Chapter 75
Chapter 75
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 75
Chapter Title: In the Name of Glory (11)
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***
Logging back into the game, I opened my eyes to find the scene exactly where I'd left off at logout.
Notum stood there, surrounded by Leadflow School mages gathered to hear her story, wolfkin, and an old black mage huddled in the shadows under the table, fidgeting like a shadow itself.
[Got it? As soon as we go, head somewhere secluded and take that bastard out.]
The black mage reminded me of what Ian had said outside.
'Hmm. Black mage. Black mage... I need to check that out. If he's really connected to the mutants, information could leak like a sieve.'
The Professor glanced at the old man crouched in the desk's shadow. The water mages were mostly commoners, and Ottoman the water mage was such a kind soul that they showed no strong aversion to dealing with werewolves and trolls. Still, they weren't approaching with easy familiarity. It couldn't be helped. Even strangers needed time to warm up, and these people had different jobs, races, and reasons for being captured. No common ground to build on.
From afar, their distance was obvious. The water mages clustered together, Notum and Borca in another group, and the black mage isolated alone. This wouldn't do. To work together, they at least needed to greet each other.
'Hmm. There's something perfect to break the awkward ice and get them bonding. No church folks nearby, so I guess it's on me.'
Clap clap clap!
Finishing his thoughts, the Professor clapped to draw attention, then pulled a chair up to the table where the black mage hid.
"Alright, attention! Everyone, gather here!"
.
.
.
.
Rustle, rustle.
Saunter saunter.
A bit hesitant, but most followed without protest. It wasn't because the Professor had any special leadership. The situation demanded it.
'They're all in the same boat, captured like this. The church just locked them up without a word, so with no info, they're anxious and frustrated. When someone steps up acting like they know something, they gather to hear it out.'
The Professor collected his thoughts as they assembled. He planned to shock everyone here a little.
"Gwor-. Chairs five, six. Notum sit."
"Huh? Oh, no. You can just sit on the floor."
"Gwor."
Notum obeying him helped sway the others. The Leadflow School mages, fond of him as a fellow water mage, followed suit, and even the werewolf Borca reluctantly sat at the table.
Of course, there were exceptions. The black mage, still naked under the table.
"Hmph! I have no reason to listen to you..."
"You're fine, old timer. If the bright light bothers you, what can we do? I gathered everyone here so you can listen from there—just stay put. Want something to cover up with?"
The Professor rummaged his inventory and pulled out an old curtain he'd used as a bag.
[Item: Filthy Curtain from Count Mandalius's Estate: A curtain from the count's house. Tough and sturdy. Covered in caked dust and blood, extremely dirty.]
'Hmm, shoulda cleaned it if I knew. Hope he doesn't get mad.'
A bit anxious, he offered the filthy cloth. His worry was unfounded—the old man lit up, snatched it, and draped it over his head. Despite the stench, no complaints came; instead, a satisfied groan.
"Mmm. Much better. Thanks, young man."
"No need to thank me. As a fellow mage, I get your situation."
This was Tovrun, overflowing with low-grade magic items, and the Radiant Church had money to burn. Hours after sunset, magical lamps dotted everywhere made the room blindingly bright.
Intense brightness. The black mage, who'd rambled about dark mana, reacting sensitively and irritably.
'Throw a water mage in a bone-dry desert, and you'd get the same. Mages identify with their element culturally. Church robes have Radiant Church holy power, glowing faintly. The old timer ditched his to cope, then crawled under the table for less light.
That thick, tough curtain became his perfect shelter. Draped head to toe, the black mage showed participation by sliding an empty chair out instead of sitting.
Good. Atmosphere for talking set.
As everyone sat, the Professor stood and spoke.
"Alright, we're all here, so let's get to explanations. First, introductions. I'm the Professor. Like you, leashed and dragged here by the church, but unlike you, I've been granted command over this group of prisoners."
He scanned their stares, dropping the half-formal speech abruptly. A deliberate shift. As he spoke, curiosity turned visibly uncomfortable.
'First, make them grasp reality.'
Something he'd pondered outside. Unit imbalances, supplies—all assumed serious commitment to the mission. But realistically? Facing death after capture?
'They'd bolt for sure. No need for crisis; stray far from Tovrun, and they'd scatter with "it was fun while it lasted."'
Lack of goal alignment. The biggest issue, first to fix.
'I'd love to persuade one by one, but no time.'
"Ahem! Command? So you plan to... order us around?"
The Professor affirmed Ottoman's openly displeased question.
"Yes. Precisely, I have the right to evaluate you 'suspected rebels against the church,' and dispose of you if deemed unfaithful to the mission."
"Dis, dispose...?"
"Means sending you where we should be. Not this bright, breezy surface lodging, but the underground dungeon where they hammer Lo-Haram's grace into your skull till it's mush."
Ssssh—
'Whoa, chilly.'
The uneasy mood froze solid. Naturally. Some rando rolls in saying 'obey or die,' and friendliness would be weirder.
Now came delicate emotional tightrope. Licking dry lips, ignoring the chill, the Professor continued.
"Doesn't it seem odd? The church executes heretics and black mages on sight, yet spares a mage who survived red mutant clutches unscathed, werewolves and trolls they don't see as human, even a black mage reeking of dark mana—just locks them up? Doesn't add up. You've all wondered, mouths shut like clams: 'Why this? Why am I fine here cracking jokes? Not like the rumors.'"
His words blanketed heavier silence. He'd raw-dumped their nagging doubt: 'Why haven't the horrors happened?'
There. Doubt and anxiety stirred perfectly. Now shovel in reality.
Click.
The Professor removed the church relic from his neck, [Nelphia's Light], placing it on the table. Even the ignorant could see its holy glow pouring from the hollow oval ornament.
To the awed crowd, he spoke slowly, deliberately.
"Proper introduction. Turan's F-rank mercenary, Leadflow School first-circle mage, blessed champion of the Radiant Church: the Professor. This relic proves my will aligns with the church's. I have the right, in the church's name, to execute any who defy the mission."
He watched damp despair and sticky rage spread, then drove the wedge.
"So if you want to live, obey me, 'suspected rebel' friends."
***
The classic all-purpose persuasion: carrot and stick, boasting tradition and trust. He'd wielded the stick mercilessly, exposing their reality, enforcing mission via fear and threats.
'That'll do for the stick. Time for the carrot?'
As he softened toward the frozen group,
"Ptoo! Filthy humans. Gather us to say 'obey or die'? Fine. I'll disobey your orders, act defiant and aggressive. Go on, execute me like your big mouth boasted."
Borca kicked his chair, standing challengingly before the Professor.
'Hmm... Carrot later.'
The Professor rose roughly, glaring at the werewolf, mentally retrieving the stick.
***
"...Borca, calm down."
The werewolf sat right beside the Professor. As he called his name slowly, threateningly, Borca responded with a feral grin.
"Was my explanation lacking?"
To the Professor's calm words, Borca smirked provocatively.
"Nah, no need to hear it. By the spirits of the ancient forest, I swore never to be a human's slave—!"
Words ended, Borca lunged.
Whoosh!
Intending to end it fast, his right hand targeted the Professor's eyes, middle knuckle raised—won't kill, but popping an eyeball? Whatever.
'No hesitation in the ambush first strike. Looks rage-fueled, but left hand half-lax, reacting to my moves. This guy's fight-seasoned.'
[Help?]
'No help. Watch.'
[Hee hee. Just say if needed. I could take that werewolf with one finger.]
Ignoring Hyde's whisper, the Professor countered Borca's charging fist.
'Eye path flashy as bait. Real attack: that sharp-nailed left, waiting for my defense gap.'
More gladiator with shield and dagger than bare-knuckle. Fluid moves suggested long practice.
'But textbook methods break just as easily.'
Crack!
"Urk, eek!"
The Professor gripped Borca's incoming right forearm with his huge hand.
"Good moves. Great combat sense, skilled. You fight well, huh?"
"Grk, let go!"
Borca strained fruitlessly, then lightning-thrust his sharp left nails at the Professor's exposed gut.
Squelch!
Razor nails sliced through muscle-covered abs, fingers sinking deep.
Drip. Drip.
"Grrr, you let your guard down, hu—GYAAAH!"
Thinking it over, Borca screamed as the Professor's grip crushed his arm like a vise.
"AAAAH! GRAAAH!"
"Not very wolfkin-like—balanced style. Hmm, nice. Liking you more. Trained werewolf. As thanks for surprising me, here's a good lesson."
Crunch—
"GRAAAH! Let go! LET GO!"
Borca desperately yanked at the vise-grip left hand, eyes bulging. The Professor's gut, punched through fist-sized, writhed like living flesh, healing.
"Mon, monster...!"
"Yeah, monster. What you'll face ahead. Textbook ways against monsters—!"
Boom!
One-handing Borca's arm up, the Professor swung and slammed him into the floor.
—shatter to nothing against greater power."
"Kuhuk, uuuugh...."
"Oho, tough! Solid basics. +1 point. Polish your technique."
The Professor grinned at unconscious Borca amid shattered stone floor.
***
"Ahh, refreshing!"
Long time using his body. Felt like old indigestion vanished.
"Kuhuk, uuuuh...."
Borca twitched, shaking his head soon after passing out. The Professor beamed.
"Wolfkin! Tough as expected! Come on, how's that? Not full power yet, right? Round two?"
"Grrrr, grrrrk! Even in death, I'll never be a human slave!!!!"
Borca's torn forehead bled rivers, fur sprouting rough, muzzle elongating, fangs serrating his mouth.
"Ooo—OOOHHH!!!!"
Now Professor's height, bulkier muscles, knife-sized razor claws from fingertips.
[Whoa. That fit in his fingers? Bigger than them just looking.]
'Grew as part of transformation, not retracted. No storing.'
Clack!
Observing the true werewolf form, the Professor spoke calmly, like chatting about someone else.
"Yapping so loud, you'll wake the neighborhood. Know Radiant Church priests pray late? Holy knights'll swarm to kill you soon."
"Grrrrr, don't... care. Dead since capture anyway. If dying, taking the 'humans' hope' hero's throat ain't bad...."
'Hmm. Sounds like he gave up his life.'
What now? Need him to hesitate for an opening.
"Ahh, Dalia, Tusan, Marca..... wait. Coming to you soon...."
Flash!
Amid frantic thinking, Borca's dying mutter reached the Professor's ears.
'Dalia, Tusan, Marca? Southern names? Meeting them at death?'
Snap—
Bang!
"Whoa!"
No time to sort thoughts, Borca charged. Speed incomparable to human form. Barely dodging by tilting head, the Professor saw severed hairs fluttering from razor nails, blurting the first word popping up.
"Revenge!"
Slash!
Nails answered instead.
'Damn! Not revenge? Then...'
"Cl, clan vendetta! Lycanthrope relic in Lordric or...!"
"Chattering till death? Guess I'll cut that tongue!"
Slash—
Slice!
'GYAAA! Shit! My arm! Wh-what? Crush him? But then bye forever with him! Can't lose squad's only sane member... can't...!'
Bleeding out dodging Borca, an old cliché flashed.
"Ab, abduction!"
Flinch!
Borca's assault paused briefly at the Professor's scream-word. Seeing it, he inwardly cheered.
'Jackpot! That's it! Damn, why didn't I think? Non-human living fine in territory, suddenly in city! Ending in racist Mecca Lordric? Obvious slaver story!'
Opening found, the Professor villain-grinned, clinging to the shaken heart.
"Yeah, abduction. Clan kid or family snatched by slavers. You hunting them? Wandering cities, caught church's eye?"
".....Too late. I failed. Joining them soon...."
"Really give up like this? Abandon all, waltz back to great forest spirits carefree? Then abducted kids slave forever till death?"
"Grrrrr.... How dare a human spew that shit!!"
The Professor inwardly exulted at the enraged werewolf's yellow-glowing eyes.
'Yes! Rage more! Thrash and remember! Die, and those kids' futures die too! You can't die freely, Borca!'
Igniting fading will with anger's flame, leashing with duty to prevent quitting.
'I'll make you beg to do the church mission—not run!'
Facing Borca's skin-prickling rage, the Professor grinned more wickedly.
***