Butterfly Effect (4)
It was pitch black. I was sure I'd opened my eyes, but all that filled my vision was utter darkness.
"Ugh……."
A stinging pain shot up from the nape of my neck, racing along my scalp. Instinctively, I tried to reach back and touch the sore spot, but my arms wouldn't budge. Not just my hands, either. My ankles were locked tight to the floor by thick, cold iron chains.
I tried summoning my aura to snap the restraints, but my mana scattered every time, blocked by something.
What the hell happened?
My muddled brain raced back through my memories. I'd just received instruction in battōjutsu from my master, drunk on that exhilarating thrill as I descended the mountain. Near the academy entrance, my eyes met those of men in black priestly robes, and someone shouted.
They'd found the murderer.
Then my vision flashed, and…
"……You've regained consciousness. Kyle von Leonhardt."
From the darkness came a voice so soft and elegant it was almost seductive, like a gentle priest reciting prayers. I couldn't hold back.
"Who the hell are you?! You know who I am and you dare pull this insane stunt? Untie me and remove this blindfold right now!"
My roar echoed through the damp underground chamber.
Heir to the Leonhardt Ducal House. Sure, I'd suffered one humiliation at the Grand Tournament Grounds, but that didn't erase the nobility of my bloodline. In the entire empire, few could bind me like this—even including the imperial family—and get away with it unscathed.
But the voice in the dark didn't flinch at my rage.
"Confess your sins, Kyle von Leonhardt."
"What nonsense is this?! Shut up and fetch whoever's in charge! Do you even know who I am? I'm Kyle von Leo—!"
Shrrk!
In that instant, the blindfold was roughly yanked from my eyes. Blinding light flooded in, forcing me to squint and blink back tears. My vision blurred, then slowly sharpened.
Before me stood a man in austere white cardinal robes, clutching a thick holy tome in one hand. His pale golden hair framed a face smiling with angelic benevolence, like a saint from a cathedral mural.
"B-Blood…… Cardinal?"
The words slipped out in a trembling whisper.
Cardinal Lucius. The Holy See's "mad dog." My breath caught in my throat. Why the hell was this lunatic chaining me up in some dingy underground prison?
"I hate repeating myself."
Lucius murmured low, his serene smile unwavering. But the golden holy power rippling around him clawed at my skin, sending horrific illusions of insects gnawing my flesh from within.
"Confess your sins."
As the words fell, an invisible giant hand seized my heart in a vise grip.
"Wha…… what. Cough! What sins?!"
I gasped and snarled. This was outrageous. Skipping the academy's opening day for training? Was that a crime worth a cardinal's personal interrogation? Or sneaking off to hunt beasts without permission? Or maybe that girl from the tavern last time? My mind spun in circles.
Then, in the chaos, a horrifying hypothesis flashed through my head.
No way…… Did they find out I learned a sword style outside my family's techniques?
My stomach dropped.
Chivalry and faith were intertwined. The heir to the empire's premier knightly house abandons the pride of our greatswords for some obscure old man's "Eastern swordsmanship." The Holy See's doctrines could twist anything—earring if it hung from the ear, nose ring if from the nose. If they branded it "blasphemous heathen swordplay defiling sacred chivalry," they'd have grounds to declare me a heretic and pressure the entire ducal house.
How did they know? I trained in secret on the mountain. Was that old man I approached a plant from the inquisitors?!
No, impossible. Panic and confusion numbed my reason.
As I clamped my mouth shut, my eyes darting wildly, Lucius's gaze narrowed. He took my silence for defiance. The air grew heavier, each breath like shards of glass piercing my lungs.
Overwhelming power gap. Battōjutsu or whatever—my life hung by a thread, no better than a fly waiting for that mad dog's twitch of a finger.
Clap-clap.
Lucius broke the silence with two light claps. At the crisp sound, a chilling creeeak of metal echoed as the dungeon's iron door swung open.
What entered my view: figures shrouded head to toe in black hooded cloaks. Over a dozen of them, each gripping sinister hooked blades, red-hot tongs, and grotesque tools with serrated gears. Their footsteps clanged in a nightmarish symphony.
"Now, class—this is a practical heresy interrogation exercise."
Lucius addressed the horde like a kindly professor to his students.
"Wha—what the hell is this?! Untie me! Do you know who I am?! My father…!"
I thrashed and screamed. Chains bit into my flesh, blood trickling, but I barely felt it. Unknown terror shattered my mind.
Lucius slowly turned to me amid my desperate cries.
"Status means nothing in heresy trials."
He stepped closer. Each click of his heels hammered my ears, my heart ready to burst.
"No matter how noble the duke's young master, heretics who defy the Lord's will suffer equally. Shall we begin the exercise?"
The Holy See's mad dog smiled sweetly. That beautiful face blooming with malice was more grotesque, violent, and suffocating than any beast's fangs I'd ever seen.
Dozens of gleaming eyes staring like I was a frog on a dissection tray. Cherry-red tongs inching toward my body. The Blood Cardinal gazing down with merciful pity.
"Hii, hiiiik…… Stay back! Don't come any closer!!!!"
Unable to raise an Aura Shield or draw my sword, utter helplessness overwhelmed me. My brain chose shutdown.
Drip…… drip……
In the silent dungeon, warm liquid pattered clearly onto the stone floor. Soaking my pants, pooling cold around me—its heat crushed my crumbling pride to dust.
The shame of wetting myself before hundreds of nobles at the tournament. I'd abandoned family pride, blistered my hands drawing my sword to wash it away. Before I could even sever that insolent Flint's head, here I was, pissing myself again before strangers.
"Ah…… aaah……."
A beastly whimper escaped my lips.
But Lucius didn't bat an eye. Like a professor lecturing, he spoke in dry, academic tones.
"Note this, cadets. In extreme terror, sphincter control fails—urinary incontinence is common. You'll see it often. Acclimate to the visual and olfactory discomfort."
"Yes, Professor!"
"Understood, Your Eminence!"
The hooded figures' vigorous replies boomed through the dungeon. Eyes rolled back, I prayed this nightmare would end and plunged into oblivion once more.
In romance fantasies tagged with "academy," one event inevitably crops up: terrorism. Tragic and tiresome, but the godforsaken world I possessed was no exception.
Per the original plot, on opening night—tonight—a demon spy posing as a servant plants bombs in the commoner dorms and other buildings.
If it didn't concern me, I'd ignore it……
But this spy was a serial bomber. Hard to react to every sneaky attack, but recalling my dorm room choked me up. Packed with gun parts, precisely mixed black powder, experimental rounds—my space was a literal powder keg waiting to blow.
If the spy's bombs chain-react with mine? Commoner dorms: game over. Blame lands squarely on the "illegal weapons manufacturer": me. No frame job that airtight.
Better to nip the cause in the bud than fret over a ticking bomb. So, opening day or not, I boldly skipped classes. Engineering department grades? Who cares.
Lucius the prodigy cardinal's lecture? Nothing trumped my survival.
Skipping one day won't get me expelled, right?
I slipped silently into the servants' "management annex" basement passage. Recalling the original: the demon spy filled a sudden vacancy from a last-minute quit. Tall woman with unusually pale skin. Assigned internal chores to "ease in" the newbie. Perfect intel for pinpointing her.
Creeeak.
I cautiously scanned the dank annex interior. Around the corner, a flickering shadow. Reaching into a basket, furtively pulling something out.
Bomb?
I held my breath, drew my silver revolver from its holster.
Click.
The hammer's cold snap shattered the silence. I rounded the corner, barrel trained on the shadow.
"Hands up."
"!!!"
The figure froze at my voice.
"Turn around. Or…?"
My brain stalled at the face in my sights. Plaited brown hair, sun-tanned skin. Wide eyes staring back, having dropped a large basket in fright.
"Kyaa!! …Eh? Flint?"
Not the demon spy. My childhood friend Anna, who should be milking cows back at the village ranch.
"Anna? What are you doing here?"
Why was she in the terrorist's spot, wearing a servant apron? Bewilderment swirled as I caught her suspicious move—hiding something behind her back.