Back to the Academy as a Sex Slave? (2)

The conference room of Delan Royal Academy, renowned for its ideology of teaching commoners and nobles alike with perfect equality. One might wonder if such a thing was even possible in a class-based society, but the overwhelming martial prowess of its exceptional professors and the principal's authority—which even the king dared not trifle with—were more than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enough to hammer the truth that "fists speak louder than laws" into the thick skulls of those steeped in the caste system. Of course, the fact that every single one of those formidable professors had come rushing into the conference room in a panic, to the point where there weren't enough seats at the table, and were now clutching their heads, muttering, or staring blankly into space, created a spectacle unprecedented since the academy's founding.

And the most striking figure among them sat at the head of the table: a red-haired girl who didn't even reach 140cm in height. Her chin barely cleared the tabletop, making her look comically out of place in such an important seat, yet the overwhelming mana radiating from within her proclaimed that this small girl's appearance was merely a disguise she'd chosen after centuries of life.

Apne di Bicustie. The current generation's strongest archmage, praised in unison by the mages of the Magic Tower, the imperial court, and even the reclusive sorcerers of the wilderness—one of the absolute pinnacles of power and the principal of Delan Royal Academy.

The usual assessment that she always maintained a dignified, lofty expression had long been tossed into the gutter. She was currently yanking at the hair her maids had so carefully brushed, turning it into a wild mess. To be precise, this had been her reaction whenever anything involving a certain individual came up for the past five years, so the professors were quite used to it by now—but today, her hysteria seemed especially severe.

"Aaaargh! What the fuck? Why is this actually real?!"

"Please calm down, Principal. Your blood pressure..."

Most of the professors were clutching their heads in similar agony, and only the academy's sole other male faculty member—the etiquette professor and vice principal, Brooks—was barely maintaining his composure. Even he was desperately trying to hide how badly his hands were trembling as he poured the tea.

"But, but—! Ian Klein is coming back to the academy as a slave? And not just any slave, but a sex slave?! How am I supposed to stay sane?!"

"To be precise, he has become the slave of Terina Grade, the prodigy of the Grade viscount family—one of the kingdom's foremost alchemical houses, even if it has fallen from grace."

"No, seriously. Is this for real?"

As if in perfect sympathy with Apne, who was tearing at her hair in hysterics, every member of the faculty nodded. Since the academy existed for talented commoners and the majority of the nobility, it was only natural that the professors were all blue-blooded aristocrats themselves. That was why they'd caught wind of the rumors earlier than most.

Ian Klein, the early graduate who'd fallen into slavery. Of course, when they'd first heard that Ian Klein had been captured and put up for auction, everyone had shared the same thought:

After that, a royal decree had come down forbidding any noble from claiming ownership of Ian, and everything had clicked into place. Ah, so the royal palace had pulled some strings.

Sure, his bulging, muscular body was undeniably sexy, and five years ago during his time as a student, he'd stripped off his top during every defenseless training session, leaving everyone desperately needing a bed or a bathroom. But his overwhelming strength had long since reached the level where he could single-handedly slaughter an entire territory and threaten the nation itself. Moreover, he was a commoner who'd once refused a noble title despite being from a collateral line. He earned enough money to slap most nobles across the face, and while tales of heroic womanizers often involved pushing beautiful men onto others, Ian's body was the kind that drove women with slightly niche tastes absolutely wild.

If his desires had been greater, they might have been able to negotiate using that as leverage. But the only thing he'd shown was the sincerity of depositing every coin he earned straight into the bank. As for the famous sword a swordsman might desire, the massive blade he'd always carried was made from 200kg of steel worth a mere 1,400 gold in materials, with only 200 gold in crafting costs. It was less a sword and more a steel club. From the royal palace's perspective, it must have driven them insane.

To them, Ian was like a time bomb whose detonation date they could only guess at—today or tomorrow. There had been zero room for negotiation. Absurdly enough, it wasn't because he was hostile to the royal family or held some strong conviction. They simply couldn't figure out what he actually wanted.

Of course, even for someone like Ian, there were ways to deal with him. As if the gods were fair, they'd gifted that monstrously talented man with a congenital Mana Incompatibility Body. Because of it, he couldn't use mana and had zero magic resistance. The academy had long since calculated that if they caught him off guard and poured in the full military force of a marquisate, they could capture him.

Of course, no one had imagined that a crazy marquisate would actually go through with it.

"Fuck, I mean, if it's a man like Ian, as a woman I'd bet everything and go 'Uhu hu, come here right now!' But that's just in the realm of fantasy. Who the hell would have imagined that the prestigious Huinstan Marquisate would be the batshit insane one to throw their entire territory's forces at him?"

"Sigh... Principal. This is exactly why you've been single for hundreds of years. Did you boil away all your gentle speech that considers men and your feminine etiquette with age?"

"What's wrong with a woman being a pervert? And Brooks, you're too scrawny and you're that modest, refined gentleman type, so you're not my taste anyway. No need to freak out. My type is a man like Ian—burly, muscular, with sharp eyes."

Apne continued her passionate speech as if speaking for every woman in the world.

"At that level, it's just a natural physiological reaction. Ahh, it's still so clear when I close my eyes. During his school days, Ian would swing his greatsword on the academy training grounds, complain about the heat, and throw off his top, revealing that bare chest glistening with sweat. Or when he'd give advice and stroke not just my arms and shoulders but even my stomach, yet he'd stay completely focused only on the core of swordsmanship. That perverted... no, that passionate figure..."

"That's enough. Let's just drop it."

It was the usual banter between the principal and vice principal, but the professors' expressions showed no sign of relaxing. Before being men and women, they were nobles and warriors, mages.

'Especially the professors whose personal strength has surpassed their factions. They must be feeling the severity of this situation in their bones.'

Brooks briefly shifted his gaze. The magic professor, Greyman, who had used sleep and paralysis magic to restrain Ian whenever the boy had demanded sparring sessions during his student days five years ago, looked even paler than the rest.

Yes. If it was Professor Greyman—a proper, orthodox mage who'd completed all the regular education at the Magic Tower, unlike the principal whose innate genius had rotted both her mana and her brain until it was filled with nothing but lust—she would surely understand the gravity of this situation. The kind of mage who holed up in her lab like it was her home, researched magic constantly, and submitted academic papers or theses to scholarly conferences every year—

"Ugh... My Ian... Why did it have to be that cocky little noble lady's hands instead of mine...? Have you forgotten the times when my mana caressed your body?"

'Oh dear. This woman isn't a professor either. She's just another monkey.'

Given the nature of the academy, where strength was paramount, the only male professors were Brooks himself, who handled liberal arts and etiquette, and Sir Dillon, the commander of the Royal 4th Knight Order, who had briefly worked there before and now held an honorary professorship. It was a workplace overwhelmingly dominated by women. Naturally, Brooks knew very well that women were creatures who thought with their lower halves before their heads. Had this been early in his tenure, he probably would have screamed in a high-pitched voice and fled like the other men. But his time here had simply been too long for that.

Yeah. To hell with their positions as professors and the future of the academy. There was no way those bitches would act rationally.

"Everyone, get a hold of yourselves and shut your mouths. The principal isn't worried for such a trivial reason."

Clap— Brooks clapped his hands sharply to gather everyone's attention, then frowned slightly as he silenced the professors' laments. Knowing the depth of Apne's knowledge and wisdom, he took a small step to the side, naturally drawing everyone's eyes toward the principal. His slightly closed eyes seemed to demonstrate the natural poise of an etiquette professor and his faith in the principal. But after more than twenty seconds of silence in the conference room, Brooks's eyes cracked open curiously—and what he saw was Apne, just like the other professors, sitting there with her mouth clamped shut.

Right. Even Apne was a woman before she was the principal.

'I really want to resign right now.'

Of course, neither Apne herself nor most of the professors were so brainless that their brains had truly migrated between their legs, rendering them incapable of understanding the severity of the situation. If they hadn't, they wouldn't be in the conference room—they'd be holed up in their rooms sobbing their eyes out, or clutching a secretly taken photo of Ian while heading to the bathroom to release something else entirely.

Ian Klein. Based on records from the territorial war he'd participated in two years ago, he was a monster who could pierce through the armor of a fully armed knight with his bare hands in the blink of an eye and kill them instantly. On top of that, the abnormal growth rate he'd shown during his time at the academy. No one could even begin to imagine what kind of monster he'd become by now.

And yet someone had carved a slave brand into that Ian, and was now boldly approaching him at a slave auction—in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠front of multiple witnesses, no less—to have their name engraved on that brand? In the 0.1 seconds when the brand's mana momentarily weakened, his neck ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or heart would probably leap out of his body and never return. And Ian would naturally either kill everyone present or escape. He might even thoroughly empty the pockets of the greedy merchant (former merchant?) who had dared to claim ownership without knowing anything.

'The royal family probably planned to grant immunity for that crime in exchange for those documents. After all, he's not someone who can be bound by mere amnesty. Both the royalist and noble factions have been hiring the neutral Ian and tearing at each other's flesh, to the point where it's become common knowledge that whoever hires him is guaranteed victory.'

Setting aside her perversion as a woman, Apne's wisdom was the real deal. The moment the royal decree had come down three days ago, she'd immediately finished her deductions, felt relieved that the excessively frequent territorial wars of recent years might decrease, and spent the past three days lazing about in a vacation mood. At least until a moment ago, when she'd realized that things had gone completely to shit.

Ian had become a slave. Yeah, I know. But he didn't kill his owner. ...? And he's coming to the academy. Why?

The principal, startled out of her wits, had immediately called a faculty meeting. And here they were.

"So what on earth is his scheme, returning to the academy of all places, and as a slave no less?"

"If we knew that, we wouldn't be in the conference room. We'd be at a fortune teller's shop."

The slave contract magic was a sloppy spell that could be unraveled if one put their mind to it. It was a half-assed binding magic full of holes, granting only one forced command in exchange for its persistence. And the brand itself? Despite being magic, its foundation was vulnerable to mana, so any decently skilled person could break the contract just by stretching a little. That was why slaves were weak, and the related laws and regulations were incredibly lax. Even if a first-rate assassin or knight disguised themselves as a slave, the brand would burn away the moment they did anything strenuous. If that weren't the case, the kingdom would have simply branded all the war prisoners that used to flood in and used them as troops. Territorial wars would have turned from land-grabbing into talent-grabbing.

Of course, for Ian with his Mana Incompatibility Body, it was no different from an unbreakable collar. But could human hearts really be controlled so easily? It was like tying a flimsy paper string—something that would snap in a breeze—around the neck of a massive monster and saying, 'See, this is the monster's weakness, so it definitely won't break. Don't worry.' Who the hell would feel reassured by that?

"Professor Davimuha. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What's your opinion as a martial artist?"

"It'll be difficult."

"Be more specific when you say things like that."

At Apne's urging, Professor Davimuha removed the robe she'd been wearing. Her long red hair spilled out, along with her half-naked, toned physique and breasts of a perfect size that would fit nicely in one's hands. But no one paid it any mind. A woman taking off her top was a common occurrence, after all. More importantly, it was a well-known fact that when Professor Davimuha wore her robe, she operated as an assassin, and when she took it off, she became a martial artist.

"What I mean is that it's difficult to undo even a single restraint brand spell. However, in the case of Ian with his Mana Incompatibility Body... even in that fleeting moment of freedom when ownership changes, he could easily kill about five or six armed soldiers. Or two or three mages or alchemists. And even if he fails to kill his owner, he can simply endure the pain that forces commands and disobey. The slave brand magic doesn't force actions directly. It simply prevents prohibited actions through pain or compels obedience to commands. Moreover, no matter how strong that pain is, it's only on the level of a broken finger bone. For Ian, who five years ago already enjoyed training that went far beyond mere harshness, it would be a familiar—almost boring—level of pain."

"Right. Of course it would be."

"What you want to know is why that insanely hot body... I mean, anyway, why the hell did he come back here again, isn't it?"

"That's exactly why I called everyone to the conference room—because none of us know. And the real problem is Terina, the one who bought him. You all know that even a mid-tier alchemist can quickly whip up a magic resistance potion, right?"

The conference room fell silent for a moment. They were all probably imagining the same scene. Forget their responsibilities or pride as professors—if Ian smashed through the main gate and killed dozens of people who rubbed him the wrong way, the professors would be the first to flee in their underwear faster than anyone else. Apne herself would personally come out, pat the new principal on the shoulder, call them the new headmaster, and even sprout a nonexistent tail to wag. After living for hundreds of years, the days ahead were far too precious to waste.

Even so, it was an unavoidable feminine instinct to imagine Ian—the greatest scarred muscle man in the territory—engaging in all sorts of lewd "Master" play with his owner.

"It's the perfect combination to erase the only weakness of that monster whose magic resistance was at rock bottom. The royal family must be feeling like their feet are on fire right now. That's why I can't stop tearing at my hair even in this serious atmosphere."

"I remember Ian enjoyed combat and welcomed growth. Wouldn't it be fine if we just don't touch him first, Principal?"

The other professors nodded as if Professor Davimuha's words made sense, but Apne's hair-tearing showed no signs of stopping. She was the one who knew Ian's straightforward personality better than anyone else here. There was no way she wouldn't have considered that.

'This is why these rookies are hopeless. They can't even see the problem right in front of them.'

Of course, the fact that Ian had fallen into the grasp of a mere student—and in the incredibly arousing scenario of becoming a sex slave—was even more painful. But a principal was a principal. She needed to hammer reality into the ears of these ignorant and foolish professors, so she opened her mouth once more.

"Yes, that personality is the problem. Who is the runner-up among the current second-year students at the academy?"

"That would be Lady Liberne Mua Huinstan of the Huinstan Marquisate... Ah?!"

Shit. We're fucked.