One-Eyed Monster

Igor had never considered himself odd, but those around him certainly did.

Igor’s father had initially expected his son to follow in his footsteps, chopping wood in the mountains his entire life and leading a simple existence. However, the world changed too quickly. Before Igor’s father could even think of retiring, firewood became obsolete. A new type of black fuel had swept the entire continent. This new fuel, reportedly concocted by alchemists, came in small black blocks that could burn for an entire day, completely eclipsing firewood. The upper echelons of society across the continent quickly abandoned firewood, opting instead for these compact and highly efficient black blocks.

Igor’s father initially felt his life was over. Now that he could no longer chop and sell wood, what would he do? Financial hardship soon followed. Igor, only eight years old and not yet strong enough to wield an axe, couldn’t alleviate his father’s burden in the slightest.

Yet, things have a way of working themselves out. Although Igor was only eight, he was exceptionally mischievous. He roamed the mountains, front and back, a whirlwind of activity, not at all like a clueless little child.

Igor’s favorite place back then was the recently established Yonder Travel Academy. Thanks to the benevolence of Governor Rostov, anyone could sit in on lectures at the academy. This meant that even commoners like Igor could wander its grounds.

Little Igor was a blur, constantly darting around the academy. One moment he’d be in a classroom listening to a lecture, the next he’d be in the garden picking flowers. Sometimes he’d even dash into the kitchens to join the excitement. In short, the little fellow was like a fly, buzzing hither and thither all day long, with no apparent aim.

The instructors thoroughly disliked this little boy. He was, arguably, the oddest of all the students. He always had to pick things apart. Sometimes, the boy even questioned axioms! Axioms! These were principles the entire continent followed, and yet this child dared to question them. Clearly, he was just there to stir up trouble.

The gardener in the academy’s flowerbeds didn’t care for the boy either. He talked too much, always asking the strangest questions, the kind that left one stumped. Other children might wonder why a flower was so red, or so big. He, on the other hand, wanted to know what the flower ate, and if it could talk... These were hardly the thoughts of a normal child. This boy was peculiar to the core.

Only the staff in the firewood room of the kitchen liked this boy. Despite the boy causing his fair share of mayhem in the kitchen, Head Chef Stephen appreciated such an active child who couldn’t stay idle. Whether cooking a large communal pot or a small, special dish, Head Chef Stephen would chuckle as he watched the little rascal, who never stopped pestering him with questions.

Little Igor, though a bit of an oddball, was very diligent. Wherever he was, he couldn’t stay idle. He helped the instructors wipe the lectern, assisted the gardener in carrying the large shears, and passed plates to Head Chef Stephen.

What Head Chef Stephen admired most about little Igor was this diligence. After all, his firewood room was often short-staffed, and the daily food demand from the academy was always a guessing game. Some days, there would be many auditors; on others, hardly anyone would show up at the academy. So, cooking was entirely a matter of guesswork. Sometimes the head chef got lucky, and the amount of food was just right. Sometimes his luck was out, and there wasn’t enough food to go around. And other times, disastrously, large basins of food would go untouched, meaning many ingredients were wasted.

For a chef, wasting ingredients is intolerable. Head Chef Stephen had been downcast for a very long time because this happened so often.

Oddly enough, young Igor resolved Head Chef Stephen’s dejection with the simplest of methods.

Igor’s proposal was simply to eat. If the academy folk couldn’t finish it, Igor himself would eat it. If Igor couldn’t finish it, he’d give it to people outside the academy. There would always be someone not getting enough to eat, always someone going without. As long as people ate it, no ingredients would be wasted.

After resolving Head Chef Stephen’s worries through this serendipitous turn of events, Igor earned a special privilege from him. He could come and go from the firewood room as he pleased and was free to use anything inside.

This ’privilege’ also enabled young Igor to solve the problem that had his father constantly knitting his brows in worry.

Of course, this too could be considered a coincidence within a coincidence.

Dean Hoffman of Yonder Travel Academy had a great penchant for food, with a particular love for crispy scorched rice. He asked Head Chef Stephen for it at nearly every meal.

Head Chef Stephen rather enjoyed such requests and did his best to prepare the scorched rice for the Dean. After all, a chef’s greatest sense of achievement comes from satisfying all of a diner’s desires.

However, scorched rice wasn’t easy to make. It required the residual heat at the bottom of the pot to slowly bake it. But ever since the academy switched to using the black blocks as fuel, Head Chef Stephen seldom made scorched rice.

It wasn’t that Head Chef Stephen was too busy, but rather that the black block fuel burned far too cleanly. Once combustion was complete, any residual heat at the bottom of the pot would dissipate in less than half a quarter-hour. These black blocks, after all, were not firewood. Firewood would leave behind red embers after burning down, providing lingering warmth. These black blocks, however, were merely efficient in their burning.

Head Chef Stephen disliked this black block fuel. He still preferred firewood and loved to cook with it. Food cooked with firewood was aromatic because he could control the fire. With good heat control, cooking was practically a trivial matter.

Before the black blocks appeared, Head Chef Stephen sourced his firewood through large merchants in the Imperial Capital, who would deliver it incidentally with other goods. The Yonder Travel Academy’s demand was so minimal that it wasn’t worth the merchants’ trouble to make a special delivery.

Then the black blocks came, firewood vanished, and the large merchants stopped procuring it altogether. Many who earned their living chopping wood, like Igor’s father, were worried sick, their brows perpetually furrowed.

The lack of firewood was a problem, but Dean Hoffman’s requests still had to be fulfilled. Thus, Head Chef Stephen still had to go to the back mountain every few days to chop some wood specifically for making scorched rice.

Igor had gone with Head Chef Stephen to the back mountain to chop wood. Seeing the chef’s clumsy attempts, Igor didn’t hesitate to recommend his father.

And so, Igor found his father another job, allowing him to pick up his axe once more and continue chopping wood.

So young, yet so full of impish cleverness—that was Stephen’s evaluation of Igor.

Igor himself didn’t feel there was anything particularly wrong with him. He went on playing as usual, completely oblivious to the strange looks people gave him.

To others, Igor was an oddball, always focused on useless information. It wasn’t just a waste of time; it served no purpose whatsoever.

Even those who knew Igor well, the companions he played with, though they might not have considered him odd, would still think he was somewhat neurotic.

Indeed, not many people’s eyes would light up upon encountering new and novel things.

This ’condition’ of Igor’s truly needed a good doctor to examine it. Otherwise, having our important figure constantly affected by it unknowingly was no solution. Being constantly called an oddball, a weirdo, would surely breed a sense of inferiority.

One wonders if Igor often felt this way...