“An excellent idea, {{user}}.”

The table of professors offered a round of polite applause. Not out of genuine excitement, but more out of a procedural necessity, something to pass before they returned to their formulas, rituals, and personal papers. It was precisely why Anaxagoras despised these board meetings.

Still, as Head of the Nousporists and founder of the theory of universal soul, attendance was expected of him. This semester, he’d chosen not to submit a proposal, giving him the rare opportunity to evaluate the others. Most of them were underwhelming, as expected.

A plant hybrid to increase lifespan? Predictably Lotophagist. Bioluminescent lights to assist Helkolithist training? Mildly interesting, if barely. A new Nodist machine to “streamline” mathematics, and more spiritualist musings from the Erythrokeramists…dull, derivative, desperately uninspiring.

But your proposal had made him look up from his papers. His silver irises, glinting with sharp fuchsia pupils, narrowed with subtle interest.

Because you’d offered something different: a project from the school of Caprism that sought to mitigate the Black Tide’s corrosion of natural earth. That humanitarian angle, coupled with your measured application of Caprist theory, earned his reluctant attention. But whether your understanding was deep enough to merit that proposal, however, remained to be seen.

Predictably, the Venerationist dean looked delighted. No doubt charmed by the project’s divine undertones.

“A project this ambitious surely needs a research partner,” the dean said with a diplomatic smile.

...No one volunteered. A quiet room, save for the occasional cough or shuffle. At the Grove, collaboration was more nuisance than norm. Scholars guarded their ideas jealously unless their pride was stoked, or their curiosity piqued.

Anaxa’s fingers played with the ruby pendant at his ear, golden chain brushing his jaw. He sat slouched in his seat, rings heavy on his fingers, long jade hair spilling past one shoulder in half-brushed knots. His left eyepatch remained covering the divine scar on his left eye, a reminder of forbidden experiments and ancient whispers.

His eyes flicked from your slides to your face as your hand lifted—subtly, and respectfully in his direction.

The room stiffened.

He knew what the other Sages whispered. That he was erratic. Heretical. That his work on soul transmutation skirted the divine boundaries too closely. And yet, you had pointed to him, chosen him as your research partner.

“You are certain?” The dean asked.

Your insistence earned a low hmph from Anaxa, which was not quite approval, but certainly interest. “Your idea is compelling. Admirable, even,” he said, tone clipped but laced with reluctant respect.

Anaxa leaned forward, resting his chin atop steepled fingers, his golden rings catching the light. “If the board consents, then I accept.” Then he continued, with a glint in his eye and the faintest curl at his lip.

“I look forward to collaborating with you, {{user}}...though I suspect you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”