A Taste of Heaven (1)
Stomach filled to the brim, Ziel finally stepped out of the Sophen estate.
"Safe travels... Instructor."
"Thank you for the warm hospitality, Lord Olton Sophen."
"......"
Olton wore a profoundly complicated expression. Though his gratitude remained genuine, the sheer, staggering volume of food Ziel had put away during dinner defied belief.
How in the world does a single human being consume thirty chicken skewers?
When the instructor had asked for humble dishes, Olton had assumed it was an act of modest consideration. It wasn't. The man simply possessed a ravenous, authentic passion for cheap street fare. Nor had he stopped at skewers.
"Every dish was exquisite," Ziel added pleasantly.
"Is—is that so? Hahaha."
Under ordinary circumstances, a host would take immense pride in a guest eating with such hearty gusto. The issue lay in the scale. According to what the head chef had frantically whispered to the head butler, three whole days' worth of kitchen provisions had evaporated in a single sitting.
"Then I shall see you at the next home visit or academy function, Lord Olton Sophen."
"Go safely, Instructor Ziel. Please continue looking after my son."
Resolving to focus on the positives, Olton courteously saw Ziel all the way to the estate gate. The instant the instructor disappeared into the evening gloom, however, Olton's congenial smile vanished. He wheeled around to face his butler, his gaze deadly serious.
"Butler... what was the grand total for this home visit?"
"Including the one million three hundred thousand Cel for the tea, the dining expenses came out to approximately eight hundred thousand Cel..."
A staggering two million one hundred thousand Cel in total. That was equivalent to the entire annual salary of a 3rd-circle mage. He had been cleaned out completely.
"...Whew."
"I offer my deepest apologies, My Lord. An expenditure of this scale was entirely beyond my imagination."
"No. It is fine. Let us look upon the bright side."
"M-My Lord...?"
"We shall simply consider it the cost of entertaining an envoy dispatched directly from the Imperial Palace. In truth... he is far more precious to this family than any imperial bureaucrat."
The head butler blinked in astonishment. He had fully anticipated an explosive fit of miserly outrage. In all his years serving Olton Sophen, the patriarch had despised unexpected expenses above all else, earning a reputation as a penny-pincher among penny-pinchers—a quintessential, insecure parvenu obsessed with keeping his coin. Yet here he was, letting it go without a fuss.
"After all, he is our Maris's teacher, is he not?"
It was entirely thanks to the consultation held in the parlor. Olton had been deeply, genuinely moved. While a small, petty part of him still mourned the departed gold, they had treated Ziel with the utmost respect, and above all, his son was beaming with joy.
"Father, I'm so glad the instructor enjoyed the food so much."
"Indeed. Though tell me... were you aware he ate quite that much?"
"I heard rumors that he consumes massive portions in the faculty cafeteria, but... I didn't think it was this extreme either."
"......"
Honesty demanded admitting that the bill still stung, just a tiny bit. But it was worth every copper.
"Maris, you must dedicate yourself to your training over this break, just as Instructor Ziel instructed. Since a man of his caliber praised your potential, you are bound to become an exceptional knight. In time, set your sights past Grand Knight—aim all the way for Imperial Knight."
"Yes, Father! I will!"
"Heed his guidance well. And conduct yourself honorably at the academy from now on, without repeating past foolishness. Understood?"
"Of course, Father."
Only then did a warm, contented smile spread across Olton's face. I was being far too superficial, he thought, shaking his head. He is fundamentally different from every other professor I've encountered at the academy. Is this... what a true teacher looks like?
Every instructor and professor Olton had met before had looked at nothing but House Sophen's vaults, constantly holding out their palms with subtle demands. High society was full of vultures like that. Yet Ziel had asked for only one thing: Maris's growth.
Shameful. I should be ashamed of my petty doubts.
As the father and son basked in the moment, an abrupt realization struck them both.
"...Maris, where did Instructor Ziel go?"
"Huh? That's strange... he shouldn't be out of sight already."
Barely five minutes had passed since he walked through the gate, yet the road outside lay completely empty. Hadn't the man been traveling entirely on foot?
The final stop on Ziel's itinerary was House Kundel in the far south. His next destination, the estate of House Riversong, was roughly a day away at his current pace. For an ordinary traveler, the journey would have demanded three or four days on foot, but Ziel moved with swift, frictionless strides, effortlessly devouring the miles.
The night grows late.
Darkness had already fallen, an inevitable consequence of departing only after finishing an enormous dinner. Olton had offered him a luxurious guest room for the night, but Ziel had politely declined. He had plenty of time to spare; walking through the night, taking a brief rest under the open sky, and arriving at the Riversong estate by midday would fit his schedule perfectly.
House Riversong. It was the family of Yon Riversong, the student who had made a catastrophic choice under the crushing weight of his house's ruined finances. Fortunately, the truth had come to light, and Albert Riversong, the family's patriarch, had personally traveled to the academy to bow and offer heartfelt apologies. While the incident at school had reached a peaceful resolution, the matter was far from finished in Ziel's eyes.
House Siren. The noble lineage that had coerced and endangered his student. They were quiet for the moment, but the instant his home visits concluded, he intended to look into them thoroughly.
I should summon that Crow. Specifically, the one with an obsessive, borderline deranged fixation on high-grade daggers.
He continued along the desolate road as the last remnants of twilight dissolved into pitch-black night. Eventually, Ziel detected a faint presence approaching from behind. It was still at a considerable distance, but closing fast.
The rattle of iron-rimmed wheels and the rhythmic clatter of hooves... a carriage.
Without turning his head, Ziel identified the approaching conveyance, and as the distance narrowed, he cataloged its occupants. One coachman on the box, and inside... at least four passengers. Or perhaps a heavy load of cargo.
As the carriage drew nearer, a distinct odor drifted through the night air. The horses gradually slowed, pulling up alongside him.
"Hail, traveler! Where are you headed so late?" the coachman called out, leaning forward with apparent warmth. "The roads are dangerous after dark. It looks like we're heading in the same direction—why not climb aboard? We can give you a lift!"
It was a seemingly generous offer. Outside fortified cities and noble fiefs, imperial roads were notorious for nighttime peril, making solo wanderers like Ziel an uncommon sight.
"Safety in numbers on a night like this," the coachman urged, gesturing toward the trail ahead. "Just up the road is Pieron Forest. It's a nasty place, crawling with trouble!"
Ziel shook his head without breaking his stride. "I decline."
"What, do you take yourself for an Imperial Knight or something?"
"I am not."
"Then be smart and get in. You'll regret it if you don't."
"I decline," Ziel repeated evenly.
A slight scowl twisted the coachman's features. It looked like the petulant frustration of someone whose unsolicited kindness had been rebuffed. But Ziel had not refused out of mere caution.
"You decline, huh...?" The coachman's friendly tone curdled into a cold, mocking sneer. "If you'd just climbed in quietly, you might have lived another half hour."
The carriage ground to an abrupt halt. The coachman banged his fist heavily against the wooden carriage wall.
"Hey! Get out here! We've got an idiot wandering alone!"
The cabin door was kicked wide open, and three armed men spilled out onto the dirt road, their hands already resting on the hilts of sheathed blades. Ziel observed them calmly.
As expected.
The scent he had caught on the wind was blood. The men's clothes were spattered with it—and none of it belonged to them. It belonged to the corpses piled inside the carriage cabin.
"Imagine wandering these woods all by yourself at this hour," one mercenary chuckled, looking Ziel up and down. "Pretty face, too. Off to the capital to find work? Or looking for some lonely noblewoman to pamper you?"
The coachman hopped down from the box and drew his own sword with a sharp scrape of steel. "Quit the useless chatter and finish him off. You know the orders. No witnesses along the road, without exception."
"Yeah, yeah, what's the rush? It's not like the pretty boy can run away."
Three blades cleared their scabbards simultaneously as the mercenaries fanned out, forming a loose crescent around Ziel. He looked past their raised swords, his dark eyes unblinking.
"You are bandits."
The polite register had vanished from his voice, replaced by flat, cold indifference. Seeing no trace of fear in the young man—only clinical curiosity—one of the mercenaries tilted his head in bewilderment.
"Did fear rot your brain? You ought to be begging on your knees right now, and you're asking questions?"
"It appears you have no intention of sparing me."
"Oh, sharp lad. Not a chance in hell. But we aren't common bandits. We're on an official mission for—"
"Shut your damn mouth and kill him already!" the coachman barked, letting out a frustrated breath. "Why do you bastards talk so much?"
"Fine, fine! Impatient bastard."
The three mercenaries stepped forward in unison, raising their weapons. Ziel watched them close in, then—
"Huh?"
Ziel vanished from their field of view. Before the center mercenary could register the blur of motion, a vicious kick shattered the joint behind his knee from behind.
"Gaaah!"
As the man collapsed clutching his ruined leg, a heavy boot slammed into the side of his skull with sickening force. The mercenary went limp instantly, crashing into the dirt unconscious.
"What the—who the hell is this guy?!"
The other two lunged simultaneously. Ziel stepped inside the first attacker's downward slash, his left hand clamping around the man's wrist like an iron vise. With a sharp twist and a strike to the inner forearm, he stripped the sword from the mercenary's grip and reversed the blade in a single, fluid arc.
A wet slash tore through the man's chest. Fresh arterial crimson sprayed across clothes already stiff with dried gore. Before the mercenary could even scream, Ziel's palm struck his temple, knocking him senseless.
The third man barely had time to widen his eyes before Ziel swept his legs out from beneath him. As the mercenary slammed onto his back, Ziel drove the captured sword downward with absolute precision.
"Aaaaargh!"
The blade pierced straight through the meat of the man's thigh, pinning him deeply to the frozen earth like an insect on a board.
"Move, and your muscle will tear," Ziel informed him politely. Leaving the screaming mercenary pinned to the ground, he turned his gaze upon the coachman.
"You are of lower caliber than my students."
"Y-You... what are you?!" Panic surged through the coachman as he raised his trembling sword.
"The tip of your blade is shaking. Is your wrist strength deficient?"
It was not a matter of physical strength. It was pure, unadulterated terror.
"You bastard! Who are you?! What kind of monster are you?!"
"I am an academy general elective instructor."
"...What?"
That was the last word the coachman managed to utter. Ziel closed the distance in a fraction of a heartbeat. A flash of steel severed the tendons in both of the man's knees simultaneously.
The coachman crashed onto his ruined legs with a horrifying shriek. Ziel casually plucked the sword from the man's limp fingers and tossed both captured weapons far into the dark underbrush.
"P-Please... spare me... just let me live..."
Ziel looked down at him. "Why did you attack me?"
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
"I asked why you attacked me. 'I am sorry' is not an appropriate answer."
"T-That's... the truth is... we were ordered to kill anyone who saw us, leaving no witnesses..."
"Who gave that instruction?"
"The client who hired us..."
"And who is that?"
Question followed question, relentless and devoid of emotion.
"......"
The coachman clamped his mouth shut, only to freeze when he felt cold steel resting against his throat. A dark dagger pressed against his windpipe. When did he draw that? He hadn't even seen the hand move. A violent shudder wracked his frame. I'm dead. I'm completely dead. The air around this young man radiated the certainty of death.
"I asked who it was," Ziel said softly. "Are you unwilling to answer? Or unable to answer?"
It was both. But neither option offered a way out. The coachman kept his jaws clenched tight, clinging desperately to silence. Terrifying as the instructor was, the retribution of Tollen was a lingering nightmare he feared even more. For now, at least.
"You refuse to speak."
Ziel extended a single forefinger, hovering it near the inner crease of the coachman's thigh.
"Different areas of the human body perceive pain at vastly different intensities."
"...What?"
"Among them, the point that registers the most acute agony is right here."
He tapped lightly.
"GYAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the night, echoing through the desolate forest. A wave of agony so immense that it choked the air from his lungs erupted from his leg, tearing through his nerves and setting every fiber of his body ablaze. What had happened? The man had merely grazed him with a finger!
It rarely takes more than a minute, Ziel thought, recalling his days in the Organization.
By infusing a microscopic thread of mana into the fingertip, one could violently agitate the nervous system. Depending on the technique, the same principle could unblock mana pathways—as he had done for Yurio—or dull sensation entirely. But it could also magnify agony by tenfold. Naturally, executing such an operation required a terrifyingly absolute mastery of human anatomy.
"Hgggh... a-aagh..."
After precisely ten seconds of unendurable torment, Ziel lifted his finger. Though the searing flame vanished instantly, the coachman trembled on the verge of total collapse, drenched in cold sweat. He genuinely felt that another breath of that sensation would stop his heart. His priorities shifted in a heartbeat. Tollen's distant cruelty meant nothing against the living nightmare standing over him.
"T-Tollen..." he gasped out, sobbing. "It's Tollen!"
"Who is that?"
"The guildmaster... of the Tollen Merchant Guild..."
"So you are saying Guildmaster Tollen of the Tollen Merchant Guild ordered this."
"Y-Yes! Yes, exactly!"
Having received his answer, Ziel reached down and grabbed the coachman by the scruff of his collar like a sack of grain.
"Eeeek!"
Ziel dragged him across the dirt and dumped him in front of the carriage, then pulled back the bloodstained curtain to examine the interior. Four corpses lay inside. On their clothing rested an unmistakable emblem.
The crest of House Riversong.
A metal token bearing the engraved sigil of the impoverished noble house lay beside the bodies. Looking up at the roof of the carriage, Ziel confirmed that the vehicle itself belonged to House Riversong as well.
The four men I just subdued murdered these people and hijacked their carriage.
Operating under Tollen's orders, these mercenaries had ambushed the Riversong carriage and were transporting the stolen vehicle somewhere, under strict instructions to butcher any traveler who crossed their path along the way.
"Why did you attack them?"
"W-We were just following orders—"
"You operate like assassins."
"What?" The coachman blinked in sheer confusion at the bizarre comparison.
Since I am already on my way to House Riversong, I can simply hand them over. Ziel could have easily buried every last trace in the dark woods, but given that this directly involved the student's family he was scheduled to visit, disposing of the evidence seemed wasteful.
"Your punishment will be left to House Riversong."
The coachman let out a wail of sheer terror. "I'll tell you everything! I swear it! I only heard rumors, but the Tollen Merchant Guild planned to seize House Riversong's lands! They had us ambush this carriage to steal their ownership contracts and force them into predatory loans...!"
"Why does that matter to me?"
"Huh?"
Ziel's voice remained utterly flat. "I did not ask for that information. Your disposal will be decided by House Riversong."
The coachman's face drained of what little color remained. Handing them over to House Riversong was a death sentence. No matter how deep in debt or politically diminished the family was, a noble house was still a noble house. They had slaughtered four of their retainers and hijacked a transport carrying transaction funds to the capital. Execution was guaranteed. And before the noose tightened, they would be subjected to unimaginable tortures in a noble dungeon. Mercenaries were expendable insects; Tollen would discard them without a second thought. Dying of blood loss on the road would be a mercy by comparison.
"Do not worry," Ziel murmured, reaching down to press his fingers against specific pressure points above the coachman's shattered knees.
Unlike his previous touch, this applied a precise pulse of internal energy that constricted the torn vessels. To the coachman's utter disbelief, the bleeding slowed to a crawl. Then, with a quiet hiss of mana, Ziel drew his dagger and laid the flat, heated steel across the open wounds.
Ssssssszt!
"AAAAAAGH!"
The cauterized flesh sealed instantly, stopping the blood entirely.
"You will not die before we reach House Riversong."
Tears streaming down his face, the coachman could only offer a silent, despairing prayer into the dark: Just kill me instead. Please.