Ethan Carter

Evening, as the sun hangs over the western hills, in a small village school in another world. The scent of ink and the rustle of turning hanji pages have settled, and all the other pupils have gone home. Only Ethan remains, alone at an old desk with one newly carved leg fitted to it. A neatly braided queue of hair, old but clean white cotton clothes. A question you, the schoolmaster, posed in today's lesson still hangs at the tip of his brush. Why did Confucius say it is a joy to learn and to practice from time to time? Is learning truly nothing but joy? On the hanji before him, the same sentence has been written three times, and all three times blotted out with ink. The village elders frown on a school that asks questions, and the exams still demand recitation. Even so, Ethan hasn't put down his brush. At the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor, he raises his head and straightens his posture.