Ma En took off the hat, hung up the umbrella, set the books he'd bought on the desk, and placed the wood carving beside the bookshelf. He pulled a shirt from the wardrobe and draped it over the carving, covering it completely. A glance at the clock — just past three in the afternoon. He'd been to Sanchoumoku Park and back, and a heap of suspicious leads and intelligence had crammed itself into his brain over the span of a few short hours, yet he didn't feel the slightest fatigue. In the time that remained, he cleared away the precautionary measures he'd rigged behind the door, cleaned up the entryway the lock change had dirtied, took a shower, changed into fresh clothes, and picked up where he'd left off the day before.

To calibrate his psychological state, sharpen his logical thinking, bring his mind and reason to peak condition — working problems was indispensable. Mathematics. Psychology. Mechanical structures. Reading and comprehending materials on computer hardware and software. Beyond literature and philosophy, linguistics, history, and the social humanities all demanded constant nourishment. The time he devoted each day to reading, understanding, solving, self-analysis, criticism and self-criticism was non-negotiable. He might not sustain it for marathon stretches every session, but the daily consistency — that was what mattered.

Ma En didn't consider himself the kind of genius blessed with extraordinary memory or comprehension. That conviction only deepened his belief that the reason he'd been admitted to a key university, skipped grades to graduate, and been handpicked by the post office was precisely because these habits had compounded over years. If he stopped studying, he wouldn't just fall behind the geniuses — he'd never even get close enough to see them.

Not that geniuses didn't work hard. Only, when everyone was working hard, the line between genius and ordinary talent remained clearly visible — neither side's abilities diminished within measurable range — and yet, in the actual application of those abilities, the gap shrank to something smaller than most people imagined.

Even geniuses were constrained by the countless complex factors of society. To Ma En, this was the ceiling they inevitably hit: geniuses faced external ceilings; ordinary people faced internal ones. When those two ceilings reached the same height, the efficiency each could extract from handling real problems was, in practice, equivalent.

He'd arrived at this conclusion through observation and practice during his years at the post office. It was also one of the reasons he'd never slackened in study or thought.

He'd reaped the benefits firsthand.

For ordinary people, studying was painful by nature. The harder you worked, the more acutely you felt your own limits. Knowledge purchased with vast expenditures of time and energy — you had no idea when, under what circumstances, it might prove useful. He'd felt it countless times: the sensation of his skull being split open by rows of characters and numbers. Countless times he'd felt that the effort he poured in never equaled the results he believed it should yield. The achievements wrung from study were rarely more satisfying than success gained in other endeavors.

Back when he was a student, friends had asked: You're not trying to become a scientist. You don't have ambitions to stand out. You're not chasing the limits of knowledge or the truth. So why study this hard? Just don't be completely careless, and what you know is enough to get by. If it's about getting into a good university and landing a decent job, fine — but even that goal doesn't require this many subjects.

"You study everything, try everything, dabble in everything. You're clearly not some genius. Studying is obviously painful for you. Why force yourself like this?"

Ma En couldn't remember what he'd answered then. But now he had a clearer answer: fear.

At the post office, facing situations that erupted without warning, situations he'd never encountered before — facing people whose natural gifts clearly surpassed his own — he'd felt it. Fear. An assault from all sides, pressing in through the crowd.

When pursuing the bizarre, he'd felt it too.

This fear sometimes exceeded even the kind born of tangible, cruel realities in daily life. It seemed to be rooted in something specific, radiating outward from his own imagination and illusion. But in truth, even without a specific anchor, the fear existed.

These fears were like a part of himself. When he reached out to sense, to guess, to judge, to observe — they surfaced quietly from the depths of his heart. And by the time he consciously recognized that he was afraid, the fear was already intense.

Ma En didn't believe he was unique in this. According to his own theory, analyzed through the lens of psychology, any living thing capable of experiencing the emotion of fear had never been free of it — could never be entirely free of it. Fear was an intrinsic component of its very form of existence. The only reason it went unnoticed in daily life was that one's subjective consciousness chose not to acknowledge it.

Humans feared almost everything, no matter how intimate the relationship.

When this fear surfaced into awareness, only study could provide temporary escape. Ma En didn't believe it was the results of study — the knowledge gained, the cognition expanded — that granted liberation. It was the process itself. The act of studying strengthened the subjective mind's ability to resist and endure this innate fear.

Yes. For Ma En, study was essential. Something he loved and something he forced upon himself in equal measure.

He loved it because it let him better define the standards for "the bizarre." He forced it because it built resistance against fear — correcting his own spirit, driving rebar into the constantly shifting concrete of his psyche and pouring it solid.

Rational logic. Rich knowledge. Readiness for any sudden situation — like a gun that never unloads its rounds.

Study came first. Only after that came research into the objects and intelligence he'd already obtained.

Pain. The thought of studying, the moment he began — all of it was pain. No matter how deep the love, the sensation of forcing himself had never once receded.

Ma En was not someone who could focus naturally. The instant studying began, thoughts he'd never entertained and thoughts he'd turned over a hundred times surged from his mind more violently than in any normal state.

Even the most ordinary pen, the most ordinary sheet of paper, seemed to compete with "study" for his attention.

The desk, the bookshelf, sounds, atmosphere — the familiar furnishings and sensations of his room became impossibly vivid at these moments, each one fighting "study" for dominance.

Even so, Ma En had to push inward. First theorem, second theorem, third theorem... weariness creeping in, drowsiness pulling. First problem, second problem, third problem... his brain swelling. Everything inside him stretched like a rubber band drawn to its breaking point, ready to snap.

But Ma En knew this was not the true limit. Only the feeling of one. Resisting this feeling was like resisting another version of himself. The moment he consciously surrendered, it was truly over.

He knew how to handle this. He had the experience and the methods.

He did not let himself exhale. At this moment, he absolutely would not release that breath. He felt as though he were diving in a bottomless sea. The deeper he went, the more suffocating it became — resistance closing in from all directions, devising every method to stop his descent. And yet, if he tried to surface, a second voice told him he couldn't. He'd gone too deep. Before he could reach the air, he would die on the way up.

The metaphor might have been excessive. But the feeling was real. Because this was his method. This was self-hypnosis.

The weapons of psychology were helping him complete the final act of self-coercion in the learning process.

Three stages in total. Each time he passed through one, a portion of the resistance dissolved. After the third stage, his study session ended — precisely on time. Within this hypnosis-driven, self-forced learning process, both efficiency and quality far exceeded ordinary standards.

Ma En battled his own resistance through seas of theory and problem sets, like a drill boring into the deep ocean floor — probing, crushing, absorbing, grinding those hard, intractable things down and swallowing them into his brain.

Then — a sound classified as "unnecessary" within this process pierced through, like a signal dragging his consciousness up from the books and problems.

Ma En jolted as if startled awake, head snapping up. He looked toward the telephone on the side cabinet by the sofa. The phone was ringing. When he'd been a student, this sound couldn't have touched him. But after he'd started working, it became a signal he was compelled to obey.

He set down his pen without thinking. In the haze, the formulas and theorems in his head, the problems and answers, the numbers and sentences tangled among them — all of it folded into a blurred page. The page closed and vanished from his mind like an illusion. He could still recall the knowledge. But his attention had already turned toward the phone.

Ma En rose smoothly, pushed back his chair, and crossed to the telephone in quick strides. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello. This is Ma En."

"Kamishima Kousuke." The familiar voice came through the earpiece. "Ma-san, I've taken care of your driving license and the school arrangements. Are you free right now?"

"Yes, I'm home," Ma En replied calmly.

"Then I'll come over now. Should be about thirty minutes."

"Should I come down to meet you?"

"No — just wait at home."

"Understood. Thank you, Kamishima-san."

The call was brief. Ma En waited until the other end hung up first, then set the receiver down. He checked the clock. Already five in the afternoon.

He walked to the desk to tidy up. The studying had left him drenched in sweat; the back of his shirt clung to his skin. After confirming once more that the room was clean enough to receive a guest, he went to the bathroom and washed himself thoroughly from head to toe.

By the time he'd groomed himself and dried his hair, the doorbell rang.

Ma En walked quickly to the door and leaned into the peephole. Kamishima-san stood outside, wearing the same outfit as when they'd first met, carrying the same composed, unhurried bearing. He stood perfectly straight before the door, gaze fixed ahead, without the slightest trace of looking around — as though nothing in his surroundings merited attention.

Ma En opened the door. Kamishima's steady gaze fell on him.

"Good afternoon, Ma-san."

"Please, come in." Ma En stepped aside to welcome him.

Kamishima removed his shoes, turned the toes to face the door, placed them in the shoe cabinet, then helped himself to a pair of slippers. Every movement had a rhythmic precision — compact and meticulous, like calibrations measured to the mark.

The two entered the living room and sat side by side on the sofa. Kamishima skipped the small talk, opening his briefcase directly and laying documents and materials on the coffee table.

"This is your driving license. If funds aren't an issue, Ma-san, you could start thinking about a car."

Then, sliding the materials forward: "These are the school documents. The contract comes after the interview. You'll be taking the final round together with other prospective colleagues. Katsura Masakazu-sensei will attend in person. I've already spoken with Katsura Masakazu-sensei — regardless of how you perform in the interview, you will receive a formal employment contract. That said, as a representative of our Party, I do hope you'll show something of what you're capable of. I'm not asking for brilliance, but you can't give people cause to talk. And while the contract itself is guaranteed, the position you're assigned will depend on how the interview goes — " He paused, as if joking: "Even the janitor who cleans the toilets gets a formal contract."

Ma En didn't take it as a joke. If his performance was poor enough that Katsura Masakazu-sensei assigned him as a janitor, Kamishima — as the one who'd made the introduction — would raise no objection whatsoever. Taken further, a situation like that would be Ma En's own failure first and foremost. His Party membership would very likely not survive it.

"Understood. When is the interview?" he asked, voice still even.

"Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. At the Director's office."

Ma En picked up the materials. The first page bore the school's formal name: Academy of Peaceful Learning. The classification read: Private University.

"A university? I thought it was a vocational technical school." He couldn't help asking.

"Katsura Masakazu-sensei is passionate about education. The private schools he owns or sponsors number over twenty, covering elementary, middle school, high school, and various technical institutions. In itself, it's already a relatively complete academy alliance. Recently, Katsura Masakazu-sensei has been looking toward university-level development. This newly opened school uses electronic computer technology as its flagship focus, but depending on circumstances, it may also merge with other junior colleges and specialized technical schools to form a comprehensive university."

"I see." Ma En nodded, then added: "In practice, the merger into a university is more or less a certainty, isn't it?"

"I can only say that preparations are already underway. There are still many problems to resolve within the education system. Opening a university isn't simple — obtaining registration qualification is only the first step. That's why the school is called Academy of Peaceful Learning, not Academy of Electronic Technology, let alone Academy of Peaceful Learning University."

"Personally, I'm quite looking forward to the new school advancing to university status." Ma En smiled.

"That's Katsura Masakazu-sensei's domain." Kamishima returned the smile. "We're happy to see it succeed."