Kays Translations

Chapter 39: A Teacher Who Comes Knocking

Marlon was shocked—so shocked that his heart lurched—but outwardly he showed nothing, not even the faintest ripple of unease. He knew better than to reveal his true feelings here, in the real world, where Nephthu–Ekramon stood. The man possessed that terrible weapon of aesthetic brutality, an anti-materiel gun that could erase him in an instant.

Well—perhaps not entirely nothing. If one looked closely, there was a slight stiffness in his expression. And how could there not be? At the sight of Ekramon, Marlon was pulled back to that day in the cemetery—the day they laid little Anvi’s mother to rest. He remembered the shadowed figure of Nephthu–Ekramon standing at the edge of the graveyard, his presence suffused with overwhelming power, and the words that echoed directly into Marlon’s mind through a psychic transmission:

“Three days from now, come find me at the Light of Eshilia.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, boy. You, with the elf’s blood flowing in your veins. The one who killed your poor aunt—it wasn’t fate, it wasn’t a curse. It was your compassion, your pity for those you call ‘the guilty.’ Ha. I wonder—don’t you want to know why?”

Marlon had rejected those words. At the time, his heart burned with resentment, and survival demanded all his attention. So he forced himself to bury that voice, to pretend he had never heard it, to cast it behind him like an unwanted dream.

But now, standing here, to show no reaction at all would itself seem unnatural.

Thus Marlon allowed just a hint of surprise to cross his face, a shade of puzzlement—an expression that, in truth, mirrored his real emotions at this moment.

How strange, he thought, didn’t I already leak a fragment of information about Ekramon to Secretary Newventry and Mayor Kachibu? Why haven’t they acted? Why is he standing here, unchecked?

“Sir, our fortunate winner,” came the voice of Ivna, the host of the event. Completely unaware of the undercurrents, she smiled brightly and asked, “How should we address you?”

“Nephthu–Ekramon,” the man answered smoothly.

The god-born of Eshilia, Nephthu–Ekramon, dipped his head in an elegant nod to Ivna, revealing his identity without a shred of hesitation. His tone was cultured, deliberate.

As he spoke, his eyes slid sideways—deliberately or perhaps just casually—locking with Marlon’s for a single, piercing instant.

“Well then… Mr. Ekramon, congratulations once again!” Ivna said, her voice a touch too loud. She had felt the air grow heavy, strange. Raising her tone was her way of pulling attention back to the stage. “You’ve won the grand prize of tonight’s event! Please, look this way—let us show you what you’ll be receiving!”

But Ekramon did not turn. His gaze remained fixed upon Marlon, his lips curving as he said slowly, “We meet again, boy.”

“Yes… yes, we meet again, Mr. Ekramon.”

Marlon forced himself to respond, sounding—well, compliant. Almost docile.

And why not? How many in this world would dare to meet defiance with someone who could kill them at will? Marlon, who had already died dozens of times in the projection shards crafted by Musa-Mein, had not grown reckless from those experiences. Quite the opposite. The more he had tasted death, the more precious his single, irreplaceable life became.

Ekramon’s brow furrowed slightly. “You may call me Mr. Nephthu. Though you ignored my invitation.”

Names mattered here. Just as in the Western lands of Earth, the first name came before the family name. And the form of address carried weight: surname with ‘Mister’ implied distance or formality; first name with ‘Mister’ suggested familiarity, even intimacy.

Thus, for Ekramon to ask Marlon to call him “Mr. Nephthu”—the meaning was unmistakable.

“I apologize, Mr. Nephthu,” Marlon said smoothly, masking his unease. “At that time, I was consumed with the work of publishing my very first book.”

Of course he wouldn’t spurn the olive branch Ekramon extended in public. That would be suicide.

“May I ask,” Mayor Kachibu interjected with curiosity heavy in his voice, “what is your identity, Mr. Ekramon?”

For the mayor, the puzzle was glaring: who was this elf, this Nephthu–Ekramon, that could turn the promising young Marlon Lister into such a meek lamb? Marlon had whispered to the mayor once about the god-born of Eshilia, hinting at secrets—but strangely, all such memories seemed to have faded from the man’s mind.

“The Light of Eshilia is my property,” Ekramon replied casually. His eyes flickered to the curious mayor, then to Ivna, the red-haired queen of publishing. “About a month ago—on the very day our little Marlon first submitted his manuscript to Miss Ivna’s Emerald Crest Press—I happened to meet him. We shared a most pleasant conversation.”

Before the mayor or Ivna could speak, Ekramon’s gaze snapped back to Marlon, pinning him in place. “Boy, I hear you wish to open a school for the orphans under your care?”

Marlon nodded, confirming the accuracy of the information.

This idea had been with him for a long time. To feed the children was easy, but that was mere charity—charity that bred dependency. To truly help them, he had to give them tools to survive. Education was the only way to grant them the ability to stand on their own, to think clearly, to shape values that would not be twisted by the world.

Ekramon smiled. “Then tell me—would your school require teachers?”

Would it? Of course it would! Teachers were like water in a desert—never too many.

And yet—Marlon’s stomach turned to ice. In Musa’s projected world, he had already seen Ekramon’s true identity and terrifying strength. How could he possibly allow this god-born to linger in his orphanage, of all places, teaching children? What if one day, a single misstep angered him—would he not obliterate them all with a single shot?

Refuse him? Ridiculous. To refuse Ekramon outright would be to sign his own death warrant.

Poor Marlon found himself trapped, unable to move forward or back, tangled in a cruel dilemma.

“You don’t seem… enthusiastic,” Ekramon observed. His patience waned. Instead of waiting for an answer, he slipped once more into Marlon’s mind, his words striking directly into his thoughts.

Marlon nearly leapt from his skin at the sudden intrusion. “N-no, not at all! The truth is—” Inspiration struck in the midst of panic. “Mr. Nephthu, you see, while my school will indeed require many teachers, not just anyone can be suited to such a role. I was planning, in fact, to hold an open recruitment one week from now, to carefully select the right candidates.”

Yes, Marlon thought triumphantly. That will do it. A god-born like him would never stoop to compete with common folk for a humble teaching position. He’ll dismiss the idea himself. I can’t fight him—but I can dodge him.

He almost smiled at his own cleverness.

But his relief was short-lived.

“I see,” Ekramon said evenly. “Then I shall attend this public recruitment a week from now. Where will it be held?”

Marlon’s mind reeled. What?!

He’s serious? He’s really serious?

“Oh heavens above, earth below,” Marlon cried out silently, “why must you, a lofty god-born, torment a powerless mortal like me?”

“Boy,” Ekramon continued serenely, “a week from now I will attend this recruitment. Tell me—will it be held at your orphanage?”

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