A Battle Without Help -6-
Hanna had a dream. A dream of repaying even a fraction of the grace she'd received all this time. Hanna wanted to give back for the kindness that had unraveled a knot she could never untie on her own. That hand extended to her—a girl who wasn't pretty or particularly gifted—without demanding any price in return... it filled her with such profound gratitude.
What could she offer? How could she ever repay it? She'd racked her brains endlessly, but Hanna found no answers. After all, she'd left her family behind; she had nothing left to give.
So Hanna clung desperately to her one wish.
"The academy thing... it's not gonna work, is it?"
"I'm sorry."
"No, no. I was the one who asked too much."
She wanted to fulfill the very first request the butler had ever made of her. Even though it was something he'd mentioned at their first meeting, Hanna still remembered it clearly. And it gnawed at her—the incompetence she felt for failing to grant such a simple favor.
So Hanna drew her sword. Facing an opponent far stronger than herself, she held it steady, drawing in a deep breath. To lend weight to her words, and to honor the butler's request, she gripped her blade. Only then could she offer even the smallest repayment for his faith in her. With fear woven into every fiber, Hanna began channeling her aura.
Shartia was laboring under one grave misconception: that academy students were strong. It was a misunderstanding that had crept in unnoticed. She'd watched graduates bask in public acclaim, their successes trailing behind them like banners. Surely, she thought, academy students were powerful. And in truth, they often had been.
The academy was a gathering of the empire's raw talents—sword wielders, mages, healers, divine casters. A collective of diverse gifts that could shrug off minor hardships with ease. Even after the heretics' raid had turned the last ball into chaos, Shartia believed this time would be different. That attack had caught them off guard, but now—imperfectly prepared or not—they knew their foe and had their weapons ready. Victory seemed within reach.
Was it impatience over the student council's tarnished honor? Or the narrow confines of her own well? Shartia had momentarily forgotten how limited her perspective had become. The heretics shattered that arrogance in an instant. You're weak, they declared. Nothing but flowers in a greenhouse.
She'd thought the disciplinary squad could hold them off, maybe even buy time... but they'd crumbled without a fight.
"Professor Shulia."
"Why do you call?"
"Could you come with me for a moment?"
"Hmm... Shall I guess?"
"Pardon?"
"I'm quite perceptive, you know."
"Professor."
"Shall we drop the act now?"
It happened in a flash. At Professor Shulia's gesture, the disciplinary squad members toppled like dry twigs. A mere flick of her wrist—not some grand flourish—and they were down. Shartia could scarcely process it.
"Kuhk...!"
"You came to take me down with this?"
"Get your heads in the game and fight!"
"Aren't you underrating me? I gave you all passing grades—such a disappointment."
The sight of the academy's vaunted disciplinary leaders collapsing so helplessly filled Shartia with dread. Lethal strikes flew. Killing intent surged. This wasn't some practice arena with safety nets—no professors to intervene, no rules to pull blows. Splattering blood droplets proved it all too clearly.
If only she'd subdued the professor first. If only she hadn't rashly decided to act alone for the student council's pride, despite requesting aid. Regret clouded her judgment as terror flooded her mind.
Then came the thud—and Shartia stood there, Professor Shulia's hand pierced straight through her abdomen. The professor was smiling.
"Do something. Don't just stand there."
"..."
"This is no fun. I expected more from a mob rush."
Only now, watching Shulia lick blood from her fingers, did Shartia understand why they'd fought without fear at the ball.
"Two archbishops. And I was alone."
Why they hadn't been overwhelmed by two archbishops. Why they'd fought freely. She realized it too late: the archbishops weren't weak. He had been overwhelmingly stronger. Her body knew it now, pierced through with agony.
"Kakakakak...!"
Madness gleamed in Professor Shulia's eyes before Shartia—pure slaughterous intent. Wielding no magic, just raw hand-to-hand, Shulia toyed with them effortlessly, sapping the squad's will. Rohan, the leader who'd swung his sword on confidence alone, averted his gaze from her eyes, his blade trembling as his resolve shattered. Elegant, unflashy motions traced red lines of death, and Shartia began to fear the heretics as entities.
Professor Shulia, parrying Hanna's strike, shook blood from her hand with an intrigued smile.
"As expected of Histania blood."
A sharp shiiik—black magic-coated nails grazed Hanna's face. Gritting her teeth, Hanna twisted her waist and swung.
Shulia bent slightly, dodging with a laugh. "See? I dodged that too."
Her eyes twinkled: Dodged that too, huh? She didn't hide her amusement.
"People really do turn out better with good parents."
"Shut up."
Hanna's face was stone as she unleashed a furious barrage at Shulia's throat. Amid the fallen squad, awed murmurs rose.
"She's winning...!"
"Beating that monster...!"
"Hanna was that strong?"
Calls of "even match" mixed with "Hanna's ahead," but Shartia knew better.
"Show me more."
"Hoo..."
"More, I said. You've got secrets—show them."
Shulia held the advantage. Hanna's breaths grew ragged; Shulia's stayed calm. Hanna's mighty leap and overhead smash barely budged her.
Without help, Hanna would lose. Shartia knew it—and she wasn't alone. Mihail slowly drew his sword, focusing, gathering aura to find an opening. Shartia endured the searing pain in her gut, channeling magic into her hands.
"We have to hold out."
Until academy reinforcements arrived. That was their only hope in this grim fight. She drew on her mana.
The tide tipped toward Shulia.
"Student Hanna, you're a delight."
"Flattery won't make me happy."
"No, really impressive."
Shulia clapped, beaming. "Such pretty hands."
"..."
"Pretty face too."
"..."
"I want it—all of it."
Dark smile spreading, Shulia blackened her fingertips. An eerie chill spread through the academy. Mihail and Shartia inhaled deeply, surging their mana.
Claaang! Hanna flew back. Mihail and Shartia lunged in sync—their first real teamwork. Mihail syncing with Hanna for the first time. Elation surged; maybe they could turn it around.
Then Shulia smirked chillingly. "Don't you know what I teach?"
Her voice echoed briefly—
KAAAAACK!
Horrid screams pierced their ears. Pandemonium. Every spectator student's eyes rolled back; they tore into each other.
Shulia smiled, addressing them languidly. "Come down and kill."
Students poured into the arena, zombie-like, fixated on Mihail and Hanna. Shulia vanished into the horde.
"Oh, right—I never introduced myself."
"Archbishop of Blasphemy."
"That's my name."
Abyssal darkness swallowed the academy.
Ruin could do nothing. Not against students vaulting from the stands. Not as Hanna and Mihail fought while dodging the descending mob. He stood powerless.
"What the hell...? Why's everyone...?!"
Weaker-minded students ignored him, swept by Shulia's magic.
Thud! One shoved his shoulder, barreling past without a glance—like he was invisible. They swarmed Mihail and Hanna.
"Block them somehow!"
"I want to—but...!"
Mihail, unable to strike innocents, dodged grabs, losing focus. Hanna, eyes shut for evasion, kept exposing openings to Shulia.
Ruin offered zero help. Worse—his mere presence felt like a hindrance. The pure malice churning his gut terrified him. This selfish willingness to sacrifice others for a goal unnerved him. Facing an archbishop's terror for the first time, Ruin's mind reeled in overwhelming enmity.
Hans had been different. Was it Shulia's magic? Or had he always been a coward? Ruin couldn't shake his desperate urge to flee this battlefield.
He wanted to run.
"Block them! You're useless! Just kick or shove!"
"...!"
"What good are you standing there like a scarecrow?!"
He didn't want to be a dummy—but those lethal strikes terrified him. "...No."
He had to snap out of it.
Step.
His feet carried him away from the fray. One step. Two. Overwhelmed by fear, he backpedaled.
Mock him as a coward if you must. Just let him...
I want to run.
Ruin turned and bolted for the exit like a madman. He knocked over fleeing students, eyes on the ground, sprinting on.
How long? A thud and a short woman's cry.
Ruin looked down at the girl on the floor, trembling.
"Hng... It hurts..."
Her face—pink hair. The healer who mended the wounded. He never wanted to see her like this. Her eyes met his, voice quavering.
"...Ruin?"
Ruin.
"Fuck...!"
Ran past Yuria.
Shameful. Mortifying. Insanely embarrassing.
But so terrifying.
So he ran. And ran. Reaching the exit, he glimpsed fleeing students—and realized his shame.
"Fuck."
He turned back toward the fray. Too late to help meaningfully, but he'd try. A burden maybe, but he'd push past the fear, move his legs—
But he was far too late.
A brilliant light flashed at the arena's center. Familiar mana, a sun-like radiance crashing down. Ruin let out a hollow laugh, head bowed.
"What am I...?"
The hero had arrived. The one he called "old man"—who'd already sealed his choice.