A Battle Without Help -3-

The atmosphere in the student council lately had been abysmal. Heretic incidents kept erupting one after another—one issue barely quelled before another exploded, and even when that was stamped out, problems arose from within. It was exhausting the executives. The student council's credibility plummeted with each passing day. With no end in sight to the scandals, student dissatisfaction naturally turned toward them. Complaints that the council, funded by donations and substantial foundation support, accomplished nothing rang true, honestly. Their track record so far had been utterly disappointing.

Student council president Shartia couldn't deny the students' opinions.

"Haa..."

Lately, strange rumors had started circulating in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the academy. One of the professors was allegedly tied to the heretics. With the ranking tournament looming and workloads piling up, plus these ominous whispers—Shartia pressed her throbbing forehead and let out a deep sigh amid the ever-growing pile of tasks.

"Do you idiots even have brains?"

"..."

"We set up the discipline committee for a reason, but those guys ditch for drinks when we're swamped. We're short-staffed as hell just finalizing the ranking match budget, and the accounting department head tags along to party... Do you have a single thought in your heads or not?"

Shartia was furious right now. Amid the chaos, her people were slacking off. The tournament hadn't even started, yet these fools had set up a booze fest, claiming it was some "commemoration." Some were still hungover, dozing off; others sprawled face-down on desks, snoring. Shartia sighed in disillusionment at these executives, who were on track for the worst performance in student council history.

"This is why the whole council's getting dragged through the mud..."

The executives, heads bowed under Shartia's rant, exchanged glances and muttered among themselves.

'She's pissed again today.'

Shartia let out another deep sigh. She had no energy left to chew them out over this. Facing a major event like the ranking tournament, their laziness made them seem anything but adults.

With irritation lacing her voice, Shartia addressed the standing discipline committee members.

"I'm seriously starting to doubt if you're actually adults."

"We're sorry."

"You've lived long enough, but you can't even do your jobs right. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"We're sorry."

"I'm not asking for apologies. You did it because you thought about it, right? Am I wrong?"

"..."

"Then why the hell did you do it? The discipline committee's reputation is already in the toilet, and you go make a scene at a crowded tavern? Haa... No. Forget it."

As the executives' faces stiffened, Shartia swallowed her frustration. Deep down, things had been better when that guy was around. She rubbed her aching forehead, thinking of the one man who surfaced in her mind.

Things definitely would've been different if that guy were still here. He'd handled all the lax executives and petty crimes single-handedly. No one liked him, but when it came to getting shit done, no one was better. He was a workhorse.

Crazy bastard, sure. But if Ricardo were still around, she'd lean on him hard. Shartia shook her head, brushing off the regret.

'What a shame... I wanted to keep bossing him around.'

No way to drag back a guy with zero interest in returning to the academy. Plus, she'd hurt him too. Shartia swallowed her bitterness.

Biting her lip over her past hasty judgment that wounded him, Shartia shifted to the pressing agenda. Slacking could wait. Suppressing the academy rumors took priority. If things escalated like Olivia's expulsion fiasco, the council's support would crater. She couldn't relive that nightmare—scapegoating one person amid universal blame and distrust was terrifying.

With stern warning in her tone, Shartia addressed everyone.

"Heard the rumors floating around the academy lately?"

"..."

"One of the professors is a heretic, right? You've all heard it."

One discipline committee student broke the silence with a small chuckle.

"Nah, it's just all the recent incidents stirring paranoia. Our academy's professor selection is insanely rigorous."

"...That's exactly why I'm saying this."

Shartia clenched her fist, swallowing her frustration. In a place where everyone knew the stringent hiring process, such rumors were bizarre. Others might call her paranoid, but as the one responsible for student safety, she had to take it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seriously. And everyone here should too.

"Don't brush it off—think hard about it. If something blows up like at the ball, who's gonna handle it?"

Shartia glared at the seated executives.

"You wanna beg a dropout for help again?"

Her words struck like pins; the executives bristled, voices rising—especially Rohan, the third-year swordsmanship department discipline head, who slammed his fist and yelled.

"We had our reasons! We explained back then—why bring it up like this!?"

"'Reasons'? You didn't even evacuate students before fleeing? Not one heretic downed, and you brag about surviving? You have no idea how ridiculous I looked plugging leaks to kill the rumors..."

'I wanna spill everything...'

Shartia clamped her mouth shut, recalling Ricardo's words from the ball. It was a favor from the guy who'd always credited others for his work. She couldn't blab—not as someone who'd benefited and owed repayment. Plus, if word spread that the council collapsed without a fight, vicious articles would fly. No one to credit, total contradiction. Shartia gathered her tangled thoughts.

"Shape up. Tournament starts in three hours."

The executives nodded slowly under her heavy gaze—all but one.

"Uh..."

Except Ruin from the magic department. Shartia eyed his raised hand curiously. The guy who always propped feet on desks was sitting straight for once.

"What? Got something to say?"

As eyes turned to him, Ruin awkwardly lowered his hand and shook his head.

"Nah. Nothing."

"Spit it out."

"Just... wondering what we're doing after the tournament."

"Are you kidding?"

Ruin clenched his fist, thinking.

'No way. I'd die before admitting it.'

'How do I say I got my ass kicked learning black magic? Humiliating.'

He swallowed his guilty urge to confess, head down. Shartia delivered her final warning laced with encouragement.

"As you know, the ranking tournament's a big deal—first- and fourth-years both compete."

She issued the curfew order.

"Don't slack and lose. Win. Got it?"

The final pre-tournament meeting adjourned like that.

*

Alone in the meeting room, Shartia sat gnawing her nails, gripped by inexplicable urgency.

"What is it?"

Something felt off—an ominous premonition that disaster loomed, lingering unpleasantly. The chill made focusing impossible; she bit her nails, lost in thought. Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

Then her eyes caught a small envelope on the desk. Brown paper, neatly sealed with wax. The letter Ricardo had left last time he collected pay.

Too busy to read before, but now with her mind tangled—perfect timing. Shartia smiled faintly, reaching for it.

"Like I'd even read it. Why bother writing?"

Ridiculous. Probably just curses. With light heart, she tore open Ricardo's envelope. Carefully extracting the letter.

"His handwriting's garbage..."

Two hours later, she finally finished.

The moment she read it, Shartia grabbed her coat and bolted for the arena.

*

The arena thrummed with cheers. Ruin, head bowed in tension, clenched his fists staring at his first opponent.

"Fuck."

Nothing was going right.