Suspicious Counseling Room (3)
Right now, in Hikarius City, Raban's ultimate goal was "gather mana efficiently and escape home." Actually, even the "home" part was negotiable. "To a safe dimension" would suffice. Mages, by their very nature, could accomplish anything with enough mana. But this world was dominated at night by the shadow-mascot government and their lackeys—who doubled as magic wands—the magical girls, ruling with an iron fist. Openly scraping together mana was damn near impossible.
If magic hadn't been exposed in Hikarius and there were no suspicious forces like the mascots, Raban would've immediately drawn up a city-scale magic circle to harvest mana, hibernated for a month or two, and bounced from this world. Sure, the amount needed for dimensional travel was a bit much for personal use, but on a planetary scale, it was negligible. Live like you're dead until no one remembers you, then vanish without a trace—a perfect plan! ...Too bad it was impossible to pull off here. So Raban had pivoted to extracting negative thoughts through repeated counseling sessions with these friends who seemed overflowing with resentment.
And of course, there were obstacles to the plan.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Raban idly flicked his ballpoint pen. He was staring at the scribbled-up scraps of paper meant to organize his thoughts. What he called "scribbles" looked, to anyone else, like a three-year-old's finger-painting reject pile.
He glanced at the students chatting away with their friends in the counseling room, shook his head once, then turned his mind back to the obstacles.
The shadow-mascot government? That wasn't an obstacle—it was an instant-death event. He'd only clashed directly with a magical girl once, but he'd seen them tussle with villains plenty of times.
'They really use mana like it's infinite.'
At first, he couldn't figure out why the magical girls burned through mana so recklessly when fighting the Ivory Tower's Four Heavenly Kings. Villains attacked almost daily—weekly at the most leisurely. In real combat like that, you'd expect mana control to sharpen... but they didn't need control. What more did you need against overwhelming output? The mascot overlords—the Great Spirit black—had to be funneling mana straight to the magical girls. Raban shook his head. His current rivals weren't the magical girls anyway.
'Ivory Tower.'
The materials for the villains they produced came in three flavors. Mana—provided by the Four Heavenly Kings. Something that awakened negative thoughts into villains. The Ivory Tower called it "seeds," some weird substance the Four Heavenly Kings carried around and planted. And the negative thoughts that gave villains their specific forms and powers. Those had to be extracted from other people.
'How dare they steal my daily energy supply!'
Factually, Raban was the one who'd hijacked the Ivory Tower's energy source, but he was a black mage who'd long since pawned his conscience beyond the dimensional wall. Facts didn't matter.
In short, his business rival right now was the Ivory Tower.
'They haven't made any villains since I got exposed...'
That was just temporary shock. If he kept laying low, the Ivory Tower would soon turn its eyes back to battling magical girls. They'd crank out villains whenever they got bored, naturally. He had no idea what link there was between villain production and reviving that guy Ebon, but he couldn't just sit by while they wasted negative thoughts on it.
So there was only one thing to do.
'Pull some aggrO!'
The Ivory Tower and magical girls had entered a sort of ceasefire because his appearance had put them on high alert. If he sprinkled around some moderately weak villains—like that hand tree from before—he could keep the tension going.
In Raban's mind, blueprints for the familiars he'd once made to chant "I am the legion" unfurled vividly.
"Teach—!"
That lively student's voice snapped him out of it. The black mage who'd just been smugly plotting against two evil organizations—the mascot empire and the Ivory Tower—turned into a pathetic old man in an instant.
"I'm not 'teach.' What's up?"
"Counseling!"
"I seriously don't get why everyone wants to talk to me. Kids, you are telling them I'm not guiding right? No credentials, nothing?"
Normally, there was one peer counselor on duty, but lately there were at least two. Thanks to the sudden influx of students visiting the counseling room.
"Of course we tell them. But what can we do? They say they want to see an adult instead of the same old faces we always see."
"Why me, though... No, interim counselor gigs like this usually fly under the radar. Most kids wouldn't care even if the teacher changed completely, right?"
"That started after the class prez came for counseling last time～."
"Class prez? What's that? Some position?"
Was it like class reps beating each other up to crown the strongest? A ridiculous thought flitted through Raban's head.
The counselor student laughed and shook her head.
"We're not some manga school sorting hierarchy by fights. Nah, doesn't exist. It's just a nickname for Schne. She pokes her nose everywhere, class or no. She'll probably be next student council president."
Ah. That mascot empire frontliner. Raban gritted his teeth.
The mascots' handiwork was terrifying.
'Flood me with work so I can't focus on my real job...?'
Even more insidious that they weren't moving themselves—they were mobilizing the students.
'Planetary-scale history tampering and brainwashing, mana monopolies, and barrier control over the whole city.'
This is straight-up magical dystopia, Raban grumbled inwardly as he stood from his seat. But what could he do? With Big Mascot watching, he'd play along on the surface. The real work could wait until after hours.
'Ah, overtime.'
Sad times.
"Teacher, why's your right hand so pale? What lotion do you use?"
"I don't go outside much, so less UV. And I'm not 'teacher.'"
"Tell me about your first love, teacher!"
"It was money. Out you go."
"Aw, c'mon!"
"Fine. Actually, it was even bigger money."
"You're really doing this?"
"...Kid."
Raban hardened his expression for a moment, then spoke with grave sincerity.
"Truth is, the counseling room being this packed with students isn't a good sign."
He explained in a low, steady tone. Counseling like this often exposed deep inner wounds, and the more people around, the more burdensome it felt. One-on-one in a quiet, orderly, comfortable space was ideal for opening up.
"We're making do with partitions or the back room now, but it's not best practice. For kids who really need someone to listen, all these people feel like a wall."
People hurt people the most, after all. People were the scariest thing there was.
"So please. Help us give the kids who need it the help they need."
"...Whoa. First time I've heard an adult talk so politely for so long."
"You'll see it a lot during election season."
"Eek, fine, for your sincerity. Yeah, got it."
Jackpot. Raban whooped inwardly. One more annoying element down!
"So when do I see you, teach?"
"Sigh. If you're coming, do it during break."
"Okay! Tomorrow!"
Raban sighed as he watched the student dash off with an energetic wave and a bright smile.
"I really don't get what they see in this place."
"The punching bag vibe."
A familiar voice. Raban turned, struggling not to show his delight.
"Punching bag vibe?"
"Old man punching bag. Fun bouncing stuff off you and getting replies."
"Harsh, kid."
Nai Hyun, her short hair whipping as she ran up, rummaged through the desk drawers. Raban sighed and spoke.
"Far left of my desk organizer."
"Huh? How'd you know?"
Nai Hyun gawked, notebook in hand. Raban shrugged.
"Who else cleans up and locks the counseling room after hours? Take it."
'I hid it.'
It was a trick he'd picked up watching Nai Hyun study in the counseling room after school for days. Distract with chit-chat to make her forget her notebook. Risky if overused, but tiny helps like this built intimacy best.
'If that demon I contracted with saw, she'd rage about what a sleazy black mage I was.'
But a good black mage doesn't waver under unfair judgment. Raban kept his poker face.
"Thanks! I'll bring fried rice next time!"
After Nai Hyun left, Raban kept doodling on blank paper—what he saw as a highly encrypted secret plan, but to others, pure scribbles—and checked the clock.
"Alright. Ten minutes till lunch ends. Back to class, everyone."
The students chattered lively, waving as they filed out. Glancing back on the way—
There was "teach," staring at the doodles like they were hilarious. Sunlight crept through the blinds, soaking his hair. Amid the black, a subtle blue sheen caught the light—contrasting his decadent vibe and blunt speech. Never got old.
"Teach, you really have no idea why the kids flock here?"
"But aren't they cute?"
"Hee hee."
Raban grumbled on, then idly stroked his hand.
'Why so white, huh.'
A throwaway question from one student. But of course his right hand was pale as fresh skin.
'I'm chopping and regrowing it every damn night.'
He finally had enough hands ready for deployment.