Slowe wheeled Amora out of the laboratory, carefully closing the door behind them, and turned left toward the end of the corridor.
The hallway was eerily empty, its bright chandeliers almost blinding, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere. Resilient green plants lined the sides, their leaves slightly wilted—perhaps due to radiation or merely a lack of water. This seemed to be the lowest level of the ship, entirely devoid of natural light. The muffled sound of water echoed faintly, adding to the oppressive ambiance. The plush carpet beneath them was luxurious and soundless, erasing any trace of the wheelchair's passage within moments.
"An educator? Not quite," Slowe remarked calmly, his tone devoid of pride despite Amora's earlier flattery. "But I can continue Menger's unfinished lessons for you. So, where did he leave off?"
Amora paused, her thoughts scrambled by the chaos of the past few days. After a moment of recollection, she replied fluently, "I think it was about the linear and nonlinear changes in consciousness capacity, and how these influence the predictable and unpredictable energy threshold fluctuations during magical platform operations."
"…" Slowe fell silent, his expression momentarily unreadable. "He taught you that?"
"Yes," Amora nodded.
The subject was part of advanced magical theory, a non-compulsory, exploratory area of study. It was an academic gray zone—still under investigation by scholars—yet Menger had treated it as basic curriculum for Amora.
"What exactly did he say about it?" Slowe asked, his curiosity piqued.
"What do you mean?" Amora tilted her head, then remembered something. "Oh… right. He didn't say much—just told me to get to the cellar and stay locked up."
"…"
Slowe felt an inexplicable sense of mental fatigue that he suspected might linger for hours.
"You see? He has no idea how to teach." Amora shrugged as if concluding an argument. "I never understood why I had to know the answer to everything. If I didn't, I'd be punished. If I answered incorrectly, same result. Did he just know everything from birth without needing to study?"
"…That's hard to say." Slowe, having met Menger, had abandoned his disbelief in the existence of geniuses. Afterward, he had also abandoned any illusions about fairness in the world; some people, it seemed, really were born with better brains.
"Alright then." Amora felt a pang of frustration but masked it with a composed tone. "As for my identification papers and future arrangements… I'll leave those in your capable hands."
Slowe opened the door at the end of the corridor, revealing an automatic elevator platform. It was, as he had mentioned earlier, one of the many accessibility features aboard the ship. Sitting in the wheelchair, Amora felt much better than she had lying on the jolting carriage. Her fractures were securely supported, sparing her unnecessary pain. Most importantly, Slowe's movements were impeccably steady. Without a word, he used magic to cushion the ride, making the wheelchair glide as if it were floating.
"I once arranged for Menger to enroll someone, but I doubt it would work for you," Slowe said thoughtfully.
Amora was momentarily startled—had Menger been in contact with this man? Then she realized that the "enrollment" Slowe mentioned likely referred to Lian, who had been sent to the Royal Academy in the capital shortly after Menger acquired him. If Menger had fled from St. Lancarte, his identification documents were likely invalid. Gaining admission to a prestigious academy—or even a public school—would have been impossible without assistance.
It became clear to her that it was Slowe who had smoothed the process for Menger. As the Nightmare Corps' Chief of Staff, Slowe was a military powerhouse with substantial authority. If he had maneuvered Lian into the academy back then, it seemed reasonable that he could now do the same for Amora.
"Is there a problem with enrolling me?" Amora asked. She was of appropriate age, and if her background could be crafted as a "martyr's orphan," there seemed no reason why she couldn't gain admission to the Royal Academy.
"You're unsuited for the current curriculum," Slowe replied bluntly. "Menger followed the Root System, which diverges significantly from Plawnman's academic framework. Standard courses wouldn't align with what you've learned."
"I wouldn't mind learning about other magical theories," Amora replied, showing her eagerness. Then she asked, "The Root System—does it refer to the framework that produced the Root System device?"
"The Root System is the pinnacle creation of that framework."
The automatic elevator stopped around the fifth floor, revealing a clean, well-maintained corridor lined with spacious guest rooms. Being part of a luxury cruise ship, each room bore a number plate and was preceded by plush red carpets and flowers exuding a long-lasting natural fragrance.
Slowe wheeled Amora to the nearest door, used a magical mechanism to unlock it, and entered. The room lights turned on automatically, revealing a living area with a thick, exotic-patterned white wool carpet, ornate oil paintings on the walls, and a crystal chandelier above. Beyond the living area was a bedroom, where Amora caught sight of a priceless amethyst angel figurine on the bedside table.
Once again, Amora was reminded that this ship was a domain for the wealthy.
Slowe pushed her wheelchair to the fireplace, then settled into a high-backed chair nearby. The chair was an elegant masterpiece—painted in deep green with a birdcage-like design and adorned with a velvet pillow. As Slowe leaned back, Amora noticed an unexpected weariness in his otherwise poised demeanor. This level of comfort seemed to make even someone like him lower his guard and reveal his exhaustion.
Slowe closed his eyes and murmured, "Stop staring at me."
With a snap of his fingers, the bright chandelier lights dimmed, replaced by the soft glow of two wall-mounted lamps. The room instantly felt warm and inviting, almost lulling her to sleep.
"My apologies," Amora said, averting her gaze.
"I'm not reprimanding you. Working in the Nightmare Corps ages you quickly. Magical research is extremely draining," Slowe explained, his voice tinged with fatigue. "Magisters with immense mental capacity often risk losing their sanity. Their thoughts are too complex and scattered, draining their consciousness and ultimately their life."
Amora studied his side profile—the long black hair shrouding his features, save for those strikingly beautiful eyes. If judged solely by his back, Slowe could easily pass as a tall, slender beauty. But when he turned, well… the glasses didn't help much.
"Is insanity common among magisters?" Amora asked, starting to feel apprehensive about the working conditions in the Nightmare Corps.
"Everyone has some degree of mental instability," Slowe said patiently. "Magisters who overtax their consciousness simply experience it more acutely, but it's manageable. What's harder are the magisters who can't cope with the stress of military life or those who choose to end their lives after the trauma of battle. The Nightmare Corps is harsh—it's not all prestige and benefits."
Amora nodded thoughtfully. "I understand. Every reward comes at a price."
Slowe brushed his hair aside and cast a sidelong glance at Amora. "Well said. So, what are you willing to offer in exchange for my help?"
"Knowledge?" Amora ventured hesitantly. "Maybe I could assist in your research on magical systems in the future?"
Slowe shook his head, not acknowledging her response. Instead, he posed another question. "Have you ever considered what Menger wanted from you, given that he sacrificed his life for you?"
Amora didn't for a moment believe Menger had died for her. He defected before she was even born, and his eventual downfall at the hands of the Emerald Lance couldn't possibly be her fault.
"Well…" Amora hesitated.
"Menger was insane," Slowe said with a quiet chuckle. "Despite his high standing in academia, his reputation has always been tarnished. Within the Emerald Lance, he was codenamed the Angel of Death. Over a decade ago, Menger conducted extensive human experiments in St. Lancarte. A rough estimate puts the number of people who directly died at his hands at over 300,000. Those who perished indirectly as a result of his research are incalculable. I suppose he never shared these dark chapters with you. You'd better brace yourself for the cost he may have extracted from you."
Amora hadn't known about Menger's inhumane experiments, let alone the staggering scale of the atrocities.
"You call someone like that a martyr?" she asked.
"Yes," Slowe replied tersely. "His defection to the Emerald Lance significantly delayed their Root System project. To this day, their Root System remains in the experimental phase."
Amora fell silent. It seemed that personal morality held little weight when measured against national interests. As long as a butcher had once served their nation, certain truths could conveniently be buried.
"Let's put aside Menger for now and return to the subject of your education," Slowe said, finally steering the conversation back. Rising from his birdcage chair, he addressed Amora seriously. "I believe you have potential. Offering you some assistance within my capacity is hardly an issue."
"So…?" Amora remembered Slowe had dismissed her request for enrollment earlier. What was his plan now for creating a new identity and enabling her to complete her studies?
"There aren't many magisters researching the Root System in Plawnman. Coincidentally, I happen to be one of them."
Slowe looked down at Amora, who met his gaze without flinching. She doubted he would personally mentor her, so she remarked cautiously, "I thought you were busy with military affairs…?"
"Not for much longer."
Raising an eyebrow, Slowe straightened and strode out of the room with his usual efficient pace.
Amora slowly wheeled herself to the bedroom doorway, mulling over his parting words: "Not for much longer." She couldn't help but wonder just how much was implied in that simple statement.