On the western coast of the Forgotten Continent, in the Tyron Empire, stood the Academy of Bardic Songs.
"Geya, you've disappointed me!
I asked you to describe Lord Versace's noble deed of visiting the border in person to provide disaster relief—
What do you mean, 'The nobles got every coin back, while the commoners split theirs thirty-seventy'!?"
"Respected mentor, I only wrote what I saw..."
"That still won't do! Lord Versace is the empire's rising star. Offending him won't do this academy's funding any favors this year!"
"I—"
"Take it back and change it. Don't make me tell you twice!"
"Of course. As you wish, mentor."
Watching his most promising student return to her seat with a miserable expression, Ulasang let out a long sigh.
Come on, he was Ulasang, the man who had compiled One Thousand and One Praises!
He owed his position as dean entirely to that textbook.
If one of his students slandered a noble lord, his own reputation would go down with her!
He had no intention of losing the privileges that came with his position over it.
Having lectured his student, Ulasang finally settled before his low desk and studied the blank parchment on it.
He raised his quill, then lowered it, repeating the motion several times without managing to write a word—
Praise had been used as a textbook for twenty years. Most noble lords had heard its contents so often their ears were growing calluses.
He had to come up with more templates for praise and expand it to two thousand lines to preserve the academy's standing.
Making sure none of them repeated was no easy task.
Candlelight flickered across his spectacles and illuminated the beads of cold sweat on his balding forehead.
The corridor outside was noisy, too.
Chatter and footsteps never ceased, buzzing around him like flies circling a rotten egg.
At last, he could bear his frustration no longer.
He snatched up the paper on his desk, crumpled it, and hurled it into the distant fireplace.
"It's the middle of the night! What the hell is all that noise out there!?"
Geya, who had only just settled back into her seat, jumped at her mentor's roar.
She hurried to her feet and pushed open the office door.
Students rushed along the corridor in droves.
The Poet Academy had always championed music and art. To encourage students' initiative, its discipline had always been lax.
Parties with singing, dancing, and socializing in the dormitories at midnight were common, as was waking to find a dozen people tangled together in bed.
But no one usually made a nuisance of themselves right under the teachers' noses.
Geya had studied at the academy for six years, and this was the first time she had seen so many students spontaneously race toward the courtyard.
Stopping a passing student, she turned sideways and gazed down the corridor as if eager to see what lay ahead.
In truth, she was deliberately showing him the left side of her face—
She thought it was her better side.
"Excuse me, has something happened?"
"Senior Yuexi?"
The student had never expected to be stopped by the renowned Geya Yuexi herself.
It was hard not to recognize her.
Elves seemed nearly extinct on this continent, after all.
Half-elves were rarer still.
And one who had deliberately dyed her hair such a striking pink was one of a kind.
He steadied himself, though his voice still came out hurried, and pointed toward the courtyard.
"Haven't you heard? A new record appeared on the Stone of Oblivion just a little while ago!"
"What!?"
Geya forced her expression to remain composed.
She would not let surprise spoil the beauty of her face.
But she knew exactly what that meant—
Legend said the Stone of Oblivion was the work of a god.
The god had given memory physical form, turning it into an eternal Monument that stood at the heart of the Poet Academy.
Traveling bards had therefore engraved their experiences on the Monument, using magic to organize and summarize them.
It recorded the continent's history and the rise and fall of nations, serving as the continent's chronicle.
It also filled the academy's store of stories, allowing later generations to write finer poems and songs.
It was the foundation on which the Poet Academy stood.
But later, someone arrogant—everyone suspected an elf, since they had since vanished—had somehow angered the god, who delivered the harshest punishment: a curse.
Overnight, the chronicle became blank, and people began forgetting the past unconsciously and at random.
Even when they recorded new history, the words vanished the next day. Great deeds could only be passed down by word of mouth.
At first, people barely noticed the consequences.
But as time passed—one hundred years, two hundred...
The brilliant deeds of their ancestors eventually spawned countless conflicting versions through retelling. They lost all basis in fact and disappeared into the river of history.
The old order suffered a devastating blow.
Chaos in class and custom swept across the continent.
Glorious kingdoms fell, while new powers rose in their place...
Everything on the Monument was erased as well, leaving its surface so smooth it could have served as a mirror.
The Poet Academy fell apart amid the wars.
True poets could no longer pass on their traditions, and eventually they vanished without a trace.
Only now had the ruler of the Tyron Empire proclaimed the restoration of the fallen academy, hoping poets would sing of the empire's great deeds for generations, preserving them in speech instead of on paper—
So far, it had achieved little.
So much time had passed that many professors believed the supposed "stone" was merely a legend that made the poets' plight seem less pitiful.
They maintained the stone's dignity but had long since stopped expecting anything from it.
The students expected even less.
Yet even those who did not believe the legend could hardly resist coming to see such a marvel.
The younger student invited her shyly.
"Senior Yuexi, would you like to go take a look with me?"
After a brief moment of surprise, Geya blinked at him and smiled.
"I'll be right there."
"Then I'll wait for you?" The younger student's face lit up.
Geya tugged at the nameplate on his chest. "I'll remember your name, Su Wen. See you in the courtyard in a bit."
"I'll wait for you!"
He thought she had chosen him.
Only after Su Wen disappeared down the corridor did Geya's smile fade, leaving her looking cold and tired.
She would never let him hear even a hint of rejection.
But she had no intention of keeping her promise.
She had agreed so readily only to show off her charm and approachability.
She needed both to be promoted to a full Assistant Instructor.
Suppressing her questions about the Stone of Oblivion, she hurried to her mentor's side and bent to report.
"Mentor, they say someone has engraved a new piece of history on the Stone of Oblivion."
"All this commotion over something so trivial—
What did you say!?
The Stone of Oblivion? Who wrote it!?"
"We don't know yet."
"Come with me, quickly!"
The blank stone memorialized the history the world had forgotten.
It was the world's grave.
And now someone was saying the grave had stirred.
Not only had it stirred, but someone had carved an epitaph on it.
The implications were far greater than a Conch Ship full of Mind Flayers and tadpoles suddenly flying over the horizon!
Ulasang abandoned all concern for his image and scurried toward the courtyard on his short legs.
He had barely pushed open the door when a cool breeze brushed over his thinning scalp.
He hastily coughed and called out.
"Geya, bring me my wig!"
Only after fixing his appearance and restoring his dignity did he make his way through the bustling crowd.
The bards had already surrounded the black stone at the center of the courtyard, a hundred feet tall and fifty feet wide.
"Dean!"
They quickly opened a path. Ulasang bowed to either side and straightened his back.
As he approached, he saw a brilliant glimmer on the black stone, clear as a bright star above the clouds.
When he focused on that "starlight," it turned into a trickle of flowing water. It slowly spread, gathering into line after line of floating words in the common tongue—
"Is the author describing what happened to him yesterday?"
Geya read the whole account and found it hard not to laugh.
"The wording is rather crude, but it's unexpectedly... amusing?"
[Lost Era, Year 1000, June 7. Star Plum Town. Heavy rain.
A year after setting out on my journey, I was kicked out of a tavern...]
The year 1000 of the Lost Era marked a thousand years since the world had begun mourning its forgotten past.
June 7 had been yesterday.
But the weather throughout the Tyron Empire had been calm and clear.
[I admit my last performance was a disaster, but I've realized what went wrong.
I won't mess up a second time. Just give me a chance to prove myself—
I refuse to be laughed out of the same tavern twice!
Just wait. I'll wipe those smug grins off your faces.
You'll be clapping and cheering before you know it!]
[Shit. Just as I was about to show off, a string snapped.]