Chapter 32: Kitsaro's First Day of Learning
First Four Subjects
The sun had barely risen when light trickled through the fine drapes of Kitsaro's chamber. The sounds of the estate waking—footsteps, birds, the rustle of uniforms—began to stir the quiet halls.
Elysia, now fully garbed in her head maid attire, entered softly. Her steps made no sound on the carpet as she approached Kitsaro's bed. The child lay in a bundle of silken sheets, his white hair a tousled mess.
She leaned down and gently shook his shoulder.
"Young master, it's time to get up. Your tutors will be arriving soon."
Kitsaro groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow.
"Do I have to?"
Elysia smiled softly. "Yes, young master. Education is important."
With a heavy sigh, Kitsaro rolled over and sat up. His eyes were bleary with sleep, and his tiny hands rubbed his face as he muttered under his breath.
"I already lived through a lifetime of studies. Why again…"
But he didn't protest further. He understood the importance of appearances, of preparation. The Veyra estate was no longer just a discarded corner of House Vaelthyr—it was becoming something of its own.
Servants bustled in, helping him dress. A soft tunic of deep gray, tailored pants, and polished shoes. Elysia brushed his hair until it gleamed, and with a nod of approval, guided him to the dining hall.
As he entered, he saw Sylvara already seated with Galen and a few of the tutors from the day before. They were deep in conversation, speaking about lesson structures, testing methods, and Kitsaro's future curriculum.
Sylvara noticed him and smiled briefly.
"Good morning, Kitsaro. Eat well. You'll need your strength."
He sat down, and Elysia brought a light breakfast—warm bread, soft cheese, and a mug of fruit tea.
Despite the food's quality, Kitsaro chewed absentmindedly, his thoughts elsewhere.
After breakfast, Galen led him through the estate halls, which had begun to fill with the trappings of nobility—curtains of noble silk, paintings, crystal fixtures, and even armored guards at key posts. The Veyra name may not have had a noble title yet, but its prestige was growing by the day.
Eventually, they arrived at his new study.
It was a room Kitsaro had visited only briefly before. Now, stepping in fully, he realized how much effort had gone into it. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes on beast essence theory, bloodline genealogy, war strategy, mathematics, philosophy, and the arts. At the center stood a broad desk with ornate carvings, surrounded by chairs and a velvet reading couch near the window.
The morning light bathed the room in a golden hue.
He stepped toward the desk and sat down, arms crossed, expression blank.
Outside the window, he could hear the faint murmurs of tutors preparing to enter.
Kitsaro sighed again.
"Studying again… I thought I'd left this behind. But at least this time, it's different. New subjects, new perspectives."
Still, he slumped a bit in the chair.
Grumbling under his breath, he muttered, "First day of torture all over again…"
~~~~~~~~~
The study door creaked open.
Kitsaro perked up slightly. He could hear the muffled sound of footsteps—measured, slow, deliberate. A procession of scholars, each likely brimming with expectations. A chorus of rustling robes, polished shoes tapping wood, and the faint scent of parchment and ink flooded the room.
The first to enter was a tall woman with dark chestnut hair wound into a spiral bun, her sharp eyes framed by narrow spectacles. She carried herself with the grace of a noblewoman and the presence of a hawk.
"Lady Liora Venthar," Galen announced from behind Kitsaro's chair, voice calm. "Political strategist. She will be assessing your grasp of noble structures and persuasive logic."
Liora inclined her head toward Kitsaro, her expression unreadable.
"A pleasure, young master Kitsaro," she said, voice smooth as velvet but cool as stone. "I've been informed you're five years old."
"I guess," Kitsaro said, kicking his legs a little under the desk. "Depends on if you count before or after reincarn—" He stopped mid-word and coughed, covering it with a forced yawn. "I mean… yeah. Five."
Liora's eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his stumble, but she said nothing. Instead, she laid down a thin parchment scroll and a small chess-like board with figurines of different noble houses on it—Vaelthyr among them, in pale ivory.
"Today, we'll explore the basics of noble alliances. Tell me… which of these pieces do you think is strongest, and why?"
Kitsaro blinked. "Umm… that one!" He pointed at a dark crimson figurine of a hawk-winged noble crest. "It looks the coolest."
Liora raised a brow. "Coolness isn't strategy."
"Maybe not," he mumbled, then yawned, swinging his feet again. "But looking cool makes people follow you, right?"
Her lips twitched. Was that amusement? No, it vanished too quickly.
"And which house do you think is most dangerous?"
Kitsaro leaned forward, squinting. "The white one. 'Cause it's quiet and doesn't look dangerous… but that's sus."
Now that got a laugh from Galen, though he quickly covered it with a cough. Liora stared at Kitsaro a beat longer before nodding.
"Perceptive. Hidden threats often prove the most lethal. Let's proceed."
For the next few minutes, she ran him through a mock demonstrations. Kitsaro answered slowly, often distracted by the figurines—making them pretend to fight or giving them silly voices under his breath.
When Liora finally stood to leave, she turned to Galen. "His instincts are… unrefined, but compelling. I'll stay on."
Galen nodded respectfully.
The next to enter was a man who practically smelled of old tomes and ancient wood. He was shorter than Liora, with a wiry frame and wild silver hair that stuck out like he'd been electrocuted by a leyline. A string of beast claws hung from his belt, and his amber eyes gleamed with curiosity.
"Professor Jaerin Thorne," he said, bowing deeply to Kitsaro, who tilted his head.
"Hi, Mr. Thorny."
"Thorne," the professor corrected with a faint chuckle. "Close enough."
He placed several illustrations onto the desk—drawings of massive, ancient beasts: winged lions with stars in their manes, serpentine titans coiled around mountains, a fox with nine burning tails.
Kitsaro's eyes widened a little at the last one but said nothing.
"These, young lord, are some of the many Divine Beasts long before recorded within this world," Thorne said, tapping one illustration. "Each linked to a constellation and—according to my research—possibly once worshipped as gods possibly being more powerful than other divine beasts. Do you know what this one is?"
Kitsaro leaned in. "That's a weird looking snake?"
"That young master is Jörmungandr," Thorne said, face palming. "Also yes a snake. The World Serpent. Very good."
"Looks like a really big noodle," Kitsaro said, grinning.
Thorne laughed, delighted. "Indeed, a most terrifying noodle."
Over the next half hour, Thorne taught him about the constellation-linked origins of Divine Beasts and asked Kitsaro to match several beasts with their known regions or historical events. Kitsaro got a few right—intentionally—but yawned and drew little whiskers on the illustrations when he thought Thorne wasn't looking.
When asked what he thought about the theory that divine beasts were fragments of ancient star-born gods, Kitsaro replied, "That sounds kinda lonely."
Thorne blinked. "Lonely?"
"Yeah. If you're a god and got chopped into beast pieces, wouldn't that be sad?"
"…Quite the interpretation," Thorne said, smile fading into thoughtful silence. "Hm. I'll stay."
Kitsaro leaned on the desk. "Do I pass the test?"
Thorne nodded, chuckling. "You pass by being interesting."
"Yay," Kitsaro mumbled, clearly unconvinced.
Next came a man who filled the room without needing to speak. Master Halrek Senn. He was beastkin—tiger-marked arms, wild eyes, and a body that looked like it had been carved from stone and scarred by wars long past. His presence made even the air heavier.
"Little fox," he rumbled. "You don't need words to survive the world. You need a body that won't betray you."
Kitsaro gave him a skeptical look. "I already run fast."
Halrek knelt beside him. "Run again after an assassin stabs your lung. Or when you're dragging someone you love through a battlefield."
Kitsaro fell silent.
Halrek set down two small sandbags, a small log, and some kind of bone-crafted balancing rod. "You'll lift, balance, and stretch. I'll watch."
"I thought this was studying," Kitsaro muttered.
"This is studying. Of your own limits."
"A five year old kid working out..." Kitsaro gave a small sigh and followed his instructions. For the next twenty minutes, he tried to lift tiny weights, hold stretches, and walk while balancing the rod on his head. He fell once—then twice—then tried to sneak a third fall just for the drama.
"For a five year old obviously your control is lacking," Halrek said flatly. "But… not your will. You fall with purpose."
"Thanks?" Kitsaro said, slightly confused.
Halrek stood. "I'll stay."
Kitsaro flopped dramatically into the velvet couch as Halrek left.
"Next, please…" he groaned.
The last to enter was so precise in her movement that the wind itself might've bowed to her pace. Ellis Nyre, tall, graceful, and as severe as a sword unsheathed in a ballroom. Her silver-gray uniform was spotless, and her posture was straighter than a lance.
"Good day, young master," she said, curtsying. "Let us begin."
"Hi, Miss Ellis," Kitsaro said. "Are we gonna play tea party?"
She stared at him. "No."
"…Aw."
She placed a silver tray on the table with various utensils: forks, knives, napkins, plates.
"First lesson utensils and posture."
"Boring…" Kitsaro muttered, but she was already correcting his slouch.
Back straight, napkin folded precisely, cup lifted at the right angle. It was an assault of meticulous instruction. Every movement mattered. At one point, she swatted his wrist lightly with a gloved finger for holding a spoon like a shovel.
"I'm five," he whined.
"No excuses. Nobility begins in the smallest details."
Kitsaro puffed out his cheeks and tried again. He fumbled less than she expected, his hands steady when he focused. Still, he sometimes made exaggerated fumbles just to test how far he could push her patience.
She never once raised her voice.
When she finally stepped back, Ellis nodded once.
"He will be… difficult. But if tamed, precise."
"I'm not a horse," Kitsaro muttered under his breath.
Ellis ignored him and turned to Galen. "I will stay."
As she exited, Kitsaro sprawled fully onto the desk, arms dangling like a dead fox.
"Is it over?" he mumbled.
Galen chuckled from the side. "For today, yes. You passed, even if just barely in spirit."
"I think my spirit passed out."
He turned his head to the window, where the sun had climbed higher. The golden light now shimmered across the polished wood floor, dancing between the shadows cast by bookcases and desk legs.
"Do I really need to do this every day?"
Galen approached, kneeling beside the chair. "What do you think it means to be the child of House Vaelthyr… and yet not be part of it?"
Kitsaro didn't answer for a while.
Finally, he whispered, "That I have to be more."
Galen nodded. "Exactly."
Kitsaro sat up slowly, rubbing his face. "Then tomorrow… I'll do better."
Galen smiled softly. "That's all we ask."
As they exited the study, the hall outside seemed quieter, as though the estate itself had paused to listen.
Kitsaro looked back one last time.
Behind him, the figures of tutors remained like ghosts of a noble future, shadows and mentors in a world where he no longer had the luxury of being ordinary.