Rumors. (3)
The next day, I headed to the Imperial University Tower early in the morning.
"Singed Flame ······."
Sitting in my office chair, I pored over Allen's lecture notes and various grimoires in alternation, reading them meticulously.
I was roughly establishing the direction for my lecture on 'elemental attribute magic'.
"This should work to explain 'Pure Elements'."
The one branch of magic that the tower's mages struggled with most—'Pure Elements'.
In terms of modern academia, it was akin to analytic branches of pure mathematics, specifically an advanced course delving solely into limits like the extremes of calculus. "Singed Flame" boasted extreme difficulty as one variety of this 'Pure Elements magic'.
It was no debutante-level spell, at minimum.
Yet I grasped the structure of "Singed Flame" with surprising ease.
This was because, in the straight-line process of pure delving into a single field—rather than applications—my "Understanding" operated at peak optimal efficiency.
Of course, comprehension didn't equate to mastery, but I planned to refine "Singed Flame" into the simplest form possible and wield it as a primer to teach 'Pure Elements'.
"······Lesson preparations are sufficient."
I closed the notes after scripting my lecture. Then, using the communication orb, I summoned Allen.
"Allen. Attend me at once."
About five seconds later, the door opened, and Allen appeared.
"Yees, Professor."
Allen arrived promptly, but his face was utterly exhausted. His dark circles had swollen into something panda-like.
"Have you learned what I tasked you with previously?"
"Yees. Here it is."
Allen rummaged in his robe pocket and produced a booklet. An auction catalog.
"Next Wednesday, the 'Luten' auction house has 'Frost Stone' on the list."
I had instructed Allen to scout any auctions featuring rare ores as items.
A quick skim of the catalog confirmed it: at the bottom, 'Frost Stone' gleamed.
This was a setting even I knew—one of the world's top ten metals, counted on ten fingers.
Above it lay dragon bones, dragon horns, and the like: near-mythical, legendary items impossible to acquire even with money. Thus, the Frost Stone stood as the 'theoretically strongest obtainable'.
"Well done. Inform them I shall participate."
"Yees. Understood."
Allen bowed and departed.
For reference, I had already confirmed my personal account balance. This world had invented accounts and card systems as well.
Balance
205,238,039 ∃
The account held a staggering 200 million elne.
More than enough—superfluous, even.
As a personal account, I could spend it all without issue. To begin with, the Yukline family was rigged with its cheat-like territory, swimming in wealth by setting.
Just as sports teams in prime markets rake in cash despite poor records thanks to their home base.
"······Come to think of it, Allen is merely a graduate student."
A twinge of guilt surfaced anew.
By normal university standards, Allen was a grad student. And the tasks I'd assigned were utterly personal.
Worse still, the reason his dark circles darkened by the day was that all the mages who had shared his workload until last year had quit.
Deculein's true nature had been exposed, so no self-respecting tower mage would volunteer under me.
In modern terms, Allen single-handedly shouldered the entire graduate cohort's duties plus the professor's private errands.
"Framed that way, it's dire."
Leave things as-is, and it would end with either me stabbed to death or Allen keeling over from overwork—one or the other.
I needed to treat Allen better henceforth. Hire some help, too.
"P-Professor."
As I pondered this, Allen returned. He proffered an envelope clutched in both hands.
"An official dispatch just arrived from the tower."
"Very well. Retire and rest."
"Yees."
I tore open the unnecessarily ornate envelope. A single official document lay within.
A hearing to commend the progress of Senior Professor Deculein von Grahan Yukline's ongoing research—"The Creation of Pure Elements and Four-Series Magic Derived Therefrom"—shall convene six months hence. Kindly prepare all relevant materials by then.
"Ah."
A pivotal fork: bungle it, and I'd be ousted from my professorship.
This was no trivial affair, yet had Deculein truly pursued magical research in the interim?
If so, where lay the records of that research?
······The laboratory.
Deculein's private laboratory was filthy. It seemed untouched long before I became Deculein.
"······No sign of anything worthwhile."
Still, I ransacked it for thoroughness' sake.
Telekinesis swept from ceiling to corners. I tore through every nook and cranny.
Objects and dust flew in a frenzy, yet for all my search, nothing emerged.
All incinerated, perhaps.
Or perhaps no research had ever occurred.
I halted my Telekinesis and surveyed the interior motionless.
Unnecessarily vast space, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling, unidentified liquids putrefying in reagent vials, scattered pencils, a mana extractor······.
Amid that total disarray, at one precise point.
A golden bubble burped up from a specific floor tile.
There.
I flipped the tile without stirring a finger. It thudded over, revealing a hardened lump of feces encrusted like a lid beneath.
Deculein's ultimate defensive measure.
Even I felt a momentary vertigo—his temperament had rubbed off—but Telekinesis swept away the filth.
At the very bottom lay an old, frayed document satchel, entombed in shit dust.
Assuredly not Deculein's.
Likely belonged to the mage who had conducted research in his stead.
I set the satchel on the floor and opened it. Fecal crumbs scattered everywhere.
"······."
My head throbbed briefly, but I endured and examined the contents.
A sheaf of documents, as expected. I fetched them via Telekinesis into my hand. A faint fecal odor wafted.
Fortunate I wore gloves.
"······A cipher."
The roughly seventy-page bundle bore what appeared to be incantation formulae at a glance.
I knew it pertained to magic, but the contents were entirely encrypted.
"It avails you naught."
I deciphered the cipher with "Understanding".
Mana depleted in massive chunks as, line by line from the first page, meanings unveiled. With each revelation of the magical treatise, I was forced to close my eyes.
A golden radiance too brilliant to behold.
This document brimmed with luster enough to overflow the entire lab.
"······Remarkable research."
Yet it appeared incomplete.
Torn sections abounded, blank paragraphs gaped, and flawed logic permeated.
I gathered the papers carefully to avoid damage.
In that moment, something glinted in the satchel's corner—a clinking accessory.
A pendant.
The worn pendant at its edges cradled a single faded photograph.
"······."
A father and daughter. The father's face was shattered, but the child grinned mischievously like a rascal. Her finger-traced V-sign beamed with innocence.
I knew this child's face. Far younger, cuter, more childish—but unmistakable.
Ifrin Luna.
This must be the grudge the mage 'Luna' harbored against Deculein.
"······Worry not."
A bittersweet pang stirred as I murmured.
With my "Understanding", I could compile your entire research, interpret it, consolidate its scattered threads, uncover oversights you never conceived, compute, gain insights, and evolve it to perfection.
Should I complete this research paper thusly.
"I shall list you as co-author."
Regrettably, solely under your name won't suffice. I require accomplishments as well.
I stowed the documents and pendant in my bag and exited.
······At the same hour.
Freshman mages gossiped at the campus cafe 'Light and Coffee'.
"I say we commoners should band together. Form a club."
Robed, they had arrayed luxury coffees and desserts before them—save for one.
Ifrin nursed mere plain water.
Excusing her dislike for sweets and coffee, she merely ogled her classmates devouring cake.
"Only thirty commoners this intake, right? If we don't unite, we might get shafted someday."
Julia's words, the orange-haired bourgeois commoner.
"Ifrin, you'll join, yeah?"
"······Huh?"
Ifrin, mid-sip of water, startled at the abrupt pitch.
"No, I—"
"You have to join, Ifrin."
Julia slammed her coffee cup down.
"You stood up to that Sylvia, didn't you? I heard the rumor—felt so damn satisfying. She acts like she's some princess."
Ifrin offered a wry smile.
Since that massive spat, rumors painted Sylvia as noble rep and herself as commoner rep.
Though she herself was a proper noble—just title-less and landless.
"But······ we'd need our advisor prof's permission······ They won't like us banding together······."
A timid, cute guy named Perit muttered half to himself. Julia pouted and nodded.
"······Yeah. That's the biggest hurdle."
An all-commoner club.
The intent to rally was fine, but securing professor approval was hell.
Club founding required one advisor professor—and most were nobles.
True, some profs hailed from common stock, but upon appointment, they became 'honorary nobles' and aped the aristocracy.
"How about Prof Rellin?"
Perit's eyes lit up, as if it were genius.
Julia shook her head.
"You don't know the rumors on that fat prof? Infamous for sucking up to nobles. Seniors say he won't even see commoners filing complaints."
"Oh yeah? Thought he was nice······."
"Right? What era does he think this is?"
They debated potential professors.
Yet few had the guts to sponsor a commoner club under noble prof scrutiny.
Nigh none.
"······Prof Deculein is obviously a no-go."
Rondo muttered offhand. Ifrin flinched.
"Oh yeah, that prof!"
Julia's eyes bulged as she snapped her fingers.
"At least he ignores nobles and commoners equally! Fair, no?"
Ifrin wondered what 'fair' meant in that logic. She yearned to slip away······ but couldn't.
Coffees and desserts blanketed the table.
She had to eat.
She'd crashed this group gunning for those spoils(?).
Bourgeois brats with cash—bound to leave plenty. Skip it, and she'd starve all day······.
"Ifrin! You ask him!"
"······."
The sparks flew her way. Ifrin, silently stalking cake, bit her lip.
Julia pressed on.
"Heard a rumor about you? Dodged discipline thanks to Prof Deculein."
"Huh? No. No way he'd. Just... ended on good terms."
"Really? ...Head hurts. We'll pick who to beg later—let's bail."
Julia rose, flapping the 'Club Founding Plan'.
This was the moment Ifrin awaited!
Ifrin gave a wry smile and shook her head.
"Sorry, no time. You guys go ahead—"
"Tonight's late-night snacks on me, guys."
"······."
"Huh? Ipi, you say something?"
Late-night snacks.
Clueless kids—they'd order heaps.
Better haul than cake. Just fill the gut; extras for the dorm.
"······I'll just help with the plan."
Ifrin licked her lips and rose slyly.
The group exited the cafe toward the tower. Julia kept mumbling at her paper.
"First off, make it not scream 'commoners only'······ Or they'll call it deception······ Ugh, tricky······ Huh?"
Julia scratched her head, glanced somewhere, then froze wide-eyed.
Not just Julia.
All save snack-obsessed Ifrin halted. They stood treelike, breaths ragged.
Yonder, on the path leading here—a figure impossible to miss anywhere.
With impossibly perfect gait, more aristocratic than any noble······
He approached.
"I-Ifrin! Do it!"
"Huh? Do what? Snack menu?"
Julia thrust the plan into Ifrin's hands.
"What. Why me?"
And shoved Ifrin's back hard.
"—Ack!"
Ignorant of why, Ifrin catapulted forward—straight into someone's path. So tall, at first only his chest loomed.
A crisp breeze blew, as if through woods. A pure, clean scent soon wafted, unsettling her.
Ifrin slowly raised her gaze. She gulped—throat bobbing.
The impeccable suit front,
Aristocratic necktie and solid-gold badge proclaiming his rank,
Crisp collar and chiseled jawline,
And······.
At last, his face.
"······."
Deculein.
He gazed down upon her.
Those icy, gemstone eyes gleamed coldly. Ifrin startled near to fainting.