A Jar of Mare's Milk Wine

This was a class where a student could only earn a Pass by completing a ghoul's Long Song through live practice alone—no rehearsals permitted.

At first the students seemed to be floundering, but they were second-years who had survived cutthroat competition, and they had the grit to prove it. One way or another, they bent the given circumstances to their will.

On average, it took about six ghouls before a student finally grasped the Long Song and managed to bring down their modified skeleton.

The named students, unsurprisingly, excelled at the Long Song as well. Hector finished in four ghouls, and Asseraz cut it off at a staggering two.

The most extraordinary performance came from Loraine, who could no longer use her powers. Yet she remained confident in her undead control alone, and she staged a magnificent spectacle—subduing a modified skeleton with truly no Long Song at all.

When the assignment had first been explained, it had seemed like an impossible hurdle. The result, astonishingly, was that all fifty-two students passed. Even the weakest performer of the class left only a single ghoul behind before grinding out a successful Long Song.

"Great work, my dears!"

"Well done!"

The twin professors, Rin and Rune, called the students together. Everyone was mentally frayed at the edges, but their eyes shone bright with the thought that, at the very least, they would be able to sit tomorrow's practical in one piece.

"Tomorrow afternoon, there will be a practical exam using ghouls!"

"Only ghouls bearing the official stamp may be used in the exam, but if you'd like a little more preparation, feel free to practice with ordinary ghouls!"

"That's all for today's class!"

"See you all~"

The students bowed their heads.

"Thank you for your instruction!"

Alight with color.

Yellow and red leaves, each bursting with its own personality, drifted down in tranquil procession.

Crunch—

Simon walked on, treading through the autumn leaves.

He was just savoring the atmosphere, letting a comfortable warmth settle over him, when he arrived at his destination sooner than expected.

Before his eyes lay an enormous dragon's bones, half-buried in fallen leaves.

"……Haha."

The Bone Dragon—this year's great project.

No matter how many times he looked at it, he couldn't quite believe it was real. And no matter how many times, a thrill ran down his spine.

Whenever he needed to summon his strength, or wanted to clear his head, he often came into this subspace Nephthys had given him.

Even though not a single summoning measure had been applied to it, a black energy already rippled faintly across the dragon's fleshless remains.

What kind of undead would be born from a material this magnificent?

"I can't even attempt it yet, but no matter what it takes—I promise I'll finish you."

That Bone Dragon was the year's assignment.

Right now, though, he had to throw everything he had into tomorrow's ghoul performance assessment.

Having steeled his resolve, Simon slipped out of the subspace and emerged into the night, which had already gone dark. He drew out the marble he'd been standing on, tucked it carefully against his chest, and checked the time.

Finally, the hour had come.

"All right. Let's do this!"

Simon smacked his own cheek with a sharp crack!

Operation: commence.

The students' city, Rochest.

The city students spent all week itching to escape to on the weekend, Rochest was the largest city on Roke Island.

On weekday evenings, however, it saw little foot traffic beyond the students scaling its walls, and at such times the residents' parties tended to begin.

Thump-and-jangle— thump-and-jangle—

An old trumpet and a beat-up drum played together somewhere.

The trumpet was blown by the butcher from the shop next door; the drum was pounded by the weaponsmith.

Everyone swayed to the mellow rhythm, hoisting mugs of frothy black beer. Wahahaha! Big, boisterous laughter filled the air.

The Black Shark Tavern, on the outskirts of Rochest.

It was an old-fashioned establishment, not the sort of place students favored, but Rochest's residents drifted in and out like clockwork every day. The academy's older servants were frequent visitors too.

"Hahahaha!"

And in less than a single year, one figure had become the tavern's most steadfast regular and its most unmistakable presence. A woman who had claimed an entire table for herself was drinking from kegs of black beer stacked beside her like firewood.

Glug, glug—

The sight of her hoisting a keg far larger than herself with nothing but arm strength, throwing her head back and chugging the black beer straight down, was frankly superhuman.

The onlookers chuckled and shook ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their heads.

"I see it every day and it never gets old."

"E-easy there, Professor! You'll choke! Wahaha!"

THUD—!

She slammed the keg down on the table and bellowed, face flushed with drink.

"Shaddap! Who cares how I drink, huh?"

Byulya Tun Sokum Marlart—the 2nd-year professor of Poison Studies.

A bearded man beside her offered up his mug.

"The kids still working you hard, Professor?"

"Pfft! They're a sight better than they were as first-years, I'll say that! They're a year older now. Got some sense in their heads."

Byulya upended the entire keg with a heave and clinked it against the man's mug.

"Ah, but y'know, sometimes I wonder~ why exactly I left the steppe behind, where I could've been living fat and happy, to come play professor in a place like this~."

"Hahahaha! Same lament, every single night!"

"Go back to the steppe? Then who'd keep us in style? Students rate you highly, don't they? Keep at it for years to come!"

"Shut it, all of you!"

Hahahahaha!

Hardly the way to address a professor of the continent's most prestigious academy—but the residents knew just how free-spirited Byulya was, and they bantered with her without a shred of hesitation.

For her part, Byulya found this atmosphere far more comfortable than groveling and bowing her spine crooked like some lowly servant.

"Ah, but damn, the booze tastes foul today!"

Byulya, already two kegs deep, shook the empty keg up and down.

"Barkeep! What gives?"

The tavern owner just shrugged.

"Professor, that came in with the batch you drank yesterday. You said it was delicious yesterday?"

"Ugh, what do I know! It tastes bad!"

She pounded the empty keg against the table—bam! bam!—then rolled it carelessly off onto the floor and gazed up at the ceiling through bleary eyes.

"Haaaah~ why does the steppe ache so much tonight of all nights……"

"Good evening, Professor."

Someone walked up unannounced, pulled out the chair across from Byulya's table, and sat down.

It was a man draped in a black robe.

"The hell? Who're you?"

Her brow furrowed.

"I heard you say the drinks taste worse than usual tonight."

The man drew a fresh bottle from inside his robe and pushed it toward her.

"!"

It was a liquor jar shaped like an earthenware pot, its mouth sealed with something like paper and bound fast with cord.

"I hear the Marlart tribe of the steppe is fond of a very special mare's milk wine."

"You—who are you? How did you get……"

The man pulled back his hood, revealing his face.

A blue-haired boy, the last traces of youth still on his features, smiled brightly.

"It's been a while, Professor."

It was Simon. She burst out laughing—Pffah!

"Oh, come on! What're you doing popping up out of nowhere?"

"Have a drink first, then we'll talk. I'll pour for you."

Just as Simon hurried to prepare a cup, she slapped her palm over the jar's mouth with a TANG!

"That sleazeball sent you, didn't he? What's the angle?"

'Ugh.'

The "sleazeball" she meant was Dick Hayward.

In fact, Simon had stopped by the Student Council Room before coming here.

And so, roughly, that was how things had come to pass.

Simon gave an awkward little cough.

"I-If you're willing, there's something about Poison Studies I'd like to ask you about, Professor."

"Oh ho—"

The corners of her mouth curled up, baring triangular, shark-sharp teeth in a jagged grin.

"So what could someone who never even signed up for my Poison Studies class be so curious about, all of a sudden?"

Simon froze, smile still plastered on his face.

Had it really been that rude?

What was he supposed to say to that?

But watching him squirm, Byulya soon cracked a smirk, then threw her head back with a roaring "Kyahaha!"

"Kidding! It's a joke, you brat!"

She brought her fist down hard on Simon's shoulder—once, twice. Each blow left him staggering.

"Top of your year and Student Council President, and you're still interested in Poison Studies! That's good news as far as I'm concerned!"

She leaned her arms on the back of her chair.

"And besides! Beyond the Poison Studies majors, I handle poison for the entire second year! Even the ones who don't take my class are all my students! They've got every right to come ask me things!"

With that, she tugged the cord from the jar's mouth and downed its contents in one long draught, one-handed.

Glug— glug—

"KYAHA!"

She let out a rough old-timer's whoop and laughed from the bottom of her lungs. For a moment, a faint, wistful memory drifted across her eyes.

"That taste. Yes. This is the taste. No rare vintage on the continent even comes close."

She set the empty bottle down with a CLANG! and looked at Simon.

"So. What do you want?"

Simon had been waiting for exactly this. He opened his bag, drew out his notebook, and spread it open where she could see it easily.

"I'm trying to build this!"

"Hmm—"

She rested her chin on her hand and skimmed through the pages.

"I'll manage the summoning side one way or another, but when it comes to handling the poison itself, that's where I……"

She snatched the notebook out of Simon's hands and laid it flat on the table. A heartbeat later, her eyes went wide, locked onto the page.

As though she were being sucked into the notebook itself. She'd even hauled one knee up onto the table.

"Ho."

At last, a smile of genuine interest spread across her face. She raised her head and met Simon's eyes.

"People call you a madman a lot, don't they?"

"Y-yes? No, sir—I mean, no, ma'am."

"None of that here. Come with me!"

She flung the notebook back into Simon's arms and stood up, pulling on her coat.

"If I'm going to lend a hand, I might as well do it properly! We're going to my lab!"

"Y-yes, ma'am!"

The next morning.

At last, the day of the notorious ghoul practical exam had arrived.

The professors, riding the momentum of one Pass-or-Fail class after another, had driven the students without a moment's rest, and scheduled the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠practical for the very next day.

The heart of it: how many flaws could you suppress, and how far could you improve yourself, in so short a time?

The Summoning Department students knew it too, and they poured entire nights into ghoul practice and modification. The dormitory's basement training rooms were packed wall-to-wall with second-years.

Not a word was spoken—only the dry scraping of tools at work. The practical was in the afternoon, and mercifully the morning was free. Every remaining minute had to go into squeezing the maximum performance out of their stamped ghouls.

"Hwaaaam—"

And then Will—a third-year who had returned to Roke Island the night before—wandered into the training room, rubbing his eyes.

"Huh? The hell."

The room was baking hot with exertion. A few bleary-eyed second-years looked up and croaked at him.

"……G-good…… morning……, sunbae."

They greeted him like zombies. Some didn't even bother to look up, burying themselves in their work.

"………"

Veins bulged across the forehead of Will, the discipline enforcer.

"You little shits are dead tired, huh?! A third-year walks in and you barely even look! Is THAT what you call a greeting? Round up every second-year right now!"

And just like that, his tongue began to roll.

"Knew this would happen. Should've hammered you brats far harder during the initiation ceremony……!"

"What do you think you're doing?"

An ice-cold voice came from behind him.

Will flinched and spun around—and there stood a female student with her arms crossed. Like him, she wore a golden badge on her uniform collar, marking a third-year.

Seventh-ranked in the entire third year—Benya Vanilla.

"You pull that stunt at the welcome party, and you still haven't shed that filthy habit of yours?"

At the words filthy habit, Will's face went scarlet. Benya pressed on.

"And Leonard and the Student Council President made a promise, remember? There will be no more abuse of the lower years. None."

"N-no, this was just—! Damn it! I was only pointing out that they didn't greet me, that's all!"

After the initiation-ceremony fiasco, Benya had apparently decided enough was enough, and she had begun actively shielding the second-years and squeezing Will at every turn.

These days Will spent most of his time walking on eggshells around her, but swallowing his tail in front of the underclassmen—again—was more than his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pride could bear.

"No matter what, senior and junior students owe each other basic courtesy! We haven't laid a finger on you since day one, and this is the state the department's in……!"

"Second-years."

She shook her head slowly and went on.

"Performance assessment. This afternoon."

Performance assessment.

At those single words, even the thuggish discipline enforcer Will adopted a sheepish expression.

"Ahem. Was that today? KHRRM! You brats! Well, why didn't anybody say so sooner—then I'd have gone easy on—Cough! Anyway! Do well on your exam!"

Will fled the waiting room like a man escaping a fire.

Benya shook her head, then turned to the second-years.

"Sorry about my classmate making a scene. Carry on."

"Yes, sunbae!"

The second-years resumed their work. Benya watched them with quiet pride for a moment—then turned her head.

"You made it."

Simon was just coming in from the staircase on the far side. He gave a small bow.

"Thank you for making time for me, Benya sunbae."

"When our little President calls, of course I come. Shall we talk outside?"

"Yes!"