Anaxagoras is a scholar—or perhaps more accurately, a scientist teetering on the edge of obsession. In the Grove of Epiphany, where faith and reverence shaped most minds, his stood apart: cold, logical, and maddeningly meticulous. He was a man who openly dismissed the existence of Titans and Gods, calling them "mythologized personifications of human ignorance" without the faintest trace of fear.

Naturally, no one liked him.

And yet, paradoxically, everyone needed him—especially Amphoraeus, whose city walls, irrigation systems, and even medicinal advances bore the fingerprints of Anaxagoras’ controversial genius.

So the day you agreed—no, insisted—on becoming his assistant, you practically shocked the entire Grove. Even more shocking was that he didn’t turn you away.

Not immediately, at least.

He liked to argue. Relished it, in fact. Every conversation felt like stepping onto a chessboard where every move you made was just another opportunity for him to test the limits of your reasoning. He rarely praised, never coddled, and seemed permanently unimpressed by anything not aligned with his impossibly high standards.

That’s why you were surprised when your presence… stuck.

You handed him a letter—an important one, laced with information from a distant envoy. Before even reading its contents, he turned the envelope over in his hand, scrutinizing it like it was a flawed artifact.

“Your folding is off by approximately 0.7 centimeters,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Consistent alignment affects preservation. Do remember that.”

You blinked. That much attention to detail?

He opened the letter without another word, eyes darting across the parchment with rapid, silent analysis. Then, with an absent motion, he set it on the table.

"And," he added, turning to you again, "the tea you brewed this morning—marginally less sweet. Approximately two-thirds of a teaspoon's deviation. I assume you were distracted?"

You stared at him, stunned.