# Chapter 8: The Lazy Genius
The library of Vane Manor smelled of wet wool and centuries of disappointment.
It was a smell that Tutor Halloway seemed to cultivate personally. He was a man composed entirely of sharp angles and dry skin, wearing a robe that had been fashionable when the current Emperor's grandfather was in diapers. He sat behind the heavy oak desk, tapping a quill against a piece of parchment with the rhythmic precision of water dripping into a bucket.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Sylas Vane, age five, sat opposite him. His legs didn't reach the floor. He swung them back and forth, watching the dust motes dance in a shaft of pale winter sunlight.
"Master Sylas," Halloway said. His voice was like sandpaper on glass. "Are you with us?"
Sylas blinked slowly. "Yes, sir."
"Then perhaps you can tell me the sum of four and seven. I have asked you three times."
Sylas looked at the tutor. Then he looked at the slate in front of him.
**[ PROBLEM: 4 + 7 ]**
**[ COMPLEXITY: NEGLIGIBLE ]**
**[ SYSTEM RECOMMENDATION: DELAY RESPONSE BY 4.2 SECONDS. FEIGN CONFUSION. ]**
It was a delicate art, being mediocre.
If he answered too quickly, he was a prodigy. Prodigies were given more work. They were sent to academies in the capital. They were paraded in front of nobles who looked at them like prize hogs at a market.
If he didn't answer at all, he was an imbecile. Imbeciles were pitied. They were given bitter tonics to "stimulate the humors."
He needed to be exactly in the middle. The gray zone. The unremarkable lump of clay.
Sylas counted the seconds in his head. *One. Two. Three. Four.*
He furrowed his brow. He bit his lip, putting on the performance of a child wrestling with the fundamental laws of the universe.
"Eleven?" he asked. He made it a question. Uncertainty was key.
Halloway let out a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire skeletal frame. "Correct. Eventually."
The tutor dipped his quill in ink. "You are not a quick boy, are you, Sylas?"
"Mama says I'm thoughtful," Sylas replied, picking at a loose thread on his tunic.
"Thoughtful is a polite word for slow. Your sister, despite her... wildness... grasps these concepts instantly. You seem to wade through molasses."
Halloway scribbled something on his report. Sylas didn't need to see it. The System extrapolated the text from the movement of the quill tip.
**[ TEXT DETECTED: "Subject lacks mental acuity. Attention span deficient. Recommend discipline." ]**
Sylas suppressed a yawn. Discipline meant standing in the corner. Standing in the corner meant he didn't have to listen to Halloway drone on about the lineage of the Aetherion Kings. It was a win-win.
"Now," Halloway said, shuffling papers. "History. The Third Unification War. Who led the charge at the Battle of Black River?"
Sylas knew the answer. It was General Kaelen the Iron-Heart. He had used a pincer movement with heavy cavalry on the left flank. It was a textbook maneuver, though Kaelen had overextended his supply lines and nearly lost the campaign three weeks later due to dysentery.
"General... Kael?" Sylas ventured.
"Kaelen," Halloway corrected sharply. "And the date?"
**[ REALITY: YEAR 452 ]**
**[ STRATEGY: MISS BY A DECADE. ]**
"Year 460?"
Halloway pinched the bridge of his nose. "452. Close enough, I suppose, for a country education."
The tutor stood up and walked to the blackboard, his robe sweeping the dusty floor. He began to draw a crude map of the continent.
"Pay attention, Sylas. The geography of the realm is essential for a young noble. To the North, the Frostwaste. To the East, the Iron Kingdoms..."
Sylas tuned him out.
His eyes drifted to the window. Outside, snow was falling again, fat flakes spiraling down to cover the muddy training yard. He could see Elara out there. She was practicing the stance he had drawn for her.
*Knees bent. Hips locked. Breathe.*
She wasn't holding the sword today. She was just holding the pose. Good. Muscle memory had to be built before power could be added.
"Sylas!"
The sharp crack of a ruler against the desk brought him back.
Halloway was looming over him. "I am not speaking for my own health, boy. Eyes front."
"I was looking at the snow," Sylas said.
"The snow will be there when you are dead. The lesson is here." Halloway pointed to the board. "Now, recite the Seven Great Houses."
Sylas slumped in his chair.
This was agony. It was a torture worse than the physical pain of reinforcing his bones. At least bone-knitting had a purpose. This was just noise.
The door creaked open.
Martha bustled in. She was a round, formidable woman who smelled of yeast and clean linen. She carried a silver tray.
"Break time, Master Halloway," she announced, brooking no argument. "The boy needs fuel. You can't run a mill without water."
She set the tray down on the desk.
A pot of tea. Two cups. And a plate of pastries.
Sylas looked at the pastries.
They were small, golden discs. The crust was flaky, browned to perfection. In the center of each was a pool of amber jelly.
**[ OBJECT: HONEYED TART ]**
**[ INGREDIENTS: FLOUR, BUTTER (CHURNED YESTERDAY), HONEY (CLOVER), LEMON ZEST. ]**
**[ CALORIC DENSITY: HIGH. ]**
Sylas hadn't cared for food in his previous life. Food was fuel. You ate protein paste to keep the brain running so you could code for another eighteen hours. Taste was a distraction.
But this body... this body was five. And it was starving.
He reached out.
"Mind your manners," Halloway scolded, reaching for his tea.
Sylas took a tart. It was still warm.
He took a bite.
The crust shattered. It wasn't dry; it was buttery and rich. Then the honey hit his tongue.
Sweet. Sharp. Floral.
It wasn't just sugar. It was a symphony of sensation. The lemon zest cut through the heaviness of the butter, brightening the flavor profile. The honey coated his mouth, soothing the raw feeling in his throat from the dry air.
**[ DOPAMINE RECEPTORS: ACTIVATED. ]**
**[ MOOD: ELEVATED. ]**
**[ ENERGY RESERVES: REPLENISHING. ]**
Sylas chewed slowly. His eyes widened.
So this was joy.
He had conquered galaxies in simulations. He had built artificial intelligences that could write poetry. But he had never experienced anything quite as profoundly *right* as this tart.
"Is it good, little lord?" Martha asked, beaming.
"It is..." Sylas swallowed. "Acceptable."
He took another bite. Then another. He ate three in rapid succession before Halloway could protest.
The sugar hit his bloodstream like a freight train.
His small heart beat faster. The lethargy vanished, replaced by a warm, buzzing hum.
*Mana,* Sylas realized. *The sugar is metabolizing into raw energy.*
It was inefficient, crude, and messy, but for a body with a broken core, it was rocket fuel.
"That's enough," Halloway said, shooing his hand away from the fourth tart. "You'll spoil your dinner. Back to work."
The tutor turned back to the blackboard. "Now, regarding the trade routes of the southern coast..."
Sylas sat back. The sugar rush was peaking.
And then, inevitable as the tide, the crash came.
The warmth spread from his stomach to his limbs. His eyelids grew heavy. The buzz softened into a fuzzy, comfortable static. The drone of Halloway's voice transformed from an annoyance into a lullaby.
*System,* Sylas thought groggily. *Initiate Sleep Mode.*
**[ ACKNOWLEDGED. STANDBY. ]**
He folded his arms on the desk. He rested his chin on his arms.
Halloway turned around five minutes later.
"And that is why the tax tariffs on salt are—"
He stopped.
Sylas Vane was fast asleep. A small bubble of spit inflated and deflated at the corner of his mouth. He looked angelic. He looked peaceful.
He looked completely uninterested in the salt tariffs.
Halloway's face turned a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised vegetables.
"Unbelievable," the tutor hissed.
***
Arthur Vane sat in his study, staring at a ledger that refused to balance. No matter how many times he added the columns, the debt remained heavier than the income.
There was a knock on the door.
"Enter."
Halloway swept in. He looked like a man who had been personally insulted by the concept of childhood.
"I cannot do it, My Lord," Halloway announced.
Arthur rubbed his temples. "What has he done now? Did he set something on fire? Elara usually handles the arson."
"He did nothing!" Halloway exclaimed. "Absolutely nothing! He stares. He blinks. He answers questions with the speed of a glacier. And then... he sleeps."
Arthur sighed. "He is five, Halloway."
"He is unteachable! I pour knowledge into him and it spills out of his ears. He has no ambition. No spark. He just wants to eat sweets and nap."
The door behind Halloway burst open.
Elara stood there. She was covered in mud, her hair a bird's nest of tangles, looking like a swamp demon in miniature.
"He's not stupid!" she yelled.
Halloway jumped, clutching his chest. "Lady Elara! You are not to eavesdrop!"
Elara stomped into the room. She pointed a muddy finger at the tutor. "Potato isn't slow. He's thinking."
"Thinking?" Halloway scoffed. "About what? The inside of his eyelids?"
"He thinks about big things," Elara insisted, planting herself between her father and the tutor. "He's saving his energy. Like... like a bear in winter."
Arthur looked at his daughter. Her loyalty was fierce, blind, and terrifying.
"Elara," Arthur said gently. "Master Halloway is just concerned about Sylas's progress."
"He got the math right, didn't he?" Elara challenged.
"Eventually," Halloway sniffed.
"See?" She crossed her arms. "He's right, he just takes his time. You're just boring him. You bore *me* and I'm not even in the room."
Arthur coughed to hide a laugh. "That's enough, Elara. Go wash up."
Elara glared at Halloway one last time—a look that promised retribution involving frogs in his bed—and marched out.
Arthur looked at the tutor. "I apologize, Halloway. The boy is... eccentric. He takes after his mother's side. They were all dreamers."
"Dreamers do not run estates, My Lord."
"No," Arthur said, looking back at the ledger with the red ink. "They don't. But perhaps we don't need him to run the estate. Elara has fire enough for two."
"If you say so," Halloway said, stiffly. "But I warn you. If he continues to sleep through my lectures, I cannot guarantee he will learn to read past a primer level."
"Just... do your best," Arthur said. "He's a good boy. Just a bit lazy."
***
The bedroom was dark.
Sylas lay under the quilt. He could hear the wind howling outside, rattling the loose pane in the window frame.
To the world, the "Lazy Genius" was asleep.
Under the covers, Sylas's eyes were wide open.
**[ SYSTEM STATUS: ACTIVE ]**
**[ MANA RESERVES: 22/100 (BOOSTED BY GLUCOSE) ]**
The sugar from the tarts had provided the spike he needed.
He raised his right hand. To the naked eye, nothing was happening. But in the Architect's vision, the air above his palm was a loom.
*Weave,* he commanded.
Three threads of blue mana extended from his fingertips. They were thin, fragile as spider silk.
Most mages in this world simply shoved mana around. They pushed it into fire, or ice, or force. It was blunt. It was barbaric.
Sylas didn't shove. He constructed.
He manipulated the threads, braiding them together in a complex, non-Euclidean geometry.
**[ PROJECT: MERIDIAN BYPASS ]**
**[ STAGE: 4 ]**
His natural mana pathways were clogged with sludge. The "Mana Sickness" that was killing his mother was hereditary; he had a milder, dormant form. If he tried to channel power normally, he would burn out.
So he was building a secondary system.
He was weaving an artificial mana vein, a ghostly piping system overlaying his actual biology.
He twisted his fingers. The blue threads knotted, tightened, and snapped into a hexagon.
*Geometry is power,* he thought. *Structure is stability.*
Sweat beaded on his forehead. This required a level of focus that would have made Halloway's brain melt. He had to hold the shape in his mind, maintain the tension, and feed it mana at a constant rate.
One slip, and the construct would collapse, likely taking a chunk of his skin with it.
He breathed in. *Hook the vertex.*
He breathed out. *Seal the loop.*
The hexagon glowed brighter, then faded, sinking into the skin of his palm. It settled into the flesh, invisible, buzzing with potential.
**[ CONSTRUCT INTEGRATION: SUCCESSFUL ]**
**[ BYPASS NODE 1/108 COMPLETE ]**
**[ FLOW EFFICIENCY: +0.5% ]**
Sylas exhaled, his arm dropping to the mattress. He was exhausted. The sugar rush was gone, burned up in the furnace of his concentration.
One node. He needed a hundred and eight to create a full circuit. At this rate, it would take months.
But it was working.
He flexed his hand. The mana moved smoother there. It didn't stutter. It flowed.
"Lazy," he whispered to the dark room, a small smile touching his lips.
The door creaked open.
Sylas instantly went limp. His breathing evened out. His face went slack.
Elara tiptoed in. She was wearing her nightgown, shivering slightly. She carried something wrapped in a napkin.
She crept to the side of the bed.
"Potato?" she whispered.
Sylas let out a soft snore.
Elara sighed. She placed the napkin on the bedside table.
"I stole you another tart," she whispered. "Martha wasn't looking. You need it for your... big thinking."
She patted his head, her hand rough and warm.
"Sleep tight. I'll beat up Halloway if he's mean tomorrow."
She left, closing the door softly.
Sylas opened one eye.
He reached out and unwrapped the napkin. The tart was cold now, slightly squashed, leaking amber jelly.
He took a bite.
It tasted like victory.
**[ CALORIES DETECTED. ]**
**[ QUEUEING PROJECT: BYPASS NODE 2. ]**
Sylas chewed in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Let them think he was slow. Let them think he was a sloth.
The world belonged to the patient.
And while the world slept, the Architect was building.
One tart, one thread, one node at a time.