Recruiting Party Members (3)

Even though it was me who advised Dietrich to submit a request to the academy, I have to admit there was one major stumbling block in this operation. If the academy professors simply said, “Yeah, no. Go back,” that would be the end of it. Pressure through authority? Bribery to win them over? I have no interest in putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger. Since cannons exist but guns don’t yet, maybe the more accurate phrase would be “sticking your head in a cannon and lighting the fuse.”

If you dress it up nicely they’re “unique,” ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and if you’re blunt they’re lunatics—the academy’s three great professors. But they all share one common trait: they are stubborn oddballs who refuse to care about external factors like status or background.

No matter how loudly the academy preaches that it “doesn’t care about students’ status,” that “only skill and achievements matter,” or that “to fight the demon race, humanity’s enemy, we must set aside personal grudges and cooperate,” students aren’t going to simply nod and obey. Even in my previous life, where concepts like human rights, equality, and democracy were far more widespread, blood ties, regional ties, and school connections still ran everything. So how much worse would it be in a world where the class system is alive and well?

And the problem isn’t limited to status or power. Throw in regional grudges, factional strife, and old vendettas, and classes would become irrelevant—the academy itself might devolve into nothing but a arena for political maneuvering and networking.

Whether the student was the son of a mighty noble or the daughter of a baker in some remote village, mistakes had to be punished, shortcomings had to be pointed out, and guidance had to be given. The professors had been chosen precisely because they could do exactly that. Their ability to ignore resentment or pressure from students was simply an added bonus.

I once heard about the martial arts classes from Ligret. She said that if Professor Istar approached with a big laugh, you cooperated first—whether the person next to you was a noble, a commoner, or from a rival family. The survival instinct is that powerful.

Questions like “Why should we feel our lives are in danger during class?” are pointless. This is an institution where real sword fights begin at the entrance exam; there’s no room for such concerns. Didn’t the predecessor say it plainly during the entrance ceremony? “The academy is the anvil, trials are the hammer.” “Students are swords meant to face the demon race.” “They may shatter under the harsh hammering and be destroyed.”

It might be terribly inefficient, but that is the institution’s founding ideology. There is nothing to be done about it. The representative professors are the extreme individuals the predecessor personally selected to put that goal into practice. Since they cannot be judged by ordinary common sense, the most I could do was drop subtle hints and gently guide them with suggestions like “How about this?” The moment I tried to shove them forward by force, my hand would be severed. And of course, it wouldn’t end with mere pain.

So aside from asking Her Highness the Princess to have Uncle Callios raise his voice on my behalf from the capital, all I could do was wait… but—

“Huh? Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

Despite the bewilderment and confusion in my voice, Magic Professor Neville Brix simply stared at me with a completely expressionless face, as though he felt nothing at all.

The more I looked at him, the more I wanted to enter him in a cold-blooded man competition. If he faced my father, Bern Midas, it would have produced a terrifying final round. But now that the wicked merchant Bern Midas had self-destructed and departed for a place we could never reach, that dream match would remain forever unfulfilled.

“The Eastern Legion Commander’s request has been accepted. There is nothing else to explain. The content is simple.”

“There was something else, wasn’t there?”

“Ah, that.”

In a tone that suggested he was speaking of something utterly trivial, Neville Brix calmly declared.

“Chrome Midas, you cannot participate.”

The rumor that a special request team was being formed spread among the students almost instantly. A large portion of this year’s freshmen had set their sights on accumulating achievements in the special request division—or even the imperial guerrilla unit—to secure high positions. When the news they had waited for so desperately finally arrived, it would have been strange if they didn’t react.

Yet most of them couldn’t hide their disappointment. Once the details were revealed, the participation conditions turned out to be excessively strict.

Still, the backlash wasn’t as fierce as expected. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠They had already learned through various painful experiences just what kind of monsters the second-years were. More than that, the published roster was so dazzling that complaining felt pointless.

These were the finest talents the entire academy had to offer. To object to the list, you would need to prove you were stronger than every single person chosen—and not one of them was an easy opponent. The only one who might have been manageable was the support-type Fiore Midas, but even if you beat her, who would acknowledge it?

“There will be another chance next time.”

“Anyway, now that the door has opened once, another request might come soon.”

“But doesn’t something feel off?”

“What?”

“Why isn’t that senior on the list?”

“Who?”

“The Silver-Tongued Baron.”

“Now that you mention it… he really isn’t there.”

Some students tilted their heads in confusion, but others accepted it as natural.

“He probably just didn’t apply.”

“Maybe he got cut when they ranked people by skill?”

“Well, he isn’t exactly famous for combat ability, so that makes sense.”

After the dispatch roster was finalized, a visitor arrived at my mansion in the special district.

“Hey, you trash merchant!! What kind of scheme are you cooking up th—”

The green-haired girl, Pino, who had stormed in ready to accuse me, suddenly shut her mouth.

Ting! Kang! Psssssh.

“Damn it… just you watch. You think I can’t do it if I put my mind to it…?”

There I was, both hands gripping alchemical tools, eyes sunken, muttering to myself while completely absorbed in my work. Normally I radiate a polished aura that makes people think, Ah, this guy looks like he’ll make money, but right now I was emitting pitch-black energy, giving off the full atmosphere of an underworld operative.

In contrast, a beautiful girl with vivid blue-silver hair and a radiant smile greeted Pino.

“Ah, Miss Pino, welcome! Is Mr. Rabaul not with you?”

“He said he finally feels like he can finish the book he’s been clutching for three months, so he’s focusing. I left him to it. But what is that?”

“That?”

“It looks like Loto after seventy percent of his soul has been crushed by the Midas Company.”

“Ah, you mean my brother. Hmm, how should I explain…”

Fiore placed a hand on her cheek and struck a thoughtful pose. This girl overflows with charm no matter what she does, Pino thought to herself. Finally Fiore spoke.

“It seems Professor Neville told him, ‘Your skills are far too lacking to be of any use in this request.’ To be more precise, the instructor leading this mission personally cut my brother from the roster.”

“What the hell? I didn’t even want to go, yet I got told I had to join…? And there was a separate leading instructor?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself. After my brother ranted about it for quite a while, this letter supposedly fell onto his head.”

Pino silently stared down at the letter, folded it neatly, and handed it back to Fiore. Then she tilted her head upward and muttered.

“There really isn’t a single normal person in this place…”