Chapter 6: Enlightenment
Chapter 6: Enlightenment
The autumn wind in
The main entrance to the Enlightenment School was unassuming, a simple three-story building behind gray brick walls. A notice board by the iron gate displayed the new student roster. Ryan's gaze calmly scanned the list, finding his name in the bottom-left corner of the second page.
Class D – Ryan Hertz.
He felt nothing.
Nearby, parents fussed over their children's collars, issuing last-minute instructions. His own father simply waved from across the street, a toothpick dangling from his lips.
"Shouldn't I go in with him?" his mother asked, her voice hesitant.
"Let him find his own way," his father said, his voice lazy but certain. "He's not the type to want his hand held. It'd just make him uncomfortable."
Ryan, having already overheard, was walking into the school.
Class D was on the second floor. The room was simple: phonetic cards above the blackboard, pictures of the four seasons by the window, a bookshelf in the corner. He quietly chose a seat in the middle of the room, sat down, and hung his backpack on the chair.
The first lesson was Reading Comprehension. For Ryan, who had taught himself to read at age three, it was trivial. He didn't rush to answer or volunteer. He only spoke when called upon, his answers concise, his pronunciation perfect, his tone unsettlingly calm.
The teacher, a young woman named Ms. Thorne, quickly took note of him: a child whose intellect was clearly advanced, yet who made no effort to show it.
"Ryan," she asked, "can you spell the word 'distinguish'?"
"D-i-s-t-i-n-g-u-i-s-h," he replied evenly. "It is a verb, indicating the boundary between two different things."
The teacher paused for a second, then smiled. "Excellent."
After class, other children looked at him with curiosity, but none approached. He projected no overtures of friendship, simply taking out a new textbook and beginning to read the chapters.
This, too, was noted by the teacher. During lunch, she pulled his file. Full marks in every category, with scores in spatial reasoning and concentration that were far beyond the average. "It would be a shame if a child like this didn't go far," she sighed to herself.
Ryan turned his attention to the class bookshelf. He ignored the fairy tales and pulled books from the bottom shelf, each with a specific purpose. The geography atlas would help him map the world's resources for his future as a Hunter and the animal encyclopedia was a study of... animals.
While other children fought over toys, Ryan was quietly laying the intellectual foundation for his path. He wasn't fantasizing about being a Hunter; he was planning, step by step, how to become one.
School became a long-term social simulation. He was punctual, methodical, and efficient. He never participated in group activities he deemed meaningless. He wasn't aloof, just reserved.
He didn't reject his peers, but he never sought them out. The teachers began to describe him as "quiet and sensible," "smart but a bit precocious." His classmates mostly found him a bit weird but left him alone. He made no mistakes, caused no trouble, and when an answer was needed, his was always the most accurate.
Over the first week, he began constructing a mental database of his classmates, a silent network of interpersonal data. Each entry was concise:
Sadie. Extrovert/Leader. Emotional, seeks to direct others. Prone to conflict when challenged.
Nora. Observer/Timid. Quiet, records information, slow to react. Easily bullied, potential liability.
Paige. Controller. Creates and enforces arbitrary rules. Attempts to manipulate social structure.
Chloe. Emotional/Clingy. Cries easily, seeks social validation. Can trigger group emotional shifts.
He tested his model during a handicraft class. The task was to build origami models in groups. Paige immediately snatched several key pieces. "I'm using these," she declared. "You can't have them."
One of the pieces was essential for Nora's part of the model. The timid girl started to protest but was cut off. Her eyes welled with tears, but she didn't dare speak up.
Ryan observed the disruption in the group's workflow. He said nothing, simply walked over, placed a spare part from his own desk in front of Nora, and then turned to Paige.
"You took an extra piece," he stated, his voice flat and devoid of accusation. "It is for group use. The one in your hand is an extra. It will be useless later."
Paige was about to snap back, but his emotionless expression and the pure, factual nature of his statement stopped her. The air hung still for a beat.
"...Fine, give it to her," she mumbled, tossing the piece onto the table.
The situation was resolved. Ryan returned to his seat and continued his work as if nothing had happened. When the teacher returned, she saw only progress and asked no questions.
After class, Nora quietly approached him. "Thank you."
"No problem." Ryan replied indifferently, and walked away.
From that day on, his reputation shifted. He wasn't a show-off or a tattletale. His judgment was simply precise, his solutions unnervingly calm. He seemed less like a classmate and more like an observer from a higher grade.
For Ryan, the incident was a successful test. It validated his core strategy: silence does not equal inaction.
That night, he read a story from the martial arts book. It told of a young man who watched monks practice for three years, never speaking, never moving. One day, bandits attacked the temple. As chaos erupted, the young man stood up and felled the leader with a single, perfect punch.
Ryan turned the page. He understood— a true warrior wasn't one who hid his strength.
He was one who was calm enough to see the whole board before making his move, and who never, ever forgot the purpose of the game.