"You're sharp. Listen: Meya is my closest companion in this world. I won't allow anyone to harm her. Understood?" the headmaster said, tone grave.
"Perfectly, sir. I'll meet your requirements at all costs."
"Good. You and your donkey may lodge here, but stay out of unopened rooms. Clear?"
"Yes, sir. I'll follow your orders."
"Lastly, tuition is waived, but you'll need to cover supplies and living costs. Start work immediately."
*"Cheap old fox,"* Houshao'nao thought, saying aloud: "I'll manage, sir. No need to worry."
"Excellent. The dragon pen is behind the tower—I've told Meya to stand down. Go. I'll arrange the rest."
Houshao'nao bowed and left. In his office, the headmaster watched him via a crystal ball, murmuring: *"Curious. Why fight so hard to stay, boy?"*
The dragon pen defied description—a stench so potent it clung to the air, waste (piled) in heaps, saved only by Meya's lingering mist that contained the reek. Houshao'nao plugged his nose with spit-soaked cloth, but the donkey—Durade—sniffed ecstatically.
"Idiot, it's revolting," Houshao'nao sneered.
"Not to dragons. This is *water dragon musk*—intoxicating. I love it."
Houshao'nao frowned. "Enjoy it while you can."
Their bickering roused Meya from her mist. "Mortals again? What do you want?"
"Hey, beauty—I'm dragon too," the donkey protested.
"Lowly worm. I ignore your kind."
"I'm Durade, fifth-order dragon!"
"Silence. You're a donkey," Houshao'nao hissed.
Meya's massive head emerged, eyeing them. "You reek of dragon, but it means nothing. Durade is a fool—arrogant, ignorant—"
" Lies! You believe propaganda?" the donkey spluttered.
"Enough. Clean. The headmaster sent you."
"Yes, Miss Meya." Houshao'nao rolled up his sleeves.
"Wait, why me—"
"Work or leave."
The donkey grumbled but stayed. Meya watched, puzzled, as they fetched tools and began shoveling.
"Boss, why must *I* carry the basket?"
"No reason. Leave if you hate it."
"…Fine. Serving a dragon beauty isn't shameful."
A soft laugh echoed—Meya, now in human form: silver gown, flawless features.
"Meya?!" they gasped.
"Charmed?" she purred.
"Gods, you're stunning—" the donkey drooled.
"Silence, beast." She turned to Houshao'nao. "You—your words are smoother. Compliments suit you."
Houshao'nao bowed, smooth as silk: "Your beauty humbles me. Your voice is a melody. Walk the streets, and the city would kneel."
Meya laughed, delighted, her form rippling with grace. The donkey wilted, jealous.
"Flattery suits you, mortal. I go to pester the headmaster. And you—" she glared at the donkey, "—no stealing my food."
"Understood!" it squeaked.
After she left, Houshao'nao's smile faded. The donkey moped in a corner.
"Boss… how do you do it? Make her laugh?"
"Two years of groveling teach many things. Best flattery hides its intent. Subtlety, not stupidity."
The donkey still didn't get it, sinking into despair. Houshao'nao watched a dung beetle struggle with a massive pellet, inspired.
"Enough pity! We're alive—we fight. You want Meya? Prove your worth. Start by hauling this dung."
The donkey perked up at "prove worth," but balked at the first heavy load. Houshao'nao relented, guiding it to a weedy patch.
"Here. Dragon dung makes fertile soil. Flowers will grow—we'll sell them. Money for dates, yes?"
The donkey brightened. "Boss, you're a genius! I love you—"
"*Ugh*—stop. Work first, romance later."
As they labored, the sun dipped, casting long shadows over the pen. Meya watched from afar, intrigued by the mortal's grit and the donkey's absurd loyalty. *"Curious creatures,"* she mused, vanishing into mist.
In the tower, the headmaster smiled, crystal ball glowing. *"Gris, Durade… even dragon dung can birth beauty. Let's see if your courage outlasts Meya's temper."*
And so the odd couple toiled, (dung balls) and dreams in tow—a cleaner and a cursed dragon, forging a plan in filth, unaware their antics had already caught the eye of a certain fire-haired student, who vowed to make their lives as messy as the pen itself.
The stage was set, the players committed. In the stench of dragon waste, a rebellion of wit and grit took root—one that would shake the academy's foundations, one shovel at a time.