Your Mother Died
"Did your mother pass away?"
"...I'm not changing departments."
"R-Really?"
"Yes."
Lucy, the dean who'd been acting like a dumped mentaller, brushed off some dust and stood up.
"For real, right? Like, really real? Hey, promise me?"
"Want to pinky swear?"
I held out my pinky, and suddenly the dean's face turned beet red as she stammered.
"Th-That... that's too soon, I think."
Too soon for what?
Whatever. My sincerity must've gotten through, because her expression quickly melted into a goofy grin.
"Hehe. Then listen up while I, the dean, explain everything about the Art Department. People never listen when I talk, though."
That's probably because your voice is too quiet, you lack confidence, and you stutter.
Instead of pointing that out, I focused elsewhere. Thanks to the dean, a great idea had popped into my head.
Getting done while pinned in place isn't bad at all.
You know, those wall-slam or door-trap mangling positions where she goes 'ahh~ ahh~' helplessly.
Gotta use that later.
Ideas like this slip away if you don't jot them down. I pulled out my notebook, and for some reason, tears welled up in the dean's eyes.
"Why are you crying all of a sudden?"
"It's j-just... you're the f-first student to take my explanation seriously and even t-take notes. Sniff."
I'd misjudged her. But did I really need to correct her?
Sometimes, the world needs its beautiful misunderstandings. I gave her a thumbs up.
"Ehehe...!"
The dean let out a creepy little laugh and thumbs-upped me back. Then she suddenly cleared her throat.
"A-Anyway, that's the end of the tour. Classes are that way. I've got a p-part-time job, so I'm off. Study hard, okay?"
"...A part-time job?"
The dean working a part-time gig? My memory flashed to the crystal orb she'd promised to pay me back for.
That thing—sure, the department probably had funds to cover it, right?
"Don't tell me it's because of me?"
Lucy's eyes shook.
"Y-Yeah. Cr-crystal orbs are... expensive. We don't have the money."
I hadn't realized the Art Department was this broke. Still, something felt off.
"That probably doesn't even cost 1 million crowns."
"Huh? Really? Only 1 million?"
"Yup. It's just mass-produced stuff."
"Phew... what a relief."
Lucy let out a genuine sigh of relief.
"How much were you bracing to pay?"
"T-Ten million?"
She was gonna shell out that much for me? My opinion of her shot up a notch—from "shabby nerd dean" to "shabby nerd dean, but actually pretty decent."
"Then you don't need to do the part-time thing, right? We can scrape together 1 million crowns somehow."
"Uh, um? B-But one shift should cover it, I think?"
I stopped in my tracks.
She still needed to do it? This department didn't even have 1 million crowns?
And more importantly...
"What kind of part-time job pays 1 million crowns per shift?"
My eyes naturally scanned Lucy's figure. Small. Young-looking. Pink hair. And cute to boot.
Suddenly, the dirtiest possibilities exploded in my mind like fireworks.
"...These fantasy lolicons."
"N-Nooo! It's not like thaaat!"
The dean jumped up, face flaming red.
"I didn't even say what I was thinking."
"Your faaace! Your face said it allll!"
Suspicious. Very suspicious. Especially given her build.
I sighed and finally said,
"Forget it. I'll earn the 1 million crowns myself."
I hadn't meant to burden her that much. I do have a conscience. I'd just assumed a dean could cover it from department funds.
All-nighter grinding it is.
I hated pulling all-nighters, but it was my mess—I'd own up to it.
As I steeled myself—
Whoosh. A shift in the air, and suddenly the dean was in front of me, finger raised.
"Hey now!"
Her face was stern as hell. The problem? It came off more cute than imposing.
She cleared her throat softly and thumped her flat chest. Thud. Thud.
"Leave it to this dean."
The hollow echo was kinda pitiful, but I'd trust her. Doubting her would be rude.
Nobles live and die by their pride, after all. It definitely wasn't because she was dodging an all-nighter. For real.
"Got it."
"Good. Be a good student and hit those classes."
Lucy beamed proudly and pointed down the hall. At the end stood an ancient wooden door. The hinges looked rusted—even from here, it seemed to creak.
"That's the creative writing classroom."
"Creative writing?"
"Yup. The flower of the Art Department."
Flower? More like a dandelion in the ruins.
"Go on in!"
With that, Lucy waved wildly and scampered off.
Creeeak— The handle to the Art Department's flower garden let out a rusty groan as I pushed it open.
The door creaked wide. And there—a pitch-black shadow.
"...Hm?"
Was it stuck? I looked up. Nope. A massive guy was just blocking it.
He towered a head above me, shoulders broad enough to scrape the frame, and most strikingly, black horns protruded from both sides of his forehead.
'A demon?'
What the hell was he doing here? Before I could dig through the world's lore—
The guy spotted me and bellowed,
"Hey, newbie!!!"
Thud. Thud. His voice was so booming the door rattled.
"Is your passion for art the real deal!!!"
"...Huh?"
"I asked if it's real!!!"
I glanced behind him. A handful of other students sat in the classroom, arms crossed, watching like it was a show.
'Class in session?'
Maybe this was some hazing ritual for newbies.
"Create a novel!!! Give us your first line!!!"
The giant demon's words made it crystal clear.
And first lines, huh.
"The first line is crucial! It's the face of your work, the hook that grabs the reader!"
Shut up. Be quiet. I'm thinking.
Luckily, I had an invincible database of modern Earth novels in my head—no plagiarism beef possible.
And the most famous opening line? The Stranger.
Yeah. Perfect for this.
"Slowpoke newbie! A true creator spits out a first line anytime, anywhere!"
Problem was, this loud bastard kept derailing my recall.
What was it exactly? Mom died? When? Today? Yesterday?
Wait—whose mom again?
"You! Newbie! Youuuu! Say it nooow!!!"
You? Oh. Right.
The line clicked, and my mouth opened.
"Your mom died."
And the giant demon's face slowly twisted in front of me.
"...This fucker?"
The demon's face turned beet red in an instant.
Serves you right for picking a fight. Acting all senior-hazing like, but not on me.
'Wait a sec.'
Korean Confucian blood runs in these veins. Seniors disciplining juniors? Totally traditional and acceptable.
'Cause I'd do the same to any underclassmen I get.
'In that case.'
Fine. I'd play along with the hazing. Might as well make it touching.
A heartfelt tale starting with 'Your mom died'... Ah. Got it.
I grinned and said,
"Oh. My bad."
The demon senior growled.
"Fine. Last chance, newbie."
"Thanks, senpai."
"Spit it out."
I paused a beat, then spoke in a calmer tone.
"Your mother has passed away."
"This fucker again—!"
The others rushed to hold back the charging demon.
"Grab him! Hold that bastard!"
"It's been forever since we got a newbie—gonna beat him already?!"
"If the newbie transfers out, it's on you!!"
Aha. Newbies were rare here. Perfect stage.
I stepped into the classroom and began.
A worn lectern comes into view. Dim sunlight filters through, illuminating swirling dust motes beyond. An atmosphere that's somehow nostalgic and serene—a scene straight out of a novel crystallizes before my eyes.
From this moment, I'm no creator. Just a narrator calmly conveying the story taking shape ahead.
"Your mother has passed away. Whether it was a year ago or two, I can't quite recall."
A vivid image rises in my mind. A child crying. A sorrowful wail held back until it bursts.
And someone watching that child.
"That's when I stopped counting days. I began remembering only the days you cried... and the days you didn't."
In the classroom—someone swallows hard. Good flow. Keep it steady and understated.
"Everyone said time would heal it. But what a joke. Time passed, yet you still wouldn't eat, and every night you'd turn off the lights and breathe so softly it was like you were gone."
—
"Sniff!"
Someone in the room let out a big sob. We hadn't even hit the sad part yet—crying already? Nearly broke the tempo, but I regained my composure.
I closed my eyes slowly. A house materialized—dusty and lonely.
"So I went to your house. At first, I made excuses. 'Brought side dishes,' 'Checking your homework,' 'Seeing if you're doing laundry right'—you were such a slob. Those were my alibis. All lies, really."
I twisted a long-cherished idea. Maybe a prequel. A tale of two kids unaware of each other's feelings.
Turning the original's lewdness into heartfelt emotion—a sad story.
"Truth was, I just hated seeing you alone and lonely."
This is a story about a childhood friend who lost her family.
"So, one day when you can laugh freely again—call my name first thing."
The classroom fell silent as I finished. Eerily so—like I'd bombed.
And the next instant—
"—Sniff!"
Starting from the sobs I'd heard throughout—
"Waaah...!"
"Hic... sniff!"
The whole room dissolved into tears.
No way. Weren't nobles supposed to live and die by pride?
'Was it that sad?'
Some cries had totally abandoned dignity.
"Ugh—hic... sob!"
Panicking, I glanced around—the demon senior who'd tried to punch me earlier was clutching his face, shoulders heaving.
Dude. Why are you crying the loudest? With that macho build.
As I awkwardly scratched my head—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Applause from the back, near a rickety desk. Glasses, middle-aged—probably the professor.
"Excellent."
He spoke with genuine admiration.
"Loss and salvation, pure affection for an old friend— you hit it spot on."
The professor nodded, moved.
"That's talent, Ian. Drawing emotion without flashy prose. It's... splendid. Like the uniform you're wearing."
I smiled faintly and bowed my head.
"You're too kind."
"Humble, too."
Nah, not really. My real talent's in the lewd stuff.
As I muttered that internally and looked up—
"...Huh?"
I froze.
Beyond the squinting glasses prof's shoulder. In the far back. By the window with slanted sunlight—a presence that shouldn't be here sat, silver hair gleaming.
Tears streamed from violet eyes.
"Sniff!"
Arina Saint. This novel's heroine.
Why the hell are you here?
"Hic... sniff!"
And you'd been crying from the start?!