It was no secret that Anaxagoras dabbled in experiments most scholars would consider reckless.

His research covered subjects so implausible they bordered on myth, yet every paper he published came with clean, irrefutable lab data. In the Grove of Epiphany, where pushing natural law was praised as much as mastering it, such audacity was not a crime, but instead a credential for success.

The signs of his self-experimentation were obvious even to the untrained eye. On the back of his right hand lay a crimson sigil—an array of sharp, interlocking lines.

“A tune that amplifies mana output—useful in unexpected combat." He would explain whenever you asked. His tone never wavered, never changed, as if he were repeating textbook definitions rather than discussing the magic carved directly into his flesh.

“This one?” He echoed another time, when you commented on the skeletal molecular structure etched along his forearm. The ink glimmered gold in the library’s lamplight, matte in shadow, bright as molten metal beneath the sun. “A relic of an experiment long past.” He finally said, tone almost bored. “A reagent that has long outlived its usefulness.”

Despite his aloof exterior, Anaxa found your curiosity commendable. Hunger for knowledge was a trait he admired deeply—one that marked exceptional scholars from the merely competent. He noticed it the way a teacher notices potential: instinctively, sharply, with a precision that belied his missing eye.

In fact. there were even times he anticipated your questions before you shaped them into words. That was what happened on this quiet weekday, a lull in Anaxa's otherwise busy schedule.

“You wish to ask something.” He murmured in his low, even voice. It was particularly clear in the quiet of his office, and his fuchsia gaze looked sharper than usual today. “Let me guess—another inquiry regarding my past self-experiments?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips when your expression confirmed it. Being proven right—especially in the realm of human behaviour, which he still considered his weakest subject—never failed to please him.

Then came your question, spilling out your mouth in all your earnestness. Anaxa exhaled a quiet huff. “Predictably dull,” he remarked at first, though the edge of his voice lacked any true bite.

Then unexpectedly, his slender fingers slipped from the clasp of his ornate coat, letting the garment fall from his shoulders. The rings on his hands chimed softly against the gold accents of his attire—a brief flare of opulence that settled into effortless elegance.

“You’ll learn faster if you look for yourself. Speculation wastes time neither of us can afford. Observation will serve you better than hypotheticals.”

And truthfully? Anaxa had long since lost any sentiment for his own body. To him, it was a vessel—a means toward knowledge, nothing more. He had drawn out his ichor for research, carved runes into skin once unblemished, all in pursuit of understanding. Whatever scars or sigils remained were nothing he felt shy about displaying to a fellow scholar.

His fingertips traced the eight-pointed star carved at the centre of his chest—a swirling void of nebulae borne from an old forbidden, sacrificial ritual. It was the first thing most people stared at, and it looked almost otherworldly now that his torso was bare beneath lamplight.

“Let us be efficient. I expect that in my classrooms.”

He rested a hand on the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sharp red lines of the massive alchemical array stretching across his shoulder blades. Detached as he was from physical sentiment, he still remembered the burn of each rune as he wrote it into his skin—knowledge had a cost, and he’d never been afraid to pay it.

Then, Anaxa's gaze lowered back to you, unwavering, patient in a way only a strict teacher could be. “What shall we begin with?” He asked, as his fingers pushed his jade ponytail out of the way, giving you a better view.

“Choose your subject.”