"Has Solomon left anything? A note or some kind of object?"
With only a few minutes left of this class period, we began discussing the possibilities of what may have happened to Solomon or where he was.
My hand clutched the elective application where my name was written alongside the class name, "Potions," as the three of us crowded near the desk where the class’s instructor was. Jibril had given it to me a while ago and I immediately filled it up with a fountain pen that was handed over to me by Basil.
I took a good look at the pen.
Its body was made with decent quality glossy black acrylic—not those cheap plastics that easily shatter. With silver rims along the cap and body, it fit quite nicely in my left hand.
Basil smiled in amusement.
"Solomon owns that pen; gave it to me last year or the year before.
"We were only nineteen then, and much, much stupider than we are right now."
Sam scoffed.
"Solomon is far from stupid."
"Oh, silence, you."
Basil continued with a reminiscing look on his face, and the two of us listened. Jibril was putting away the chessboard.
"There was a time, you know, before Lemon and I met Sam.
"It was a time where our camaraderie had yet to blossom, but was beginning to grow a tiny sapling. I think we were sixteen, seventeen. I don’t know the specifics myself.
"Lemon, who surprisingly came from a penniless background, would come to a public archive that my family owned at least three times a week.
"Albeit penniless, he always treated us. This pen is proof of it. It’s a MontBlanc, and this shit is expensive as fuck. My father is too stingy even to buy himself one, and he’s a great benefactor who donated a fuckton of Peso to this school! Neither of us had any idea where his money was coming from."
He stretched his arms.
"He’s always been too curious for his own good, that bloke.
"He’d read random transcripts on yellowed paper. Would read the most derogatory fiction that would probably be considered a hate crime to others, depending on their race.
"This archive was built for the sake of knowledge and that was something Lemon would advocate for even today.
"At some point, however, he found a transcript with the name "Balt."
"That was his surname.
"Inevitably, he realized that his family were once from a world that the transcript described as a world "beyond" this land.
"I was watching him that day. I always did. My eyes were drawn to him.
"I’ve read that specific transcript in his hands; it was about Lemon’s executed ancestor who tried to escape this world and go "beyond," causing the fall of his family name.
"With that in his system, I knew just from looking at him that he would look for it.
"The "Wall" that led beyond this world.
"Or, as the transcript described it,
"The "Fourth Wall.""
There was a silence that befell us, and only the clattering of Jibril’s organizing could be heard.
Basil’s voice was barely a whisper that I could almost not hear it:
"...and it caused the life of Bunny."
The boiling and steamy pot gurgled.
I knew very well what the world "beyond" theirs was.
I was there when I awoke.
These people were unaware that their world was but a simple floor in a great tower.
And that beyond this floor, this tower, what was waiting for them was the apocalypse.
I could not imagine their disappointment if they decided to actually go to the Fourth Wall.
Basil pursed his lips, thinking. Then, as though he was reminded of my earlier question, he spoke once again.
"He ain’t left nothing, methinks. But I still remembered something he said...uh. What was it? Something about the rise of an old god called...Reverend or something."
Another silence.
"Basil," said Sam, grabbing the fountain pen Basil had loaned me a moment ago. She shoved it to his face, "you absolute fool. Solomon left you his fountain pen!"
I awoke the next day with a black and silver-rimmed fountain pen on my bedside.
I took a shower, then wore the Colegio’s uniform: a white button up under a grey vest, and, over it, the iconic crimson-purple-lined black toga.
I had scrambled eggs and rice for breakfast, for they did not serve garlic fried rice at that time.
My first few classes passed by like a breeze.
My fourth class of the day was Ritualistic and Runic Arts, and it was one that I’ve been waiting for.
Yesterday, Jibril had questioned us on who was taking the class, RARA.
It was not a core subject and we were in different courses, so it wasn’t surprising that Sam and Basil didn’t take it.
Basil took a bachelor of science in classical runes, which made me question why he didn’t take that class. He only responded that he was planning to do so by his second or third year.
Samreah herself took a bachelor of arts in body horror—a strange name for a college course, so I questioned her.
Apparently, it was a liberal art and a horribly expensive course that conducted artistic renditions of supernatural creatures like nephilim, werewolves, or vampires.
...who would want to go into that course? Suddenly, I recalled the first time I encountered Sam and Basil, their conversation, and understood Basil to a degree.
Never mind that.
Jibril let me keep Solomon’s fountain pen for a reason.
I was to...
"Professor Shepherd," I said when the bell rang and the class, Ritualistic and Runic Arts, was dismissed. Students ran past me and out the door, but not before waving goodbye to Shepherd.
The first half of the class centered on the students with a majority of girls sucking up to Shepherd. And the second half was Shepherd actually and finally teaching.
With a wrinkly finger holding a chalk, she stared at me with a questioning expression.
"Yes?"
It was their job, I remembered Jibril say, so it should be allowed for her to teach me rituals in advance...
"Please teach me how to sacrifice and conduct a ritual."