Chapter Eighty: The Crow That Learned to Mock

As dawn broke, the retired veterans had ebbed away like a receding tide. During morning drill, Kevin clearly sensed that at least a quarter of the men were gone. What had been orderly ranks now appeared noticeably sparse.

In three days, a new batch of recruits would arrive. These recruits were almost all sons of commoners, most of whom had never held a sword, let alone truly experienced combat; their quality was markedly inferior to Kevin’s group, who were all sons of nobility and entered directly as officers.

Kevin’s fellow newly arrived officers were all in high spirits. In the barracks, status was determined not only by rank but also by length of service. Kevin’s cohort had entered in June and thus possessed the least seniority—newer even than last year’s recruits. Though officers, their authority was still clearly lacking.

But with the new recruits’ arrival, finally there would be a group with less rank and less service than themselves. They could berate them, drill them mercilessly. The previous batch of recruits felt the same—having become “veterans,” they were eager to vent the grievances, sadness, and humiliation they’d once endured upon the newcomers. Those newcomers, in turn, would take out their frustrations on the next batch, and so the cycle would repeat endlessly, forming a peculiar tradition within the military.

At that moment, the whole army was abuzz with excited discussion on the subject. Officers bustled about, seeking to secure the best new recruits for their units. Ordinary soldiers, too, began debating how best to treat the recruits—not so much how to train them, but how to amuse themselves at their expense, or even torment them, for fun.

Kevin, however, had no interest in such matters. He held no hope of receiving decent recruits—indeed, he almost wished they wouldn’t come at all. He could already manage a catapult alone; more recruits would only mean more to train, more trouble. He could easily foresee that any new men assigned to him would be the rejects no one else wanted.

On the other hand, if he could truly educate that crow, its strength would far surpass a gaggle of clueless recruits. His energy was limited; he would focus his attention where it counted. After the morning drill, Kevin went straight to the capital via teleportation, intending to seek out Professor Rook, the vice-chancellor of the Royal Academy. He was determined to learn the truth behind the crow experiment. Even if he could not ask directly, indirect inquiry might yield results.

As for the crow itself, Kevin left it casually in his quarters. He already knew the room couldn’t contain it—the crow could open windows, and probably doors as well, unless someone boarded them up, which would be excessive.

Between Kevin and the crow, there was now only a thin veil of pretense. The crow clearly knew its secrets were exposed, yet it remained—for the time being, at least. What purpose or scheme it harbored, Kevin could not guess, but he was certain it had its reasons.

Kevin was not about to indulge in naive optimism or play dumb, thinking it a good thing to have a clever crow for company, or that a stray crow would be grateful for a master to feed it. He was not so innocent; the crow had chosen him for a reason.

Yet meeting the vice-chancellor was no simple matter. Although Kevin had twice escorted him and repelled powerful foes, and even received a letter of commendation, the disparity in status was vast. Even other counts would need to make appointments, and could be refused.

Kevin was stopped at the gate. He had no official document or assignment, and as a low-ranking officer, could not enter at will. The vice-chancellor was a busy man, immersed in research—if anyone could see him at any time, he would be overwhelmed.

Kevin was not surprised. He simply left a note requesting a meeting, to be delivered when the vice-chancellor finished work, and decided to return the next day for a reply.

He had also considered visiting Count Gulaide’s residence, where he had once served as a tutor. Although forbidden afterward by the general, Kevin had sent a letter of apology, but received no reply. It had been a while since he last saw the assassins; the matters he’d tasked them to investigate had yielded no news. Laurel was likely still imprisoned in the Lebozier Kingdom, but Kevin had no idea how she fared.

He thought about seeking out Little Spoon, but reconsidered—Count Gulaide was far too formidable, and with his own affairs unresolved, it would be unwise to stir up trouble.

Returning to the barracks, it was already midday. He opened the door and found the crow gone—a pang of anxiety struck him. He quickly checked the room; everything was in order, the books undisturbed. It seemed nothing had been taken.

Stepping outside, he clapped his hands twice, summoning the nearby parrots. “Have any of you seen my crow? The one that performed at the parrot competition?”

The parrots didn’t bother to come down, simply calling out, “Oh, it’s over there, walking the dog.”

Kevin was speechless.

He hurried to the mess hall, only to find the crow once again wildly tugging the tail of a pug. The pug lunged and snapped, but couldn’t touch a feather.

Kevin watched for a while, unable to discern any purpose. Was the crow training its reflexes? Stamina? Or was it just for fun?

“Ahem! Come here,” Kevin called.

The crow stopped, glanced at him, abandoned the pug, and flew up to circle above his head, never landing. Clearly, after last night, the crow was unsure of Kevin’s intentions and kept its distance.

Kevin understood and led the crow back to his quarters. Looking at the other birdcages, he released all the birds. Now that he had confirmed the crow’s intelligence, the others were of no use; releasing them would save trouble.

With the birds gone, there remained a pile of dirty cages to clean. Kevin was not wasteful; even if something might be useless, he was in the habit of keeping it. He picked up a cage and headed to the riverbank to wash them, the crow following quietly—not approaching, but not leaving.

“Look at this,” Kevin held up a cage, “all your droppings!”

The crow said nothing.

“Could you clean up after yourself in the future?” he asked.

The crow remained silent.

“If you can’t, then at least do it where I can’t see. No more in the house!” Kevin insisted.

Still the crow was silent.

Bored as Kevin washed cage after cage, the crow fluttered over the river, apparently trying to catch fish. But even this clever crow had never done such a thing; it only splashed wildly, catching nothing, as the frightened fish scattered.

Kevin laughed. “With just refraction, diving straight from shore, you’ll never catch them no matter how fast you are.”

The crow flew back, tilting its head in confusion. Kevin reached into the water; from the bank, his arm seemed bent—an obvious result of refraction.

“To fish from shore, you have to estimate the lead based on positions,” Kevin explained as if teaching a child. “There’s a specific coefficient of refraction, and if you study enough, you can calculate it. But usually it’s done by experience…”

Suddenly, inspiration struck him. Magic shields also had a refractive index—he’d once used one as a magnifier. If used cleverly in battle, manipulating the angle of refraction, when an enemy struck, it might be like catching fish from the bank.

Moreover, the thickness, size, and orientation of a magic shield could be adjusted; this tactic might be feasible. But why, after reading so many treatises, had he never seen it described?

Kevin conjured a magic shield, placing his hand behind it and adjusting its size and thickness; his hand appeared slightly bent due to the light. If one mastered the effects of refraction, such a tactic could be extremely useful—at high levels, a minor misjudgment of position could be fatal.

He experimented for a while, the crow watching intently. Kevin had no idea how much it understood, but asked, “Did you notice it too?”

The crow cawed repeatedly.

“This could be a new discovery,” Kevin said, though he remained cautious. “But why has no one adopted this tactic, or why hasn’t it caught on? It can’t be that profound—if I can think of it, others must have as well.”

The crow stood calmly, as if pondering the question.

Kevin tossed aside the cage. “Forget cleaning—let’s go! Back to study this new tactic!”

Many scholars and experts, upon making a discovery, would abandon everything—set down their rice bowl mid-meal, leave guests waiting, all in pursuit of their work. Legend told of an ancient mathematician named Archimedes, who, upon discovering a new theorem, ran naked into the street.

Though he later explained he’d had a sudden inspiration while bathing, and many recounted the tale with relish, logically, there must have been some awkward consequences. Perhaps halfway through, he was mistaken for a lunatic and beaten; or drew an embarrassing crowd; or was chased by bathhouse attendants demanding payment.

Of course, these are jokes; the truth is lost to history. But it proves that true scholars are all a little mad. Kevin tossing a birdcage was nothing unusual.

He took the crow and headed straight out of the barracks to the Saka City Library. Unfortunately, crows were not allowed inside—the library was a quiet place, and such a noisy, messy bird was unwelcome. Kevin had no choice but to leave the crow outside and go in alone.

He researched until dinnertime, borrowing several treatises on combat tactics to continue his studies back at the barracks.

He learned that he was not the first to conceive of such a tactic; in theory, it was feasible, but its applicability was very narrow. It worked only for pinpoint or linear attacks, and was useless against area attacks. The magic shield could not cover the whole body—at most, half—and the angle and position had to be exact. Moreover, if the enemy’s image was refracted, so was his own view of the enemy, requiring exhaustive practice.

Most treatises concluded the tactic was too complicated for little gain. A mage should focus on higher-level spells and greater magical strength; refraction was not mainstream, and at advanced levels, combatants did not rely on visual cues. Thus, refraction tactics were ultimately low-level tricks.

However, none of the treatises gave specific optical analyses—no data on magical power, shield shapes, or exact refraction indices. Kevin surmised that the authors, being mages, were not skilled in close combat, and so could not analyze the matter in detail. Their fighting style was ill-suited for such an approach.

But as a dual-discipline fighter and mage, Kevin thought it worth pursuing. He already had effective strategies against mages, having memorized the key elements of low- and mid-tier spells. But against warriors, he still had to rely on brute force. If he could succeed in this research, his skills would be more complete.

Of course, this would take time—such things could not be mastered on a whim. But he had time, and was willing to study. Even if he failed, he could always let the hero in his stories master such techniques.

Meanwhile, he hadn’t forgotten the catapult experiments. With the crow’s precise control, it should be capable of manipulating the stone shot, though it would require tests and adjustments—and, of course, the crow’s cooperation.

With more research projects, Kevin felt ever more fulfilled. Yet by evening, he still took the crow into town for a stroll. He picked a tavern at random and went inside.

He’d decided that, no matter what shadows lay in the crow’s past, he needed to show it something positive. In this, birds and humans were not so different—environment shaped character. If Kevin could demonstrate his own shining personality, perhaps he could help the crow untangle its own knots.

Inside, a bearded bard was declaiming, “...Yet another apocalyptic spell! Another world destroyed! Billions of living beings perished, and Rex looked up to the heavens and cried, ‘Why? Why must you force me so?’...”

His tale broke off abruptly as he saw Kevin enter. Kevin recognized him; this bearded bard had heckled him before, and most of the drinkers in Saka City knew Kevin as well. Seeing him, they all perked up. Was a verbal duel about to break out?

The bard’s face darkened; he sensed trouble, but struck first. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to...” Kevin paused, “…demonstrate a bit of character.”

The bard was speechless.

Suddenly, the crow flew over his head, circling three times. “Caw... caw... caw...”

“Oh?” Kevin was surprised. “I didn’t know my crow could heckle. I wonder if it knows where to find the punchlines.”

The bard said nothing.

The crow finished circling and perched quietly on the counter, watching the crowd.

“That’s enough!” the bard regained his composure. “I admit, my stories aren’t high art, but so-called fast-food art is still art. ‘The Chronicles of Rex’ isn’t a banned book; I’m perfectly within my rights to tell it.”

“I haven’t said a word yet,” Kevin smiled.

“Then why are you here?” the bard frowned.

“We could discuss the strengths and weaknesses of ‘The Chronicles of Rex,’” Kevin suggested.

The bard opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. If he mentioned its merits, Kevin would only tear them apart. Better to wait and see.

“What's the matter?” Kevin continued. “You can’t discuss the content of your own performance?”

The bard hesitated, embarrassed.

“I’ll start,” Kevin offered. “‘The Chronicles of Rex’ is straightforward, passionate, exhilarating, and grand in scope. It easily resonates with a broad audience—even those familiar with its tropes still find themselves captivated. That’s its success.”

The patrons nodded in agreement; Kevin’s analysis was impressive, and the bard’s silence only made him look worse.

“So, I’ve given you the strengths—now, what about the weaknesses?” Kevin asked, tossing the question back.

The bard scowled. He could hardly claim his novel was flawless. He stammered, “Well, it’s a bit formulaic... a bit conventional. That’s all.”

“You’re mistaken. Being formulaic isn’t the main issue,” Kevin shook his head. “The real problem is the protagonist himself. Rex is, in truth, an extremely selfish person.”

The bard burst out laughing. “Rex, selfish? Ridiculous! Everything he did, he was forced into!”

The crowd agreed—after all, the tale was widely known, and many had heard it more than once. Many saw themselves in the protagonist; to call him selfish was to insult them, too.

Kevin merely smiled, about to speak, when the crow suddenly flew over his head, circling three times. “Caw... caw... caw...”

“Enough with the misplaced heckling!” Kevin warned the crow.