Chapter 43
Chapter 43
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 43
Chapter Title: Class Observation (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“You all sometimes seem to take the Wizard class you chose way too lightly.”
Charlotte, the professor of Elemental Magic for the intermediate class.
She was quite popular among the students. Younger than most professors and flexible in how she ran her classes, which made her a favorite.
“I bet you all think Battle Mage is the direction modern mages should aspire to, right?”
Even today was like that.
The moment she noticed the students' attention waning, she pulled out a topic they loved and smoothly turned it into casual chat.
“Well, it's understandable. After all, Battle Mage was created by none other than the Ashen Mage herself, Raniel.”
Raniel—the name of the legendary Ashen Mage made the students' eyes light up.
'As expected, nothing draws focus like her.'
Charlotte gave a wry smile and continued.
“Certainly, the Battle Mage class is far more versatile than others. But do you all know this?”
Charlotte wagged her finger side to side.
“The Ashen Mage Raniel is a Wizard class.”
“Huh? Isn't she Battle Mage?”
“She created the class herself...”
Charlotte shook her head at the students' reactions.
“Ever since she registered as a mage fifteen years ago, she's always been a Wizard. She never once requested a class change.”
Why would the creator of Battle Mage not switch to it herself?
It had been a hot topic in the mage community for a while.
Various theories floated around.
She was too busy to request a change, out of respect for her master Rosel, to uphold the Ashen Mage Tower's traditions...
And so on—countless hypotheses.
But the most credible one was this. Recalling it, Charlotte spoke.
“Before stepping onto the battlefield, the Ashen Mage Raniel was someone who loved researching magic and solving puzzles.”
A brilliant scholar of magic.
A figure who solved countless riddles.
The Ashen Mage was originally more of a scholar than an adventurer slaying beasts with spells.
“And she always emphasized the fundamentals of being a mage.”
Mages illuminate the unknown.
Exploring and defining the unknown is the essence of a mage.
Words the Ashen Mage often repeated.
“In the end, she took to the battlefield and used magic for 'combat' purposes...”
Charlotte spoke the final line with reverence.
“But perhaps she wanted to emphasize that at her core, she was a mage who illuminates the unknown—a Wizard.”
A line pulled from one hypothesis.
For battlefield efficiency, she developed combat magic out of necessity, but she wanted to remain a scholar of magic, not a war mage.
That's why she never applied for a class change even after retiring from the front lines.
Most scholars of magic thought so.
“Oh...”
The students let out subtle gasps of admiration. Charlotte smiled faintly as she organized her lesson materials.
'Come to think of it, there was that other theory.'
Suddenly, another hypothesis came to mind.
The most absurd one about why the Ashen Mage never changed classes.
—What if she just didn't know she'd created a new class?
'Ridiculous.'
Charlotte shook her head.
It was nonsense, and she wasn't the only one who thought so.
'The mage who said that got beaten and expelled from the community, right?'
Yeah, that sounded familiar.
“There's no way the Ashen Mage would do that.”
Charlotte nodded.
2.
'What the fuck is this rootless class?'
Raniel swallowed the profanity rising in her throat. It just didn't make sense.
Aphria Academy.
Wasn't this supposed to be an academy for mages—for scholars of magic?
'So why the hell are we learning physical techniques?'
It made no sense.
Raniel glared wide-eyed at Professor McHart, who was yanking her arms every which way.
“Hurry and copy me!”
She was dragged around like a ragdoll.
On this balmy day, swinging fists and studying footwork? Raniel bit her lip hard.
'Okay, fine, teaching methods vary.'
Raniel wasn't unfamiliar with this.
As part of the knight order, she'd been half-forced into such training before.
This level? Annoying as shit, but tolerable.
'The problem is this fucking... no, professor.'
“Hurry and copy!”
The professor bellowed loud enough to rupture eardrums.
His voice was infuriating, but what really pissed her off were his lines.
“You could do it if you tried—why can't you!”
How the hell do you do the impossible?
“Like this! Like this! Is that hard?”
How do you even copy that crap?
Every word scraped at Raniel's nerves. Please shut up, she prayed for the umpteenth time.
But McHart's nagging continued.
And finally, he uttered that word.
“This is basic!”
Basic.
A word Raniel liked.
'This is basic?'
Raniel stifled a rising laugh. A smirk kept creeping onto her lips.
'Basic isn't this...'
—This is basic.
She froze.
Her body stiffened rigidly.
“...”
She felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity in McHart's tone. Something about it was familiar.
Chewing on that familiarity, Raniel tuned into his words. Then she started hearing it.
“You could do it if you tried—why can't you!”
—It works if you do it, right?
Her own voice overlaying his.
“I showed you the example. Just copy it—should be simple.”
—I showed you. You can copy it. Is it hard?
Ah.
“Don't you have any basics? Even this...”
—Uh... no basics? I thought you could handle this much.
Raniel's eyes widened.
Her face took on a look of realization.
'These are all things I've said.'
She hadn't realized when speaking them.
But hearing them? It clicked.
'So that's how it sounds to the listener.'
Raniel closed her eyes gently.
As if she'd gained profound insight.
Of course, Raniel and McHart were different. His demonstrations were sloppy. His words carried malice. Hers were flawless, laced with sincerity.
But Raniel didn't know that.
She just reflected on how her words came across.
Reflection led to realization.
And that touched the core of her own issues.
'So that's what you meant, Master.'
Not exactly what Rosel intended, but Raniel had her epiphany anyway.
Raniel creakily turned her stiff neck.
There was McHart, still grumbling.
“I just don't get it!”
Looking at the professor's frustrated face, what crossed her mind?
'Hmm.'
Raniel pieced together the scenes flashing in her head into words.
'I want to smash his head.'
With what?
'A really big rock.'
Raniel nodded curtly.
'I get it now, Master.'
Realizing her own mistakes.
After twelve successful years of self-reflection, Raniel blankly glared at McHart.
“Like this! Like th—hmm?”
McHart, mid-demonstration, froze briefly. He slowly turned around.
'I felt killing intent just now.'
The kind only felt on battlefields.
But behind him was just a slightly dazed girl.
'Must be my imagination.'
McHart decided.
“Alright, like this! Hurry and copy!”
He resumed enthusiastically, oblivious to Lania's darkening eyes.
3.
“Second period is field training. Follow me.”
Mackhart Crepelt.
He'd prepared extensively for this class. Not just to embarrass the newbie professor Lania.
Mackhart was a knight.
But his mindset wasn't befitting one.
He craved showing off terribly.
He loved flaunting his skills and getting recognition.
But he lacked the skill to back it up. Having fled the battlefield via honorable discharge, he was thrilled with the 'professor' job.
Teaching let him show off.
Students' reactions satisfied his need for validation.
'That magic beast terror was a shame.'
For him, the recent incident was regrettable. He should've shone where students gathered, not tagging along with knights to exterminate beasts.
What he couldn't show students then.
To display it now, Mackhart meticulously planned this lesson.
—Field training.
—Live combat with magic beasts.
Aphria had been hit by magic beast terrorism lately.
That's what Mackhart exploited.
He went to Dean Aaron, pushing that students needed real combat experience against beasts, securing this field trip.
“As announced in the academic notice a few days ago, class will be at the Crepelt family estate. Our outer forest breeds magic beasts.”
The Crepelt family, Mackhart's kin, produced many knights. Naturally, they kept some beasts for training.
“Of course, we've extracted the demonic energy. No contamination even if bitten. Priests will heal any wounds immediately.”
The students' faces soured. Magic beasts evoked instinctive revulsion.
“Don't worry. They're low-level. Ones I caught barehanded at your age.”
Mackhart headed deep into the forest.
Students followed.
“For tough ones, I'll intervene immediately while observing...”
Mackhart paused mid-sentence.
Something was off.
This breeding forest should be crawling with guards. But it was empty.
'...What's this?'
Even the locked iron gate's padlock was smashed.
“...Pick up the pace.”
Mackhart quickened to vault the gate, heading to the pens. The thickening stench of blood stung his nose.
'Blood.'
From some point.
Magic beast corpses appeared.
Scattered everywhere, blood trailing continuously.
Mackhart followed the trail.
And.
“Mackhart Crepelt.”
Someone called his name.
No need to turn; the voice's owner stood at the trail's end.
“Hoo.”
Brown hair swept back, navy coat.
A man holding a sword in one hand, sitting on beast corpses, smoking.
Rising smoke.
Beast flesh and blood dripping from his blade.
Eerie sight.
“So there's a reason you're on the traitor's suspect list.”
He spoke.
“Crepelt family produced many knights. Beast habitat? Plausible enough. It's officially registered long ago—no issue. I'll grant that.”
“What do you...”
“And this class.”
Hoo.
The man exhaled smoke.
“Aphria hit by beast terror, so teaching counter-methods. Solid excuse. Convincing. Passes muster so far.”
Ignoring Mackhart, he continued casually, like bar chatter. Not accusatory, just conversational.
“But.”
Tone shifted instantly.
“This I can't overlook.”
He yanked his half-buried sword, nudging a nearby beast corpse.
“This beast isn't student-level. Not even for a retired battlefield hack like you, Mackhart.”
Mackhart squinted at it.
'Isn't that a Dark Troll?'
As far as he recalled, no such beast in the pens. Regular trolls at best—no high-tier like Dark Trolls bred.
“Th-this is some mistake...”
“Sure, could be. The 'fragments' from Aphria's terror amplified local demonic energy, causing anomalies here. Possible.”
The man stubbed his cigarette on his hand.
“That could pass as 'anomaly' too. But two problems here.”
He raised two fingers.
“One: You're prime suspect right now, Mackhart Crepelt.”
Folded his middle finger.
“Two: You brought students here. Leaves us no choice but to suspect.”
Folded his index.
“Details at base.”
“Wh-who are you to be so rude...!”
“I'm in a position to be rude.”
Thud.
The man tossed his scabbard.
“...”
Mackhart eyed the scabbard at his feet. Plain-looking.
But its crest eluded clear view. He stared hard.
'Royal crest...'
Royal family crest on the scabbard.
Inverted, shadowed-like.
Mackhart knew it.
'Symbol of the royal family's dark side.'
Gulp.
He swallowed dryly.
Slowly looked up at the man.
'Holy shit.'
Propped chin, staring—the man's identity hit Mackhart.
Sword only royals wield.
Royalty's sharpest dagger.
Special force utterly loyal to the crown.
Some call them Royal Guard with respect.
Most call them this.
Hound.
The royal family's hunting dog.
“This interrogation won't be gentlemanly like last time.”
The hound bared its fangs.
4.
“This interrogation won't be gentlemanly like last time.”
I blinked.
'That voice sounds familiar.'
Unpleasantly so.
I slipped from the line, peering at the man facing Mackhart.
Brown hair swept over forehead.
Narrowed eyes.
Biting cigarette.
'Ah.'
Seeing the cig jogged memory. Plenty smoked on fields, but that unique shape stuck.
'Tracker Kalt.'
Exceptional demonic sense among knights—nicknamed dog nose.
'Was my aide too.'
Yeah.
He'd pinpoint magic, I'd sweep—team ops often.
'Long time.'
I glanced down.
His tossed scabbard lay there. I recognized the crest instantly.
'Royal hound, Hound.'
Hard not to.
I'd recommended Hound to injured, retiring Kalt.
'Look at him, promoted.'
Seeing old comrade, joy welled—I nearly waved, then stopped.
'Why's he glaring?'
Kalt's gaze was sharp.
Like hunting magic on fields. I followed his stare.
'Pocket?'
Something in my pocket?
Space expansion magic—tossed anything in...
'Oh, right.'
One item flashed by.
Sewer fragments, professor lounge hall end pickups.
Too risky to leave, multi-layered seal spells, carried around.
Where'd I stash? Pocket, probably.
“...”
I silently met Kalt's eyes.
“Hoo.”
Kalt stood, exhaling short.
Twirled wrist, regripped sword. Target obvious.
“The culprit's elsewhere.”
He finally spoke.
“Filthy traitor.”
Uh...
'How'd it come to this?'
Thud—Kalt kicked off.
Battle-hardened agility, no hesitation.
Whoosh.
Closed distance in blink, swung.
“Goddamn.”
I sighed at the incoming blade.
Forced into pointless physical drills in blazing sun, lectured on basics by this worthless prof.
'Now my old subordinate's swinging too.'
Neck throbbed.
Couldn't just slaughter these assholes here—exercised patience, suppressing rage.
'Right, fuck, who am I? The guy who endured Sara and Remia's bullshit for five years.'
Recalled those days weathering their crap. Survived plenty.
Just endure a bit...
'Huh?'
Weird.
'Thinking about it, it's still shit?'
Why more pissed?
Author's Note Successful(?) mirror therapy! Quit the Hero Party pursues growth! *Usual length: 5k~5.5k characters! Today's: 9k! Novelpia counts non-space chars... anyway! Thought to split, but cut-off felt awkward, so all in one. Splitting mid would've dragged this ep :)