Shooting the Cardinal with a Shotgun (1)
To stop the game of tag between the Dean and Pistia, I finally had to resort to my last option. No matter that she was a thousand-year-old ancient dragon—no different from a twelve-year-old brat tormenting a metric system evangelist right in front of me. I strode forward and clamped down hard on the two horns sprouting from the top of the Dean's head.
"Nuaah?!"
With an odd squeal, the Dean's footsteps skidded to a halt. The texture of the horn against my palm was surprisingly incredible. Not the cold, hard feel of bone I'd expected. It had just the right give and warmth, with perfect friction that gripped my hand like it was made for it.
...What the hell is this amazing grip?
Is this how supercar owners feel? My fingers slotted perfectly into the curve of the horn, joint by joint. Dragon body parts were clearly something else.
"Y-you... what the hell do you think you're...!"
The Dean craned her head back to glare up at me. Gone was her usual composure—her face flushed beet red, eyes wide as saucers.
"Dean, calm down for a second. This isn't the Engineering Department playground."
"L-let go! A dragon's horns are connected to the soul—super sensitive...!"
"Oh yeah? No wonder it feels so damn good in my hand."
I ignored her and gripped the horns tight like a steering wheel. Thanks to that, Pistia, who had been melting into a puddle behind me, finally caught her breath and collapsed to the ground.
"I-I lived... Thanks, Flint. I was this close to getting my whole body disassembled down to the millimeter."
"Ease up too, Professor Pistia. The metric system's too harsh for someone the Dean's age."
"Flint! Are you taking my side or just roasting me?!"
The Dean squirmed in my grasp, but she couldn't shake free from someone who'd seized the superior handlebars. I locked eyes with her head-on, playtime over.
"Dean. Tell me where Lucius is right now."
The sarcasm drained from my voice, and her wild eyes settled a bit. Still in that humiliating pose with her horns in my hands, she eventually clicked her tongue and answered.
"That Lucius bastard? He should be on his way back from the Leonhardt Ducal Residence by now."
"The ducal residence? What was he doing there?"
She shrugged irritably at my question, her head wobbling in my grip.
"You really don't know? He slapped some Chastity Maintenance Blessing or whatever on that Kyle kid. That maniac didn't even report it to me first! The academy admin office is in an uproar because of it."
"Chastity Maintenance...Blessing?"
I couldn't believe my ears. I knew the clerics in this world pulled off some bizarre miracles now and then, but something this blatant and horrific?
"The kid's already the ducal heir with delicate marriage talks floating around, and he slaps a chastity belt on him? No wonder the duke's family flipped out. And the guy's still acting all shameless, saying it's 'fitting for a cleric.' Tch, what a pain."
The Dean grimaced, trailing off. Even in the eyes of a millennium-old dragon, Lucius's antics had crossed a line.
"The Holy See might've laid the empire's foundations, but that guy's getting way too full of himself. Ignoring the Dean—me!—and messing with a ducal heir. End of days, I tell you."
Good thing I ditched the original plot early.
In the novel I remembered, Kyle just got subtle pressure from Lucius over stalking the saintess. A chastity curse? The story was utterly wrecked. But that was fine—maybe even for the best. If the plot's logic was in tatters, I had no reason to cling to it. Twist the setting? Just break it physically.
"If he's on his way back, that's perfect."
I slowly released the horns. I missed that premium grip feel, but it was time to prep for 'live-fire exercise.'
"Guess I'll go welcome him. Got a gift for the occasion."
"Cardinal Lucius!! Do you take House Leonhardt for fools? Our marriage prospects are falling apart because of you!"
'Kyle von Leonhardt. That idiot—I warned him to keep it quiet, and now he's flapping his gums, making trouble.'
Lucius clicked his tongue inwardly, but the duke before him held no terror. If anything, the angrier the man got, the more pathetic House Leonhardt's pride seemed, writhing at his feet.
"Huhu... Yes, Your Grace. Pathetic. Utterly so."
"What...? What did you just—"
Wilhelm's face turned purple with rage. But Lucius stepped closer, driving a mocking dagger into the duke's chest.
"Wilhelm von Leonhardt. This isn't my fault—it's your own failings as a father. Can't control your own whelp, so you borrow a cleric's hand, then blame me instead of thanking me?"
"Cardinal Lucius...! You want to end this here and now?!"
The duke's hand clenched his greatsword. The parlor filled with killing intent thick enough to crush the room, but Lucius just smiled elegantly, hand to his chest. A brilliant yet ominous holy power flickered like a halo behind him.
"Think you can win?"
His voice was calm, laced with blatant contempt, as if viewing vermin.
"...!!"
"Against God's proxy and the voice of the Holy See—a mere 'sword-swinging' family like yours?"
The empire's history. Dig into that paltry record, and nobles were just packs with a bit more muscle. Back when humanity teetered on extinction from beasts and demons, when the first Pope and Crusaders won the Holy War to reclaim lands—those warped freaks were chance mutations. Bodies twisted by mana just to survive. Knights and nobles started that way.
Holy power, though? A gift straight from the Lord. Only for those whose pure faith earned approval. Not like mana-inherited trash born with it for free.
"Don't delude yourself, Your Grace. Your mana is just beasts evolving to survive. Our holy power? Art sculpted by the Lord Himself."
"You arrogant—!"
"The blessing on Kyle von Leonhardt tames his beastly urges—a mercy. Dare not defy the Lord's will, creature."
Lucius flicked his hand, and the duke's crimson killing intent melted away like snow. Even the air's mana bowed at his feet before the overwhelming holy wave.
Wilhelm, one of the empire's top swordsmen, trembled gripping his hilt. Against the Holy See's monster cardinal and that 'absolute difference in stature,' the pressure choked him.
"Time to head back to the academy. Don't waste more of my time."
"Oh, and Your Grace."
Pausing at the threshold, Lucius glanced back with a sinister smile.
"Your son will live cleanly forever, thanks to my correction. Send thanks as a donation to the Holy See."
"Wait, Lucius! I'll report every one of your crimes to His Imperial Majesty! No matter the Holy See—even you won't get away with insulting a ducal house like this!"
The duke's howl echoed through the room. But Lucius, who had paused, just chuckled softly at the grand 'emperor' name.
"Emperor... Emperor."
He stood still, murmuring low. Praying the Holy See never fully split from the empire into a 'Holy Kingdom,' that doddering mutt forever peeking at the Pope's mood?
Without holy blessings, the empire would crumble to demon incursions tomorrow—clinging to the Holy See's coattails. To Lucius, the emperor wasn't worthy of awe. Just a big guard dog barking for holy power scraps its master tossed.
What an illness-level delusion.
Lucius sneered inwardly. Reality-blind as this duke was. The empire stood not on noble crests, but holy blood from the Lord's great warriors and countless nameless commoners' sacrifices.
'Without us holding back demons and purging heretics, their 'peace' would've been ashes long ago.'
Hand on the doorknob, he spoke one last mercy without turning.
"I get barking at unbeatable foes is beast instinct, Wilhelm. But bark too loud, and the master cracks the whip. Watch yourself."
"Y-you—!! How dare you!!"
The duke's roar and shattering objects behind were just amusing noise to Lucius. He boarded his prepared carriage at once.
The duke's fury, the emperor's authority—less than passing wind to him. All was justified in God's name, and he held the power to enforce it.
"To the academy."
The carriage glided from the Leonhardt Ducal Residence. Lucius gazed at the passing scenery, lost in pleasant fantasy.
First thing on arrival: find his disciple, Flint.
'Can't wait to consecrate that gun he made in God's name.'
To him, Flint's weapon was intriguing. Consecrate it for the Holy See, wield it to smite heretics—imagine the thrill of that overwhelming might in his grasp.
Lucius smiled faintly, eyes closing. Flint and his toy were already in his pocket, he was certain.
Sunset stretched long shadows over the academy gates. As Lucius's ornate carriage entered, it braked hard.
"...What's this?"
Lucius asked languidly, eyes still shut. No reply—just a cold, heavy metallic click.
Ch-chk—!
A mere mechanical sound, yet chills ran down his spine. Frowning, he lowered the window.
There stood a commoner cadet, sunset at his back. A black gun braced on his shoulder.
"Been waiting, Professor."
Something was off. For the first time, Lucius felt an indescribable chill crawl up his spine.
"Here for a chat. The physical kind this time."