After the Great Pillow Shrine Incident, I made a vow.
No more drama.
No more cults.
No more divine furniture.
Just peace, quiet, and maybe a nap in the sun.
So when Lila mentioned that the local kids were bored and "getting dangerously curious about chicken-stealing magic mushrooms again," I figured—why not help?
"It's just babysitting," I told myself.
Spoiler: It was not just babysitting.
I gathered a small group—six kids ranging from curious to mildly chaotic—and led them to a quiet hill behind Reika's Rest Café.
"Today," I said with a wise smile, "we learning the Art of Peaceful Living."
They stared at me, waiting for something dramatic to happen.
I pulled out a picnic blanket, laid down some crackers and juice, and said, "Lesson one: Sitting quietly without exploding."
They blinked.
One child tried to levitate a squirrel.
I gently redirected him toward juice.
The next hour was blissfully uneventful. We made friendship bracelets. I taught them how to make origami frogs. One girl asked if folding paper counted as "wind manipulation." I said yes.
Because technically... it is.
By the end, the kids were smiling, calm, and not attempting to summon spirits from the roots of trees. I considered it a win.
The next day, fifteen kids showed up.
Apparently word spread that I was teaching "secret life magic" through juice, paper, and cross-legged sitting.
I started assigning roles:
Peaceful Warrior of Snacks
Scroll Bearer (aka kid with the notepad)
Meditation Captain (who promptly fell asleep)
They wore capes made from old tablecloths. They made their own "Reika Crest" from flower petals and ribbon. They started chanting,
"Kindness first, snacks before strife!"
I didn't make that up. They did.
And then came the moment everything spiraled—again.
A noble family from the capital visited. Their daughter, a tiny gremlin in lace, joined my class for one day. She went home raving about "The Legendary Soft Sorceress of the Hilltop School."
Next morning?
Thirty-seven children.
Some of them came with their parents.
One dad bowed and said, "Please accept my son. He cannot tell the difference between laundry soap and porridge. You are our last hope."
I gave the boy a soap bar and a spoon and made him sort it out.
He cried. Then thanked me. Then offered to shine my shoes.
And just like that, I had a full-blown academy.
We didn't have a name at first, but the kids voted for:
The Hill of Reika's Gentle Wisdom
Bit long, but catchy.
My "lessons" included:
Nap Technique: The Power of the Strategic Blanket
Basic Snack Alchemy: Mixing Apple Slices and Honey
Emotional Magic 101: It's Okay to Cry if You Step on a Lego
Group Defense Drill: Building Blanket Forts to Protect the Juice
I made certificates using sparkly stickers from Earth and called them "Tokens of Enlightened Living." Kids wore them like royal badges.
Marius eventually dropped by to check in and nearly tripped over a line of children balancing cucumbers on their foreheads for "focus training."
He just blinked and said, "This is the best-disciplined army I've ever seen."
"It's not an army," I hissed. "It's enrichment."
Later that week, the mayor arrived.
"We would like to fund your institution."
"No thank you," I said.
"Too late. We're naming it on tomorrow's town register. Do you want to pick the crest or should the children?"
I picked a pancake.
Now, every Wednesday, I run Reika's not-a-school-but-definitely-a-school, complete with tea breaks and an actual bell one kid rings like he's calling a royal court to order.
Do I know what I'm doing? No.
Are they learning? Absolutely not in the way their parents expected.
Do they now bow politely before entering nap circle?
Yes.
And honestly? That's enough for me.