Chanting Girls are Chanting Girls
Angras Culture Exploration Club room.
"Did you really go see the dean?"
"Damn right I did!"
With Beni off at another class, Riley and I were alone in the room. I set the box down in the corner of the storage area and let out a small sigh.
Thank goodness our dean was the down-to-earth, angelic type. If it'd been any other general, she might've chuckled indulgently about how well-trained I was in impudence before chewing me out.
Getting scolded is great, right? Not wrong. If things actually played out that way.
But folks of that rank obsess over face. Plus, with a living legend from the Imperial Band—the ultimate tenure monster—as my backing... Instead of blunt insults and contempt, I'd just get endless nagging and passive-aggressive jabs.
The displeasure that makes a masochist's heart race is totally different from the kind that doesn't. And what those noble bigwigs dish out? Definitely the latter.
Of course, crank the incident up a notch, and it's not contempt anymore—it's outright annihilation.
As I mulled over that regret, Riley—fresh from boldly storming the dean's office—still looked smug as ever.
"But why'd you skip the part about fighting the great witch during your lecture?!"
And for some reason, it felt like she was the one grilling me.
"We went to subdue her but couldn't catch her and let her slip away. How do you brag about that? Embarrassing."
I averted my eyes and muttered.
Telling a failure story with "It was all her fault" just sounds like jerking off. 'Oh... public self-pleasure in front of the students sounds kinda...'
"...More than that, she wasn't a great witch back then."
Half my brain wasted on useless crap, I added quietly.
Witch. The Church's term for a mage who breaks taboos. Think magic version of a mad scientist—or a dark sorceress from an RPG.
And a great witch? Not necessarily the strongest among them.
Just the ones who are exceptionally shitty.
Of course, strength-wise, they're definitely powerful. If they weren't minimally tough, the rage from their assholery would've gotten them exterminated ages ago.
Anyway, the Church's list of "utterly irredeemable scum" currently numbers four. The trash that rampaged in Yugten's been dubbed the Serene Hag.
Why "hag"? No idea. They all get that suffix—probably something like "[Adjective] Hag" in the original tongue.
"Serene" is straightforward: "Stay quiet, you devil spawn."
Not my exaggeration. She's the bitch who massacred civilians with hit-and-run tactics from an ancient flying ship relic of a dark-age civilization. Official docs don't swear outright, but that's the Church folks' exact sentiment.
...Damn, still pisses me off thinking about it. Should've finished her then. One of my lingering regrets.
How much loss could've been prevented? Ran into her a few times on battlefields after, but she always slipped away. Among great witches, she's the trickiest—no combat prowess, but escapes like a pro.
"Anyway, putting that aside... the procedures for this field trip are mostly sorted."
"Oh! Nice, glad it worked out!"
That's why she'd gone to the dean in the first place. I'd finished the formal report and was heading out when she dropped that bombshell.
"Still got time till the weekend, but preparations going well?"
"Yeah! Heard Number Four's in jeongbae form!"
"...Not that. Other preparations."
I could only press a hand to my forehead at her response.
Sure, it's a horse-racing city, but common sense says prioritize the basics first.
...Pointless with Riley. Yeah, my bad. Shouldn't expect common sense from someone who defies it.
"...And first, tell me your source. Someone told you, right?"
"Ah."
Karimille has no track, but betting's legal via city-run parlors with wire broadcasts of races. Even without live feeds, results-only gambling works.
"Academy students can't buy tickets unless visiting a track in person."
"I-I didn't buy any tickets!"
"Tickets, huh?"
"......Urgh."
I stared, and she squirmed, looking away. Realized she'd dug her own grave trying to defend herself.
Small mercy: not her grave.
"Underground campus totto... Hand over the names nicely?"
"N-No way! It was juicy info, promised it'd stay just between us!"
"Unlimited frozen desserts all semester."
"Huh?"
I picked up the box from the corner again, set it on the desk, and opened the lid. A chill whooshed out.
I pulled out a transparent cubic ice block, wrapped in thick velvet. Even through my monster-leather gloves, the cold bit.
"Leaves...?"
"Frostwood leaves. Only half, but still."
Inside: a bisected leaf, source of the intense freeze.
"From Yugten's church."
The place that watched the fainted kid came with a letter and package. I'd only asked for treatment, but they nursed her and found her a job. Said she'd just pickpocket again otherwise.
Sending news and a gift—blatant "let's keep good relations."
Not that they'd admit it, but my Church donations are hefty. No anonymous stuff; might as well take credit spending my cash.
They're not purely mercenary either. Taking responsibility for a kid and opening doors ain't easy. Probably seized a chance to blend conscience and pragmatism.
Musing that, I unpacked more: dropped a cube into a large glass like on-the-rocks whiskey, poured the included reddish syrup over...
Instantly, frost rimed it, solidifying into crumbly sherbet.
Riley's eyes sparkled. She'd loved it in Yugten too.
"C-Can I try?!"
Or maybe just the making looked fun. Even in my old world with endless entertainment, shorts of this stuff grab attention—imagine here.
I nodded, handing her the syrup jar.
"Just the name."
"Overheard Senior Lucia chatting with a same-year from Su House!"
"Got it. Thanks."
Moment of silence for the girls sold out for ice cream.
But don't gamble illegally if you hate snitching.
"Anyone else gossiping like that?"
"Hm? Uh..."
She'd already grabbed a fancy spoon from the box, digging in.
I sidled closer, probed gently. Jotted names in my notebook, pocketed it.
Hm, mostly magic department. Figures—mages love horses.
Medieval fantasy knights on horseback with lances? Not here.
But decent martial artists outrun horses anyway.
Mages, weaker in aura, stick to mounts. Cavalry aren't softies—more like dragoons, brave frontline operators.
Martial artists ride too—for convenience or conserving stamina/aura. Dismount pre-fight; basic like high-rank Earth officers.
Few take riding classes—too basic. Nobles know it pre-enrollment; basics fill with commoners. Beni's absent for that.
Advanced mounted combat? Nobles included, but martial students skip—no need unless cavalry-bound. Like Riley, non-cavalry barbarian.
She skips for tribal traditions anyway.
"Like horse racing?"
Obvious, but with her intel-digging.
Groomha County just got called "horse-addicts." No interest there? Like a Korean guy back then clueless on soccer or StarCraft—total outsider.
"Not your tribe's races—Imperial horse racing."
"Er... Never seen Imperial ones. But how different? Racing horses?"
"Very. No attacking opponents."
Theirs is item battles. Duh.
She gawked.
"How test warrior skill then?"
"Don't. It's about the horse's ability—jockey combat skews it."
Safel Dulla's famed for racing, but that's side gig. Core: military horse breeding. Races test superior stock for breeding; results guide pairings.
Jockey fights? Messes data. And randomly attacking? No, even without that.
Do that, watch mounted duels—not races.
Though theirs resembles some old game's riding battles, not Groomha style.
"What's fun about that...? Imperials are hard to get..."
Riley deflated. I gave a wry smile.
And you're legally Imperial now?
Bit my tongue—tough.
Embrace it; you chose study abroad, Riley.