Cherouba

The new year—Cherouba—was a celebratory time in Lamphi. Even buried under the three-inch blanket of snow, the villagers persisted. They were too stubborn to postpone the carnival. It was a three-week-long procession. And today was the beginning.

The gilded homes were accented with lanterns pouring down shimmering amber with a hiss. Korou bathed in it, glanced at Atla; her profile was dimly illuminated as she offered him a quiet smile.

"Seems like an overkill." Korou gestured at the twinkling crescents and floating stars, swaying with a whisper.

"It's the start of a new decade," Atla swerved to the side, her fingers calling for the school of Cyan trails. The flickering souls porpoised over the lamps, swirling in a gentle arc before pausing around her. "What did you expect?"

"Is that supposed to make it special?" Korou waved his arm, dismissing the few trails that had veered to his side. He wasn't the one to waver in their pageantry.

Atla shot him a wide-eyed gaze before her lips parted into a long, breathy sigh. "This is why you need to go out more."

"Don't blame that on me," Korou pulled over his leather-bound copy of Lesonhar's 'Analysis Arcane Infinitorium', and hid behind its girth. "Master's reading list is a colossus undertaking; if I spend even an hour in merrymaking, I won't make it."

"Still not a justification for your lack of cultural awareness." She gave his shoulder a squeeze.

"And for Pakhangba's sake, please stop carrying that tome around."

"It's maths, Atla," He pulled the copy away. "If I don't practice daily, I will mess up my sequential process order."

Leslor's preface began with the virtuous need to practice to embody maths; you must practice daily. When you sleep, you must solve equations; when you eat, you should imagine numbers; when walking, you must compute your surroundings.

"Great, now you even sound like her." She huffed a pout and swerved away from him. Her long sleeves fluttered in the frosty gale with her four beaded Karunglai rippling in an aureate glint. She was dazzling. "It's the decade of the moon."

Korou, in awe of her, took a moment to register. "Moon?"

She gave a subtle nod.

"Last was the decade of the Sun." Atla pointed at the floating brass halo. "In Lamphi..." She took a pause. "Kangleipak too, we follow the solar calendar. It is a variant of the standard Eternan, and emulates the positioning of the celestial bodies." Atla pointed over the mist-covered outline of the crescent Moon. "I am unaware of the details, but there's a solar shift every ten years."

Korou's mouth parted in transgression, but he bit his tongue. Atla had given him the crumbs, and she herself lacked the bread. Thus, questioning won't lead to a fruitful outcome.

"That sounds..." Korou fiddled with the ragged spine of his book. "Umm...very interesting."

"You can say it's illogical," Atla broke into a faint ripple of mirth. "Mincing words doesn't really suit you."

Korou heaved a sigh but smiled. His days since Naobi's departure were filled with tranquil moments like this. Mornings were dedicated to maths, afternoons to the pursuit of linguistic acquisition, and evenings were a faint respite with Atla. His master's return was still a long way out, but he was no longer in an impatient hurry. Ayano had once quoted, 'There are some flowers you only see when you take detours.' Back then, it was a jab over his impulsive acquisitions, but now they were a foundational stone for his new life.

"It's called being nice." Korou shrugged and gestured for her to keep walking. They were still behind schedule in acquiring groceries, and he didn't want to miss the produce sale that his mother had explicitly mentioned.

"And I am saying that doesn't suit your style, dumb brat."

"So you would rather have me being mean, dork warrior." Korou rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"No, that would be a problem in its own right."

"Make up your mind."

She skipped a few paces ahead of him and leaned in with a beaming smile. "With you, I have always had my mind made up."

"How are your readings coming?" asked Iromi from underneath the Teutonic and Lamphi grammatica pyramid. She was drowning in them.

"Maths is fine, practice makes perfect." Korou shot her a faint smile and lifted the girthy Philosophiæ Magica. "But with this, Teutonic lon has me beat."

It was the second week of winter vacation, and the Monastery campus was desolate except for a few diligent students; thus, Korou, in lieu of the increasing noise by the Lamphi bazaar, had proposed a study session by the Sanctorum. Atla dismissed it unblinkingly; she aimed to try every foodstall erected in the carnival; thus, studies were not a priority, and Ibo was just being Ibo, lost in his own world. The only person who was even remotely interested was Iromi.

Iromi dropped her feathered pen and shuffled through the sheaf of paper scattered on the floor.

"Iromi?" Korou glanced below the table in concern.

"Just a moment, I have the cure for your problem." She shot a beaming smile. A moment later, she pulled out a weaved folder. On the Sensation of Tones, the earthen cover read.

"A book on phonetics?" Korou inquired with a tilted gaze.

"That too, but importantly, a list of recurring phrases." Iromi pushed it to his side and tapped at it with pride. "Written by yours truly."

Korou promptly shuffled through its pages. Each was carefully inscribed with terms from Teutonic lon and their translation in Lamphi lon. Iromi had even made a section explaining the tonality and division of each syllable. Some even had her remarks emphasising the different meanings of the same word depending on its context.

"I have skimmed through the Philosophiæ Magica once," Iromi added, pointing at the last few pages of her notes. "I could barely follow Odilia's musing in them," She tapped at the direct translation of the famous three laws of magecraft and a neat derivation of their formula.

"But my conversion of her words was applauded by the headpriestess. She believed it to be the best translation in centuries."

"Was it an assignment?" Korou asked without batting an eye.

"A test," said Iromi. "In Parīksā, the seventh paper, pertains to an accurate translation of passages from books in the Ukiyan regional language. Although its syllabus hardly covers books on applied or theoretical magecraft," She cast a strained gaze at Korou's tome.

"Headpriestess believed there was no harm in trying."

"Did you... Enjoy it? The translation I mean" Korou asked hesitantly, his eyes avoiding hers.

"Not one bit," Iromi's eyes wrinkled in mirth as a murmured laugh escaped her lips. "But it was important." She carefully pulled a Codice from the heap. It was the original folk ballad of the Moon Goddess Sepia and the benevolent prince Nongpok. A tragic romantic tale.

"Without the rigorous approach required to transfer the essence of a factual work, I would have never seen through the soul that resides within the classic."

"Do not try to render word for word, but render the sense." Korou voiced quietly, unaware. It was a quote from Horace, a 20th BCE poet and translator from his previous world. Korou had come across him during an unforgiving night after meeting another dead end with the Hokkaido Shinyobun. That quote was a poetic annotation in the form of a sign; it asked him to stop decoding it word for word and instead pursue the essence.

"Headpriestess said the same," Iromi heaved a sigh. "Atla che was right, you two are spitting image of one another."

"I am aware, we are both stubborn," Korou's gaze drifted towards the Codice. That manuscript—Nongpok Sepia Sheireng—was scribed in Teutonic runes. A script from the Golden Era of Shamans. It was nearly undecipherable; thus, his respect for the raven-haired girl amplified. "But your work is commendable."

"Here," Iromi passed on another folder. This was her translation of the Ballad. "With the decade of the moon upon us, this might help you understand our culture better."

"That dork warrior," Korou muttered, burying himself in the open book. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.

"Atla che merely brushed upon your folly," Korou could hear the controlled chuckle behind her elegance. "It was I and Ibo who took upon the education."

"I will be damned."

"Hush with the language," Iromi lightly tapped the stout Codice on his head. "We are still in the Monastery grounds."

"Sure."

Iromi whispered a breath. "Anyways," She returned to her readings and translation. "It's a joyous occasion, so why not join the festivities? It will help you with the language, too."

"How?"

"It's the month of Cherouba Korou," Iromi shot him a long gaze. "There are merchants from almost every province in Bazzar, just strike up a conversation with the ones from Teutonia."

"Fair enough."