First, to all of you who chose Douglas Academy—warm welcome, like lanterns flaring at dusk.

Welcome to this family. Every step you take will light the Academy, like drums rolling at dawn. Work hard, chase honor, and lift your banner high.

You are the Academy’s pride, and the Academy will be your pride—

—my ass!

If some staffer sold it to you like that, kick him in the butt on your way out, like shaking mud off your boots.

Spiritualism, metaphysics, ritual pomp—none of that here at Douglas Academy, like paper lanterns in rain, soggy and dim. Useless frills.

Here, you’re scholars, thinkers. Here, you stand in the freest city of human speech—Skyward City Atlante, like a rooftop above the clouds.

Drop the gilded mask, like lacquer cracked by sun. You can point straight at any flaw in a professor’s thought, throw a different reading at the divine canon, like a gauntlet on stone.

No one will say you’re wrong. They’ll argue with you, like steel on steel. If you believe you’re right, win by eloquence, like a blade kept bright.

Be glad. This is Atlante, a place of absolute speech, like wind ringing through temple bells.

I may not agree with you, but I’ll defend to the death your right to speak, like a shield held in storm.

You who enrolled at Douglas Academy are talents from everywhere, like birds from many coasts. I don’t care about your obsessions or your past—no one here does, like clouds that pass.

We care about ideas, justice, right and wrong—puzzles simple to say yet argued for ages, like knots older than mountains. Puzzles that outstrip personal good and evil.

If you came here for some private obsession, keep your ideal, but bury it deep, like seeds under snow. Don’t wave it around and vex us.

Each year, some students pour out their grief—how Demonfolk ruined their families, how people wandered homeless, like boats blown off harbors.

I listen. I respect those with resolve, like candles held in wind. I won’t mock you. Yet each time I repeat one point:

Such joys and sorrows, at that scale, are too small for a Sage, like grains of sand against a cliff.

This Academy trains Sages. This city gathers Sages, like cranes roosting on high ridges.

Some of you may one day become Sages, members of the Council of Sages. So let me be clear—we are no tearful saviors, like saints carved from salt.

Sages gain wisdom and thought through cold, detachment, and calm, like ice wrought into glass.

Sages earn the right to define the world by being without sentiment, hatred, or tears, like judges hewn from stone.

Please. Quiet, like snow settling on tiles.

Please, quiet, like a lake at dawn.

You may think, “So the Council of Sages lacks human warmth.” I’d love to answer, but time runs thin, like sand in an hourglass. Ask your advisor after the ceremony.

Learn this too: differing views are good, like varied stars. But your questions must follow order. Otherwise, a valuable “debate” rots into a meaningless “Dispute,” like a river breaking into mud.

The vistas in the Skyward City aren’t what you saw on the ground, like seas of cloud instead of fields. Soon you’ll see—much here sits far from your familiar.

About teaching—maybe the staff warned you you’ll need strong self-learning, like rowing your own boat. It’s harsher than you think—we give you no “answers,” like handing you a compass, not a map.

Professors raise problems and point to the roots of confusion, like tracing a tree to its root. Then you think, read, and reach your own answers, like miners cutting ore from rock.

Know this: absolute justice is dead, like a bell tolled for a funeral. There’s no absolute solution left. Scholars must seek and find their own reason and righteousness, like carving your own seal.

Not merely memorize what we say, formulaic cause and effect, like copying faded scripts.

It’s tiring, I know, like a ridge walk in fog. But you must not stop thinking. Even in despair or disappointment, don’t run, don’t look away, like holding a lantern through night rain.

If Heroes save the world’s survival, our goal is to save the world’s reason and righteousness, like keeping compass and chart.

If Heroes are blinded by hatred and rage and only manage to “save the world,” Sages must carry the rest, like a lighthouse kept lit after the storm.

You likely don’t get it now. Later, maybe you will, like dawn after a long night.

One more issue before class starts.

Some of you—no, surely some—came here to grow strong, like iron seeking a forge.

I suggest you speak to your advisor now. He’ll connect you to the Hero Academy or other schools for warriors, like sending arrows to the range.

Again: we train Sages, not fighters, like teaching ink, not steel.

We’ll teach you the thoughts of many schools, many tongues, every race’s civilization, like opening cupboards of layered scrolls. We’ll show you tragedies sealed in the deepest history, and ask whose fault, like uncovering bones in old earth.

Anything you wish to learn, Douglas Academy will pour it out for you, like tipping a jar of stars.

Except methods of combat, like closing the armory door.

Please, quiet. A steady mind is your best friend, like a warm lamp in wind.

Sometimes, through thinking, people gain power—byproducts of thought that condense into substance, touch the world, tilt the physical, like sparks leaping from a grindstone.

That’s your own harvest. No one here objects, like nodding at a well-dug spring.

But we don’t endorse force. Sages change the world by thought, language, and spirit—by what we call civilization, like bridges over rivers. Not by brute force and violence, like smashing pots to make noise.

Put simply: if you bear blood feuds and want power, see your advisor. We’ll arrange other routes—faster, more efficient ways to grow strong, like a mountain path cut straight up.

Upperclassmen will be sent out to wander and practice. Find an adventuring party and guard them, like learning road dust and campfire smoke.

It’s human to grow strong to protect yourself, like a turtle hardening its shell. But your aim is to be Sages—lift your eyes to a higher sky. If it’s only that instinct, set it aside for now, like laying down a spear to take up a pen.

After all this, who still has the confidence to stay and study?

If you do, welcome to Douglas Academy. We’ll do our utmost to help you, like steady hands on your back.

To understand what you are, like turning a mirror to your face.

To understand what we think about, like tracing constellations on a map.

To understand the world’s essence and root, like following a river to its spring.

I, Douglas—Dean and Chair of the Council of Sages—thank you all, like a bow beneath a winter moon.

The old man leaned on his cane and stepped off the high platform, joking to the assistant waiting nearby, like a pine walking down stone.

“Funny, isn’t it? Each year the welcome speech shocks the freshmen, like tossing a pebble into a still pond. I’m enjoying it more and more.”

He looked aged yet strong. Time had mapped his face with wrinkles, like river lines, but his frame stayed lion-tough, a head taller than his aide.

His muscles were full and explosive, like coiled springs, with no hint of age’s slackening.

His eyes flashed with will, like flints struck for fire. Look into them and you could hear his eloquence, like thunder rolling. Sharper than the hot-blooded freshmen, like an eagle—

No. If anything, those narrow pupils were more like a dragon, like a storm coiled in a gaze.

A being at the pinnacle of force, famed for intensity, dragon-strong, like a mountain’s spine.

“If you also enjoy the scattered applause,” the assistant said, dry as dust, like sparse rain tapping a drum.

“They’ll get used to it. Sages need understanding, not welcome,” he said, like a banner set in wind.

He shrugged off his splendid shawl and draped it over one shoulder, striding forward, like a general shedding brocade.

The aide hurried and caught up, words tripping like feet on steps. “But if you scare them off, we might lose a future Sage.”

“That’s a good question—think I’ve never weighed it?” His voice cut clean, like a knife on bamboo. “We train Sages, or those who accept such training. The rest should go elsewhere.”

“But… ah, forget it. I need to report on the Demon King named Qing,” the assistant said, like a storm edge darkening the sky.

“He’s here?”

“You knew?”

“I sensed his presence,” Douglas said, like feeling heat in embers. “I’ve relinquished most power, but eyes, experience, and insight only grow.”

Douglas passed down a corridor and stopped at the bend, like a river meeting a cliff.

“Mr. Qing, how was my speech?”

A fine-featured youth sat with his head lowered on a bench in a shadowed corner, like a sparrow in eaves. Hearing Douglas’s force, he startled.

“Ah… I didn’t mean it. I know I shouldn’t wander… but your speech drew me, like a bell. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. What did you think of it?”

“I thought it was brilliant. Fascinating, like fireworks over a dark lake!”

“Is that so?”

“Yes! Especially ‘A steady mind is your best friend’—that line was amazing, like a rope on a cliff.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I heard your courses teach philosophy. May I audit, like a guest at the gate?”

“Lord Qing, we agreed you wouldn’t appear in public before the Peace Conference, to avoid stirring confusion,” the assistant cut in, like a hand on a bridle.

“Haha, it’s fine,” Douglas said, lifting a palm, like calming waves. “Mr. Qing, I see hunger for knowledge in your eyes.”

“Really? I want to hear more, like a cup craving water!”

Douglas waved the aide to silence, like a fan closing.

“As Chair, I can let Mr. Qing accompany me. I have a scheduled lecture next, so I can’t debate with you now.”

“That’s a shame,” Qing said, like a sigh over tea.

“But you may come to the classroom and audit,” Douglas replied, like a door eased open.

Qing steadied himself for a breath, like a reed in wind, then stood and answered.

“It’s my honor.”

He shook hands with Douglas. His first panic had faded, like mist burned by sun; his bearing settled and clear.

A moment ago, he was a flustered boy, like a fledgling on a ledge. Now he had returned to the Demon King who holds the world’s reins, like a crown set back on a brow.