I truly did not expect writing to become a daily habit.
But at this point, this journal may be the only thing preserving my remaining sanity.
Today Miss DeLuna brought me to see the island academy.
Calling it an “academy” honestly feels misleading.
The place resembles an entire scholarly district disguised as a school.
The buildings themselves are not as large as the Council Halls.
But the way space is utilized inside them is deeply unsettling.
Every corridor.
Every staircase.
Every room.
Designed with such absurd efficiency that I briefly began questioning the competence of every architect employed by Roderick Street.
At one point I became distracted studying how naturally multiple lecture halls, archive rooms, discussion chambers, gardens, resting spaces, and living quarters integrated into a single structure without feeling crowded at all.
If our warehouse designers ever saw this place, they would either become inspired beyond reason or collapse emotionally.
Possibly both.
Miss DeLuna explained that formal education here begins around age three.
Three.
At that age, I believe I was throwing fish at Ronan while he crawled across the docks.
Meanwhile Spathian was apparently already drawing ship blueprints on walls.
Actually…
Perhaps the educational system here makes slightly more sense than I initially thought.
Students remain in the academy until around eighteen before continuing advanced study within one of the Seven Councils until approximately twenty-two.
Naturally I asked which council Miss DeLuna entered.
She became quiet afterward.
Not dramatically.
Just…
Smaller somehow.
Then she admitted that around age thirteen, she was instead entrusted directly to Master Root for personal instruction.
According to Miss DeLuna, she was “too stupid” to properly memorize formulas and theoretical structures.
I stared at her for several seconds after hearing this.
Because if Miss DeLuna qualifies as intellectually inadequate on this island, then I can only assume the rest of the continent survives entirely through divine mercy.
Still, she did not sound bitter while speaking about it.
A little embarrassed perhaps.
But peaceful.
She said learning beneath Master Root was enjoyable.
Which honestly sounds exactly like something she would say.
Most instructors within the academy are High Elves.
I record this merely as information now.
I no longer possess the emotional energy required for proper astonishment.
What disturbed me far more was the children.
The students here do not behave like ordinary children.
They speak with frightening clarity.
Question each other constantly.
Debate naturally.
Even their casual conversations sound intellectually organized.
At one point I suddenly remembered that many workers employed by Roderick Street cannot read at all despite our enormous trade influence across the continent.
Then I imagined, briefly, what would happen if Isla de la Luna ever decided to become a merchant power.
I immediately stopped imagining further for the safety of global civilization.
While walking through one of the upper courtyards, Miss DeLuna casually mentioned that both her older brothers graduated as top students from the Council of the Living Map and the Council of the Silver Thread respectively.
Apparently they now serve within the Capital itself as advisers attached directly beside the Emperor through council assignment.
Miss DeLuna seemed uncertain while explaining this.
Unfortunately, I am beginning to suspect uncertainty from her usually means “information so absurd it sounds fictional.”
Today I also learned she is the youngest child.
And the only daughter.
According to her, she eventually chose travel because she could not decide which council to enter.
Then she mentioned the real reason.
An old journal.
A travel record discovered somewhere inside the family storage rooms.
Apparently her father refers to it jokingly as “the cursed book.”
At this point, through what I can only describe as catastrophic mental exhaustion, I made a terrible mistake.
Miss DeLuna referred to her father as “Father.”
Without thinking, I asked:
“You call him Father?”
Miss DeLuna blinked at me with complete confusion.
“…Doesn’t Ryn?”
At that exact moment, I wished desperately for the earth to split open beneath my feet.
Daddy.
Mommy.
I will never emotionally recover from this conversation.
If Miss DeLuna ever reads this journal, I may need to fake my death immediately.
Later tonight, she finally showed me the journal itself.
Old leather binding.
Worn edges.
Hand-drawn illustrations so detailed they resemble expedition-grade survey documents.hy
Maps.
Observations.
Descriptions of territories and routes beyond anything I have ever seen recorded publicly.
Merchant instinct overtook me immediately.
While turning those pages, I could already see trade opportunities.
Resource routes.
Potential expansion zones.
Even military vulnerabilities.
The observational precision inside that book alone could reshape entire regional economies if released to the right people.
And then I noticed something strange.
There was no full name written anywhere.
Only:
“DeLuna.”
Nothing else.
I suddenly remembered that Miss DeLuna herself never writes her full name within her own journal either.
Only the family name.
When I asked about it, she answered very simply.
“I was inspired by this journal.”
Then after a short pause:
“I’m not starting a new journey.”
“I’m continuing one that was never finished.”
Something about the way she said that unsettled me deeply.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like suddenly realizing Miss DeLuna’s travels were never entirely her own idea to begin with.
Tomorrow she intends to bring me to the Council Hall where her father works.
At this point, I am beginning to feel genuinely tired.
Not physically.
Socially.
Mentally.
Every conversation here requires careful wording.
Proper posture.
Controlled reactions.
Thoughtful responses.
Living on this island feels strangely similar to participating in a major trade negotiation continuously for twenty-four hours a day.
And somehow everyone else here considers this normal.
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