"This lesson will focus on the basics of Ancient Gunnish script..."
In a luxurious palace classroom, a refined-looking man with two horns sprouting from his head began his lecture with a gentle smile.
Below him, a group of royal children, ranging in age, dutifully pulled out their textbooks from their desks, pretending to listen attentively.
Among them, sitting at a front-row desk, was Muria. He pulled out his language textbook without expression and watched as the instructor began teaching.
Muria was currently less than two years old—a mere infant. Yet, in this world, while normal children at his age would still be babbling and learning to walk, he had already been sent by his mother to participate in the rigorous educational program mandated for all royals of the Kingdom of Gayle.
Despite having carefully hidden his exceptional nature, blending in as an unremarkable child, Muria had no choice in the matter. He found that in his position, even a low-profile approach wouldn't spare him from the relentless demands placed upon royals.
No matter if a royal child was exceptionally talented or pitifully inept, once they reached a certain age, they were thrust into this environment. Excellence wasn't optional—it was compulsory.
As Muria sat through the lecture, his sharp hearing picked up faint snoring sounds. Curious, he tilted his head slightly and noticed a boy, only slightly older than himself—around two years old—slumped over his desk, sound asleep.
Muria had been aware of this child for a while. Ever since he was brought to the classroom, the boy had done nothing but sleep, oblivious to the noise and chaos around him. Now, his snores had become so loud that they were audible even during the lecture.
When the snoring began, the instructor momentarily paused before continuing as if nothing had happened. As a linguist, the teacher understood the frustration his subject could cause.
Learning ancient languages was not exactly enjoyable. For these royals, mastering at least ten languages before adulthood was mandatory. Language acquisition was only one small facet of their curriculum, which included many other challenging subjects.
The pressure faced by royals was unimaginable to commoners. To the instructor, being born into royalty was not a blessing but a burden, especially for those with less aptitude for learning.
As such, he chose not to disturb the little prince in the front row who had fallen asleep. After all, at this age, children were supposed to be in bed, not attending a class on esoteric scripts.
When the morning lesson finally ended and the academy's bell tolled, all the royal children let out sighs of relief, smiles lighting up their faces. A group of servants entered to assist their young masters.
At Muria's side, two cheerful maids appeared, tasked with attending to his every need. Given that Muria was still an infant who could barely walk, his mother had sent a team of maids to care for him.
However, despite knowing her son's limitations, she had shown no mercy in throwing him into an educational system that would overwhelm most adults.
"I can't keep holding back," Muria thought as one of the maids picked him up. While he had been deliberately presenting himself as an average child—not dumb, but not especially bright either—his performance was no longer sufficient.
The royal curriculum was intense. Even maintaining the façade of mediocrity would no longer cut it. In his current environment, mediocrity wasn't merely frowned upon—it was a crime. If he continued to downplay his abilities, his act of "playing the fool" could very well lead to him being treated like a fool—discarded or worse.
After a fine lunch and a brief nap—a luxury even common adults would envy—the afternoon session began. Unlike the morning's academic lectures, the afternoon curriculum was physically demanding, focusing on combat training.
Swordsmanship, jousting, archery—every skill related to warfare was part of the program. These were essential for the royal family, who were expected to lead not just in governance but also on the battlefield.
However, children of Muria's age were exempt from active participation. For now, they were merely observers, watching their older siblings sweat and toil on the training grounds.
Sitting on the edge of the training field, Muria observed the scene before him: his older royal siblings, sweating profusely as they practiced wielding various weapons. Beside him, five or six young children were sprawled on the grass, sound asleep under the sun.
In contrast, Muria sat cross-legged, making him stand out. Yet, no one disturbed him.
The norm was for children his age to sit quietly and watch the training. The ones napping beside him were the exceptions, their behavior tolerated due to their tender age.
"What exactly is this reincarnated body of mine?"
Though his eyes appeared to be focused on the training, Muria was preoccupied with introspection. He had been exploring the latent potential of his new body, trying to uncover its secrets.
He had already discovered that the world he was in, despite having human-like inhabitants, was fundamentally different. These "humans" bore little resemblance to true humans, as many possessed unusual physical traits.
Everyone in this world was born with some degree of innate power—gifted by the heavens, so to speak. However, among the common populace, this power was often so faint as to be negligible, leaving their appearances largely normal.
But as this innate power grew stronger, it would cause physical changes, depending on the nature of the power.
Take, for instance, the royal family of Gayle. Every royal was born with distinct physical traits that set them apart, a mark of their superior lineage.
"This power feels somewhat like bloodline magic, but it's not quite the same," Muria mused as he delved into the source of his new body's power. He had already identified the supernatural energy within him—a dark red force of considerable destructive potential.
"The Gayle royals' power starts with these horns on the forehead, which can't be hidden," Muria thought, running a hand over the small, sharp protrusions on either side of his forehead.
These horns were a hallmark of the Gayle royal family. Looking at the older children practicing on the field, Muria noted that their horns were larger than his, a sign of their greater maturity.
In this kingdom, these horns were a symbol of pride. Among the royals, the size of one's horns often correlated with their status.
"If I revealed the dragon form of my true body, would these people immediately crown me king?" Muria thought mischievously, amused by the absurdity of the situation.
In his true form as a Dragon King, Muria had gained a second set of horns upon reaching the Epic level, just like his grandfather Deimos. Now, his dragon form bore four pairs of majestic, crown-like horns.
The next morning, as Muria was carried to the academy by a maid, he witnessed a commotion at the entrance. A toddler clung desperately to his nursemaid's leg, wailing, "I don't want to study! I want to play! I want to sleep!"
Other royals passing by paid no attention to the scene. Though they shared bloodlines, the relationships among the royals were cold and distant.
However, today happened to be an exception. Several young children had arrived at the same time, and the ringleader's crying triggered a chain reaction. Soon, a chorus of wails echoed outside the academy.
Amidst the chaos, Muria stood out once again—not because of his appearance, but because of his composure. While the others cried and clung to their maids, he remained calm and silent, observing the scene with disinterest.
Initially, Muria had no intention of intervening. But when he noticed a steward rushing off to report the disturbance, he decided to act.
"Take me over there," Muria instructed his maid. She carried him to the ringleader, who was still bawling and clinging to his nursemaid's leg.
"Stop crying. Don't you know how noisy you're being?" Muria said sternly, standing on the ground and looking up at the slightly older child.
"I don't want to study! I want to play! I want to sleep!" The boy ignored Muria, continuing to cry as if no one had spoken.
"I said, stop crying," Muria repeated. This time, he reached out and pinched the boy's chubby cheek, tugging lightly.
The nursemaid, watching nervously, hesitated to intervene. But when Muria shot her a cold glance, she quickly averted her eyes and kept silent.
"Crying won't solve anything," Muria said firmly. "Do you think crying will get you out of going to class? All it'll do is make you feel worse. So why bother?"
The boy paused mid-cry, looking at Muria in confusion. His tears gradually stopped as he pondered the logic of Muria's words. Finally, he nodded hesitantly, his tantrum subsiding.
"Playing the fool," Muria thought, "might not be the best strategy in this kingdom. It's a place where weakness isn't tolerated—and pretending to be weak is the same as asking to be trampled."
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