Can You Wield Divinity?
At the summit of the Washburn Mountain Range, in the Demon King's Ancient Castle.
"……Failed. Ra."
Upon a throne built from countless skulls sat a man of androgynous appearance, long hair spilling down, resting his chin on his hand.
Before him stood an undead resembling raw biological dough, featureless in both face and form, speaking in halting, probing bursts.
[Strange indeed.]
The zombie in butler's attire standing beside the throne picked up the thread.
"Alaze."
Magnus, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke.
"The one Gwaegong chased. Who was it?"
"Curious."
Magnus licked his lips.
"So that one has ties to the Death Witch as well. Why, I wonder, would Gwaegong pursue him?"
The Zombie Butler took over.
"That's what bothers me too. Still, our opponent is a cunning Death Witch. We must consider every possibility."
Magnus closed his eyes for a moment, sinking into thought, then spoke.
"For now, keep Lorraine at the very top of our detection priority. At the same time, begin an investigation into Simon Polentia. Anything will do — even the smallest detail."
The Zombie Butler and Alaze bowed their heads and made to withdraw.
"Oh, one more thing."
Magnus opened his mouth again.
"Is that one behaving itself yet? The Ancient Undead of the 7th Legion we captured some time ago."
The Zombie Butler shook his head.
"Hmm. Deeply loyal to a legion that's already been dismantled once, is it? Hardly befits an undead."
With a wave of his hand, Magnus signaled them to go.
'……Ancient Undead.'
Once his two subordinates had withdrawn, Magnus rose from the throne and walked with a leisurely gait to the window, gazing out. Below stretched a mountain range descending in sheer, dizzying slopes.
'For my goal, I will need many more Ancient Undead.'
Only two BMATs now remained — the exams that formed the very spine of the Integrated Second Semester.
Simon's results were more than respectable.
First in the 1st BMAT.
Tenth in the 2nd BMAT.
First in the 3rd BMAT.
Laid out like that, the tenth place in the 2nd BMAT stung a little, but if he could claim a top rank in the 4th and 5th as well, he might just finish his first year as the top student of them all.
'Alright! No resting on my laurels — let's push even harder!'
With a breather before the 4th BMAT, the students eased off the throttle a little and threw themselves into each day's classes.
First up was Divine Defense.
"Today, we shall learn about the curriculum taught at Efnel."
The old man dressed in pristine white hermit's robes, elegantly flicking his folding fan — this was Farahan Imidor, professor of Divine Defense.
Once a bishop of Efnel, he now served as president of the Anti-Holy Federation Association. As the figurehead leading the priests who had defected from the Federation, he was a professor who drew far more attention than even Byeolya, judging by the sheer shock of his appointment alone.
Plenty of students felt a visceral discomfort at the idea of a priest teaching necromancers, or simply disliked Farahan outright — yet no one could deny that his class was genuinely useful.
"The students of Efnel are your greatest enemy, and your greatest obstacle. It would be wise to assume you will cross paths with them four or five times before you graduate."
At Farahan's words, the Class A students swallowed hard, faces taut.
To these boys and girls who had only just become necromancers, priests were beings of the unknown and of dread. For many, that fear had only grown deeper after the ordeal with the Saintess.
"Question."
Just then, one of the boys raised his hand.
Every now and then, students from hardline extremist families would toss out pointed questions like this, deliberately cutting the rhythm of Farahan's lectures.
"Go ahead."
But Farahan actually welcomed students taking an interest in his class and asking questions.
"I don't understand. Why should we need to study something like a priest's curriculum?"
"You will see shortly."
At that moment, another boy shot to his feet without even being given the floor.
"Your intentions are suspect, Professor! Which do you believe produces the finer students — Kizen, or Efnel?"
A question guaranteed to draw flak no matter which side he named.
In truth, it was one of those eternal debates — like asking whether you love your mother or your father more — that could never reach a conclusion.
"I have experienced both Efnel and Kizen."
Farahah stroked his beard and answered in a clear, level voice.
"In raw skill, I would call you evenly matched. But in mental fortitude, you cannot hold a candle to Efnel's young people."
Murmur murmur.
The students began to whisper among themselves. Sensing he had caught the professor in something, the questioner raised his voice.
"Professor! That statement just now—!"
Snap!
In an instant, Farahan pointed his finger at the student. A stream of divinity shot forth like a bullet — and stopped, dead, right before the boy's brow.
"Gahk—!"
The student's eyes went wide. Before he knew it, he was convinced the divinity had skewered him between the brows.
"Just like that."
The boy stood frozen, mouth agape, legs trembling like a leaf. It was plainly visible that his trousers were soaking through.
"The students of Efnel undergo training of a rather inhumane — indeed, rights-violating — intensity. They believe that faith and mental fortitude are the very wellspring of divinity. You, young man, would do well to visit the restroom."
A TA whisked the boy away toward the back of the lecture hall.
Flicking his fan, Farahan returned to the podium.
"Of course, I consider this merely a difference in teaching methodology. When it comes to flexibility and creativity in combat — and the ability to create variables — I believe you are far superior. Now then, back to the lesson."
He walked over to the blackboard at the podium.
"There are seven core disciplines at Efnel."
And then, taking up the chalk, he wrote each word out with painstaking care.
Blessing Studies
Holy Mechanics
Divine Beast Studies
Healing Studies
Protection Studies
Holy Spirit Studies
Holy Martial Arts
Setting down the chalk, Farahan stroked his beard and smiled.
"Doesn't that look rather familiar?"
The students began to stir. Jamie Victoria thrust her arm into the air.
"Jamie Victoria! The top three subjects! The concepts are basically the same as ours — Curse, Jet-Black Mechanics, and Summoning!"
"Well done. Five points on your participation score."
Jamie clenched her fist in delight.
"Just as you choose your majors, the students of Efnel select one of these disciplines. And when you come face to face with a priest, if you observe the white magic they employ with a careful eye, it is no difficult matter to deduce which major they belong to."
Farahah's eyes grew sharp.
"And once you know what kind of specialist your opponent is, that alone grants you a wealth of information. The types of white magic they use, their strengths and weaknesses, their combat style, their temperament — even their attack and defense patterns. All of this information, yours for free, without paying any price at all."
Simon, listening to the lecture, found himself nodding along, unable to help it.
"And now you understand why—"
Setting down the chalk, Farahan smiled.
"—you must know your enemy?"
The lecture hall fell quiet once more.
Professor being a priest aside, Farahan's classes were, as ever, genuinely helpful. That was a fact no one could dispute.
"Fortunately for you, priests rarely delve deeply into how to counter necromancers. The very act of studying something wicked and corrupt is forbidden to them, and they labor under a compulsion never to do anything that might shake their faith even slightly. So all the more reason for you to study them — to carve them up ruthlessly where they are soft. That is how a necromancer, disadvantaged as we are in the elemental matchup, defeats a priest. In the truest sense of the word—"
Farahah tapped the blackboard with his fan and added:
"—necromantically. That is how."
Simon nearly broke into applause. Around him, the other students were swallowing dry gulps one after another.
"Now then, let us examine each discipline in detail."
In truth, Simon already knew nearly everything in this Divine Defense class — he had done the reading.
Before crossing over into the Holy Federation during the break, Lethe had drilled him relentlessly so that the inquisitors wouldn't catch him. Thanks to that, Simon's understanding of the Holy Federation was deep enough to fool all but the sharpest inquisitor.
"Is there a student here who could explain Protection Studies for us?"
Simon raised his hand and answered.
"Simon Polentia. It is a discipline specializing in defense — the deployment of holy barriers and wards."
"Well done. Now, a representative ward-type white magic, if you would—"
"The Praise Barrier. White magic priests use to buy themselves the time to cast blessings. Because it operates in the domain of the subconscious, it can be shattered with a confusion-type curse."
The Divine Defense TAs could be seen clicking their tongues. Who is that kid? their faces said.
Farahah burst into a hearty laugh.
"Well done — no, rather, excellent. Ten points on your participation score."
"Thank you!"
From Simon's perspective, Divine Defense class was nothing more than a slot machine that dispensed points.
Meilin, seated beside him, jabbed him with her elbow and muttered under her breath.
"Hey, what even are you? Since when did you do Divine Defense homework?"
Simon smirked at the look of pure envy on her face.
"I had my reasons."
"Ugh, that is SO unfair! Teach me toooo!"
When the theory lecture ended, they moved straight into practical training.
Today's exercise was taking divinity into the body. The core objective: overcome one's fear of divinity, and learn to drive it out with Jet-Black.
"Uwaaaaagh!"
"Hrk! Hrk!"
The students' reactions exceeded even the poison-drinking sessions of Toxicology.
Even a trace amount of divinity injected into the body was enough to make student after student scream as though their minds were coming apart.
'Focus. Focus.'
Simon was tense in an entirely different sense.
"If it becomes truly unbearable, say so at once."
The TA standing before Simon gripped his arm and let a thread of divinity flow in. The TAs, too, were all former priests.
"Nngh!"
Simon's face went pale.
"A-are you all right?"
"……Ah, yes. For now."
A ragged voice, drenched in agony, spilled out of him — but inside Simon's head, what he actually felt was closer to mild incredulity and embarrassment.
'I swear, the only thing improving is my acting.'
First, he had to act convincingly as though the divinity were tormenting him; second, he had to guard against accidentally using it without meaning to.
Now and then, when he sank too deeply into concentration during Divine Defense class, divinity would suddenly come gushing out of his hand. It had happened once or twice, and by sheer luck no one had caught it. Since then, he'd grown all the more careful, taking extraordinary precautions.
"Heh heh. Hold on a moment."
Just then, Farahan came over.
"I shall instruct this student myself."
"Ah — yes, Professor."
The TA stepped back, and Farahan took Simon's hand and let divinity flow into it.
Simon grimaced.
"All right, then? Divinity and Jet-Black share the same root, in the end. Now — push the divinity out with your Jet-Black. Quickly, now."
"Yes, sir!"
Simon raised his Jet-Black without difficulty and suppressed the divinity that had entered his body.
"Mm. Well done."
He had feigned a failure once, then succeeded on the second try. Farahan nodded in satisfaction and sent Simon back to his seat.
'Was that too fast?'
Simon stared down at his own palm, then shook his head and returned to his place.
And so today's Divine Defense class came to an end as well.
"Steak's on the limited menu today! RUN!"
Dick shouted, tucking his textbook under his arm.
Meilin and Camibarez were already getting ready, and just as Simon rose from his seat—
"Simon Polentia."
A Divine Defense TA called out to him.
"Professor Farahan would like a word."
"Huh?"
Sure enough, off in the distance, Farahan could be seen waiting, idly flicking his folding fan.
"Go on ahead, you two."
Dick's eyes went wide.
"Whoa, what's this? Is it a Direct Disciple offer?"
"Your mouth, your mouth again — zero brain involved. There's no such thing as Direct Disciples for required courses, remember?"
While Dick and Meilin bickered, Simon made his way quickly to Farahan's side.
"Let us go to my office together."
"Ah — yes, sir."
Farahan's office was in the building directly upstairs.
The two of them entered a room of clean white wallpaper and sat facing each other on the sofa.
"Shall we have some tea?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
Farahah nodded — and with a flick, snapped his folding fan open.
At that signal, the room's curtains came sliding shut, the lights went out, and a thick darkness settled over everything. At the same moment, holy magic circles whirred to life, glowing with light.
"P-Professor?"
"Do not be alarmed. A simple arrangement to cut off all sound and sight from outside. Now then — I have just one question to ask you."
Farahah stroked down his beard, and his expression turned utterly grave.
"Can you wield divinity?"