Do ratmen dream of the sacred tree of spirits?

Chapter 69 New Plan

Fafner was silent for a moment:

You feel like you have it tough, you feel like you're unlucky, and you feel like the whole world has wronged you.

What were you doing just now?

The man looked up, his face covered in tears.

"What were you doing when you rushed up and hit me just now?"

What were you doing when you were insulting Martha and Ellen, and insulting Teacher Anna?

Fafner decided to give him a good verbal torture:

"You're bullied by the foreman, you're extorted by the police, your wife is sick, you're having a hard time, and then you come here, punching a few kids and yelling at an old teacher."

Fafnir paused:

"What if I hadn't stopped you, or what if you had pounced on someone else? What if you had pounced on Martha and Allen next to you? They! Wouldn't! Have! Any! Power! To! Fight back!"

What if you pounce on Ms. Anna? She's almost fifty!

The man's lips trembled:

"No...no...I...I didn't mean to..."

"You didn't expect that? There are many things you didn't expect. You didn't expect your son Andreusa to be watching you. You didn't expect your son to imitate you."

Fafnir pointed to the boy.

The boy stood there, trembling, tears streaming down his face.

"What you taught him was to bully the weaker ones when he was being bullied?"

You got beaten up by the foreman, so you come to take it out on a ten-year-old priest who looks easy to bully? You were extorted by the police, so you come to the church to cause trouble?

What's the difference between you and those who bullied you?

These words struck the man's chest like a hammer blow.

Fafnir looked at him but said nothing more.

After a long time, the man slowly squatted down and looked into the boy's eyes.

"Andreusa," he called the boy by his nickname, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible, "Daddy made a mistake."

The man wiped his face with his sleeve, his hand trembling.

"Dad shouldn't have hit or yelled at people. Dad did something wrong."

The man stood up and turned to Fafner.

His eyes were still red, and the tears on his face hadn't dried yet.

"Professor Fafnir."

His hoarse voice was filled with remorse:

"sorry."

He bent down again and bowed deeply:

"sorry."

Fafnir didn't know how to reply, so he just waved his hand and turned to the crowd watching.

“What happened today,” Fafnir raised his voice, “made me realize something.”

The admission rules I set with the grammar school teachers were that students who could write their names and letters would be given priority admission; I thought this was fair.

Fafner paused for a moment:

"But now I've realized that this kind of fairness applies to families where children have the means to practice calligraphy; of course, they can write well."

How could children whose families can't even afford paper and pens, who have never even held a pen, and who have absolutely no means of acquiring knowledge, possibly meet this requirement?

People listened to Fafner in silence; no one spoke.

"So I have new plans."

Fafnir turned around and looked at the children who hadn't been chosen, standing next to their parents in the alleyway and at the church entrance. They had their heads down or were looking at Fafnir timidly.

"Starting this semester, from 3 PM to 5 PM, Monday through Saturday, the school will remain open."

If any child wants to learn to recognize or write characters, they are welcome to come.

I will be the only one teaching, providing paper and pens; there will be no charge whatsoever.

Discussions began to ripple through the crowd.

"However, there are a few rules I'll mention upfront."

First, it's voluntary; you can come or not, but if you come, you must study hard. Those who don't want to study or those who cause trouble are not allowed to come.

Secondly, there are no graduation certificates or diplomas for after-school classes.

Third, Fafnir looked at the man, then at the others:

"This is the school of the Church of the God of Death. Everyone must keep the Commandments. Those who do not keep the Commandments are not allowed to enter this school."

Discussions began in the crowd, starting as whispers and gradually growing louder.

"Sir, are you telling the truth?" A woman wrapped in a gray headscarf squeezed to the front.

"certainly."

"You come every day? And it's free?"

"No, I'll take care of the paper and pen."

The woman's tears welled up suddenly; the girl behind her looked to be seven or eight years old.

"Thank you, sir, thank you so much," the woman said, bowing repeatedly.

"No need to thank me, just let her study hard." Fafnir reached out to stop her and shook his head.

The crowd began to surge forward, one after another, pulling their children to Fafnir's side.

Fafner wrote down the names, one after another, until the names filled two sheets of paper.

Martha walked over and told Fafnir in a low voice that she had memorized more than fifty.

Fafner nodded without saying anything; fifty-odd, a dozen, or any other number made little difference.

Anyway, he taught it all by himself.

The crowd gradually dispersed, and the parents who had secured spots left with their children, some even turning back to look at them from a distance.

The boy named Andriusha was being pulled along by his father. After a few steps, he suddenly ran back, shoved a piece of black bread he was holding into Fafnir's hand, and then turned and ran away.

Fafnir looked down at the black bread, which was hard, covered in dust, and had a child's fingerprint on it. He put it in his pocket.

Ms. Anna was silent for a moment:

"Fafner, so many children, are you teaching them all by yourself?"

"Um."

"Two hours a day, Monday to Saturday, can you manage to teach that much?"

"I can teach them all, one by one."

"What about the regular classes in the morning?"

Regular classes will continue as scheduled.

"Can you handle it?"

Fafner didn't answer the question. He said, "Aunt Anna, we're almost out of chalk and paper. I'll go back to school this afternoon and ask the logistics department if they can get some more."

……

That evening, Fafnir had just returned to his dormitory when there was a knock on the door.

Mr. Victor stood outside the door, smiling, and said, "Happy new school term, little Fafnir!"

I was quite busy with the opening ceremony today, so I'm only just finding time to let you know.

Mr. Victor sat down on the edge of the bed and casually asked, "How's the enrollment at the East District School for the Poor's Children going? Is it going smoothly?"

Fafner hesitated for a moment, but then recounted what had happened during the day.

There were far more people than expected on the admissions day. He had decided to give priority to those who could write their names and letters, as per the plan. However, one man who wasn't selected rushed up to him and tried to hit him.

Mr. Victor's smile vanished.

"My little Fafnir, I'm sorry..."

"I'm fine, sir. I used a combination of spells to push him away."

Mr. Victor nodded, waiting for him to continue.

Fafnir paused, then repeated the man's words: He worked as a laborer at the northern docks, missed a day of work to come with his children, and the foreman wanted to deduct three days' pay from his wages. His wife was sick and bedridden, and he had been extorted by the police. He cried and said he deserved to die, and that he wanted his children to not end up like him...