[center][h2]The Hermian Academy[/h2][/center]

[i]While a certain demigoddess converses with the lord...[/i]

The afternoon was possibly the hardest time to work. The principal’s study truly did match the ideals of [i]heshui[/i] architecture; however, with Chuanwang’s current positioning, Zhong Wang’s eyes were being seared shut by a particularly nasty ray stabbing at him with all its dying strength as Heliopolis set for another sleep under the horizon. It had been like this for hours -- the only other spot in his office with as comfortable a position as this one had to be the tea table, but he couldn’t very well spill ink on the tea table scribbling notes onto bark strips, could he? With a pair of black-spotted fingers, the principal rubbed some exhaustion out of his eyes.

[i]Knock, knock,[/i] sounded the door.

“Come in,” the master answered.

The door swung open slowly to reveal Nergui carrying a tray topped with a steaming bowl, a steaming cup and a bark strip scroll.

“Ah, is it that time already?” Wang asked and pulled his brush through a cloth rag. “What is it today?”

“Wen Bei’s beef noodle soup, sir, as well as the analysis you asked for regarding the flora of these islands.” She gently nudged some piles of tomes and scrolls out of the way to set the tray down in their stead.

“Oh, that quickly? The doctor and her apprentice are certainly swift on the delivery…” Wang took the down off the tray along with a pair of chopsticks. “... Will you be attending the concert tonight, by the way?”

Nergui nodded. “I was considering it, sir. From what you and young Taishan have told me, these ‘Nebulites’ seem like an interesting group, to say the least.” There came a short pause. “Are you?”

“Afraid I will be missing the spectacle, at least. There are a number of passages in this particular volume that require a deeper perspective. I would like to finish as much as I can by tonight.”

“Understandable, sir. Then I hope you wouldn’t mind if I excuse myself for the evening.”

“Oh, please, don’t let me keep you. They are certain to start any minute, are they not?”

Nergui pursed her lips. “Actually, master, they plan to begin at twilight, so about an hour remains.”

“I see, I see.” There was another pause. Wang took the steaming cup from the tray and took a long whiff of its greenish contents. He gave Nergui an expectant look. “Would that be all, Nergui?”

Nergui seemed to snap back into reality with a few blinks. She turned to Wang and nodded dutifully. “Yes, sir.”

Wang furrowed his brows curiously. “Very good, then. I’ll… Let you know if I have any-- Oh, no, wait, you’re going to the festival, right.”

“Right, sir.”

“Right.”

With the atmosphere of the room growing uncomfortably heavy, Nergui bowed slightly and turned to the door. She pulled it open halfway before turning her head and saying, “Actually, there was…”

Wang looked up from his soup bowl. “Yes?”

Nergui opened her mouth hesitantly. Eventually, she shook her head again. “No, nevermind. Have a good dinner, sir.” She closed the door behind her and left only echoing steps down the stone hallway. Wang frowned in concern. Nergui was rarely like this: Usually, she was of a much more confident character, with a keen sense of duty and dedication. He hadn’t seen her like this often. A few pensive chews coloured his face a curious hue as he unfurled the scroll from the physicians across his desk. He had never been much satisfied with doctor Zhou’s handwriting -- Shengshese was already bewildering enough on its own. His keen eyes were, however, well-acquainted with the River God’s calligraphic script, so much of what was written could be discerned from the context.

“... I see,” he mumbled to himself, “... So this new ‘sundrop nectar’ might have a soothing effect on sore throats. That should be treasured, then.” His eyes scanned further down the page. “What kind of name is ‘bellyburn root’? What does it-- oh… Oh, dear.” He slurped another pinchful of noodles. “... That poor lad. She better not be making him try all these.”

Another round of knocking struck the door quite gently. Wang barely looked up from the scroll as he shouted, “Come in.”

“Master Wang, if I may,” came the deep bass of Batbayaar’s voice. Wang looked up in surprise.

“Master Batbayaar? I was certain you would be at the concert. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, sir,” the warrior poet replied and closed the door behind him. “It’s regarding the armament project.”

“The clay weapons? Has there been any progress?”

Batbayaar furrowed his brow. “It’s slow, sir -- slower than the spin of Tendlepog. However, Yum-Yum helped us make a discovery this morning.”

“Yum-Yum? Your son’s cloudling?”

“The very same, sir. It caused a bit of an accident in the workshop this morning, but in the process it led us to an important discovery…” The warrior laid a vague, gray shape on the desk, part of which broke apart brittly. Wang pulled his noodle bowl to himself. The shape appeared knife-like, but like one that had been made of wood, then been put into a burning stove and extracted as an ashen piece of charcoal. 

“Batbayaar, with all due respect--”

“Master Wang, did we ever consider pressure as a solution?”

Wang frowned. “Pressure? In what sense?”

Batbayaar picked the ‘knife’ up again and turned it around in his hands. It flaked off some more, so his moves were smooth and careful. “We’ve previously tried to make the weaponry like we make pots: We’ve mixed together a batch of clay using all manner of metallic sands, wet earths and river mud; we’ve shapen it into blades and spearheads; then we’ve fired them in the kilns. However…” He unsheathed a prototype from a sheathe on his belt. It shone with a transparent glaze, save for the twin edges which had been roughly sharpened. “... These may be tough, but they respond poorly to sharpening, and most break when we test them with whetstones.”

Wang intertwined his fingers and rested his nose ontop of them. “So… This pressure you spoke of -- what are you suggesting?”

“Yum-Yum achieved something we’ve never observed before, master Wang. He tipped over a number of boxes from the top shelves just as he removed the moulding tools from this particular type. They hammered against it with great force of a short time, but…” He offered the flaky shape to Wang. “... This is the result of an instantaneous, single effort, and it has held its shape all the way here from the workshop.”

“Yes, and it’s falling apart, master Batbayaar,” Wang replied with a straight-mouthed frown.

“After such short exposure, it’s a miracle it ever held together. Keep in mind, sir, that this is sand that would normally have existed as a powder. Granted, there is a certain amount of moisture in this particular type, but with the right amount of pressure, I believe we can make greater strides.”

“And, if your opinion, master Batbayaar, where will we find a pressure adequate enough? I doubt we could hammer it with boxes all day and night.”

“If we could find a sufficiently hard surface to serve as the anvil, we could use Chuanwang as the hammer, sir,” Batbayaar replied with a half-smile.

“The Millennium Tortoise… As a hammer?”

“A press would be more accurate, when considering its purpose; however, know that this is but a piece of the puzzle, master Wang,” the warrior poet cautioned. “The ideal ratios of sands and clays must still be found out, as well as the firing process - or whether there need be a firing process at all. All will be revealed in time, though -- I am certain of it.”

Wang smiled. “I haven’t seen you this overjoyed about something since the arrival of the cloudlings.”

Batbayaar crossed his arms over his broad chest and thundered a chagataian laughter. “Moksha has advised me to step away for a moment from the gardens of the palace and meditate instead on the various arts we practice within the Academy. Besides, general Ming has almost become a match for me. I must prepare myself for the day my apprentice supersedes me.”

“Will you go from martial artist to claymaker, then?” the principal asked with a wry smile.

Batbayaar tugged at the goatee about his chin. Another chuckle escaped him and he began scooping clay flakes off Wang’s desk and into his hand, depositing them from there into a basket full of scrapped bark strips. “I doubt I will see such a dire change of heart in the near future -- however, a richer choice of trades in the future to complement my writing brush will only give me more muses to draw from.”

Wang chuckled to himself. “It’s a joy to see such determination from you, master Batbayaar. Every apprentice we take in with the years are overjoyed that you remained here instead of choosing the spear.”

Batbayaar’s smile faded a little and he turned to the door. “Oh, I am hardly through with my military career, sir. I will see to it that each soldier educated at the royal barracks will fight with the spirit of our Elder Mothers, and even then my task will be far from done.” He pushed open the door. “Will you be coming to the concert, by the way?”

“Oh, no, I will remain here to analyse some additional passages. Wish the musicians luck from me, would you?”

“Thank you, sir,” Batbayaar replied with a grin. “I will tell the rest of us.” He then stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

Wang snickered to himself and turned the ‘dagger’ around in his hands carefully. “... Pressure, huh.” He felt some droplets of joy evaporate out of his spirit and he looked out the window opening at the Heliopolis rays which were no longer there. A very distant chorus of instruments being tuned could be heard beyond the idle chatter and noises of the city below. The principal pursed his lips before laying the knife back on the desk, slurping some more noodles and returning to his studies.

[hider=Sumaria]
Wang’s doing some studying. Nergui comes in with food. They chat a bit awkwardly for a few moments. Nergui mentions the concert and Wang’s not going. Nergui leaves. A bit later, Batbayaar comes in with news about clay weaponry. They’ve made a small breakthrough by singling out high pressure as a key factor in making the blades hard. Batbayaar suggests making them with the help of Chuanwang’s huge weight, which Wang entertains the idea of. They close off with some praise of Bat’s dedication to both school and the army, at which Bat vows to see the dreamer military get stronk.
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