The Grave Stirred

West Coast of the Forgotten Continent, Tyron Empire, Academy of Bardic Songs.

"Geya, you've disappointed me deeply!

I asked you to describe Lord Versace personally coming to the border to provide disaster relief for the people—

What is this, 'The nobles get their money back in full, while the commoners get a thirty-seventy split'!?"

"Respected mentor, I only wrote what I saw..."

"That won't do either! Lord Versace is one of the Empire's most sought-after rising nobles. Offending him won't do our academy's funding any good this year!"

"I—"

"Take it back and change it. Don't make me repeat myself!"

"Of course. I shall follow your wishes, Mentor."

Watching his most promising student return to her seat with a bitter expression, Ulasang finally let out a long sigh.

Please, he was Ulasang, the man who had compiled One Thousand and One Praises!

He had only been able to sit in the Dean's chair because of that textbook.

If one of his students slandered a noble lord, his own reputation would be ruined along with it!

He had no intention of losing the privileges that came with his position over such a matter.

Having finished reprimanding the student, Ulasang was finally able to sit upright at his low table and carefully study the completely blank parchment before him.

The quill rose and fell several times, yet he could not bring himself to write—

Praises had been used as a textbook for twenty years. Most noble lords had heard its contents so often their ears were practically callused.

He had to come up with more templates for praise and expand it to two thousand lines if he wanted to maintain the academy's standing.

Ensuring that none of them repeated themselves was no easy task.

The candlelight flickered, making his reading glasses brighten and dim, while also revealing the cold sweat on his balding forehead.

The hallway outside was equally noisy.

Debates, running, and jumping continued without end, buzzing around him like flies circling a rotten egg.

In the end, he could no longer endure the irritation in his heart.

With a frustrated cry, he crumpled the paper on the table into a ball and threw it into the distant fireplace.

"What time of night is it already? What the hell are they making such a racket about outside!?"

Geya, who had only just settled into her seat, jumped at her mentor's roar.

She hurriedly stood and shoved open the office door.

Many students rushed through the hallway in a hurry.

The Poet Academy had always championed music and art. To ensure its students' initiative and creativity, discipline had always been lax.

Holding singing, dancing, and social gatherings in the dorms at midnight, then waking at dawn to find more than a dozen people tangled up in bed together—such things were common.

But no one would normally be so troublesome as to make noise right under a teacher's nose.

Geya had studied at the academy for six years, yet this was her first time seeing such a grand spectacle of students voluntarily rushing toward the courtyard.

She stopped a passing student, turned sideways, and pretended to gaze expectantly toward the end of the hallway.

In truth, she was deliberately showing off the left side of her face—

She believed her left profile looked better:

"Excuse me, is something happening?"

"Senior Yuexi?"

The other student had not expected to be stopped by the renowned Geya Yuexi of the academy.

It was hard for him not to recognize her.

After all, elves seemed nearly extinct on this continent.

Not to mention the even rarer Half-elves.

And one who had deliberately dyed her hair such a striking pink was utterly one of a kind.

He steadied himself, though his voice still came out hurried as he pointed toward the courtyard.

"Haven't you heard? Not long ago, a new record appeared on the Stone of Oblivion!"

"What!?"

Geya forcibly kept her expression within the bounds of propriety.

So as not to damage the beauty bestowed upon her face.

But she knew very well what that meant—

Legend said that the Stone of Oblivion had been created by some god.

The deity had condensed memories into something tangible, turning them into an eternal Monument that stood in the center of the Poet Academy.

Thus, bards who traveled the world would inscribe what they had seen and heard upon the Monument, using magic to classify and compile it.

It recorded the continent's history and the rise and fall of nations, serving as the continent's history book.

It also filled the academy's repository of stories, allowing later generations to compose better poems and ballads.

It was the foundation upon which the Poet Academy stood.

But later, perhaps some arrogant being—everyone guessed it had been an elf, since they had vanished without a trace—had angered the god, who then bestowed the harshest punishment and curse.

Overnight, the history book became blank paper, and people began unconsciously and randomly forgetting the past.

Even if new history was recorded, the contents would disappear the next day. Great achievements could only be passed down and preserved through word of mouth.

At first, people did not notice the consequences.

But as time passed, one hundred years, two hundred years...

The star-bright deeds of their ancestors eventually gave rise to countless conflicting versions due to the flaws of oral transmission, until all basis was lost and they vanished into the long river of history.

This dealt a devastating blow to the existing order.

Chaos in class and ethics swept across the entire continent.

Glorious nations declined as rising powers emerged...

Everything on the Monument became as smooth and flat as a history book's blank pages, polished enough to serve as a mirror.

The Poet Academy also fell apart because of war.

True Poets found it impossible to continue their traditions, and eventually vanished without a trace.

Until now, when the rulers of the Tyron Empire wished for Poets to sing of the Empire's great achievements from generation to generation. They attempted to replace written records with spoken language and announced the revival of this fallen academy—

So far, without results.

The interval had been so long that many professors believed the so-called "Stone Tablet" was merely a legend meant to make Poets seem more pitiable than they really were.

Though they maintained the Monument's dignity, they had long ceased to hold any hope for it.

Much less students like them.

But even if they did not believe the Monument's legend, hearing of such a strange occurrence made it hard not to join the commotion.

Junior awkwardly invited her.

"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?" Junior's face lit up with joy.

Geya tugged at the nameplate on his chest. "I remember your name, Su Wen. I'll see you in the courtyard later."

"Then I'll wait for you!"

He thought he had been chosen.

Only after Su Wen disappeared around the end of the hallway did the smile on Geya's lips dim, turning cold and weary.

She would not let him hear the slightest hint of rejection.

But neither would she fulfill even the smallest part of her promise.

Her casual agreement had merely been meant to further display her charm and friendliness.

She needed that to be promoted to a formal Assistant Instructor.

Suppressing her confusion over the Stone of Oblivion, she quickly walked to her mentor's side, bent over, and reported.

"Mentor, they say someone has inscribed new history onto the Stone of Oblivion."

"Such a trivial matter, and they're making this much noise over it—

What did you say!?

The Stone of Oblivion? Who—who wrote on it!?"

"We don't know yet."

"Come with me and take a look!"

The blank Monument commemorated the history the world had forgotten.

It was the world's grave.

But now someone was suddenly telling you that the grave had moved.

Not only had it moved, someone had even carved an epitaph onto it.

The impact of this was far greater than a Conch Ship packed with Mind Flayers and Tadpoles suddenly flying in from the horizon!

Ulasang did not even care about his appearance anymore as he flapped his short legs and hurried toward the courtyard.

Just as he pushed open the door, a cool breeze brushed over his sparse scalp.

He immediately coughed and called out.

"Geya, hurry and bring me my wig!"

Only after straightening his appearance and preserving his proper dignity did he pass through the bustling crowd.

The bards had already gathered around the pitch-black Monument in the center of the courtyard, a hundred feet high and fifty feet wide.

"Dean!"

They hurriedly opened up a path. Ulasang offered bows to both sides and straightened his back.

As he approached, he saw a streak of dazzling spiritual light upon the black Monument, as clear as a brilliant star above the clouds.

When he focused on that "starlight," he saw it turn into a trickling stream, slowly spreading out and gathering into strings of floating common script—

"Is this written about the author's experiences yesterday?"

Having read through its contents, Geya found the words strangely amusing.

"Though the wording is a little crude, it's unexpectedly... interesting?"

[Lost Era, June 7th, Year 1000. Star Plum Town. Torrential rain.

One year after officially setting out on my journey, I was kicked out of a tavern...]

The year 1000 of the Lost Era was precisely the thousandth year since the world began mourning its past.

June 7th was exactly yesterday.

Yet the Tyron Empire had clearly enjoyed calm weather.

[I admit my last performance was a disaster, but I've already realized where the problem lay.

The second time definitely won't go wrong, as long as I'm given a chance to prove myself—

I absolutely will not be laughed out of the same tavern twice!

Just wait. I'll wipe those mocking grins off your faces.

You'll willingly offer applause and cheers!]

[Damn it, just as I was about to show off, my string snapped.]