The Slit-Eyed Professor's Temptation
The heroine's hand was soft and moist. It had happened right after class ended.
"Cadet Ian Ashy. Care to join me for a cup of tea in my office?"
Her tone was polite, but considering she was a professor at the Imperial Academy, it was basically a kidnapping notice for the poor sap on the receiving end.
And just like that, I was dragged off to a professor's office tucked away in the corner of the academy's annex.
This is that cliché.
The one that always pops up in academy novels at least once. You spot some talented newbie, the veteran professor drags them into the lab with a half-smile, locks the door with a click, and says something like, "From today onward, you're my grad student. No arguments."
Usually, it's a bespectacled beauty of a professor or a grumpy-but-tsundere old codger doing the kidnapping, right? But I'd transmigrated into a romance fantasy aimed at women!
Why on earth did heaven drop me into a rofan, of all places? And as an ero-manga artist, no less!
Anyway, I swallowed my grievances for the moment.
The man sitting across from me sent a different kind of chill down my spine.
Beyond the heavy mahogany desk, a man sat with his back to the backlight filtering through the window. He slowly turned his head toward me through the steam rising from his teacup.
His eyes curved into thin slits, forming what looked like a kind, gentle smile at first glance—but it carried an unknowable chill, the classic face of a "slit-eyed middle-aged character."
Whoa, shit. Is this guy a mastermind?
I know you shouldn't judge by appearances, but phrenology-wise? That face screams ninety-nine percent chance he's researching forbidden black magic in the academy basement or serving as an executive in a secret society sacrificing cadets every night. The moment those eyes snap open, he ascends to world-topping powerhouse status and blocks the protagonist's path as the Act 1 final boss!
The nameplate outside read "Hampton, Honorary Professor," but to me, it might as well have said "Lower Your Guard and Die."
I swore I caught a sharp glint flashing through those narrow slits.
If I got kidnapped as this guy's master's student (read: slave)? Human experimentation fodder for sure.
The man slid the teacup toward me with long, elegant fingers, speaking in a low, resonant baritone.
"No need to be tense. I've got some fresh leaves with a lovely aroma—"
"I'll say it upfront: I'm not joining any research lab."
I cut him off before the door even fully closed, not even glancing at the cup in case it was laced with poison.
Hampton's lips twisted up in a bizarre smirk. The air seemed to grow heavy as the slit-eyed guy chuckled silently—an illusion, maybe.
"Rest assured. I have no intention of forcing you."
"Really?"
"Yes. Your little tale from earlier was compelling enough to make me want you in my lab, but good writing doesn't come from locking someone up against their will. A cadet's opinion must be respected."
Oh. More reasonable than expected. Not the mad scientist type who starts with abduction and imprisonment, then.
Noticing the tension ease from my shoulders, Hampton leisurely adjusted his glasses and continued.
"Instead, I called you here with another proposal."
"Another proposal?"
"How about entering a contest? Salon Valenti is hosting a short story literature competition right now. It's not a massive one, but—"
...A contest?
I shook my head without a second's hesitation.
"No thanks."
"Quite firm. May I ask why?"
Why? Simple and brutally realistic.
"Pure literature doesn't pay the bills."
Even my specialty—ero-manga—barely keeps me fed when I pour artisan effort into every panel and sell them anonymously at premium black market prices. No need to guess how "pure lit" gets treated.
"Ah."
Hampton's smile deepened, a strange flicker of interest gleaming from his narrowed eyes.
"For reference, the grand prize is 10 million krone."
"Oh, count me in."
My mouth answered with pure capitalist reflex, bypassing my brain entirely.
"Where do I sign up?"
"Heh heh—."
Hampton finally let out a chuckle, shoulders shaking as he failed to hold it back.
Quit laughing like that! You look like you're plotting something!
"Excellent. Motivated by money, are you? I completely understand. Art can only be sustained on a full stomach and a full purse, after all."
He took a sip from his cup, then added in a meaningful tone.
"Though masterpieces often bloom from poverty and desperation."
I bristled inwardly.
Hey, you. Don't say that with those soft eyes and that gentle smile.
It sounded like: Spit out a masterpiece right now, or I'll make sure you starve!
...Is he actually a mastermind?
I pondered it seriously for a moment. Slit eyes, inscrutable literature professor, soft-spoken words laced with thorns. Perfect mastermind checklist.
But I shook it off internally.
Nah. What mastermind would lurk in our dust-mite-infested, broke-ass Art Department?
Artists can't be masterminds without one prerequisite: dropping out of college. Channel that dropout rage into politics, become führer, and wish for total war on your people... or whatever. Anyway.
Golden Chains does have a mastermind, but considering the conditions, this guy's unlikely. The Act 1 main episode is coming up soon—a brutal one with deaths and injuries galore. Gotta stay vigilant, but...
No need to overthink it yet.
Glancing aside, I spotted stacks of books on the massive mahogany table. Gold leaf on the covers suggested proper hardcover editions from a magic printer, not cheap back-alley pamphlets.
"Those your books, Professor?"
"Yes. Some old publications of mine."
Oh. Print quality's no joke. Paper feels premium, binding's clean and precise. Perfect reference for when I snag a printer for mass doujinshi copies—wanted to dissect the structure.
"Mind if I take one for reference?"
"Of course. Help yourself."
"Thanks."
I grabbed the top one.
"Feel free to share your thoughts after reading it."
Hampton said, propping his chin on interlaced fingers.
"If it's fun, sure."
He burst into another pleasant laugh at my shameless reply.
'Short, but perfect.'
After Ian Ashy left, Hampton smiled quietly to himself, recalling the air in the now-empty classroom.
People often mistake epic sagas for harder to write than short stories. The sheer length, vast world-building, tangled cast—it seems obvious on the surface.
But the truth of writing often points the opposite way.
The shorter the piece, the less room to hide the author's raw face. Every sentence, breath, fleeting scene must compress the work's essence.
"Ultra-short" form is brutally unforgiving.
Yet that vulgar boy had silenced a classroom full of haughty noble brats with a tale from his lips—mere minutes, ten at most.
Without florid rhetoric or forced pity.
'Did he make it up on the spot?'
Hampton slowly tapped the rim of his teacup.
'No.'
No talent from heaven could produce that density and polish from mere improvisation. Ian Ashy must have cherished and honed that story deep in his heart for years, pen never idle despite poverty. Which meant not just talent, but obsessive diligence and madness for art.
"A truly tempting talent."
Leaning back, Hampton gazed out the window at the rundown, leaky Art Department annex abandoned in the academy's corner.
Most mocked it as a den of frivolity, but he knew the truth.
Art is magic.
The most primal, potent spell to dominate minds and stir souls.
Wasn't that proven most desperately by this poor department's pink-haired head, Lucy Blossom Everpink?
Art and magic share profoundly deep roots.
Yet the arrogant Empire always belittles art, prizing only aura-infused blades, raw power numbers, and the Mage Tower's destructive might.
'Those who neglect the human soul and art.'
A cold glint flashed through Hampton's slits.
'They'll pay for that hubris someday. Cataclysm always sparks from the 'worthless' emotions humans trample most.'
It was as I closed the office door and stepped into the hallway.
"...Huh?"
I froze mid-step.
At the opposite corner, a familiar cascade of radiant silver hair caught my eye.
What the—? Why's she here?
Arina Saint, this novel's main heroine and grand saintess. Her eyes were puffy and red, leaning against the hallway wall. Anyone could tell she'd been bawling her eyes out in some corner moments ago.
I reflexively ducked my head.
'Gotta bolt.'
My survival rule numero uno: Never tangle with the core cast.
No flags besides death ones stand to rise from messing with her. Her obsessive yandere prince fiancé, Leonhardt Bell, is gunning for my neck.
Hold up.
Would she even tangle with me? Arina's the extreme people-avoider type. Scenes where she initiates conversation... don't exist in the original, I think. She barely chats with the male lead, frustrating readers to no end.
'Dodging suspiciously might draw attention instead.'
Play it brazen, then. I'm Ian Ashy, third-rate nobody extra.
As I sauntered past—
"Oh? Ian Ashy-nim?"
"..."
"It's Ian Ashy-nim, right?"
"Wrong guy."
"No, it really looks like... "
Damn it. What the hell. How do you even know my name?
"Creative Theory class—you're Ian Ashy-nim, aren't you?"
Okay, my debut was flashy, but striking up convo over that? From ultimate loner introvert Arina Saint?
"What the hell kind of plot logic does this damn rofan have...?"
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Just mumbling to myself. Nice meeting you, Saintess. See ya. Adios."
Don't talk to me anymore, don't—
As I muttered and passed—
Chin—!
Something soft and moist gripped my hand.
Looking down, the saintess's hand was clutching mine.
Hey. Aren't you the sweet potato heroine who needs three whole chapters just to hold the male lead's hand?