"Stop crying, all of you. Go inside and attend class properly. After this lesson, I'll tell you how we can avoid having to take so many language lessons in the future."
After calming down one particularly tearful toddler, Muria turned his attention to the other crying children. Using a controlled voice that carried clearly to all the little ones, he made his promise.
The effect was immediate. The bawling stopped, and a stunned silence fell over the group. Even the slightly older royal children in the vicinity, who were not directly involved, couldn't help but perk up their ears. What Muria said was simply too intriguing to ignore.
Although the older royals had more or less acclimated to their rigorous lessons, none of them truly enjoyed the grind of their education. Learning ten or more languages before adulthood was a daunting, almost nightmarish requirement, even for the royal family, whose enhanced abilities gave them more time and stamina for study but not necessarily a greater talent for it.
That morning, Muria's promise left a lingering curiosity in the hearts of many. As the class proceeded, his royal siblings and even some of the tutors found themselves distracted, their thoughts occupied by his cryptic words.
When the academy bell rang to signal the end of the lesson, a small swarm of toddlers gathered around Muria, their eager eyes fixed on him.
Even some of the older royal siblings, though maintaining a semblance of composure, kept their distance while subtly glancing his way, clearly interested. No one wanted to spend their formative years drowning in language studies if there was a way out.
"Big brother, what's your method? Please, tell us!"
The ringleader of the earlier crying session clung to Muria's arm, his eyes brimming with hope. Muria frowned and shook off the clinging child in disgust. Although the royal children had a superior starting point compared to commoners, in many ways, they were still just kids. This particular boy, with his rumpled clothes and traces of dried snot, was a prime example.
"You're older than me," Muria reminded the boy curtly, irritated by his improper form of address. As with any structured hierarchy, rules and etiquette were paramount, especially among royals.
"It doesn't matter!" the boy said dismissively, desperate for the answer. "If you can tell me how to avoid all these classes, I'll call you 'big brother' from now on. No problem!"
"The solution is simple. If you think about it carefully, you'll figure it out on your own," Muria replied nonchalantly, scanning the surrounding group of toddlers.
"I don't know," the boy admitted after a moment of futile pondering. He gnawed on his finger in frustration. He had tried every trick in the book—crying, feigning illness, begging his mother—but nothing worked. His mother, otherwise indulgent, was unyielding when it came to his education, insisting it was for his own good.
"Think about it. Why are we required to learn ten or more languages before we come of age?" Muria asked, addressing the group as a whole.
When no one answered, Muria continued. "The reason is simple: it's because our nation is weak. If our nation were as powerful as the nation of Farlight, we wouldn't need to learn anyone else's language. Other nations would be the ones learning ours."
This revelation stunned the group of toddlers into silence. It was a concept they had never considered before—one that seemed to turn their world upside down.
"In this world, weak nations always learn the languages of stronger nations. Strong nations, on the other hand, only need to learn their own language. If our nation were the strongest in the world, we wouldn't have to study any other language unless we wanted to. It would be entirely up to us," Muria explained confidently, his understanding of the world's political landscape lending weight to his words.
Muria had already pieced together the geopolitical situation of this world. The Kingdom of Gayle, his birthplace, was nothing more than a small, ordinary nation. At first, Muria had thought himself lucky to be born into royalty, imagining a life of privilege and power. But when he fully grasped the reality of his nation's standing, his optimism quickly turned to frustration.
Gayle was one of countless small kingdoms, indistinguishable from dozens of others. Worse still, it was a tributary state, obligated to send annual tributes to a more powerful nation in exchange for survival. This humiliating dependency was the root cause of Gayle's rigorous language curriculum.
Bordering six other nations of comparable strength, Gayle's military power was middling at best. Beyond these immediate neighbors lay even more formidable states, including the nation to which Gayle paid tribute.
Upon learning of his nation's precarious position, Muria was left feeling thoroughly exasperated. His frustration only deepened when he discovered the extent of his father's... prolificacy.
As the king, his father had numerous consorts and an astonishing number of children. While Muria could understand the necessity of securing the royal bloodline, the sheer scale of his father's offspring—well over a hundred siblings—was beyond his comprehension.
The sheer number of potential claimants to power made the prospect of Muria achieving any meaningful influence seem daunting, if not outright impossible.
"So, if we make our country the strongest in the world, we won't have to study so many languages anymore?" one of the toddlers asked, their eyes sparkling with naive optimism.
Muria's words had clearly ignited a sense of hope among the younger children. They lacked the broader perspective to grasp the monumental challenges involved in achieving such a goal.
"Hah! What nonsense!"
But not everyone shared their enthusiasm. The older royal siblings, those old enough to understand Gayle's true position in the world, scoffed openly at Muria's suggestion. One by one, they walked away, their expressions a mix of disdain and resignation.
"Big brother, why do they look so angry?" one of the toddlers asked, puzzled by the older siblings' reactions.
"They're angry because they think what I said is impossible," Muria replied. He reached out to pinch the questioning toddler's cheek but stopped midway, noticing the dried traces of snot. With a sigh, he lowered his hand.
"Do you think it's possible?" the boy asked curiously, looking up at Muria with wide, innocent eyes.
"Of course. If I decide to do it, it will happen," Muria said matter-of-factly, his tone calm but resolute.
"Wow!" The toddlers around him stared at him in awe, their eyes shining like stars.
"But not right now," Muria added. "I'm still too young. It'll have to wait."
Two days later, Muria found himself summoned for an audience with the king.
"Your Highness, His Majesty awaits you. Please follow me," a graceful woman, flanked by a group of maids, intercepted Muria as he left class.
"Understood," Muria replied calmly. Noticing the fear in his maids' eyes as they recognized the woman, Muria quickly deduced her identity. Based on his father's administrative style, she was likely a high-ranking courtier—someone who handled both official matters and... less official ones.
"Lead the way," Muria said with a nod, his composed demeanor momentarily surprising the woman.
King Fernand of Gayle sat on his throne, gazing down at the young boy standing before him. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he studied his son.
Fernand had little memory of this particular child. He had seen him once at birth, noting the small horns on his forehead—a mark of royal lineage—and had thought nothing more of him since.
But a recent report regarding a seemingly innocuous classroom conversation had piqued his interest. Now, he wanted to see for himself if this boy was truly as different as the report suggested.
"Are you not afraid to stand before me?" Fernand finally asked, his voice carrying an air of authority.
"Afraid? Why would I be?" Muria replied, looking up at the king with genuine confusion. To him, there was no reason for a father to intimidate his son.
"Well said," Fernand murmured, caught off guard by the boy's candid response. A faint, awkward smile crossed his face as he descended from the throne to stand before Muria.
"Arnold, do you know why I've called you here?" Fernand asked, using the name given to Muria in this life.
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