For some time now, I’ve been deeply contemplating something.
It concerns the first-year students, especially those in Class A that I teach directly.
The trigger, as expected, was the midterm academic evaluation for the second semester.
As the one who oversaw the integrated exam for first-year theology students, I couldn’t help but think that this exam must have served as a significant stimulus for them.
From the beginning, I have put in every effort to encourage students to approach theology with new methods and new ways of thinking, and the Class A students who follow me have done so without any complaints.
The students in first-year Class A have changed. A lot.
At the start of the semester, when I first met them, they displayed a very different attitude. Even during my theology class, they were often seen openly studying other subjects or napping, completely unable to focus on the lesson.
However, after the first class, the students changed. They no longer studied other subjects in front of me, and they now greet me with shining eyes, ready to take notes as I enter the classroom.
While this change was certainly welcome, one problem arose.
This problem emerged specifically after the day the students submitted the assignments I had given them.
At that time, it didn’t seem like something worth worrying about. Just a tiny, minuscule crack.
It seemed to me to be a necessary crack. I thought that the students showing some degree of compliance with my words would ultimately aid the class rather than hinder it.
And, in fact, that was true.
The reason I showcased the primordial flower on the first day of class was because of that. I wouldn’t have been seen positively by the first-year Class A students, who, at that age filled with vigor and who entered the academy being called geniuses, would have found a new professor teaching the dull subject of theology to be anything but appealing.
Laura’s aggressive attitude toward me stemmed from a different essential reason, but deep down, she probably shared such thoughts as well. That’s why she spoke to me in a manner that seemed to challenge my authority as a professor.
In the end, the students’ compliance was an essential process to some extent.
There is no need for a fierce hunting dog that tries to bite everyone it sees. Even if that dog has exceptional talent for hunting, if it shows its teeth to its owner, it will only bring more trouble.
I don’t mean to imply that I think of my students as dogs and treat them as such. To use a metaphor, that’s what it means.
They are students. Young individuals who receive my teaching, grow, and cultivate their talents.
And I am the gardener of their future. In other words, I am a professor at this Caldera Imperial Academy. It is troublesome when students rebel against my class.
However, what I desire is not to eliminate opposition for the sake of opposition, but rather not to have them rely on me excessively.
As an instructor, I will take responsibility should it be required.
However, that responsibility must not overstep its bounds.
The lives of the students are their own “lives” that they must cultivate. It is not my place to interfere.
Thus, I did not provide an explanation regarding the integrated exam questions for first-year theology students during the midterm evaluation. Those were questions that the first-year students had to think about entirely on their own.
Until then, I had no idea just how much they were depending on me.
When they began to beg me for “solutions,” I realized it.
The first-year Class A students had started to lean too heavily on me.
This young group of students, who had opened a new path for themselves, began to rely on me to such an extent that it appeared they would give up everything.
Relying on someone is not the issue. After all, that’s the role I play.
However, if they rely excessively, the discussion changes.
Should I guide them from start to finish? Absolutely not. That’s not what I wanted.
I wanted them to autonomously understand and act. I wished for them to find their own path and resolve their own questions, rather than being indoctrinated into a way of thinking where they feel stuck like puppets.
Before winter break begins, for the sake of a few students who might not be here next year, this time.
“Why on earth did you follow my words?”
I need to correct this path.
The air in the classroom was filled with awkwardness and silence.
No one dared to speak up. Professor Antorelli had been throwing questions at them moments ago, yet not a single student answered—an irony in itself.
But who on earth would dare to speak in this situation?
“Everyone.”
That would be the man standing on the podium—Professor Lucio Antorelli.
No one else.
Some students, receiving his sharp gaze while he looked at them, flinched and made eye contact with him. The atmosphere, like a thin sheet of ice, weighed heavily.
Professor Antorelli spoke.
“I will redo the game we just played.”
The students’ expressions turned puzzled. Just a moment ago, when playing that game, they had been quite obedient to Professor Antorelli’s words, yet now they seemed to question it.
Though Professor Antorelli did not outwardly express anger, from the students’ perspective, it felt like he had. After all, he rarely changed his expression.
Everyone has a certain aura. One may appear calm normally, but when angry, a subtle tension can be felt in the atmosphere.
In that sense, Professor Antorelli was indeed angry.
And for some reason, he was suggesting that they repeat the action that had angered him. At this point, a few students might start to wonder.
Perhaps he didn’t like the folding method?
Or maybe, the instructions he provided weren’t followed correctly?
Or perhaps, one of the students was slack?
“Fold the paper once.”
Professor Antorelli’s voice resonated in the minds of the students deep in thought. In a rush, they folded the paper they had been holding.
Once folded, the paper would not be opened again. This was because Professor Antorelli hadn’t told them to unfold it.
… Since Professor Antorelli hadn’t said to unfold it?
That felt a bit odd. For some reason or another, it seemed like something…
“Have you all folded it?”
Professor Antorelli’s voice rang out. A few students who had been lost in thought snapped back to attention, looking at him.
“If you’ve folded it, now fold it once more.”
For now, it was the same as before. Though feeling nervous, the students adhered to his words.
And why wouldn’t they? It was Professor Antorelli’s instructions.
The students folded the paper. The paper was now in a second-folded state.
“Fold it once more.”
Professor Antorelli instructed them to fold it again.
The students complied.
“… Again.”
They folded it once more.
“Once again. Fold it once more.”
Another fold? Questions arose. Yet, they couldn’t push past that hesitation. The students complied.
“…… Fold it again.”
Once more, they folded it. Now the paper was smaller than the palm of their hands.
“Finally, for real this time… fold it once more.”
They were told this was the last time.
So, the students simply folded it.
The paper had shrunk to a minuscule size, just as it had been when they first folded it. Despite having reduced the paper to this size with their own hands, they felt no sense of achievement.
It was as if Professor Antorelli had folded it himself.
And of course, that was due to his instructions.
“……”
Students holding the folded paper turned to look at Professor Antorelli, who had returned to the front of the lectern. He stared vacantly at the front of the classroom.
What was Professor Antorelli looking at?
At a glance, it seemed he was looking at the students. However, it didn’t seem like that was truly the case.
“… Let’s try it one more time.”
Ultimately, once again.
What could he possibly not be satisfied with? The students wanted to delve deep into contemplation, but no matter how hard they thought, they couldn’t find any flaws in their actions.
– Why on earth did you follow my words?
The phrase uttered by Professor Antorelli when they first folded the paper.
With a somewhat empty expression, as if suppressing his anger, he had said that.
Yet, even with that one statement, there was no time to discern the problem. Why would they not follow Professor Antorelli’s words? It was natural to obey since it was his instruction.
“Everyone. This time, let’s do it a little differently.”
He immediately picked up the paper from the lectern and showed it clearly so that the students could see.
“This time, I will demonstrate directly, so you need to follow my actions ‘exactly.'”
Follow Professor Antorelli’s actions? That was an easier task.
“Everyone, please pick up a new piece of paper.”
The students glanced at the remaining eight pieces of paper on their desks and picked one up. They shunted the previous wrinkled paper bundles to the corner of the desk.
“I will fold the paper once.”
With those words, Professor Antorelli began to fold the paper. He neatly folded the vertically long paper in half—an almost textbook folding method.
The students imitated his actions. They held the slightly elongated rectangular paper upright and folded it exactly in half.
“Now, let’s fold it once more.”
Once again, Professor Antorelli folded it precisely in half. This time, instead of folding it vertically like the previous fold, he folded it horizontally.
On the students’ hands, who followed his actions without a single mistake, a stable rectangular shape of paper was formed.
“Again.”
Professor Antorelli folded it. This time, he once again folded it in the opposite direction from the earlier fold.
The students followed suit.
“Again.”
Are we folding it once more? Questions no longer arose.
They needed to understand where Professor Antorelli’s anger was coming from, but first and foremost, it was essential to follow his words.
“… Again.”
The paper was folded again. Now, even together with three fingers, it was slightly larger than the paper. The students looked at Professor Antorelli blankly, waiting for the next instruction.
“Fold it once more.”
Ultimately, the paper was folded again. Except for the combat department with stronger physical powers, everyone otherwise folded the paper with effort due to its thickness.
What was created was a stack of paper similar in size to the previous two.
Professor Antorelli instructed them to….
“Put it in your mouth.”
He placed the stack of paper in his mouth.
…….
The students did the same.
…….
…Wait a minute.
“…Huh?”
After everyone had the stack of paper in their mouths, precisely five seconds later, Laura, seated in the front row, let out a disheartened exclamation.
“I-I just… ate paper.”
She had eaten the paper.
Without a single doubt. Simply because Professor Antorelli had instructed them to. Because he had demonstrated it.
This can’t be happening…
“This cannot be.”
Professor Antorelli continued in place of her words. His expression appeared exceedingly grim.
“The paper is edible paper. It was specially imported from the city, a very fun snack to play with.”
As he mentioned, the students, momentarily stunned by the fact that they had consumed paper, began to taste the sweetness slowly spreading in their mouths. The paper, made of sugar and synthetic ingredients, was starting to melt.
He had been aware of this.
“But, everyone…”
He knew that the students would follow him and eat the paper.
Sure. Now the students in the classroom were all aware of it, but he had known from the beginning.
“This cannot be happening.”
He realized that something had gone significantly wrong.
