Chapter Text
The audience chamber doors groaned open.
They did not open for guests. They opened for conquerors.
Six figures entered like a blade sliding from its sheath. Ink-black silks. Hems embroidered with silver constellations. These were the envoys of the Velgalta Empire. Their steps were silent. Their eyes were not.
King Klaus of Midgar sat on the Sunstone Throne. Spine straight. Hands resting on the armrests like a man posing for a statue. His smile was perfect.
Behind his eyes, tension coiled tight.
The lead delegate, Lord Veylan of the Obsidian Court, bowed. It was a masterpiece of insult. Low enough to be legal. High enough to be a challenge.
“We bring the Empire’s goodwill,” Veylan said.
His Common Tongue was flawless. Each syllable carried the weight of a verdict.
“It is… reassuring to find Midgar still standing.”
Still standing. Merely surviving.
Klaus inclined his head. “Midgar endures by the grace of its people. And the wisdom of its neighbors.”
A flicker in Veylan’s eyes.
Wisdom? A subtle jab at the Empire’s overreach.
He stepped forward. The royal guards shifted. A breath of steel against scabbard. Veylan ignored them.
“A kingdom’s strength,” he said, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that filled the vaulted ceiling, “is measured in the minds it cultivates.”
He turned. His gaze swept toward the distant spires of the Midgar Academy for Dark Knights, visible through the stained-glass windows.
“I have heard your academy produces warriors of great… ferocity.”
The word dripped with disdain.
“But what of refinement? What of vision? A sword without a poet is merely a butcher’s tool.”
Then, the true blade.
“Before we speak of trade or treaties, I would be remiss not to witness the future of Midgar firsthand.”
He smiled. Thin. Cold. Certain.
“Allow us to visit your academy. Let us see what your students have learned… and what they have yet to become.”
Silence.
The Royal Interpreter stood frozen. His parchment trembled. He knew the subtext.
This was a cultural audit. A prelude to mockery. A report that would paint Midgar as a land of brutes playing at civilization.
Klaus said nothing for three heartbeats.
He knew the trap. To refuse was to admit fear. To accept was to risk humiliation.
But the Principle of Avoiding Things was absolute.
Conflict was to be minimized.
“You honor us with your interest, Lord Veylan.”
The King’s voice was calm. Warm. A mask of polished marble.
“Our students would be… enlightened by your perspective.”
Veylan’s smile widened.
Let’s see how uncivil these Midgar people are.
No one could prove him otherwise.
The academy courtyard buzzed with a restrained kind of panic. Students in pressed uniforms gathered in anxious knots, whispering about foreign envoys. The judging sort. The kind who carried ink and opinions in equal measure.
Cid Kagenou had other priorities.
He leaned against a sun-warmed pillar, practice sword resting at his side, one finger buried deep in his left nostril with the solemn concentration of an archaeologist at work.
His other hand tugged at the waistband of his trousers, locked in silent battle with a wedgie left behind by morning drills.
A sharp pull. A satisfied exhale.
Peace.
This was the mob life. No glamour. No expectations. Maximum comfort. The perfect disguise.
A cluster of girls passed by, took one look, and hastily changed direction.
Skel and Po sauntered over, grins stretched wide with the promise of trouble.
“Dude,” Skel said, slapping Cid’s shoulder hard enough to jolt his excavation. “Big shots from some fancy empire are here to judge how barbaric we are.”
Cid slapped Skel’s shoulder back in turn, wiping his finger on his buddy's blazer in a fluid motion “That so? Sounds important.”
Po crunched loudly into a stolen apple. “Velgalta Empire. All culture, all poetry. They’re gonna make us look like cavemen.”
Cid shrugged. “Poetry’s fine. As long as I don’t get dragged into it.”
Inside, his thoughts ignited.
Envoys from… Vegeta?
High-level cultural exchange. Foreign elites. Prime territory for lurking in corners and accidentally dismantling conspiracies.
Maybe they’ll have blazing golden hair. Maybe they’ll shout a lot.
Either way, this is eminence material.
I’ll observe. Blend in. Maybe foil an assassination while looking for a restroom.
Eminence level: flawless.
Outside, he yawned, picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, and leaned harder into the pillar like a man whose soul had already left the premises.
The courtyard gates opened.
The delegation entered in quiet formation.
Lord Veylan led them, posture immaculate, eyes sharp. His aides followed with the synchronized stillness of people accustomed to being watched. King Klaus walked beside him, expression calm and unreadable.
Veylan’s gaze passed over elite cadets, promising prodigies, bowing prefects.
Then it stopped.
On the boy by the pillar.
The boy who had returned to his nose with renewed dedication.
“Ah,” Veylan said softly. “The future of Midgar.”
The courtyard fell silent.
“Let us begin,” he continued, voice carrying with practiced ease. “A display of your poetic heritage. Show us whether there is anything within these students beyond muscle and appetite.”
Cid gave his nostril one last, resolute twist.
…Time for the ultimate mob performance:
Total, utter invisibility.
A young man from the delegation, Jin, stepped into the center of the courtyard. He adjusted his silk robes, looking over the Midgar students with eyes that saw only empty space.
He spoke in common Midgar; It was a calculated move. A flex of global dominance.
“The oak is strong, the iron is cold,” Jin recited, his voice smooth and melodic. “But wood must rot, and steel grows old. Without the rhyme to grace the blade, the warrior is but a shadow’s shade.”
He paused, a smug curve to his lips.
“Your walls are thick. Your hearts are dull. A kingdom built upon a skull.”
The Midgar students shifted uncomfortably. They understood enough to know they were being insulted. The Royal Interpreter broke into a cold sweat, his mind racing to find a diplomatic way to soften the blow.
Beside Veylan, two elder delegates leaned in, their voices a low hiss of High Velgalta.
“都是饭桶,” one muttered, eyeing the students with contempt.
“这些蛮子连韵脚都抓不住,” the other replied with a dry chuckle.
King Klaus stood perfectly still. He looked at his interpreter, who hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“He... he says our students are… well rounded,” the interpreter stammered, avoiding all eyes, “and that… our martial skills are, ah, relatively superior.”
Cid, still leaning against his pillar, felt a twitch in his eyebrow, but could not hold back a quiet tut. “Drivel.”
A true Eminence in Shadow masters every tongue to better lurk in every corner.
And this language was familiar in his past life.
Jin flashed a glance at Cid, but ignored him, belting out another poem with a barely concealed smirk:
“Long roads we have travelled, Wisdom we seek to find.
Pity our horses, to bear us to such minds.”
Velgalta applause; A few confused Midgar students clapped politely, drawing dry chuckles from the delegation.
The King could only bite the inside of his cheek, as a good host would.
Vegeta’s guys are getting cocky, Cid thought..
“Dude, any idea what they are talking about?” Skel whispered, nudging Cid.
“Yeh, man, sounded like you know what they said?”
Huh, apparently his mutter was not that quiet after all.
Cid sighed. He pulled his finger from his nose.
“诗歌有什么难的?” Cid's voice inadvertently cut through the courtyard’s anxious hum like a blade through parchment.
The Velgalta delegates froze.
Lord Veylan’s head snapped toward the pillar. His eyes narrowed, landing on the boy who looked like he’d just woken up from a nap in a haystack.
“Oh?” Jin stepped forward. Predatory smile returning, sharper now. “It seems this… enthusiastic miner is not entirely uncultured. You speak the High Tongue, boy?”
Cid shrugged. “It’s mostly tonal math and archaic grammar. Inefficient, really.”
Gasps rippled through the Midgar students.
The Royal Interpreter nearly fainted.
Jin flushed a deep red. He stepped toward Cid, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
“Inefficient?” Jin hissed in High Velgalta. “You dare? Come, little miner. Let’s see what you have. Show us how capable you are.”
Cid pushed off the pillar.
He didn't fix his uniform. He didn't square his shoulders. He just stood there, looking like a background character who had accidentally wandered onto the main stage.
Fine, Cid thought. I’ll give them a taste. Something ancient. Something that screams ‘Hidden Master.’
He inhaled. The courtyard seemed to hold its breath with him.
In flawless, resonant “High Velgalta”:
“手握日月摘星辰，”
He reached upward, fingers closing as if seizing the heavens.
The tone was perfect. The cadence was haunting. The pause… delicious.
“世间无我这般人。”
Cid finished with him pointing a thumb to his nose, then flicking it towards Jin.
A lone booger arced through the sunlight.
It landed, with cruel precision, on Jin’s silk sleeve.
Silence.
Absolute.
Lord Veylan’s face drained of color.
The elders behind Veylan murmured among themselves.
One of them froze mid-sentence.
“…好诗。”
The word escaped before he could swallow it back.
“What... what was that?” Klaus whispered to his interpreter.
“Your Majesty...” the interpreter’s voice was a shaky breath. “He just said... ‘Grasping the sun and moon, plucking the stars... in this world, there is no one like me.’”
“Is… that good?”
“It-”
Veylan’s eyes went wide. “Impossible. That rhyme... that structure... where did you learn that?”
Oh? That reaction was the answer.
Cid rubbed the back of his neck, annoyed. “It's common knowledge.”
On the internet, at least.
He paused.
“Now, can we get on with it? I’m hungry.”
Jin stared at the booger on his sleeve. His face flushed, a violent shade of crimson.
He composed himself. He sneered, words like gravel.
“Humph. That must have been memorized. A fluke. Inspiration won’t strike twice for a peasant.”
“Who says it won’t?” Cid replied lazily.
He was hungry now. The kind of hunger that made him want to end this performance and find a ham sandwich.
He needed a closer.
Something high-spec. Something that screamed Hidden Sword Saint.
Something he always wanted to use upon hearing how awesome it was.
He picked up his wooden practice sword.
It was a battered thing. Nicked. Unimpressive. He gave it a thoughtful gaze, sinking into the mood. Into the aesthetic.
He shifted his weight. The air in the courtyard suddenly felt colder. Sharper.
“十年磨一剑，霜刃未曾试。”
He ran his fingers along the wood. He moved with a slow, agonizing reverence. As if he had performed this act a million times in the solitude of a mountain peak.
He stopped, raising the wooden lath high.
“今日把示君，”
Then, with a sudden, fluid flick, he leveled the tip. It pointed directly at Jin’s chest. The wood didn't tremble. It didn't waver. It held the stillness of a tombstone.
“谁有不平事？”
Another pause.
It was as if the world had forgotten how to breathe.
Perfect pose, Cid thought.
Then, the explosion.
The delegation broke out into a chorus of frantic, hushed voices.
The scholars, men who had spent their lives studying the 'High Art', were nearly weeping.
“That meter…”
“The metaphor of the frosty edge! It’s not just poetry, it’s a martial philosophy!”
“Who is this boy? ‘Ten years’! He is saying he has waited ten years for a worthy opponent!”
Lord Veylan took a step back. His hands were shaking… in awe.
“You…” Veylan’s voice was a strangled rasp. “This is a masterpiece! How-?” He turned to the dean who was escorting the delegation, through the interpreter, “is this one of your brightest scholars?!”
“Huh? Him? Cid Kagenou?” The dean barely stifled a laugh... He caught himself, poising with a throat clear. “He’s… average.”
“An average Midgar student, yet able to have such talent?!” Veylan's jaw dropped.
Jin, however, was no longer listening to poetry. He was listening to the blood rushing in his ears. He felt humiliated. Exposed.
“You mock me?!” Jin hissed. His hand gripped the hilt of his steel sword. “You hide behind words to mask your weakness. Let us see if your ‘ten-year blade’ can handle real iron!”
Cid’s eyes widened.
Wait. Why is he drawing a real sword? Oh, crap. I leaned too hard into the ‘Hidden Master’ bit. I stood out. I stood out way too much!
“WAHHH!” Cid shrieked, his voice cracking with panic.
He dropped his wooden sword. He threw his hands into the air. “I WAS JOKING! I’M SORRY! PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!”
The transformation was instant.
The "Sword Saint" vanished. The "Pathetic Mob" returned.
Jin charged, his sword mid swing.
At the same moment, Cid bowed in deep apology: Ninety degrees, full salaryman-to-upset-CEO.
The sword whistled over his back as Cid bowed. His descending head drove like a piston into Jin’s gut. Then, straightening up in a panic, the top of his skull met the underside of Jin’s jaw with a sickening CRACK.
An immediate knock out, Jin collapsed into a heap, foam coming out from his mouth.
“Prince Jin!” Members of the delegation ran up, surrounding the unconscious gentleman, while Cid scratched the top of his head.
“Did you see that? Cid won, while expressing humility!” A student blurted out.
A ripple ran through the audience.
Lord Veylan stared. The poem was a declaration: a blade honed for a decade, awaiting injustice. And the boy had just resolved the 'injustice' of Jin's attack without using a blade at all. Without even a stance.
Such restraint wasn't skill; it was a statement of overwhelming, terrifying superiority.
And this is their *average*?
He turned to King Klaus, bowing deeply: not just respectfully, but fearfully.
"Your Majesty... we have made a terrible mistake. We thought your people were uncultured. But that boy... an average Midgar student, reciting verses of such depth, such mastery, that they should be carved into the mountains of our homeland.
“And to think in your nation is 'common knowledge'..."
Lord Veylan swallowed, "Please... forgive our arrogance. It seems Midgar is not a young nation, but an ancient dragon. We will return home and report that we must treat Midgar as a cultural superior, or risk annihilation."
King Klaus's eyes moved side to side. "Ah, yes… We Midgarians... prefer modesty. We do not like to brag about our... uh... extensive libraries.”
Lord Veylan could only nod with deference.
“Well,” the Dean clapped his hand, “Refreshments?”
As the group moved off, Klaus glanced back.
Cid, swarmed by praising students, looked miserable.
Hmm.
Meanwhile, in Cid’s mind: Why won’t they leave me alone? I just want a sandwich…