Old Ashford escorted Rose Jennings out toward the academy gates. The night air of Riverport was heavy, carrying the distant, muffled roar of the city's late-night traffic. As they walked, Rose couldn't suppress her curiosity. She kept glancing back at the red-brick tenement, her mind racing."Mister," she asked, tilting her head toward the garden where several toddlers were still playing tag under the floodlights. "Is this actually a preschool?"During their short walk from the apartment, she had seen dozens of children, all around Blanche's age, scurrying about. It looked like any other kindergarten, but the timing was bizarre. What kind of school operated at 10:00 PM on a weekday? Didn't these children have homes to go to?Old Ashford chuckled, his footsteps steady on the cobblestone path. "This is the Little Red Pony Academy. Most folks around here call it the Midnight Academy. We only open when the sun goes down.""Only at night?" Rose echoed, her eyes wideni

Pomona Sheldon—the girl the other children called the Little Pomegranate—was standing in the middle of the garden, her tiny chest puffed out with a level of confidence that was frankly alarming for a three-year-old. She had just finished informing everyone within earshot that she, too, was a motherless child, and therefore she didn't have to follow the rules of "mere mortals.""I don't have a mama!" she declared, her voice ringing out like a ceremonial herald horn. "But I don't cry! Because I am the Iron Pomegranate! I am strong!"Ethan Gray stood by the porch, watching her with a raised eyebrow. Kid, you've got a head like a brick, he thought. If your mother heard you claiming she doesn't exist just to sound tough, she'd give you a scrubby-dub you'd never forget.Ethan decided to provide a gentle reality check. "You know, Pomona, your mama is going to be here in about an hour to take you home."The silence that followed was absolute. Pomona Sheldon f

The humid, stagnant air of Riverport in late summer felt heavy enough to choke the inspiration out of anyone. For Ethan Gray, however, the heat was merely a background hum compared to the fire of his new project. Having secured the green light for the Young Prodigy Player series, his first and most daunting task was finding a director who didn't look at a cast of toddlers as a career death sentence.The Riverport Film Studios didn't lack for talent, but the Live-Action Division was in a state of quiet atrophy. The roster of contracted directors was thin, and the few veterans left were either clinging to the fading glory of the Manager Kim sitcom or holding out for "serious" feature films. Ethan had already pitched to two seasoned directors, both of whom had listened with polite, glazed expressions. As soon as he mentioned that the leads would be five-year-olds reciting Shakespearean-level dialogue from Dream of the Crimson Manor, the meetings ended with a "don't call us, we'll

After listening to the full scope of Ethan Gray's vision, Hector Chase leaned back in his leather chair, a slow whistle escaping his lips. He had to admit it: the kid was sharp. The plan was a fascinating mix of nostalgia, novelty, and cultural pride. It was clever—devilishly so."Ethan, I'm sold. Getting the Project Initiation through the board shouldn't be an issue after this presentation," Hector said, tapping a rhythm on his desk. "But we have a major gap. Every project needs a Production Coordinator—a Producer who can actually make the gears turn. You can't just have a writer and a director running a whole show."Hector spoke as if Ethan were a total greenhorn, unaware of the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Crown Enterprise. He didn't realize that in his previous life, Ethan had managed multi-million-crown budgets and navigated international sets. Moreover, as a graduate of the Northaven Academy of Cinematic Arts, Ethan understood the industry's pipeline b

Pomona Sheldon had been crushed.She was wailing with an intensity that suggested her very soul was being torn asunder. Three seconds earlier, she had been a defiant warrior, the "Iron Pomegranate" standing her ground. Now, after one sudden escalation, the fire had been extinguished by a flood of tears, leaving only a pitiful, heart-wrenching sob.She stood by the lucky bamboo display in the hall, her small face tilted upward toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut as tears tracked through the dust on her cheeks.Roland Rowan had given her a full body-slam. In the heat of their argument about who should eat what, the five-year-old had lost his temper and simply bowled her over. To Pomona, who was only three-and-a-half, it felt like the end of the world. She was convinced she was mortally wounded, or at the very least, destined for a tragic, early retirement.Roland, realizing he had crossed a dangerous line, stood paralyzed at her side. He alternated between a fie