The Academy Was Always Red (2)

The history of the Academy was remarkably long.

So long, in fact, that not a single soul truly knew its beginning.

While portraits of successive headmasters lined the grand corridors, an era unquestionably existed before those charcoal, black-and-white drawings were ever framed.

There were also numerous tomes chronicling the institution. Historians had cataloged and cross-analyzed the publication dates of texts that mentioned the Academy against those that did not, desperate to uncover the precise era of its founding. Yet every attempt crumbled. The Academy appeared etched into prehistoric cave murals and carved across petrified tortoise shells. Even several primordial gods casually reminisced about having once attended its halls.

The sheer scale defied mortal comprehension.

Naturally, the scholars’ grand investigation ended in total failure.

It was only eons later that an approximate timeframe for the Academy's construction came to light—and only because of a playful remark tossed out by a Nine-tailed Fox who had wandered into the human realm for an idle stroll.

“The Academy? You’re curious about how old it is? Hmm... well. There isn't much left to compare it to.”

“Tell me, would you believe me if I said that Academy is older than Olympus?”

“Bleeegh.”

“Ugggh... Please deal with that thing already!”

“I’m suffering here too, you know!”

Some monstrosities simply exceeded the limits of human tolerance. Grimacing, I kicked the relentlessly squirming lump of flesh. The rubbery green mass wobbled violently, shuddering with revolting elasticity. What was truly terrifying was that even in this mangled state, it was already attempting to stitch itself back together.

When I first crossed paths with the creature, it was a gigantic, bioluminescent worm. The moment I cleaved it in two, it gushed viscous fluids and split into two fully autonomous bodies. Sensing how troublesome it was, I tried incinerating it with fire, freezing it solid, and searing it with lightning—yet the bastard resurrected every single time as if none of it mattered, reforming into a nauseating clump that looked like half-digested vomit.

To be frank, it was a wildly enviable regeneration ability, but the sheer sight of it made me want to gouge my own eyes out. Especially whenever I caught sight of the coarse, snow-white fuzz ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sprouting sporadically across that pulsating heap of flesh...

Ah, fuck.

It was coming. It was slithering straight toward me again.

“Eeeeeeek! Hurry, do something, quickly! No, just run away, please!”

“...I still have to finish this!”

And so, my life-or-death struggle against a bug I had stumbled upon by pure accident dragged on for two grueling hours. I slaughtered it more than a hundred ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠times, and in return, it thoroughly coated every inch of my body in its rancid ichor.

“Urgh...”

“Uwaaaagh...”

Still, my regenerative capacity skyrocketed. At the minor cost of permanent psychological trauma.

A fair trade, worm. Let’s never meet again.

“Bleeeaaargh...”

The distant murmur of rushing water confirmed this was indeed the clearing where we had first arrived. Gently stopping Miho as she tried to leap into my arms, I tilted my head to listen closely. Do you really want a hug when I’m drenched in bug guts?

Hmm...

There was an unexpected stroke ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of luck. Something I had failed to notice back then was flowing just a short distance away: a broad river. A gathering of dinosaurs seemed to have formed a pack along the bank, but they were all small-to-medium-sized breeds rather than apex predators.

Ripe for eviction.

The moment I strode onto the riverbank, sheer pandemonium erupted. The reptiles shrieked, scattering in blind panic. It didn't feel particularly triumphant. In fact, it felt a bit like revisiting a legendary restaurant from your childhood hometown, only to realize it was just an ordinary, greasy-spoon diner.

“Kaaargh! Kak, ka-kaaak!”

‘Just spare my life! I’ll never set foot near this river again!’

When I reduced an overzealous raptor that lunged at me into a splatter of crimson paste with a single punch, the rest cleared out without a second thought. It was so drastically different from what I remembered.

To me, the primeval jungle had always been a domain where one's nerves were stretched to the brink of snapping. A colossal colosseum where every entrant staked their life simply by breathing. A den of horrors where even a rodent-sized creature concealed a claw sharp enough to pierce a predator's heart. That was the jungle etched into my memory.

Had I grown too monstrous to share such deadly struggles with them anymore? It was a fortunate reality, yet an inexplicable wave of bittersweet melancholy washed over me.

Even so, I never allowed myself to drop my guard. After hunting down and butchering every last fleeing raptor, I combed the surroundings thoroughly. Good. No ambushes lying in wait.

Only then did I dip one leg into the cool river.

Under normal circumstances, a proper bath was an impossible luxury; even on the rare occasions I cleaned myself, I had relied on muddy rainwater or melted ice. Submerging my entire body in a running river was an entirely novel experience.

“...This is nice.”

The rushing current stripped away the stubborn slime. The clinging disgust dissolved into pure, brisk refreshment. Floating there, my mind drifted unbidden to the mountain stream I had visited with my parents as a child. Splashing through the cold shallows until our lips turned blue, followed by a steaming cup of instant ramen cooked over a portable stove.

I had no family left.

Yet right now, in this ancient river, I was feeling the ghost of that very same warmth. The only difference was that back then, interwoven with happiness, lay the sweet sorrow of knowing the moment would eventually end—and the bright anticipation that we would return someday. A swirl of conflicting emotions so overwhelming that I remembered bursting into tears in the backseat as the car pulled away.

Not anymore.

All I felt now was a suffocating, hollow longing and bitter regret.

I plunged my head beneath the surface and inhaled slowly. Water filled my lungs without distress; I could breathe beneath the waves now. I was no longer human. Yet, despite shedding my mortality, I still yearned for those fleeting days, still burdened by the dull ache of grief.

The heart always drags me downward. It tries to paralyze me from doing what must be done. It whispers of the utter meaninglessness of survival.

Whenever that darkness creeps in, I force myself to picture small, uniform, square niches. Row upon row, compartment upon compartment, each cradling a single conclusion. The quiet vault where the bones that once sustained a person's life finally crumble into dust.

Honoring my mother's final wish, she was rested in a columbarium. In that suffocating silence, startled by the muffled sobs of a stranger, I would look up to discover that hours had vanished in an instant. Then I would hurry to my father's headstone to lay down a solitary blossom. A pristine white chrysanthemum, placed with trembling care, only to be swept away by the autumn wind the moment I blinked.

That was what I had learned death was.

On that final day, I had walked out of the cemetery with a blank, hollow face. But the truth was far uglier. Standing before your grave, Father, I had felt a terror so paralyzing it threatened to burn out my very mind. That was why I couldn't utter a single parting word, barely able to turn my heels and flee.

Whether this life held purpose or not made no difference.

I will not die.

Never.

“Fruit.”

We were in the middle of clearing timber to lay the foundations for the Academy, taking advantage of the heavy labor to train the young demon kids in swordplay. Catching sight of a cluster of crimson fruit dangling from a sturdy bough, Miho reached out a small finger.

And spoke.

Fruit.

She had actually spoken. It was the very first time I had ever heard Miho's voice.

“Huh? Miho. Did you just talk?”

“......”

“Are you playing hard to get?”

When I pressed, Miho merely offered a silent, solemn nod. What was going on? Her diction had been perfectly clear and articulate. Wondering if something was amiss, I consulted Belba, who explained that the child was likely still startled by the unfamiliar resonance of her own voice. Unable to speak simply because her own vocal cords felt foreign. How peculiar.

“Then when will you talk to me again?”

At my question, Miho furrowed her brow in deep contemplation before raising a single finger.

One minute? Surely not. Maybe an hour?

“One day.”

“What?”

“Once a day. I will speak.”

She was ridiculously endearing. Could she truly restrain herself to speaking only once every twenty-four hours? Fox spirit or not, her tender age gave her a delightfully innocent charm. She didn't even seem to realize she was breaking her own rule by speaking right now.

“All right, deal,” I said, patting her head affectionately.

Flustered, Miho curled inward, hiding her blushing cheeks. Pure healing. Absolute soul-cleansing therapy.

Hoisting Miho onto my shoulder, I strolled over to where the demon siblings were hacking away at the fallen logs.

“How much have you cleared?”

“W-we managed this much! But my little brother's hands started bleeding...”

“It’s fine. He can grit his teeth and keep swinging.”

“Understood!”

For now, the absolute priority was acclimating their bodies to their weapons. Only through relentless trial and error could they instinctively grasp the weight of the steel, the vector of momentum, and the split-second improvisation required to survive. The fastest teacher was always live combat, of course, but I couldn't throw children who would be shredded by a stray raptor onto the battlefield just yet.

After ordering them to resume chopping, I unrolled the architectural blueprints I had drafted. It was crude work, but the best I could manage by diligently copying a beginner's construction manual purchased from the shop. Naturally, my actual contribution accounted for roughly five percent.

As it turned out, Belba possessed a shockingly sophisticated grasp of engineering. Rather than artistic flair, it felt as though she were constantly running an internal 3D physics simulator. That tier of hyper-precise calculation came effortlessly to her. She was an active System interface, after all; deciphering load-bearing structures and material stress was child's play.

“Impressive, isn't it?”

“Impressive. Genuinely remarkable.”

“Heheh!”

Even with the structural skeleton drafted, we still needed the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠core. By 'core', I meant an automated defense network capable of repelling or slaughtering any intruding beasts. Since this was a fantasy realm, my initial thought had been an arcane barrier, but Belba warned me that warding magic was far more complex than I assumed. An absolute barrier capable of selectively filtering living organisms was not something one learned overnight.

Well, fine then. Primitive problems called for primitive solutions.

Channeling mana through my limbs, I plunged both hands into the earth and heaved. In a matter of breaths, a trench two meters deep was gouged out.

We would carve a massive moat around the entire perimeter of the Academy, then flood it with the lethal venom harvested from Plantera. Any brainless predator attempting a headlong charge would either dissolve in agonizing neurotoxins or drown in the corrosive sludge. Brilliant. An utterly flawless design.

According to the blueprint, the main gate would double as a drawbridge when lowered across the trench. I had also mapped out several subterranean escape routes just in case. Our security was ironclad.

Now, let’s brainstorm a few more extermination traps to supplement the toxic moat. Any savage beast daring to defile a sanctum of higher learning could atone with nothing less than its life.

This was the founding principle of the Primitive Academy.

“Ugh. What kind of—”