A Ruin-Level Booth

Mayrin and Saywre began their duet, and their rich, resonant voices filled every corner of the Central Plaza.

Serne quietly enjoyed the singing for a while, a smile resting on her face.

"Embarrassed out of her mind, yet she still sings with everything she's got."

Serne covered her mouth and chuckled.

"Talent really can't be hidden, can it?"

"That reminds me, Serne."

Simon turned to look at her.

"You're the one who loves hearing Mayrin sing. Every vacation, you bet your heirship on it just to send her to the Grand Theater. Why is that?"

"Oh, that?"

Serne lowered her eyelids slightly.

"It would break my heart if she were hated too much."

"……?"

She turned her head to watch Mayrin singing passionately on stage.

"When we were young, we were closer than anyone. When I first joined the Ivory Tower, she accepted me without a trace of prejudice."

It was true. Regardless of how Mayrin felt about her, Serne still liked Mayrin.

"But watching her sour with venom over the heir's seat, drowning in stress, obsessing, falling apart mentally—it hurt to see. So I tried turning her gaze elsewhere, just to let off some steam. Mayrin has always loved singing, ever since we were kids, so I figured I'd let her do what she loved. And yet—"

The corners of Serne's eyes softened.

"The singing diverted her attention, sure, but more than that, she's mentally far more stable now than she used to be. No idea who we have to thank for that, hmm?"

"……."

Simon slowly closed his eyes.

"I'll say it again and again—if you don't want Mayrin to hate you, you're the one who has to change your attitude first."

"Now that's~ the funny part."

A sticky, complicated emotion drifted through her eyes.

"Being hated is a sad thing, of course. But when I watch that girl clawing her way up, desperate to catch up to me—how do I put it? A strange pleasure crawls up my spine. I trample her down, step by agonizing step, then offer her just a sliver of hope, and she comes chasing after me, on the verge of tears but clinging to it anyway. That desperate look of hers—I've fallen for it all over again."

……You're a terrible person, you know that?

Seeing Simon's reaction, Serne laughed out loud.

"Trying to understand human emotion through just one lens is lazy convenience. 'You don't want Mayrin to hate you? Then reconcile with her.' Interpreting it that simply is far too naive. I'm a necromancer who manipulates the human mind—I know better than anyone. Joy, rage, love. Don't take emotions at their dictionary definition—"

Serne stepped close and pressed her index finger to Simon's lips.

"Interpret them from every angle."

"……!"

Startled, Simon stumbled backward with his ears burning red, while Serne grinned like a mischievous little devil.

"That's your homework for today."

Wait, what……?

With those parting words, she strolled away, humming a tune.

WAAAAAH!

Right on cue, applause and cheers erupted as Saywre and Mayrin bowed to the crowd.

The performance was a resounding success.

Then Simon noticed an unusual silence at his side. He turned to find Dick and Camibarez staring blankly up at the sky, eyes completely unfocused.

Sure enough, white feathers were tucked behind their napes.

Serne, it seemed, had wanted no one else overhearing the private conversation she'd shared with him.

Simon walked over and plucked the feathers free, and life instantly returned to both their eyes.

"Gah—what the—"

"Huh?"

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠two of them blinked.

"Sorry! Guess we zoned out for a second."

"Simon, what did you say?"

"Mayrin's performance just ended."

"Oh, right, it did? Kyahahaha! Then let's go tease Mayrin again! Kizen's newest idol, the Cat Mask!"

Simon didn't even need to look to picture her shrieking at the top of her lungs, face twisted in mortification.

"If she strangles you out of sheer shame, that's on you."

"O-oh. That's, um…… a bit much."

Mayrin had bolted long before the Student Council members arrived, both hands clamped over her face.

After hearing the first-years shouting for an encore, an autograph, more—she had fled while wailing that she wanted to die.

Thankfully, she'd still been able to meet with Saywre.

"Thank you so much for coming, Saywre."

"Hahahaha! I'm the one who should be thanking you for the invitation! Agent Simon!"

The two shook hands. Simon offered his gratitude along with the agreed payment.

Saywre declared himself thoroughly satisfied with the impromptu performance at Kizen. Still, he had another engagement waiting, so his personal minions were set to escort him back to Langoustine before he ran late.

And so the surprise concert came to an end—but thanks to Saywre and Mayrin, the Central Plaza was buzzing with extraordinary energy.

Simon, Dick, and Camibarez, wearing their Student Council armbands in case of any emergency, patrolled the area.

"Ooh, that club's idea is really good! Simon!"

"Yeah, it is."

Plenty of clubs had come up with genuinely creative booths, each one showcasing its own distinct personality.

The punch machine run by the athletic clubs, in particular, was swarming with first-year boys. They squared off one-on-one, and the winner got to wear a sign around his neck reading WINNER while the loser was handed one reading LOSER.

Next door, the art club was painting ten-minute portraits on the spot.

The students would pick out each other's most distinctive facial features and render them with dark magic for comic effect, and the quality was honestly impressive—satisfaction ratings were sky-high. First-years could be seen snickering and cackling at each other's portraits.

The Student Council members wandered around, marveling at all the clever ideas.

"Oh my, are you a first-year, dear?"

"Want to come check out our club?"

The crowd was so thick that a few second-years mistook the petite Camibarez for a first-year—until they spotted the armband on her shoulder and nearly fainted apologizing.

Simon and Dick burst out laughing at the sight of a puffed-up, indignant Camibarez inflating her cheeks. A thoroughly amusing mishap all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠around.

……Come to think of it.

By this point, even Simon was curious how the Mutant Club was faring.

He left the patrol to Dick and Camibarez for a while, unfolded the booth layout map, and headed toward the Mutant Club's spot.

Last year, they'd had so few members that they couldn't even register for a booth and had to settle for handing out flyers. But this year, he understood they'd managed to secure one.

I really hope we get plenty of new first-years this time.

Being on the outskirts, the crowds thinned out noticeably compared to the central plaza.

And at last, when Simon arrived in front of the Mutant Club's booth—

Hooooo—

A lonely gust of wind blew past.

Above a shabby folding tent, the word MUTANT was scrawled in a careless, half-legible hand.

Beside the tent, a bizarrely-shaped Seiren chimera flailed its six arms, each hand striking a strange and inexplicable pose, while behind it a Death Worm went hurk, hurk, spewing vomit from its gaping mouth.

And inside the folding tent, draped from top to bottom in occult decorations of unknowable meaning, sat Fitzgerald and Toto side by side, both wearing perfectly blank expressions.

"……."

In front of them, a towering stack of flyers sat waiting, as if to say take one, please—but apparently, no one had.

Fwooooosh—

The wind blew again, and a single flyer slapped Simon square in the face. He peeled it off and read it.

Simon quietly crumpled the flyer and stuffed it into his pocket.

It's awful.

As a backwater-hills boy, Simon would be the first to admit he had no talent for art or aesthetics—but even he could tell this was pushing it.

"Toto, this flyer. How many kids took one?"

"Uh, um."

Sweat dripping down his face, Toto held up two fingers. Simon's eyes lit up.

"Twenty?"

"Two……"

"One. The other one was used as a cupcake coaster."

Fitzgerald corrected from the side, pointing with his fingertip. Sure enough, a sauce-smeared flyer could be seen tumbling across the ground in the wind.

Simon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressed a hand to his forehead.

"……You two. Are you actually serious about this?"

"Obviously."

Fitzgerald replied as if the question were absurd.

"Club membership numbers are especially critical this year. We must try harder."

Then why are you sitting on your hands like this?!

Simon had no idea where to even begin with him.

Being a member of Mutant before he was the Student Council President, his head was starting to throb. The real mistake had been letting Student Council work swallow him so completely that he'd neglected this place entirely.

"All right! Fitzgerald, Toto. This is no time to be sitting around."

Simon said, gathering up the enormous stack of flyers.

"Everyone knows today's the last day of Club Season, right? Keep this up and we might not get a single first-year to join! On your feet, now!"

Toto rose stiffly, joint by joint, and shuffled over to Simon.

"Here, Toto. Take these and go hand them out to the first-years yourself."

"Hand them out?! Myself?! This many?!"

Toto nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Th-that's way too embarrassing!"

"Well, the fire's already at your feet, so you'll just have to suck it up! Fitzgerald! Are you just going to sit there and watch?"

Fitzgerald adjusted his glasses.

"Is that an order from the Student Council President?"

"Wha—no. Just from one member of the club……"

"I am the head of Mutant. Such tasks fall to the members."

This guy. Authoritarian in all the strangest places.

Simon sighed.

"Do the other third-year seniors in Mutant know things have gotten this bad?"

For the first time, the ever-composed Fitzgerald's face flickered with alarm.

And barely a moment after those words left Simon's mouth—

"……Hey."

One of Mutant's only two third-years appeared.

Benya Vanilla's best friend: Dio. With deeply sunken dark circles and vacant, listless eyes, he shuffled into view with a zombie's gait, feet dragging along the ground.

"Dio, sir!"

"……Just stopped by for a minute before heading out on a mission."

Dio waved an envelope he'd brought with him.

"You'll all be working hard through Club Season, so eat these and……"

He froze.

Then, taking in the sorry state of the club booth and the flyers, his expression turned grave.

"……What happened here?"

Dio's gaze swept over Fitzgerald and Toto, then finally landed on Simon.

Simon scratched his head and explained the whole situation.

"……."

When the explanation was done, Dio silently beckoned Fitzgerald and Toto over with a flick of his hand.

What followed was a brief interval in which the two stood at attention and endured their senior's scolding.

After Dio departed—

"I will cooperate fully with your instructions, Simon."

Fitzgerald's attitude had changed.

"So what do we do? Hand out the flyers and call it done?"

"Honestly, the flyer itself is part of the problem."

Circulating this hideous thing wasn't going to fix anything on its own.

Simon pulled a communication crystal orb from inside his coat.

"For this kind of thing, there's always a specialist."

"?"

Shortly after Simon's message, Dick appeared.

"Hey, Simon! What blew up this time?"

"No, nothing like that. Sorry for calling you out for something personal. If you're willing, I could use a little help."

Simon smiled sheepishly and went on.

"It's my club, Mutant. We haven't managed to recruit a single new member. Even something simple would do—is there anything you could consult us on?"

"Hmm."

Dick's gaze traveled across the scene.

He looked at the lettering strung above the tent. Then at the occult decorations. Then at the grotesque six-armed chimera. Then at the Death Worm still going hurk, hurk, spewing up vomit. And finally at the expressionless Fitzgerald and the confidence-starved Toto.

"Uh……"

Dick scratched his head.

"This is Ruin-tier, man?"