24. 8th Rank

I want to die.

That single sentiment had come to dominate Laura's mental state lately.

Was the work too hard? They would never assign unreasonable tasks to Laura, a daughter of the Edelweiss viscounty. The food supplies management staff were kind, too.

Was it graduate school? She was steadily preparing for that.

Was it because of Adam, then? Adam had been holed up in his office pulling all-nighters for days without going home. Since that was a frequent occurrence, Laura had only regretted missing after-work drinks with a friend—she hadn't thought it strange.

...But, strictly speaking, it really was Adam's fault.

"So, Lady Laura."

"...Director. That makes the seventh time today."

"I am aware. Fully aware. And yet."

"I've already gone up to see the Finance Director six times at your request, and I was turned away every single time. His office is right next to the Chairwoman's, you know. She's certainly figured out why I keep coming up there."

"If even you can't manage it, Lady Laura... then our hope is..."

The middle-aged Food Supplies Management Head sprawled out, complaining of stomach pains. His behavior was somewhat theatrical, but the rest of the food supplies staff looked much the same.

Every last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one of them was groaning, clutching their heads from migraines, or—in at least one case—completely unconscious.

Laura's own desire to die fell squarely into the same category.

This wasn't mental stress.

'Adam... you didn't have a fight with the Chairwoman, did you?'

What she was feeling was pressure—oppressive pressure radiating down from the top floor, from the Chairwoman's office.

The Chairwoman, an 8th Rank, was projecting her Rigid Energy without the slightest restraint. Extreme irritation, profound displeasure, and raw fury were riding that energy straight into the building itself.

The academy had almost no 1st Rank staff to begin with, but the 2nd and 3rd Rank employees had long since fainted dead away. Even the higher-ranked faculty and the staff on the lower floors were suffering migraines, stomach cramps, and worse.

Nobody knew the exact cause. But everyone knew exactly who could fix it.

Adam Caines. Finance Director of Grandis Academy.

If he could rein in the Chairwoman, everything would be fine. It probably would be.

'I'm just as desperate as the department head is.'

Adam had always been the Chairwoman's most trusted confidant, but what Laura had witnessed during the recent emergency budget meeting had surpassed all expectations.

He had walked into the conference room holding the Chairwoman's hand, and the Chairwoman herself had actually blushed—blushed—with embarrassment. In an instant, every rumor and whispered piece of gossip about the Finance Director evaporated.

Because the absurd rumor about him being her secret lover had just been confirmed as fact.

Naturally, a wave of sympathy for Adam followed immediately. The age difference between the two was the sort of thing that made professors and staff alike gape in disbelief. Throughout the continent's history, there had likely been only a handful of couples with an age gap that extreme. Perhaps these two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were the very first.

And so, whenever anything involved the Chairwoman now, Adam Caines's name was invariably invoked—to the point that his reputation—if you could call it that—had skyrocketed.

'So what in the world is the problem?'

Despite pulling all-nighters for days on end with Adam, whom she supposedly adored, the Chairwoman's irritation and fury only grew worse by the day. The accepted theory had hardened into near-certainty: the two of them must be having a lovers' quarrel.

But there was one detail that didn't fit.

'When I went up last time, I saw them through the door... kissing.'

Adam had looked thoroughly unresisting, but then—how exactly was a 1st Rank supposed to resist an 8th Rank? The Chairwoman, visibly embarrassed but utterly determined, had been kissing him.

The words think about the age gap, for heaven's sake had risen all the way to the back of Laura's throat before she suppressed them with superhuman patience. She'd tried to talk things over with Adam, but—

The door was locked and refused to budge. Only the small window set into it offered any glimpse of what lay beyond.

If that were the worst of it, they could count themselves fortunate.

"Ngh, nghaaah!"

Crash-thud!

"...That fellow's failed again. Shouldn't someone help him up? He's a royal messenger, you know."

"Are you in any condition to move, Director...?"

".........Simply fainting sounds more comfortable."

The real problem was this: His Highness Aken Delminos had dispatched a messenger to the academy. By the time the messenger arrived, the Chairwoman had already locked the doors to both her office and the Finance Director's office, radiating fury and irritation all the while.

The messenger had tried desperately to meet with the Chairwoman, but physically and mentally, he simply could not withstand the Chairwoman's violent Rigid Energy. Again and again, he tumbled down the stairs.

At first, everyone panicked and rushed to assist him—he was a royal messenger, after all. But after several days, no one bothered to move anymore.

Because they'd been crushed under that oppressive energy for days themselves. Just moving was an ordeal.

'That messenger... it must be about Beatrice.'

The ordinary staff might not know, but Laura, the second daughter of the Edelweiss viscounty, could easily discern the court's recent leanings. Her father was the Minister of Justice, after all.

She couldn't learn the details, but it was easy enough to guess that Beatrice was the reason the messenger had come.

'Studying abroad in name, a hostage in reality—and I've heard the situation in the Delphia Kingdom has been volatile lately.'

According to what she'd heard, the reigning king had been captured by Grand Duke Wiguk's faction and was slated for execution within days. King Aken Delminos seemed intent on using Beatrice to intervene in that civil war.

...Though ultimately, none of that had anything to do with Grandis Academy, and more to the point, Laura felt as if she herself might be executed at any moment. Her own predicament took priority.

'Come to think of it, those students were looking for Adam too.'

Rus Spero and Chloe Pisti. Both honor students had come to Laura asking about Adam, but she'd had nothing to tell them. They'd reportedly refocused on their studies since then.

She'd heard they were in and out of the student council office every day to meet with the student council president, but that wasn't Laura's concern. Kassandra was her junior, yes, but as noted, Laura's own situation was urgent.

'Adam, you bastard.'

What on earth was he doing...?

*

Glug-glug.

"For my next glass, sparkling water, please."

"Understood."

"Oh, dear me, Model? The next course is steak, so I would recommend a Delphia Kingdom red. Sparkling water might spoil the palate, you see."

"If the 'Skilled Chef' says so, then by all means. I'll have that."

"Naturally."

Meat sizzled before my eyes. I sipped the beverage an old man served me while a maid massaged my shoulders and a child performed little amusing tricks.

What was this, exactly? I felt like some doomed tyrant of a crumbling kingdom. The fact that every one of them was beaming away as if this were the easiest job in the world only made it more unsettling.

Still wearing a sour expression, I turned my head toward the 'Crafty Officer,' who was fanning me with slow, deliberate strokes. I was, of course, lying in bed the entire time.

"Would you mind explaining a few things?"

"You certainly ask quickly."

"I've enjoyed all there is to enjoy for now. What is this place? And that chef Sculpture—he just appeared out of nowhere."

"He didn't 'appear.' His sculpting was completed. That is why he manifested in the workshop."

"...Workshop?"

This place?

Looking around, I saw elegant wallpaper, an array of ornaments, a chandelier, fine carpets, and soft ambient lighting. By any standard, this was a top-tier bedroom.

And this was a workshop?

"Sculpting is an art that requires nothing more than a chisel and hammer. No need to draw lines or apply color specially. So there's no particular need to make one's workshop uncomfortable."

"Then you sculpt in here? But that chef simply appeared out of nowhere."

"Surely you don't imagine this room is the entirety of the workshop. Open that door and step outside, and you'll find countless more rooms just like this one. Models arrive, are sculpted, completed, and sent on their way—all through those rooms. Sculptures may move freely within the workshop, which is why they seem to appear from nowhere."

"...For something like that to be possible, wouldn't it require something on the scale of the Magic Tower the Archmage built?"

"Of course it would. I could sculpt the Archmage, but the result would be worse than not sculpting her at all. What makes this possible is the fact that the workshop itself is a sculpture. The work is titled 'Infinite Rooms.'"

The name Sculptor really did carry weight. Even this room was a sculpture?

So did that make this bed a sculpture too? Well, if you could sculpt a person, why not a plush bed?

But I'd heard the Sculptor had no physical body to speak of. So who had sculpted the chef?

"That expression—you're wondering who sculpted him. Simple. All of 'us' sculpt."

"So you're saying... each individual Sculpture can continuously produce other Sculptures?"

"They must pass a rigorous internal review first—inspiration, completeness, artistic aesthetic, embedded meaning, outward appearance, and various other exacting criteria—but yes."

This was insane. It was practically a Sculpture legion.

If each one produced just one more, their numbers would double every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time. No wonder Sculptures were scattered across the entire continent.

From the sound of it, they couldn't just churn them out arbitrarily—there were stringent standards to meet. If that weren't the case, the Sculptor wouldn't be an 8th Rank; they'd be the continent's top-priority extermination target. A terrorist.

"Wait—then are there other models like me in the other rooms?"

"Naturally."

"...And what happens to the models once the work is finished?"

"What happens? They are sent back, of course. I can see from your expression—did you imagine the primary material for sculpting was people?"

"Well, I mean..."

"Let us not misunderstand each other. The primary material is marble blended from magic stones and various other substances. People are materials used only when necessary. Certain works require a model's heart, brain, eyes, or internal organs to achieve the requisite vitality and emotional depth."

"............."

The Archbishop had told me that several bishops of the Wish Order had been 'hunted' by the Sculptor.

Their body parts—or their entire bodies—had undoubtedly been used in sculptures. To the Sculptures, it was simply using necessary materials for their art. To the victims, the perspective was entirely different.

I had to remember: I was dealing with the most eccentric and demanding 8th Rank on the continent.

'Keep a trump card ready at all times.'

So.

"One more question."

"What is it?"

"You keep mentioning work titles. Are they that important?"

"Important? They are akin to the meaning of life itself for us. Just as the one massaging your feet is the 'Innocent Maid,' the one grilling your steak is the 'Skilled Chef,' and the one running errands without a single complaint is the 'Kindly Old Man.' A work title is our life, our reason for being."

"So is that why you've been sweeping mana across my heart this whole time while pretending to explain things to me? 'Crafty Officer'?"

"Hm. Sharp, aren't you? A 1st Rank ought to be oblivious to such things."

That was because the Sacred Relic of the Heart and the scabbard had been reacting to a peculiar mana signature for a while now. I had no mana of my own, and none of the other Sculptures in this room possessed any either—so the culprit could only be this officer.

Mere Sculptures, yet they conversed like people, thought, schemed, and even wielded mana.

None of them could match the Chairwoman individually, but the Sculptor itself—the Sculptor was a genuine monster.

The officer withdrew the hand he'd been channeling mana through, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between us.

At last, the door opened and 'Untitled' walked in.

"Sorry! Took a while! Some of the Sculptors who haven't seen you in person got fussy about it."

"Well, I don't know much about hearts either! Crafty Officer, did you find anything?"

"I engaged him in conversation and probed him from the start, but nothing in particular was discovered. Untitled, as the Innocent Maid said—is there truly something inside this model's heart?"

"I'm a sculpture developed in the spiritual sense! There is absolutely something in his heart!"

"Then..."

Shing.

The Crafty Officer drew the saber from his waist.

Without hesitation, he brought the blade's tip to my chest.

"Shall we extract it first, then? The heart would make suitable material for sculpting."

"Wait, hold on!"

"Why resist? To become material for a Sculpture is a glorious thing. Accept it."

"That's not the point—I haven't received my payment yet. The compensation for being a model."

"...Hm."

"Right—that's why I went and fetched it. The heart can come out later."

I decided to set aside, for the moment, the chilling implication that the heart would indeed be coming out eventually.

Untitled approached me with something bundled in a sack and smiled.

...She was still smiling, but her face was so utterly ordinary that you'd forget its shape between blinks.

"Here, take this. It should be sufficient."

'Sufficient for what?'

The moment they extracted my heart, no payment could ever be sufficient. I'd already guessed their ulterior motive, so I kept my trump card ready and, feigning compliance, looked inside the sack.

"—Holy fuck."

"How about that?"

Inside were... pearls. Perfectly round, immaculate pearls, each nearly the size of a fist, filling the entire sack.

I'd squeezed some pearls out of the Archmage before, but those were nothing compared to these. I genuinely wanted to ask where the hell she'd gotten them.

Well, if I could survive having my heart removed, it was certainly enough money to make handing it over worthwhile.

"I truly appreciate this, but I want a different form of payment."

"You're sure you've put the sack aside? Your eyes are still following it."

"That's just instinct."

"A different payment, you say? That was the most valuable thing we can offer."

"It's fine. This payment won't cost you any money."

Why had I let myself be captured so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meekly in the first place, conserving my trump card?

I didn't know where the Archbishop had been separated and imprisoned, and I had my doubts about whether my trump card would be delayed inside this so-called workshop—a sculpture in its own right.

But I'd taken all those risks because this was an opportunity.

"What sort of payment, then?"

"A commission."

"Huh?"

"I'd like to commission some sculptures. At least five, with the condition that I determine their work titles."

"...You want to decide the work titles in advance?"

"Yes. The work titles I want are——"

Something more valuable than anything I'd earned in this kingdom on the brink of civil war. Something I had always wanted.

Kirke, Milia, and Professor Alon had filled the gap a little, but it was still nowhere near enough.

Not just what I needed to pull the academy back from the brink of bankruptcy—but what I needed to sustain it.

"——Subordinates who never draw a salary, never clock out, never take vacations, carry out any task without complaint, and consistently deliver top-quality results."

That, and only that, was the payment I wanted.

Untitled wore an expression of genuine, considerable bewilderment—a rare sight. Still utterly ordinary, though.

"That modifier is way too long..."