Chapter 61 Classroom

"What did you talk about with the teacher that day?" Nova suddenly asked on the way to the open class classroom.

——So much so that when the old man left, he looked like he was doubting his life. Apart from the routine nagging him to take care of himself, his eyes were extremely strange. And someone just smiled and said that he had convinced his teacher and the other party would no longer hinder their actions.

At that time, he was still exhausted and his brain felt like a leaking soft leather bag that had been pierced by hundreds of needles. It was only then that he suddenly remembered this.

"A little truth, some selective concealment, and a few little white lies." His teaching assistant followed him faithfully, a faint polite smile on his face, and occasionally nodded slightly to students who were afraid to approach and talk because of someone else's presence. But if you look closely, you can see that this person's position is perfect, so that he can swallow the other person completely in his shadow at any time.

It was the same as not saying it. The professor raised his eyebrows slightly - for some reason, the other party refused to answer this question.

"Mr. Rabelais is sincerely concerned and embarrassed about your situation." The other party's tone was very light, as if lamenting something: "You have a good teacher, and I have despicably taken advantage of an old man's concern and kindness."

“…Hmm.”

The black-haired young man responded calmly, rarely not asking further questions: "Then when the time is right, I will explain everything to the teacher."

He paused and added coldly, "You and I are both accomplices. There's no need to think of yourself as despicable."

The God's favored one paused slightly, but soon returned to normal.

I hope the professor can still be so considerate when he finds out the truth... although the other party probably won't care.

As always, the open classroom was packed with people, as if a thousand chicks were whispering to each other - but when the heels of shoes tapped on the slightly cracked mud floor, the classroom, which was as noisy as the ancient Roman Colosseum, suddenly became quiet, and the eyes of hundreds of people were focused on the lowest point at the end of the classroom.

If someone standing here was shy and tongue-tied, they would be sweating profusely and unable to say anything. But the professor was clearly not that person—he was the source of pressure on everyone, the abyss of all gazes. Wherever those cold, bright, smoky-gray eyes reached, someone would subconsciously lower their head.

Sitting closer to the podium were a group of young people whose attire was clearly distinguishable from that of the students at Baita University. They wore robes of the same style, embroidered with the iconic crown of thorns of "Saint Bartolomeo", made of vines and thorns. Everyone was dressed elegantly and appropriately, and many of them had a look of slightly arrogant indifference and impatience on their faces.

A group of gifted children who were assumed to be the future of the empire, compared to the weak and dull ordinary people, was like the difference between a falcon soaring in the sky and an insect crawling in the mud - they would rather believe that they could get some useful inspiration from an already famous theologian, rather than sitting in front of a young professor who looked not much older than them, serving as a gorgeous but boring decoration in the classroom, waiting for the other party to express some shallow and boring insights.

Nova caught a glimpse of an acquaintance, little Batman, whose face was sullen, showing an expression of indifference and resistance. His cousin was nowhere to be found.

The black-haired young scholar ignored the stranger, put the lesson plan on the table, turned around and started writing the first sentence on the blackboard today.

--who I am?

"This is the first question of the day. I'm going to give everyone here a minute to think about who you are and then give me a meaningful answer."

The other party seems to have no interest in a humorous self-introduction to liven up the classroom atmosphere.

"What's going on?" A student from the Saint Bartholomew School of Magicians lowered his voice and elegantly whispered to his companions, "Could it be that this gentleman has forgotten someone's name?"

"Perhaps it was just a unique and impressive introduction, you know." His companion shrugged slightly sarcastically. "If a piece of plaster fell from the roof now, it might hit three earl's sons and a marquis's son; if the roof collapsed completely, the whole empire would be shaken - I have to say, for the sake of his stunningly beautiful assistant, he succeeded."

Little Batman, who was sitting next to them, glanced at the two of them.

"Time's up." The professor on the podium glanced over sharply. "From left to right, from front to back, gentleman in the second row, sixth seat, please."

The gossiping student gave a lazy nod and said, "Kelgar Marton. Hello, Professor."

"Hello, Mr. Kelgar Marton—this is your name, a unique symbol bestowed upon you by another individual since birth to distinguish you from others." Those smoky gray eyes stared at him coldly. "It's clearly written on the visitor information sheet. You don't need to introduce yourself to me again."

Wow, very aggressive.

Marton's attitude finally became serious, and he couldn't help but sit up straighter. "Then please allow me to introduce myself again. I am the eldest son of Ron Marton, the president of Marton Bank, and a sophomore at St. Bartolomeo's School of Warlocks."

"These are your kinship and social status, Mr. Marton," the other man said calmly. "These connections to the outside world influence your thoughts and actions, driving your growth and change, but they are far from defining who you are. Do you cease to be yourself once you leave your school days?"

Marton hesitated: "I am still a devout follower of the Ocean God Odileus."

"It's your faith—indeed, a person's faith can greatly influence their behavior, but you weren't born a believer, so it's not who you are."

What answer did this guy want? Could it be that he had seen him taunting others with his deskmate before and was deliberately making things difficult for him? Marton was a little embarrassed and began to get irritated. After noticing that everyone's eyes were focused on him, he simply said with a hint of sarcasm: "Then I can only say that I am alone, Professor."

His companion beside him interjected at the perfect moment: "Yes, obviously, it's not a monkey or a hen."

The students of St. Bartolomeo's School of Warlocks suddenly laughed softly, while the students of White Tower University stared at the podium quietly and silently until the laughter gradually died down.

"That's right. Congratulations on your correct answer." Mr. Brody leaned over the podium, clapped his hands, and nodded at the bewildered respondent. "You are a human being. That's the essence of everything."

He turned around and wrote a big word on the blackboard, "man".

"What is a human being? A body of flesh and blood and a soul devoid of dignity, conditioned by socialization into a highly intelligent animal in chains—" The professor paused. "Too emotional, isn't it? Let's make it more rational."

"Generally speaking, you possess a body of flesh and blood that can move. This is the physical carrier of my existence, just like any other objective object in the world, such as the table in front of you, the starry sky above you, and the boundless, dark, and silent universe beyond your sight." His voice was calm and clear, echoing in the quiet classroom. "At the same time, you all possess consciousness. This is your understanding, thoughts, and emotions about yourself, others, and society. It is humanity's reflection and understanding of the objective world."

One fascinated student couldn't help but ask, "But what does this have to do with theology?"

"That's a valuable question—but please raise your hand next time, Mr. Carl." Amidst the other party's whispered apology, the professor continued, "Everyone here possesses a soul, another vehicle that helps you resonate with the gods. Is it material or conscious? I believe it is material. Saints can see souls, and spells can harm them. I can say that I don't like my tired and harsh soul and want to get rid of it—but the soul still exists. It is independent of human consciousness and cannot be transferred by human consciousness."

His speech was a little faster, but one could still hear he was forcibly suppressing his words. "So, is it matter that determines consciousness, or is it consciousness that determines matter? This has been the ultimate debate among philosophers for thousands of years. I firmly believe that matter determines consciousness, and that consciousness has a dynamic reaction on matter. The two are in unity of opposites. In other words, your belief in the gods depends on your body and soul, and will in turn affect your body and soul. However, you can influence it, enhance it, and even change it through objective practice."

The whispers suddenly grew louder. Some faces expressed hatred and anger, while others were curious and thoughtful. Professor Brody raised his voice amid the chatter, "All research in this open class will be based on this theoretical foundation. Anyone who cannot accept a single word I say please leave now. I don't want anyone to rush over and try to bite my throat out next."

"Nonsense," Marton heard his companions mutter, "How can faith be changed? This is the kind of blasphemous thought that only blasphemers, worthy of the gallows, could have."

Someone left the table in anger, without even closing the door—but he still sat next to Marton.

When no one else stood up, the professor, who had been watching everything unfold calmly, spoke up: "Anyone else want to leave? No one else? Very good."

His TA practically slammed the door down on the last person's heels, and the professor nodded at him.

"Thanks, Azuka."

He rapped the podium with his knuckles, drawing everyone's attention back. "Then, those of you who remain are welcome to refute me with different thoughts and arguments. You can discuss it privately after class or write to me. However, due to time constraints, I can only answer one person's question in class. Please, Mr. Batman, thank you for raising your hand to speak."

Tran Bateman, son of Mani Bateman and brother of Jolini Bateman, slowly stood up.