Under the astonished gazes of the dragons and one human, the vice principal, clutching Noa's essay in his hand, excitedly walked up to the podium.

The homeroom teacher hurriedly made way for him.

Everyone in the Hatchling Division of the academy knew that the Melkevi family was the vice principal's weak spot. It was no wonder he insisted on reading the essay himself.

But once on stage, the vice principal didn't immediately start reading Noa's essay. Instead, he began by offering an explanation.

"The reason Noa's essay wasn't included in this round of judging is that our headmaster, Angelina Ollette, of Saint Hiss Academy, had heard about her family and deeds. She wanted to personally review Noa's essay."

Angelina Ollette—this was the first time Leon had ever heard the headmaster's name.

If Headmaster Ollette didn’t start making more appearances soon, Leon thought, the vice principal might as well declare a coup. The old dragon's presence was so constant that he seemed to be running the show, whether it was admissions tests or school sports events.

Shaking the sheet covered in glowing red remarks from the headmaster, the vice principal looked proud, as if the compliments for Noa’s essay were directed at him personally rather than at the girl herself.

"Unsurprisingly, Headmaster Ollette loved Noa's essay. She said that if the score for a hatchling's essay were capped at 100 points, she would give Noa a 95. Why not the full marks, you ask?"

“Because five points don’t grow on trees?” Leon thought to himself, quietly mocking the vice principal's enthusiasm.

The vice principal, grinning smugly, continued, "Well, the headmaster said it’s because she didn’t get enough of Noa's writing! She even mentioned that if there’s another essay competition, Noa should write more because she’d be happy to dedicate half an hour to reviewing her work."

Ahh, so the headmaster meant not reading Noa’s essay felt like being on pins and needles.

Placing the evaluation gently to one side, the vice principal looked out of the window, narrowing his eyes contemplatively under his white brows.

"Headmaster Ollette's words remind me of my younger days, chasing serialized essays in the *Dragon Clan Evening Post*. The author would release a new one each week, and the rest of the week was just endless waiting. It felt like I was addicted, as if something was tearing through my body, and only the next installment could relieve it."

"I suspect the headmaster has developed a bit of that same... addiction while reading Noa's work."

Returning his gaze to the room, he looked toward the homeroom teacher. "By the way, teacher, you’ve already announced the essay rankings for your class, haven’t you?"

The homeroom teacher nodded, "Yes, the results have been shared."

Hearing this, Lahr's father, sitting below, immediately stood up, his heart racing. “Vice principal, you’re not planning to cancel my son Lahr’s first-place ranking, are you? I must warn you, this won’t do! His achievement is fair and square and must not be taken away!”

His words sounded righteous, almost positioning himself as the victim deserving sympathy.

But upon closer examination, was his son’s so-called "fair and square" achievement truly as ironclad as claimed?

Noa's essay wasn’t deliberately withheld from the competition, nor was it late. It was specifically sent to Headmaster Ollette, someone with even higher standards and stricter expectations for content and quality.

Even under these rigorous criteria, Noa's essay garnered nothing but praise.

Its value was self-evident.

If Noa had entered the class rankings under ordinary circumstances, her first-place victory would’ve been a foregone conclusion. Mr. Lahr’s claim of “fair and square” really only applied to a second-place finish.

This was like comparing a model student to a genius—both scoring full marks on a final exam.

The model student might smugly assume they’ve reached the genius's level of achievement.

But little did they know, their perfect score was their absolute limit, while the genius scored 100 simply because the test was capped at that.

So how could one break through such a scenario?

The answer was simple: be like Noa, face even tougher challenges, and still emerge victorious.

Leon, Roswitha, and several other parents present understood this principle. Only Mr. Lahr clung tightly to his hard-won first-place trophy.

Even young Lahr himself seemed a little embarrassed. Tugging at his father’s sleeve, he said softly, “Dad, Noa’s grades are always better than mine. If she had competed, there’s a good chance she would’ve been first anyway…”

An ungrateful brat, acting like this! Lahr's father thought indignantly. I’m your father, or is Noa?

Seeing Mr. Lahr’s stubbornness, the vice principal responded coolly, “Please rest assured, Lahr’s first-place position is well-deserved. I have no intention of canceling or lowering his ranking. It’s his rightful honor, and no one will take it away.”

Indeed, there was no need to stir the pot over this. Leon could think of two reasons why.

First, if Lahr’s ranking were changed from first to second, no one might care about Mr. Lahr’s theatrics, but for Lahr himself, this would be an undeniable blow.

Ever since his failed bullying of Noa, which resulted in a broken arm, the young dragon had behaved much more maturely, focusing on studying and paying attention in class. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have achieved first place to begin with.

The second reason?

From the vice principal’s earlier remarks, it was evident that with Noa’s level of writing, she had already outgrown class-level competitions.

Truly strong individuals often find themselves excluded from the routine rankings.

Good daughter—just like her father!

Hearing the vice principal's assurance, Mr. Lahr finally sat down in quiet satisfaction.

The vice principal exhaled in relief, then turned to glance meaningfully at the homeroom teacher.

Picking up on his cue immediately, she chimed in as though they had rehearsed, “Vice principal, since Noa’s essay is so outstanding, why don’t we share it with everyone? What do you say, Noa?”

Noa stood up and looked at the vice principal. “Sure.”

The vice principal’s eyes crinkled into slits from sheer joy.

Getting the chance to read an essay penned by a child from a model family? What a privilege.

The vice principal was eager to share this essay, filled with love and respect, with everyone in attendance.

But seeing the joy on his face, Leon and Roswitha started to break out in a cold sweat.

It felt as if the executioner and his reputation-destroying blade were already itching for action.

The couple’s hands quietly found each other behind Noa’s chair, fingers tightly intertwined.

Strength in numbers?

No.

If they were going down, they were going down together.

“But…”

Noa suddenly spoke again. “I’d like to read it myself.”

The vice principal paused. “Read it yourself?”

Noa nodded seriously and firmly. “Yes.”

The couple’s heads turned simultaneously, gazing at their daughter’s profile.

Must you really do this, my darling?

Must you snatch the blade of public mortification from this old dragon’s claws and wield it yourself?

Ah.

Fine, then.

Better to be “slain” by their own daughter than by anyone else.

The tension in their tightly held hands eased slightly, leaving just their fingertips lightly brushing against each other.

They leaned back into their chairs, looking utterly deflated.

The vice principal, naturally, had no objections to Noa taking the lead. “Alright, then please, Noa, come up and read it.”

Noa stepped onto the podium, picked up her essay, and glanced at her parents seated below. Then, she began her reading.

“They’re a loving yet peculiar couple.”

“But that doesn’t stop me from loving them—loving them to my very core.”

Her tone wasn’t as passionate or theatrical as the two preceding hatchlings who had delivered their essays aloud.

Instead, it resembled Roswitha’s usual cool and collected cadence, though beneath that coolness lay a warmth that could burn.

Every emphasis was deliberate and perfectly timed—neither artificial nor overdone.

Particularly the line, “loving them to my very core”—it carried an emotional resonance far beyond what one would expect from a hatchling.

It wasn’t precociousness masquerading as maturity. It was a direct and genuine reflection of her deep feelings for her parents.

As she continued reading, her parents gradually realized this essay wasn’t a tool of mortification at all—it was a love letter from Noa to them.

“They taught me that ‘love’ is never a gamble but a journey—a mutual, devoted journey.”

“If love were like a scale, then in my family, there’s no question—it always tips toward me and my little sister. Because my parents place the weight of all their love onto our side.”

At first, Leon expected an awkward bombshell somewhere in the essay, but every word and sentence brimmed with sincerity. Between the metaphors and polished language lay Noa’s most heartfelt emotions—for her father, mother, and sister alike.

Perhaps “profound” wasn’t a word one typically associated with a child. But that was exactly what Leon felt—his daughter’s words carried true depth.

At a concise 800 words, the essay quickly reached its conclusion.

Leon assumed she would wrap up with more affirmations of love, aiming to elevate the theme further.

But instead, Noa’s ending held a surprising twist.

Lowering her paper, her small face became serious as she tilted her gaze down at Leon.

Father and daughter locked eyes across the lectern, one high and one low.

After a brief pause, Noa softly declared, “I have the best dad in the world.”

Then, as if sensing a shift in the atmosphere, she quickly turned her gaze toward Roswitha. “And mom.”

Her essay had, in fact, been drafted with both parents equally in mind: “I have the best dad and mom in the world.”

But for Leon and Roswitha, there was one subtle detail they couldn’t overlook.

Whenever their daughter spoke about them together, she always placed “mom” before “dad.” It was just how she usually phrased things.

This time, however, she deliberately put “dad” first.