoided examining them closely, stacking them haphazardly and shoving them into a corner of a low cabinet. The papers seemed chaotic but took up only one cabinet when stacked.
Siles wiped down the desk, cleared it, emptied the drawers, and stuffed all materials into the low cabinet. He opened the windows, letting fresh air sweep through the office’s stale atmosphere.
He sat on the sofa, surveying the office.
About ten square meters, it was mostly warm, ancient wood.
To the left of the entrance was a full wall of bookshelves; opposite were two windows, now open. Siles had cleaned the glass.
In front of the windows was a centrally placed desk with a seemingly soft, comfortable chair. Originally facing away from the windows, Siles found it awkward and turned the desk sideways.
Sitting now, he faced the bookshelves, with the right side offering a view of the lawn and campus entrance, broadening and comforting his perspective.
To the desk’s left was a two-person sofa and a small wooden tea table. Behind the desk were two low cabinets; Kabel’s materials were in the inner one.
The tall open bookshelf held many books and ornaments. Siles glanced over them—normal academic works—and left them untouched, planning to deal with them later.
Sitting on the sofa, his gaze swept the bookshelf, and he paused, wondering if the book that had shaken Professor Kabel was among them.
Siles grew suspicious.
Unlikely, right? Kabel left hurriedly but would have taken such an important book… Then again, if Kabel uncovered a shocking truth from it, why resign?
Why did his assistant disappear?
The more Siles thought, the heavier and more uneasy he felt.
He recalled this world’s transcendent power—Revelators. Power and revelations from the past.
The book Kabel found must have been from the past, right?
Siles held his breath, then shook his head, standing to dismiss the thoughts. Satisfied with his office, he considered buying a green plant later.
Lamifa University’s cafeteria had two floors: the first for students, the second for faculty. The faculty cafeteria’s food was noticeably better—and he was now a professor.
With a strange mood, Siles went to the second floor under the gaze of many dining students.
At the stairs, he overheard students talking.
“…He’s actually a professor!”
“So young! So handsome!”
“Is he this year’s new professor? What does he teach?”
“…Why does he seem familiar?”
Of course he did, Siles thought. Three months ago, he was their senior.
He shook his head, amused.
The university cafeteria was much cheaper than outside. Siles calculated that eating there all day might cost three marquis coins, or five at most—a friendly price.
Siles sighed in relief.
He decided to eat there daily, dining out occasionally for new flavors.
He absentmindedly ate lunch—some kind of pasta—and left. Another young professor left with him, unnoticed by Siles.
But as they walked toward 6 Hayward Street, both blinked.
They entered silently, saw each other in the parlor, and laughed.
“Good afternoon, my roommate,” the young professor, under thirty with dimples when smiling, said, winking at Siles. “I’m Lorenzo Grantham.”
“Good afternoon. Siles Noel.”
“Oh, I’ve heard your name!” Lorenzo said eagerly. “The youngest Lamifa University professor! You’re famous!”
Siles was slightly surprised, finding his roommate… quite lively?
Lorenzo chattered, “I’m in archaeology, still an assistant. But you’re a literary history professor—impressive!”
Siles shook his head. “Just lucky.”
After Kabel’s resignation and his assistant’s disappearance, the Institute of Literature and History had to recruit urgently, with Bright likely helping… Siles was an excellent scholar, but he wouldn’t have become a professor so easily otherwise.
Lorenzo shook his head. “No need for modesty. Your story’s spreading around campus. By the semester’s start, students will all know you—speaking of which, have you thought about the club?”
Lorenzo switched topics abruptly.
“What?” Siles didn’t follow.
“The club!” Lorenzo said. “Young and handsome, you’ll be popular with students. If you start a club, your institute would likely approve.”
Siles recalled what Lorenzo meant by “club.”
It was like extra tutoring for favored students, open to all but with the professor selecting about a dozen. Renowned professors often chose apprentices from clubs, hence the term “pre-scholar education.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll start a club.”
With shallow credentials and just becoming a professor, he lacked time and experience for a club.
…He already had plenty of troubles.
Lorenzo smiled mysteriously. “You think that. But what the institute thinks isn’t certain.”
Siles was puzzled. Lorenzo, experienced in the university’s system, knew more than Siles, a complete novice.
Seeing Siles’s confusion, Lorenzo sighed. “Professor Noel, haven’t you noticed the Institute of Literature and History has many basic education students but few advanced education apprentices?”
Siles thought, then realized.
Literature and history were appealing but grew tedious and complex. Many students, driven by interest, didn’t pursue apprenticeships after basic education.
For a veteran like Bright to still teach heavily was remarkable. Nearing retirement, he handled many courses.
The institute needed fresh blood. Perhaps this was why Siles became a professor so young.
The institute might need a figurehead—a charismatic professor to retain students or attract others.
A club could gauge how many students would follow him.
Siles understood, laughing wryly at another looming task. He’d pretend ignorance until the institute brought it up.
He chatted more with Lorenzo, who shared unwritten rules.
“You need to confirm your apprentices quickly, assign them as assistants, and let them grade homework!”
Siles: “…”
He paused, then said, “Aren’t you an assistant?”
“Not grading your homework,” Lorenzo shrugged. “Professors have their tasks; you won’t have time to grade.”
Siles sighed. “True.”
Both grew briefly dejected—Lorenzo, for grading duties; Siles, for the mounting troubles awaiting him.
Lorenzo recalled something. “By the way, do you know which student society you’re advising?”
“…Society?”
Lorenzo looked puzzled, nodding. “Student societies. All need a professor advisor. You’ll be assigned one—young professors get that. I handle three.”
Siles: “…”
Professors’ club, student societies… his schedule rivaled an Earth high schooler’s, didn’t it?