Moments like these reminded me why I liked pretending to be a battle-loving simpleton. It made dealing with troublesome matters as simple as swinging the metaphorical hammer while pretending all I saw was nails.
"Hello there! I'm the new student!" I announced, letting my voice echo in the nearly empty classroom.
The pair turned toward me. A girl with snow-white hair and skin so flawless it could've been sculpted—beautiful, yes, but in a cold, distant way, like a display piece at some high-end gallery. Beside her stood the man who had to be the professor, though his attire made him look more like a sleep-deprived addict.
They both stared, though the professor did a much better job of masking his surprise than the gallery piece.
"This is the… uhh, Melee Weapons class, no?"
I asked as I walked toward them calmly, 'not understanding' that they were in the middle of a conversation, and quite a heated one from what I heard all the way from the hallway.
The girl's expression tightened instantly, her delicate features twisting into a sharp frown at my nonchalant air, like she couldn't decide if I was a fool, rude, or both.
Sorry, snowflake, but I wasn't about to waste energy wading through conflict when the easiest path was to sidestep it entirely.
"Indeed, and you must be Mister Drago Geas! A hearty welcome to Beacon Academy! It is my absolute pleasure to have you here!" replied the jittery man, his words almost tripping over themselves in enthusiasm as he gestured grandly, recovering from his surprise in less than a heartbeat.
His grin was genuine, warm even, despite my slight impoliteness. How refreshing, I could already picture my old Atlas instructors turning purple at such a breach of protocol.
"And you must be Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck," I said, stepping forward to shake the man's hand. His grip was quick and firm, though his energy made it feel more like a series of rapid hand pumps than a formal handshake. "Why, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
As our hands parted, his gaze lingered just a moment too long, sharp and searching. The scrutiny didn't surprise me—my act might work on students, but veterans like him weren't so easily fooled, like Port had kindly demonstrated. No matter. Flattery would serve better than pretense.
"I have to say, Sir, your thesis on the emotion-detecting abilities of Grimm was truly enlightening. I'd never have thought to approach the subject from such a perspective..."
The words rolled off my tongue smoothly, and his eyes glinted behind those odd, opaque glasses.
"Remarkable..." he murmured, almost to himself, before his expression lit up like a dust crystal. "Remarkable! Simply remarkable that a student would be familiar with such advanced research! You see, Mr. Geas, the correlation between negative emotions and Grimm attraction has long been established, but the underlying mechanisms—the specific wavelengths of aura disturbance, if you will—remained largely unexplored until recently. Have you perhaps read Professor Merlot's counter-theory regarding the possibility of Grimm developing resistance to emotional camouflage?"
"Actually, I found that his approach to—"
"No, no, but more importantly, the implications for future huntsman tactics—why, just imagine the possibilities of weaponizing positive emotions as a deterrent! And the recent findings in Mistral suggesting that different species of Grimm might have varying sensitivity thresholds—absolutely revolutionary! Whichremindsmeofthepaperpublishedlastmonthabouttheuniquebehavioralpatternsandcognitiveresponsesindifferentregionsandthepotentialimplicationsforhistoricalmigrationsandwhydoyousee—"
Doctor Oobleck's words began to blur together, becoming an enthusiastic stream of consciousness that grew increasingly difficult to follow. I caught fragments about "cognitive development in Elder Grimm" and "emotional resonance patterns," but the rest became a caffeinated blur of academic jargon.
As the good doctor paused to take what I assumed was his first breath in several minutes, I turned toward the girl who had been standing awkwardly beside us. Her combat outfit was a study in precision—a pristine white dress with a gradual fade to pale blue at the ruffled hem, a cropped bolero jacket with red lining, and wedged heels that somehow managed to look both practical and refined. The rapier at her hip gleamed with the same meticulous care as its wielder.
Oh, and was that a glimmer of wariness in her eyes? Did I perhaps switch gears too quickly from clueless to knowledgeable? Eh, easily fixable.
If there was one thing that I knew about human relations was that if compliments didn't improve a situation, it was due to not seeming genuine enough.
"Oh my god," I suddenly stopped, freezing in place as if struck by lightning. My wide-eyed stare made her visibly startle, and I noticed with amusement how her hand instinctively clenched the hilt of her rapier.
"Are you perhaps Winter Schnee?" I asked with barely contained awe.
Her jaw simply fell open.