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'…' Thought
"…" speech
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I forgot just how much pure, unfiltered chaos children could unleash when thrown together in one place. It was like a natural disaster, but instead of hurricanes and earthquakes, it was screaming, running, fighting over beds, and an alarming amount of property damage.
If it weren't for the castle elves, I don't think we would have lasted a single term before shutting down and rebranding as an insurance fraud scheme.
The first day actually went relatively well. No casualties, no violent uprisings, and only one minor explosion.
Ging, being the irresponsible menace that he is, decided to spend the morning playing with the most mischievous kids—setting off prank wars, helping them figure out "fun loopholes" in the school rules, and overall making my life ten times harder.
Then, the moment things started to get out of hand?
He bailed.
"Hunter mission," he said.
Like that was a valid excuse to abandon ship after lighting the fuse.
On the other hand, having Happinnies and a Chansey around was the best idea I've ever had.
I mean, I'm supposed to be dealing with the most talented children in the world, and yet—some of them can't even walk straight. One kid tripped over air and knocked himself out within the first hour. Another one somehow got lost inside a broom closet and started crying because he thought it was "another dimension."
Thankfully, our walking pink eggs of mercy were on standby, handing out healing, hugs, and occasional slaps of discipline.
And, thank GOD I didn't introduce changing staircases to the castle.
We'd have at least a dozen missing children by now.
Some kids had a real problem following orders and sticking to basic guidelines.
But that's fine.
Because we have The Serious Room.
A place where the troublemakers get to sit… with nothing but a table.
A serious table.
For two whole hours.
No distractions. No talking. No escaping. Just pure, unfiltered boredom.
It only took one visit for most of them to get their act together. One kid even came out a philosopher.
He looked me dead in the eyes and whispered, "Time… is an illusion."
Yeah, buddy. Sure it is. Now go to class.
The classes, on the other hand, were going surprisingly well—which was both a relief and a mild concern.
Sure, some kids found the topics a bit too basic at first. I could already hear the complaints:
"Why are we learning this? I already know it!"
"This is too easy!"
"Can't we do something more advanced?"
But then...
The Library happened.
And oh boy, once they got a taste of that glorious, endless well of knowledge, they didn't want to leave.
Seriously. Some of them camped there.
One kid refused to blink because he thought it would waste time.
Another tried to barter food with the NPC librarian for "just ten more minutes."
At one point, I had to drag a 10-year-old out by their collar because they were determined to finish reading the entire physics section in one sitting.
And don't even get me started on the kids who found the magical books.
You'd think I handed them the keys to immortality.
Well, I fixed that little loophole real quick.
No Nen until I personally deemed them capable.
Which meant—no, little Timmy, you cannot start learning how to throw energy blasts when you still struggle with basic arithmetic.
Of course, some kids tried to cheat the system.
One particularly sneaky kid attempted to bribe an NPC librarian for early access. It didn't work—mostly because the librarian doesn't accept bribes and also because the kid's idea of a "bribe" was a half-eaten sandwich.
Another one, bless their heart, tried to sweet-talk me into an early induction. Unfortunately for them, their negotiation skills were about as developed as their Nen, meaning they opened with:
"Hey, Headmaster, you look really cool today. Super cool. Like, wow, the coolest."
"Uh-huh."
"Soooo... maybe you could just, you know, let me access the magic section? Just a little? I totally won't abuse it."
Nice try, kid. Nice try.
For the overly energetic ones—because, of course, we had a lot of those—there was a gym, a playing field, and even a small park.
I figured if they had enough energy to bounce off the walls, they might as well be bouncing off something designed for it.
And it worked.
For the most part.
Until one kid decided that "park" meant "place to attempt acrobatics from unreasonable heights."
Cue Kirlia having to teleport a falling child midair before they tested gravity too hard.
Meanwhile, another kid organized a full-on tournament in the playing field, complete with a referee, rules, and a prize (which turned out to be a particularly shiny rock they found).
By the end of the day, they were all sufficiently exhausted, and I didn't have to deal with hyperactive kids trying to climb the castle walls—so, overall, a success.
Ah, yes. I said trying to climb the castle walls because someone already succeeded.
Some kid—who clearly thought they were born to defy architecture—actually managed to scale the side of the castle before anyone noticed. By the time I found out, they were halfway up, gripping onto some decorative ledges like it was a perfectly normal afternoon activity.
Cue an hour of damage control.
First, convincing the child to come down without testing their fall resistance.
Second, explaining why scaling the school's exterior was not a valid extracurricular activity.
And third, spending the next hour making the entire castle unclimbable.
And before you ask—no, I didn't just smooth out the walls. That would have been too easy.
Instead, I set up a system where if someone tried to climb, the surface would become extra slippery just for them.
So now, the next aspiring wall-scaler would find themselves in a very fast, very sudden descent back to solid ground.
(Don't worry, the landing zone is padded. I'm not a monster.)
[Phone buzzing...]
I glanced at the screen. Netero.
That alone was enough to make me consider ignoring it. But knowing him, if I didn't pick up, he'd just show up in person, probably by bungee-jumping through a window just for the theatrics.
Me: "Yeah?"
Netero: "Ah, my favorite headmaster-child-magnate. How's life in your little school?"
Me: "Like running a circus where all the animals have knives and questionable morals. Why? You are calling to offer a sponsorship?"
Netero: "No, but I am calling to tell you that Ging has ditched you again."
I sighed. Of course he did. If I had a zeni for every time Ging disappeared on some 'important mission,' I would be still as rich as I am now but he will be broke .
Me: "What's he doing this time? Tracking down lost civilizations? Punching a bear for sport?"
Netero: "Something much nobler—getting paid."
Me: "...That tells me nothing."
Netero: "Well, it's classified."
Me: "Meaning even you don't know."
Netero: "Meaning he told me to tell you it's classified so you wouldn't call and yell at him."
Me: "Coward."
Netero: "Oh, absolutely."
I rubbed my temples. "Fine. Whatever. I'll just send Monferno after him. What else do you want?"
Netero: "Oh, right! You're getting visitors today."
Me: "...Visitors?"
Netero: "Yup. Cheadle and Biscuit are coming over."
I sat up straighter in my chair. "Wait. Why?"
Netero: "Cheadle's been yapping about your school ever since those brochures went out. She's concerned. Wants to make sure you're not indoctrinating kids into some shady organization. she knows ging ."
Me: "My school isn't that shady."
Netero: "Uh-huh. Anyway, I figured the best way to shut her up was to let her see it herself. So... surprise inspection!"
Me: "That's not how surprises work!"
Netero: "Sure it is. I say 'surprise,' and now you're surprised. See? It works."
I groaned. "And Biscuit?"
Netero: "Oh, she's just tagging along. You know, for fun. Also, probably to judge you. Maybe punch you. We'll see."
I dragged a hand down my face. "You're sending me the world's fussiest doctor and a human war crime, and you think that's 'fun'?"
Netero: "I think it's hilarious."
Me: "For you maybe."
Netero: "That's the only perspective that matters."
I exhaled through my nose. "When are they getting here?"
Netero: "Oh, soon. You've got, what... an hour? Maybe less? Depends on how aggressively Biscuit wants to flex."
I shot out of my chair. "AN HOUR?!"
Netero: "Maybe forty-five minutes."
I was already moving, barking orders at the castle elves to clean up the hall and make sure no students were actively setting anything on fire. "You could've told me sooner!"
Netero: "But then I wouldn't have gotten to hear you panic. Anyway, good luck! And if anything hilarious happens, make sure to tell me."
Me: "I'm going to feed you to a Haunter."
Netero: "Ha! Jokes on you, I'd probably enjoy it."
Click.
And just like that, I had less than an hour to prepare for the most judgmental visitors of my life.
.....
Cheadle and Biscuit's POV
The moment Cheadle stepped onto the teleportation pad, she already had her arms crossed, her tail flicking in vague irritation.
She didn't dislike the idea of an independent school for potential hunters—in theory. It was an ambitious and noble endeavor, especially since it was offering free education. But who was running it?
Insert and Ging.
One was an overpowered, undersupervised child with a suspicious amount of resources and a penchant for playing god. The other was Ging Freecss.
Neither inspired much confidence.
Beside her, Biscuit stretched her arms over her head, cracking her knuckles. "Huh. Not bad. I was expecting a half-collapsed fortress held together with duct tape and Nen constructs, but this is actually a proper school."
Cheadle adjusted her glasses and looked up at the massive castle-like structure before them. It loomed against the backdrop of an island sky, its towering spires and polished stonework glistening in the sunlight. The architecture was solid, elegant but functional, with a sense of deliberation behind every design choice.
"...It's competent," she admitted grudgingly.
Biscuit grinned, clasping her hands behind her back. "Oh? Was that a compliment? Careful, Cheadle, I might start thinking you actually approve."
Cheadle sighed. "Let's just see what horrors await us inside."
The first thing Cheadle noticed upon stepping into the main hall was the sheer noise.
Children. Hundreds of them. Talking, laughing, shouting, and, in some cases, doing highly questionable activities that likely violated at least one school regulation. A few were chasing after a floating Happiny carrying a stack of books, while another group was locked in what appeared to be a high-stakes game of tag involving acrobatics and minor property damage.
Biscuit hummed. "Well, it's lively."
Cheadle pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's chaotic."
A small creature zipped past them. Cheadle barely had time to register a tiny elf-like being before it disappeared down a hallway, arms full of neatly folded uniforms.
Biscuit blinked. "Was that the castle elf?"
A voice from behind them answered.
"Yup. Custom-made, actually. Cook, clean, do chores—basically, free labor. No unionizing either!"
Cheadle turned to find Insert standing there, grinning like he had just pulled off the greatest scam in history.
She stared at him, unimpressed. "...You created a race of magical janitors?"
Insert crossed his arms. "I prefer the term 'castle support staff.'"
Biscuit chuckled. "And about labor laws?"
Insert waved a hand dismissively. "They're technically not people. It's fine."
Cheadle exhaled. "That's... not comforting."
They followed him as he led them further inside, passing through corridors lined with portraits that actually moved and classrooms filled with eager students. The library alone was massive, with an entire wing dedicated to Nen theory, ancient texts, and what appeared to be a digital archive.
Biscuit whistled. "You even have a proper curriculum?"
Insert scoffed. "Of course. What did you think, that I was just throwing kids into the wilderness and seeing who survived?"
Cheadle and Biscuit exchanged looks.
Insert rolled his eyes. "Okay, maybe that was the original draft. But I improved it!"
They eventually reached a training hall, where Cheadle noticed the air felt different. It was thick, charged with something.
She frowned. "The ambient Nen here is... unusual."
Insert grinned. "Oh yeah. Sunstones."
Biscuit perked up. "Sunstones?"
Insert nodded. "A little invention of mine. They absorb solar energy and convert it into natural Nen. Speeds up regeneration, boosts concentration, even reduces stress."
Cheadle narrowed her eyes. "And you just... made these?"
Insert shrugged. "I mean, it wasn't hard."
Cheadle resisted the urge to rub her temples. This child—**this actual child—**had managed to reinvent an entire energy system on a whim.
Biscuit just laughed. "Well, at least the kids aren't going to be weak."
Insert shot finger guns at her. "That's the goal!"
By the time the tour ended, Cheadle was forced to admit that the school was actually working.
The students were well-fed, well-trained, and terrifyingly eager to learn. The infrastructure was solid, well-planned, and efficient. The teachers—many of whom were artificial NPCs—were competent.
And worst of all?
Insert wasn't actually doing a bad job.
It was... annoying.
She glanced at Biscuit, who was grinning like she was having the time of her life. "Admit it," Biscuit teased. "You're impressed."
Cheadle exhaled sharply. "I still have many, many concerns."
Insert gave them a smug look. "Oh, you're just mad you can't find a reason to shut us down."
Cheadle huffed. "I will be keeping an eye on this place."
Insert smirked. "Go ahead. It's not like we're hiding anything. Well—" He paused. "—nothing illegal, anyway."
Cheadle rubbed her temples. This school was going to give her ulcers.
...….
Cheadle found Sambica in the school library, buried under a mountain of books.
Sambica had always been a quiet child, more observant than outspoken. But here, in this absurdly well-stocked library, she seemed to be thriving. She didn't even notice Cheadle until the woman sat down across from her.
"Enjoying the school?" Cheadle asked.
Sambica nearly dropped her book. "M-Ms. Cheadle!"
Cheadle gave her a small smile. "No need to be so formal. So, how is it?"
Sambica hesitated for a moment, then looked around—as if making sure Insert wasn't nearby.
"...It's different," she finally said. "But not bad."
Cheadle raised an eyebrow. "Just not bad?"
Sambica sighed. "Okay, it's... really good. The classes are actually interesting, and the library has so much information—way more than I expected. The teachers are weird, though."
Cheadle tilted her head. "Weird how?"
Sambica glanced toward a nearby NPC librarian, who was hovering in the air, rearranging books telekinetically. "...Like that."
Cheadle followed her gaze and sighed. "I should've expected that."
Sambica smiled faintly. "It's nice, though. The school is... peaceful. Safe." She hesitated before adding, "It's the first time I've been somewhere like that."
Cheadle nodded, understanding more than she let on.
"I'm glad you're doing well," she said. "If you ever need anything, you can always reach out to me."
Sambica looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Cheadle."
....
Insert found Mito standing near the school gardens, arms crossed, watching the younger students as they ran around, laughing and playing.
"Well, well, well," Insert said, walking up behind her. "If it isn't our youngest mother hen."
Mito jumped slightly before turning to glare at him. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
Insert smirked. "I didn't sneak. You were just too busy worrying about everyone else to notice me."
Mito huffed but didn't deny it.
"So?" Insert leaned against a tree. "Thoughts on the school? Be honest. I can take criticism."
Mito narrowed her eyes. "Can you, though?"
Insert gasped dramatically. "How dare you question my emotional resilience!"
Mito rolled her eyes. "The school is... better than I expected," she admitted. "It's well-organized, and the dorms are nice. The food is way better than it has any right to be."
Insert grinned. "Gotta keep my students happy and well-fed."
Mito crossed her arms. "But..."
Insert groaned. "Ugh, there's always a but. Go on."
"But some kids are still struggling," she continued. "Not everyone here has had a good life before this. Some of them don't know how to trust, how to ask for help. You're taking in children from all over the world, and some of them..." She trailed off, looking at the students again.
Insert's smile faded slightly. "I know."
Mito sighed. "I just... I want to make sure they're okay. That someone's looking out for them."
Insert studied her for a moment before smirking. "You know, if you're so worried, you could always join the student council."
Mito frowned. "There's a student council?"
Insert shrugged. "There will be, once I convince enough suckers—I mean, responsible students to run it."
Mito shook her head, but there was the hint of a smile on her lips. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you're still here."
Mito sighed. "Yeah... I am."
Insert grinned. "Welcome to the NOVA Mito."
....
After dinner, I stood at the front of the massive dining hall, surveying the 900 students in front of me. Some were still chewing, others had already slouched in their seats, and a few looked like they were just now realizing the food would keep appearing and disappearing no matter how much they stuffed their plates.
Kirlia stood beside me, tilting its head in mild curiosity, while Ging—traitor that he was—had conveniently bailed before this gathering even started. Typical.
I clapped my hands. "Alright, everyone! Now that we've all had our fill—"
"I HAVEN'T!" someone shouted from the back.
A new plate of food materialized in front of them before I could even respond. "There you go, buddy," I said dryly. "Now, as I was saying... How's the school so far? Any complaints, questions, deep philosophical crises?"
Silence at first. Then, a hesitant voice:
"The beds are too soft."
I blinked. "What."
"They're too soft!" The student crossed their arms. "I'm not used to it. I keep sinking into the mattress, and it freaks me out!"
Murmurs of agreement rose from certain groups of students—mostly the Meteor Street kids and some others who probably lived rough before coming here.
I scratched my head. "Alright, fair. I'll have the castle elves make some firmer mattresses available. Anything else?"
A small kid with wild hair raised a hand. "Uh... are we allowed to fight each other?"
"Define fight."
"Like, friendly sparring!"
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you actually asking for friendly sparring, or is this code for 'can we punch people we don't like'?"
They hesitated. "...Mostly the first one."
"Mostly is not reassuring," I muttered. "Alright, listen up! If you need to punch each other, do it in the designated training grounds. Not in the hallways, not in the dorms, and definitely not in the cafeteria because I will personally throw you into the 'Serious Room' for ruining meal time."
A few kids immediately looked guilty.
"Anything else?" I prompted.
One of the older students raised their hand. "Are we allowed to start clubs?"
I grinned. "Now that is a great idea."
"As of today," I announced, "you're all allowed to create clubs—within reason. That means no cults, no illegal gambling rings, and no 'Who Can Climb the Castle Walls the Fastest' competitions."
A small group in the back looked especially disappointed. I made a mental note to check the rooftops later.
"If you want to make a club, you need at least five members and a teacher or NPC advisor," I continued. "I'll approve them as long as they're not completely insane. Any ideas?"
A hand shot up. "Can we have a Beast Taming Club?"
"Sure, but no bringing in actual wild beasts without supervision. Also,Once you are older and stronger I will allow each of you to have a pokemon something like kirlia and happinnies ."
Another student raised their hand. "A Detective Club!"
"Fine, but if you start investigating stuff that's none of your business and cause a school-wide crisis, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"
"I want a Cooking Club!"
"Absolutely. Maybe you can help the castle elves sometime."
The ideas kept coming.
— "Magical Research Club!"
— "Martial Arts Club!"
— "Horror Story Club!"
— "Meteor Street Survival Club!" (Concerning, but okay.)
— "The 'I Bet I Can Find the Headmaster's Weakness' Club!" (Absolutely not.)
— "The 'Let's Annoy the Vice principal Ging When He Comes Back' Club!" (Approved.)
By the time the meeting ended, I had a list of at least 30 student clubs.
And it wasn't until later—when I saw a group of kids measuring the exact structural weak points of the castle—that I realized I may have just unleashed something troublesome.
...
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the castle grounds, Cheadle Yorkshire and Biscuit Krueger stood near the school's grand entrance, preparing to depart.
The day had been long, to say the least. From the moment they arrived, it had been one surprise after another. The self-sustaining castle, the overpowered NPC teachers, the fact that 900 children had been teleported here without causing a full-scale international incident—it was absurd.
And yet… it worked.
Cheadle sighed, adjusting her glasses as she took one last look at the grand halls behind her. "This place shouldn't function as well as it does."
Biscuit, in her childlike form, stretched her arms above her head. "Oh, it's an absolute mess waiting to happen. But honestly? I think I like it.*"
Cheadle shot her a sideways glance. "Like it? You spent half the day muttering about how insane this was."
"Oh, it is insane. But you can't deny that it's impressive. I mean, come on! Those castle elves? The self-replenishing food tables? The fact that the plumbing system actually works in a magical castle?*" She huffed. "Even Heaven's Arena doesn't have plumbing this efficient."
Cheadle pinched the bridge of her nose. "I still can't believe he teleported them via letters."
"I can. Did you expect anything else?" Biscuit smirked. "Besides, that whole 'teleportation' bit? Genius. Do you know how boring it is to personally recruit people one by one? This is way more efficient."
Cheadle didn't want to admit it, but she agreed. "Still, the fact that it's free makes me skeptical."
"He's playing the long game." Biscuit smirked knowingly. "Think about it—he's raising 900 kids under his direct influence, giving them an elite education, teaching them Nen, and instilling some form of loyalty without outright asking for it. He's basically investing in his own future support network.*"
Cheadle adjusted her glasses. "Manipulative."
"Brilliant," Biscuit corrected. "Besides, it's not like he's asking them to be mindless followers. He just gave them an environment where they can grow freely, without the usual world nonsense weighing them down."
A pause.
Cheadle exhaled, watching the students still mingling in the courtyard. Some were sparring in the designated training area, others were setting up clubs, and a few were dragging their exhausted friends toward the dorms. Despite the school only being a day old, there was already a lively energy to the place.
"...I suppose we'll have to keep an eye on this place."
Biscuit grinned. "Oh, absolutely. This is either going to be the greatest thing to happen in Hunter history… or a complete disaster. And I wouldn't miss it for the world."
With that, they both stepped through the teleportation gate, vanishing into the night—leaving behind a school that, against all odds, was actually thriving.