I thanked her for shifting my mood.
.
She met my gratitude with a look of pure bewilderment, as if the word itself were foreign to her ears. Then, with a biting, caustic sneer, she said:
"I didn't think you were capable of gratitude. With those harsh expressions of yours, it feels more like you're demanding a tribute than offering thanks."
I felt the veins in my temples throb with renewed violence. Was this girl born for the sole purpose of testing the limits of my sanity?
She stepped back nimbly, poised to flee at any second, and cast a defiant glance my way:
"What now? Are you going to strike me? Just a moment ago, you were confessing your love... is this how your kind proves their devotion?"
I studied her provocative face and realised I was dealing with a personality that thrived on crushing the composure of others. I decided to change the rules of the game. Since she craved "provocation," I would grant her "disappointment."
Setting my features into a mask of cold, visible letdown, I spoke in a level tone:
"Is this your only way of building bridges with people? By being a nuisance and forcing your way into their heads?"
Before she could prize her mouth open to retort, I spun on my heel and took off toward my house. I could hear her calling out to me in the background, but I didn't spare her a glance. I had delivered the final blow; in the theatre of verbal warfare, nothing kills a "repartee-obsessed" ego more than being denied the last word.
I reached my doorstep panting. Just as I moved to open the door, I sensed a shadow looming behind me. A cold sweat broke across my brow. Was it Miranda? Could she truly be so obsessed with "winning" the argument that she'd pursued me this entire distance?
I turned in utter shock, only to find the servant standing there, his face clouded with a resentment he couldn't—or perhaps wouldn't—hide. He spoke with a dry, clipped tone that lacked even a shred of professional grace:
"Sir, did I not tell you I would show you the university? I was waiting for you in the cafeteria when you suddenly bolted. I couldn't find you. I searched the path home, but you were nowhere to be found." He followed this with a sharp, squinting gaze: "Did you get lost, Sir?"
I recognised the irritation in his voice; he wasn't looking for me out of loyalty, but out of a begrudging sense of obligation. I felt no genuine desire to appease him, so I replied with a brief, icy apology:
"Sorry, I was occupied with something else. I'll go inside, grab something, and be right back out."
I entered the house. The first thing I did was wash my hands—as if scrubbing away the remnants of that irritating encounter and the weight of being shadowed by this disgruntled servant. Then, I returned to walk with him toward the place of study.
We finally arrived, and the sheer scale of the scene took my breath away. It wasn't just a university; it was a majestic architectural marvel, built in a massive U-shape, two stories high, and radiating an aura of cold, prestigious grandeur. A sprawling courtyard sat at the centre, lush with trees and vibrant flowers, offering a deceptive sanctuary of peace.
The servant began explaining the landmarks with a calculated, clinical coldness. Pointing to the right, he said: "These are the men's restrooms." Then, gesturing toward the far, opposite side: "And those are the girls' restrooms. You are strictly forbidden from approaching them." The distance between the two was so vast it felt intentional, designed to prevent even an accidental encounter.
Opposite the restrooms, we reached a door clearly marked: "Class Zero."
The servant turned to me, his voice a robotic drone devoid of further explanation: "This is the class where you will study. Do not forget to attend every day."
He turned to leave abruptly. A sting of disappointment hit me; I had expected a detailed briefing on the nature of the curriculum, but he seemed eager to end his "shift" as quickly as possible. He paused suddenly to toss one final detail over his shoulder, as if he'd just remembered it:
"Classes begin at six-thirty in the morning. See that you wake up early."
Before I could ask about the subjects or the hours, he vanished, scurrying away as if escaping a prison sentence.
I made my way back, and as I walked, a persistent question gnawed at me: Why did a city of such grandeur and scale feel so hollow? Where were the people? The city wasn't crowded; it felt like a massive stage where the cast had yet to arrive.
I changed my mind and headed to the cafeteria for lunch. I faced the same cold indifference from the servers with a hardened apathy of my own. I took my food to a distant, empty corner and ate in silence. I spent the next several hours in gruelling training, pushing until every ounce of energy was spent.
Back at the house, I slept for two hours, then resumed my exercises until my body finally surrendered. Under the stream of cold water, the traces of exhaustion began to fade. I cherished the sensation; this simple luxury was a distant dream during my days of homelessness.
As darkness began to crawl over the light, I collapsed onto my modest bed. There was no plush mattress, so I spread a quilt to protect my skin from the rough wood. I closed my eyes, looking toward a better tomorrow in that "Class Zero."