Chapter 4
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Class A (1)
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Iliad Academy's conference room.
This place, where they usually shared opinions on academy facilities or student matters with the dean, was now...
"Is this even possible?!"
filled with shouts.
"Two students took down an instructor?!"
"Professor Ardin, mind the dean."
At the other professor's remark, Ardin lowered his voice slightly.
But his fury over the test results hadn't diminished one bit.
"O-okay, Adel might be one thing. She grabbed the sword with pure physical strength and holy power, right? No blade aura even. How's an instructor supposed to pierce a body like that without using aura?"
Professor Ardin furrowed his brow.
He always did that whenever his emotions ran high.
"But Deron? What's this guy's deal? He's supposed to be an invalid, isn't he? I remember a report saying he vomited blood just climbing the stairs. How the hell did a guy like that beat you?!"
As he spoke, he jabbed at a paper on the round table.
It was Deron Phillasia's admission application.
The contents were utterly ordinary overall.
If you ignored the facts that he was terminally ill and the eldest son of the Phillasia ducal family, that is.
"Forget that—how does it even make sense to admit someone who can't control his own body into the academy? The academy's reputation..."
"Ahem."
Ardin snapped back to his senses.
His rage, which no amount of dissuasion from everyone in the room could have stopped...
"Deron Phillasia. I watched that boy's duel myself. No—more accurately, I watched all the new students' duels."
vanished at the dean's single remark.
The professors knew the dean hadn't been at the freshmen duel site, but they didn't bother pointing it out.
The dean was a rank-8 archmage to begin with.
Rumors even swirled publicly that he'd soon reach rank 9, so he'd undoubtedly observed the duels via magic.
"What did you make of it, Dean?"
"Hmm, how to put it."
At the professor's question—eager for an assessment of Deron—the dean stroked his beard.
He pondered for a moment, then uttered two words.
"Genius... or calamity."
"Pardon? What does that...?"
A heaven-sent talent.
Or a heaven-sent disaster.
The professors all wore puzzled expressions.
Only Ardin's face shifted subtly.
The dean slowly rose from the round table.
There was nothing more to discuss, and sitting still for long didn't suit his temperament anyway.
"This year's freshmen are full of interesting students, all around."
No one dared stop the chuckling dean as he left the conference room.
"Have I ever done anything weird to the Saintess in the past?"
It was the first thought that hit him the moment he returned to the dorm after the tests.
He must have done something terribly wrong.
Otherwise, why would the Saintess look at him with such icy disdain?
He closed his eyes and sifted through his memories, but nothing came up.
So it must have been before possession—something the original Deron did.
"Anyway, that bastard Deron hasn't been helpful at all!"
He muttered through gritted teeth.
What good had Deron ever done him?
The only scraps left were thanks to the Phillasia name, not Deron himself.
All that idiot left him was the standard-issue traits: Genius and Terminally Ill.
"Haa..."
Lately, it felt like he was sighing more often.
A cigarette would hit the spot, but in this terminally ill life, such luxuries weren't allowed.
He considered a drink but chickened out, scared it might shave off his lifespan.
He'd hoped the Saintess could free him from this terminal fate.
Instead, all he got were looks of contempt and scorn.
And now even more rumors piled on top of the existing ones.
'Class B would've been plenty...'
Class A.
No doubt about it.
He was definitely heading to Class A.
Dragging this wretched body around to compete with Class A's geniuses? His head already throbbed.
Ah, but it always hurt anyway.
Knock knock.
At the knock, he rose from his chair.
Probably Petra. When he'd insisted on checking class assignments himself, she'd opposed it fiercely.
He'd been stuck confined to the dorm, unable to budge.
With 119 days left, it was fine...
Ah.
119 days.
After seeing only two digits for so long, three digits had him losing it.
He smacked his head and opened the door.
As expected, Petra stood outside.
Her bright expression suggested she'd made Class A.
"Young Master, congratulations on Class A!"
She entered, and he shut the door right away.
Petra carefully pulled him into a hug.
Her back-patting felt a bit awkward.
The original Deron would've shoved her away, but he wasn't Deron.
She was happy, so he had to accept it.
He slowly returned the embrace.
A touch embarrassing, but the warmth seeping into his cold body wasn't half bad.
After a moment, Petra gently pulled away.
Surprise filled her eyes.
She seemed stunned that Deron had accepted her hug.
"Y-Young Master accepted my hug..."
Petra even shed tears.
Overreacting to one hug? But considering the time she'd spent by Deron's side...
'Practically childhood friends.'
Back when Deron was young—before he grasped the meaning of "terminally ill."
Petra had attended him while he choked down elixirs, his body still frail.
She'd continued her guard training all the while, serving him.
'But then the terminal illness soured Deron's temper.'
No hugs—just angry rebukes, probably.
Now that he wasn't snapping, she was tearing up.
"Petra. I've got a question."
"Yes, ask away. I'll answer anything I can."
"That elixir. What is it exactly? How'd you even get your hands on something like that?"
Black dragon inner core fragment.
A dragon's dan, no less. Conservatively hundreds of years old—thousands, even tens of thousands.
Compared to century-old wild ginseng, its effects were absurd.
A mere fragment granted 200 days and a trait—that said it all.
"Ah... that."
Petra hesitated unusually.
Where'd that "ask anything" bravado go?
"Tough to answer?"
He stared at her pointedly.
Childhood friend, she'd think.
If she hesitated with him, it meant some contract or binding oath.
He didn't want to force her to break a promise just to reveal the black dragon core's source.
Petra nodded at his question.
"Then I won't push. But promise you'll tell me someday."
"Young Master! I..."
"Instead."
A bit cringey, but best to table it for now.
Hoping she'd share her secret one day.
"...Got it."
"Good. Now head out. Classes start tomorrow—I need rest."
"Yes, sleep well."
He shooed Petra out and flopped onto the bed.
A groan escaped naturally.
"Ugh, pretending not to notice is tough."
Outside the door, someone—god knows how they'd snuck in—was leaking faint killing intent.
She'd ignored his hint on purpose to hear her answer.
"Petra might've spilled if I'd pressed."
She couldn't miss his awareness.
Yet she'd hesitated, knowing a colleague or senior lurked by the door.
Waiting it out might've exposed them.
But he didn't want to kill Petra personally.
This was for her sake.
She'd trained relentlessly to become a knight for the duke's dying heir.
If she died over spilling info...
All her efforts would feel so futile.
"Can't have that."
He liked seeing hard work rewarded.
That was why the total party wipe enraged him.
The hero's crew, grinding and striving at the academy—then poof, done.
Wasn't that denying all their effort?
The more he thought, the more it irked him. He spent a moment trash-talking the author in his head.
"Phew... that was close."
Petra muttered as she left Trea Dormitory for the caretakers' exclusive dorm.
If Deron had pressed once more, she would've told him.
"You held out well."
"Good timing on the killing intent. Felt it creep up my back—made it easier. Without it, it's brutal."
Behind her appeared a man in a black hood.
He screamed assassin, but Petra wasn't fazed.
On the contrary, she conversed naturally, as if expecting him.
"How was it? Holding out better than before?"
"Yes, your acting's improved a lot. Should be easier to administer the elixirs now."
"Right?"
Petra flashed a bright smile.
Then she donned the robe the hooded man offered.
She was no longer just Deron Phillasia's maid, Petra.
It was time to return to her role as master of the empire's top intelligence network.
Moon Shadow's Petra.
A full moon hung in the sky,
and Petra and the man vanished into its shadow.