Second Semester at the Academy (3)

If you asked any commoner student currently enrolled at Soul Academy who they respected most within its walls, the answer would almost always be one of two people.

One of them was Phoebe, the Saintess of the Church of the Main God.

Despite her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lowly birth, she had been chosen by God and raised to the seat of Saintess, making her a living symbol of hope for commoners everywhere.

There was the way she maintained her humility even after attaining a station that kings themselves could not treat casually.

There was her overwhelming ability, worthy of the title of Saintess.

There was her beauty, striking enough to catch the eye even from a great distance.

There were many reasons she was so beloved, but for commoners, the truest reason was her nobility of spirit.

The standing of commoners on the continent today was not a high one.

Most people believed that those born as commoners owed their lives to serving the nobility from the moment they drew breath.

A handful of exceptionally talented individuals had clawed their way to fame and become symbols of success, but those were, without exception, extraordinary cases.

The vast majority of commoners spent their days pondering not how to live happily, but how to survive at all.

Phoebe was the savior of such unfortunate souls.

From the very moment she became Saintess, she had walked into the very places where death lurked.

To those starving under famine.

To those bleeding out, caught in the jaws of war.

To those born in back alleys who scraped by on their wits until, one day, they simply vanished.

To those struck down by calamity, left without even a grave to mark their passing.

Commoners did not know what the Saintesses of old had been like.

But they knew what the current Saintess was.

To them, Phoebe was a symbol of hope—living proof that God existed in this world.

Among the commoners who had witnessed her work up close, some had even gone so far as to equate her with God Himself. That alone told you the scale of the influence she commanded.

And if that was who Phoebe was, then who was the man competing with her for the commoners' hearts—Professor Luka?

A disadvantaged child raised in an orphanage, who started from the very bottom and clawed his way into Soul Academy on the strength of acknowledged talent and skill.

A man whose exploits across countless battlefields after graduation only reinforced the saying that among the Academy's commoner alumni, there might be differences in ability, but never a lack of it.

An educator who became the youngest professor in Soul Academy's history and went on to produce generation after generation of brilliant talent.

A man of principle who judged people solely by their ability, never by their class.

Among all who had passed through the Academy, almost no one spoke ill of Professor Luka.

Commoner students especially so. For those who harbored insecurities about their own station, Luka was an object of aspiration—of genuine reverence.

Those searching for hope looked to Phoebe; those burning with ambition looked to Professor Luka.

Phoebe loved all people equally, and so never gave any one of them more than a certain measure of her grace. Luka was different. He would favor those he cherished without hesitation, guiding his disciples down the road to success.

The talented. Those trapped inside stone, waiting for the day they would be carved and polished. Those who, once in bloom, would shake the continent with their names.

Luka reached out his hand to these people. And he polished them into gems, letting their names resound across the world.

No one knew exactly how he did it—but that those gems now wielded influence across every corner of the continent was an undeniable fact.

And so, anyone who entered the Academy could not help but hope that Professor Luka would reach out his hand to them—that he would take the rough stone of their lives and complete it into a gem.

Such was the fever pitch of their devotion that on the day the second semester began, when Professor Luka visited the classroom, many a face flushed red with anticipation.

Everyone wanted to know who would receive Luka's grace and be transformed into a shining gem. Everyone secretly hoped it might be them.

But the countless people watching Professor Luka's every movement never received the reward their hope deserved.

Because the footsteps of Professor Luka came to a stop in front of a girl who sat resting her chin on her hand, the very picture of indifference.

"Lady Aln. Might I have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a word with you?"

In a way, this was an entirely predictable outcome.

If you asked who had displayed the most brilliant talent among this year's incoming class, there was only one name anyone would give.

Lucy Aln.

Once called the disgrace of House Aln.

Now a monster proving that the blood of Aln knew no such thing as failure.

Ever since entering the Academy, Lucy Aln had written herself a legend without pause—and in just half a year, she had transformed from a villainess despised by everyone into a divine marvel on whom the entire kingdom had its eyes.

Her talent. Her radiance. These were what forged the worth of the person called Lucy Aln.

Luka loved the talented beyond all reason. How could such a man fail to take interest in Lucy Aln—a living concentration of shining talent?

It was so obvious that those who had been taking bets on who would earn Professor Luka's attention said it made them want to die of boredom.

The noble students who watched him let out sighs of of course—but the commoner students were different.

What they felt was jealousy.

Jealousy toward nobles who, unlike commoners—for whom a single missed opportunity meant vanishing into nothing forever—could simply reach out and pluck another chance from a hundred.

Jealousy toward a talent that blazed too brilliantly to deny.

And above all—jealousy toward the one person who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠monopolized the attention of the two beings they yearned for, revered, and longed to draw close to: Phoebe and Luka.

At the Academy, commoners mostly stuck together and kept their bonds tight. Otherwise, they could never survive against the nobles.

And the hottest topic burning through the sprawling commoner community—spanning every year, senior and junior alike—had lately been the Saintess herself.

Isn't the Saintess playing favorites with Lucy Aln a bit too much these days?

The ripple effects of that single remark were anything but light.

The commoners of the Academy understood.

Even a Saintess—noble, exalted—was still one human being.

And therefore they understood how cruel it was to demand that she love everyone equally.

That if they truly cared for Phoebe, they should wish for her happiness no matter what choice she made.

But knowing a thing in your head and feeling it in your heart were two entirely different matters.

The Saintess rebuked those who spoke ill of Lucy Aln.

That's fine.

The Saintess shared a meal with Lucy Aln.

That's fine too.

She trained alongside her.

That's fin—

She went out into the city with her.

That's fi—

They cleared dungeons together.

That's—

Not only did she enjoy the festival at her side, she defended Lucy Aln in front of the most powerful figures at that very party.

Tha—

She openly declared Lucy Aln her friend.

Th—

That was who Lucy Aln was.

Someone the Saintess clearly cherished.

Someone who could never help but stick in the commoners' craw.

And now Luka's hand had reached out to that person. How could anyone's eyes stay level?

"And why exactly should I listen to a bottom-feeder professor like you? No thanks."

Her response to Luka's offer was a sight to behold, too.

A bottom-feeder professor. To call a man who might represent the single chance of a lifetime a piece of trash—and to refuse the offer he'd made!

"My lady. Would you care to reconsider? This is an important matter."

The sharp glares of the commoners each carried their own name.

Jealousy. Hatred. Hostility. Resentment.

A boiling fury asking why—when you were born with everything—did you have to take even the little scraps that belonged to us?

You pathetic excuse of a Chieeeeeef God! You absolute son of a biiiitch!

I grumbled for like five seconds and you're already retaliating?! Is this even legal?!

Did I do anything wrong to you? No, I didn't! I mocked you because you deserved to be mocked! That's it!

If your reputation among these people had reflected well on me, I wouldn't have said a single word!

The more I think about it, the more unfair it is.

Why is it that when YOU pull some bizarre stunt on me, I just have to swallow it—but when I whine at you about it, I get punished?

Because you're a god?

Are you throwing your weight around just because you're some absolute being compared to us mortals?!

Just you wait. One day I'll make you regret ever choosing me as your Apostle—regret ever messing with me at all.

"Lady Aln?"

I'd been grinding my teeth in silent fury when Luka's voice snapped me back to reality.

"Have you perhaps changed your mind?"

You have no idea, Luka. Until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a moment ago I was the one holding all the cards—but now I'm the one holding the short end of the stick. Whatever trial you dream up, I have no choice but to obey.

That much is obvious. And I have zero intention of telling you.

Because if this madman found out, I can't even begin to imagine what he'd order me to do.

Who knows? For all I know, the Luka of this world might be a perverted lolicon just like the pathetic Chief God, and his trial might be for me to put on a maid outfit and serve him hand and foot.

"A mesugaki maid who hurls abuse at you like a worthless Chief God but obeys your every command? LOVE IT!"—yeah, he might be spouting stuff like that.

I know. I know I'm saying insane things right now.

But if I don't think even ridiculous nonsense like this, it's all just too goddamn bleak to bear!

'Fine. I'll come, Professor Luka.'

"Dragging yourself after a girl young enough to be your kid? I thought you were a mongrel, but turns out you're a pedo professor? What's the agenda, grooming? Kyaa~ what a creep~"

"...That is most certainly not it, Lady Aln. I merely—"

Watching sweat bead down the face of Luka—who always wore that perfectly composed expression—coaxed a laugh right out of me.

This is why you shouldn't do the mesugaki bit...

No. Calm down.

However badly my mind is slipping, I can't let myself get sucked into that.

This is all the pathetic Chief God's scheme! Am I seriously going to give that guy exactly what he wants?!

NO I'M NOT!

'Just kidding. Lead the way.'

"I know. I was just messing with you. The way you panicked, though? And you're the adult? Pathetic. Whatever. Since the pedo professor is groveling this hard, I'll grace you with my company."

"My lady. I am not a pedo professor. I am Luka."

I know. I know, but I can't exactly call you that. If it bothers you so much, why don't you go ahead and delete the Mesugaki skill yourself.

Haaa. Think positive. Positive.

Right now, Luka rates my talent extremely highly. The way he's clinging to try to keep me makes that obvious.

So if I play my cards right, maybe I can steer the trials he gives me in the direction I want. A direction that actually helps me grow.

In the game, all I could do was pray for good quests—but this is reality, isn't it?

Get stronger. Strong enough to make the pathetic Chief God tremble and the petty evil god wring his hands in panic.

And then I'll storm the divine realm myself and see the pathetic Chief God's face with my own two eyes.

What kind of face does a guy who spends eternity pulling perverted stunts have? I don't need to look to guess.

I'll curse him out while staring straight into that face. I'll watch it flush beet red—that disgusting, reviling bastard's face.

I swear it. On my life!