The Head of Manus
Jane's Dark Dynamics class.
It was the last Dark Dynamics lecture before the midterms. Every slot, morning and afternoon alike, was packed with the subject today, and Jane had already announced she would run an intensive session to finish the material they hadn't covered yet.
'Ugh, this is hard.'
Sitting at his desk with a quill in hand, Simon broke into a cold sweat. The example problems Jane had handed out were crawling with equations of every kind.
The formulas he often worked with in Summoning class were familiar enough, but the moment they crossed over into elemental applications, his head began to ache.
'Was the Revil formula a Dark Flame series? Or Dark Earth? What's the difference?'
Just as Simon was tearing at his hair in deliberation, a soft voice drifted over from the next seat.
"It's Dark Flame, yes."
He turned his head to find Mayrin smiling faintly. She lifted her own quill and jotted a few lines into his notebook.
"The Revil formula is laid out like this, and to control the load variables—"
It was the proverbial exam-season mode: hair pulled back in a tight knot, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Simon stared at her blankly for a moment.
"There, got it?"
Mayrin looked up as she finished her explanation, and the instant her eyes met Simon's, she flushed crimson in alarm.
"Wh-what! Look at your book, idiot! Not at my face!"
"Ah. Right."
Thankfully, her emotional state seemed to have recovered quite a bit. Kindly enough, she even spread open her own notes for him to see.
For a while, the two of them moved their quills in silence, scratch, scratch.
"……Simon."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
Mayrin scratched her cheek with an embarrassed smile.
"For, for helping the Ivory Tower."
"Oh, that. It's only natural for a dispatched student."
He answered with perfect composure, but in truth Simon had been on edge. He had fully expected her to ask something—anything—about Serne, yet after her word of thanks, Mayrin had talked about nothing but their studies.
"Oh, and this."
Mayrin stretched her arm all the way across and marked a check in Simon's textbook with her quill.
"This is definitely on the midterm."
Coming from Mayrin, ranked second overall in written scores, that was an absolute guarantee. Simon thanked her with a bow of his head and promptly copied it into his notes.
"And this spot too……"
"You two."
Just then, an ice-cold voice rang out from the lectern. Jane, legs crossed in her chair, was pointing a finger at them.
"Stand up, both of you. Right now."
'Ugh!'
Simon and Mayrin shot to their feet, shrinking sheepishly in place.
"I gave you problem-solving time, and it seems you were getting along rather well."
The students from Class A burst out laughing—hahaha! Mayrin's face burned scarlet.
"Pr-Professor!"
"You have some nerve, in my class."
Jane moved her fingertips idly, and two pieces of chalk floated up onto the blackboard.
"If you're chatty enough to talk during problem-solving time, I'll trust you can solve these without trouble."
Fail, and there would be no debate—only punishment.
Simon squared his shoulders with all the confidence he could muster, tugged his uniform jacket straight, and strode forward.
"Let's go, Mayrin."
"I-I'm coming with you, idiot!"
The two walked up to the podium and each grabbed one of the floating pieces of chalk.
Watching the pair of them begin scribbling out their solutions, Dick rested his chin on his hand and snickered.
"Mayrin's back. Her expression's cleared up."
Camibarez perked up her ears and clasped her hands together.
"Really? What a relief!"
"Ugh, seriously. If you'd seen two whole days of that icy mood in the student council room, and us all tiptoeing around Mayrin—whew."
Dick, muttering to himself, crossed his arms.
"So what did Simon say when he came back today? If not that, then……"
It's not that, you dummy!
They could see Mayrin slapping Simon on the back and blowing up at him.
"Khekhek. Well, whatever it is."
Camibarez nodded along with a bright smile.
"Yes, what a relief!"
That afternoon.
The Mutant Club room.
'Ex-exhausted.'
Sitting through Jane's classes back to back for the first time in a while had left his skull feeling stuffed to bursting with nothing but numbers and symbols.
Simon dragged his weary body to a stop before the shabby door of the Mutant Club room.
'When am I ever going to replace this, though?'
He chuckled. In the whistling breeze, the paper bearing the club's name, pasted on the door, wobbled precariously.
Toto and Fitzgerald had gone to the library, so the room would be empty anyway.
Out of habit, Simon knocked a couple of times and stepped inside.
And then—
"Ah, it's Senior!"
"The Student Council President has arriiiiived!"
The girls inside the club room came flocking over in a rush.
'Right. The first-years.'
The Mutant Club, once visited by only the three second-years and Benya, had been brimming with extraordinary energy ever since seven first-years had joined its ranks.
"Senior! Senior! Welcome!"
"Why were you gone so long?"
"I was studying for the midterms—could you teach me this problem?"
"I'll hang up your coat for you!"
"Where's the Student Council President's coat?"
The first-years crowding in front of him, chattering away on tiptoe like a brood of chicks, reminded Simon of nothing so much as fluffy baby birds.
A smile rose to his lips of its own accord, though there was no denying it was a bit much.
"G-guys. Hold on a second."
Before he could say another word, the first-years had snatched his uniform coat off him, hung it on a rack, and pushed him by the back onto the sofa. When he came to his senses, there was a teacup already in his hand.
"There!"
One of the first-years—Ruri, was it?—sat down across from him and swept the hair by her ear with the picture of innocence.
Beside her, her friends started shoving their hips in, fighting over who got to sit in the center seat.
"Hold on, everyone. Calm dow—"
"Simon Oppa! You're here?"
And then a girl planted herself boldly right beside him.
It was Sasha, first-year 'Special Admission No. 1'.
"I told you not to call me that!"
And Princess Molly, Special Admission No. 10, was approaching with a tray of refreshments. Setting them down in front of Simon, she took the seat to his left as if refusing to lose.
"I, I appreciate the hospitality, but—"
Simon smiled wryly and went on.
"Shouldn't you all be studying for the midterms?"
We waaaas~!
The first-years shouted it in unison and then burst out giggling among themselves. Simon had no idea what the punchline was supposed to be, but he laughed along anyway.
"We were studying in the club room, Simon Oppa."
Sasha gestured at the textbooks and notebooks spread across the table.
"There aren't any seats at the library."
"Ah, fair enough."
With midterms upon them, the first-year population—somewhere north of nine hundred—was at its peak.
The library, the campus cafe, the study halls—everywhere would be packed shoulder to shoulder.
"Senior!"
"Senior~"
"Mr. President!"
Eyes gleaming, the first-years began pelting him with questions, chirp chirp. He was grateful for the attention, but Simon could feel his mind starting to dissolve.
"Um, actually, I have some business right now."
Simon stammered.
"So maybe we can talk late—"
"Senior! I don't get this problem!"
Suddenly one of the first-years thrust her notebook up into the air. It was a Summoning problem.
Simon was about to simply get up and leave, but the moment his eyes landed on it, the formulas surfaced in his head and the answer leapt out at him.
"Oh, this one—"
Right there on the spot, quill in hand, he walked her through the solution.
"Ooooh~"
The first-years, all showing the tops of their heads in identical posture, nodded along. It was honestly adorable.
Simon set down his quill and asked kindly,
"All better now?"
"Simon Oppa! Teach me this one too!"
"This one too, please!"
The first-years began swarming him, shoving their own notebooks in his face.
Click.
Just then the club room door opened and someone walked in. It was Fitzgerald, his face etched with midterm fatigue.
'Nice timing!'
Simon's lips curled upward. The first-years, too, rose from their seats at the sight of him.
"Hello."
"Hello."
They bowed politely with hands clasped, but somehow their voices lacked the pep of before. Fitzgerald returned the greeting and walked past.
Once the greetings were over, the first-years plopped back down onto the sofa.
"Senior! Quick, keep explaining this!"
"This one tooooo!"
The first-years fussed over Simon with honeyed voices, and Simon cast a helpless glance toward Fitzgerald.
'……The, the temperature drop.'
Desperate, Simon hurried to engage him.
"Fitzgerald! What brings you to the club room?"
"……Just picking up a few things I needed."
"I see. If you don't mind, could you take a look at the first-years' problems?"
At that, Fitzgerald pushed up his glasses.
"Gladly. Written exams, I'm confident in any subject."
"I'm counting on you!"
Fitzgerald loved showing off his intellect. Simon withdrew, and Fitzgerald took the seat, rolling up his sleeves.
Come, gather round and listen!
Or so the gesture was meant to convey.
"Well, sure. This one…… I don't really get it myself, though."
The first-years' enthusiasm turned lukewarm. Sasha had outright turned her back on him, flipping through her textbook with listless rustles.
'Sasha.'
Simon shot her a look, and she hastily straightened up again.
Truly, there was nothing so fearsome as a late-blooming adolescence.
Click.
Just then, the club room door opened once more. Everyone's eyes went wide.
"Hello, my dear children! Oh my, the first-years are here too!"
It was Benya Vanilla of the third year.
Thud. Thud.
Simon and Benya were walking side by side toward the basement of the club room. With every step down the stairs, the stale air clung more heavily to their lungs.
"I moved everything down here this morning."
"I can't wait."
Simon answered, steadying his pounding heart.
"We restored it as far as we possibly could, but it's probably not the same spirit—the same sanneom—this undead originally carried. Think of it as a completely different undead."
"Yes. Understood."
She had warned the first-years, over and over, not to set foot in the basement for the time being.
For even Benya, who always doted on the first-years and showered them with affection, to go stiff-faced and stern for once—this had to be something truly dangerous.
Feeling his nerves tighten for good reason, Simon straightened his collar and followed her down.
"It's your property, so I brought it over just as you asked."
Benya, having undone every locking spell on the basement door, looked back at him as she spoke.
"But why that thing, all of a sudden?"
"I need it urgently—for the upcoming assignment."
Benya and Simon stepped inside. It was a large, sealed chamber.
And there, atop a display cabinet at its center, rested a single skeleton skull.
Simon felt his heart begin to pound faster and faster.
'It's been a while.'
At long last, Simon had brought the finest material he could use to Kizen.
'The head of the Ancient Undead, Manus.'
Back in his first year, when Simon had first visited 'Deathland' for a performance evaluation.
Two Ancient Undead had ruled Deathland then.
The Zombie Prince, Prince.
And the former Swordmaster of the Empire, Manus.
The two powers had been locked in a ferocious struggle over dominion of Deathland, but with Simon and his legion's intervention, Prince had claimed victory.
Prince became part of Simon's legion, while Manus—after a battle of savage intensity—had his body destroyed, leaving nothing behind but his skull.
Simon had shown that skull to Benya.
"Wh-what is this! I can feel it! This was an unbelievably powerful undead!"
Benya had jumped back the moment she laid eyes on it.
"But the core and the spirit have scattered entirely. As it is, it's nothing but an empty shell. I can't say for certain just how strong this undead was, but restoring its full living power and memories will most likely be impossible."
"If you're willing, I could send it to Vanilla Headquarters for research—shall I?"
Benya had made that offer, and said it would take a year or two.
Now, it had been restored to a certain extent.
'Let's do this.'
Simon intended to use this very Ancient Undead—reduced to nothing but a head—
as the head of his Dullahan.