Happy Free Time (3)

Fortunately, without wandering off down any wrong turns, I made it to the library-slash-clock tower. Was this the tallest building on campus? I was still gawking around in wonder when one particular fact settled over me.

Wasn't this a little too narrow to be a library? It was tall enough, sure, but it didn't look like there was room inside for much of anything.

I considered the possibility of a hollow-pillar design, then dismissed it. If that were the case, the whole thing would have toppled long ago from shoddy construction. Still, there were windows on the outside, so something had to be in there.

Or maybe, because this was a fantasy novel, they'd simply used some sturdy, absurdly convenient material that wouldn't collapse no matter how carelessly you built with it. Even granting that, the place still looked far too cramped to house a library.

At least until I stepped inside.

In a fashion more fantastical than I'd imagined, the tower held a library. The interior was vastly wider than the exterior suggested. The ceiling soared higher, too.

Across what looked like roughly ten stories of height, people who appeared to be staff moved with crisp precision—shelving books, sweeping floors—and the whole place radiated the unmistakable air of somewhere the nobility had poured money into without restraint.

When I first walked in, I was bewildered by the absence of that distinctive book smell, then decided they must have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠managed the place so ruthlessly that even the scent of paper had been scrubbed away.

There were people who found the smell of books overpowering, after all. Apparently this place had its share of them.

Whether because of the distorted mana or something else, the air inside felt denser and more stifling than outside—but for the moment I was too busy being awed to care. For the first time, I felt like I was looking at proper fantasy.

The thought did cross my mind that lifting the ground and talking to gods counted as plenty fantastical already, but things you'd grown up with never felt that wondrous. Of Baek Hoyeon's nineteen years, nearly fourteen had been spent in conversation with the gods. Among the favors I'd asked of them, raising ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the earth had been a truly trivial request.

Honestly, the way the gods were always leaping forward to help with everything had made me uncomfortable—but once I was apart from them, I was lonely.

No. I should be happy right now. Fantasy. Happy thoughts.

"Please present your student ID."

Before I could sink back into gloom, someone who looked like a librarian approached and demanded my student card. Didn't first-years get their IDs issued as a group a month after enrollment? With that complacent assumption, I answered.

"I am a first-year."

"First-year students received their IDs collectively on the day of the entrance ceremony. Have you lost yours, by any chance?"

Was this librarian even human? For all that they were clearly made of flesh and blood, I couldn't shake the sense that I was talking to a machine. So they handed out student IDs starting from the entrance ceremony here. Not exactly welcome news—considering I hadn't received one.

"…I am a transfer student."

I thought being a transfer student might earn me some leeway, but somehow I already knew it wouldn't. The way the teachers had looked at me from day one said enough. Normally a transfer student got fussed over and looked after—but even my homeroom teacher had been avoiding me.

Of course. Nothing I ever did went smoothly. I could already picture my homeroom teacher's face—handing over my student ID sometime in the second semester with some excuse about "circumstances," and telling me school trips and sports festivals were "difficult under such-and-such regulations."

…I really shouldn't have left the house.

What business did a social reject like me have insisting I wanted to go to the Academy and throwing a tantrum to get my way? If I'd been dragged out against my will, at least I'd have had someone to blame. As it stood, this was entirely my own fault.

So what was I supposed to do now? Nothing to play with, no friends to chatter with, and no gods to talk to… well, not exactly none, but close enough that it might as well have been.

The thought of going to see Dogeon crossed my mind, but walking back in after announcing I was going out would have looked strange. He'd probably think I was a little unwell in the head. Once my thoughts reached that point, there didn't seem to be anything left to do outside.

I didn't know where Anastasiya even was, and barging in on her unannounced would only be a nuisance. Which meant the only option left was to crawl into bed and sleep.

Right. If I was going to be a shut-in, I might as well do it properly—hole up in bed, unpack my things, write in my diary. Come to think of it, I did have things to do. There was no rule that everything had to be something only the Academy could offer.

Just as I was about to leave the library, a voice called out from behind me.

I had no idea what an "administrative order" was, why my name was coming up, or what records they were cross-checking—but did this mean I was allowed in? I edged past the librarian-looking person with an awkward shuffle, and they didn't stop me with any "insufficient clearance."

…I still didn't know what they were supposed to "provide," but as a transfer student I was probably just getting a little accommodation. Nothing further came to mind no matter how long I pondered it, so I stepped inside.

Here and there I spotted students with stacks of books beside them—whether studying or reading for fun, I couldn't tell—but overall the atmosphere was quiet and sparse.

Most of them gave whoever entered a single flick of the eyes before returning their attention to their books, as if they wanted nothing more than to be left alone with their own business.

The person who'd just glanced at me had dark circles under their eyes so severe they were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠almost pitiful. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fact that they were still alive in that condition was honestly impressive. I'd looked exactly like that when I was prepping my graduation thesis.

Hang in there. They wouldn't hear me, but I sent them a little silent cheer as I considered what to read.

Something cultural, probably. Manners and common knowledge of this world or this continent. But would a place this refined even stock that kind of thing? For anyone good enough to enter the Academy, that level of knowledge ought to be "common sense."

It was there. On the fourth floor—the sociology floor—it sat proudly on a shelf labeled as this month's recommended reading. Finger smudges, rounded and worn corners: clearly a book a great many people had opened.

I'd expected titles like The Prince—short, weighty, severe. Instead they were baiting readers with the title itself. Unexpected.

So clickbait titles transcended East and West, past and present. I snorted inwardly and turned the cover.

It was less a class than a form of abuse. Not only Han Dogeon but every student still remaining thought so. No one could understand why a lesson supposedly about surviving required them to run the field until they collapsed.

"On your feet. This is the class you chose to stay in. Cadet Han Dogeon. Stand up through sheer spite."

The ordinary students had already gone down, and even those who practiced mana breathing techniques were crawling across the dirt.

Only the students who still had some strength left could wonder, through fading consciousness, how this professor had never been dismissed.

"Surely you did not uncover a mage's secret with resolve this meager."

Dogeon thought as he lay sprawled on the ground. Being recognized was nice—but he should have considered what happened to the protagonist afterward.

What he remembered from the original was the scene where the kettlebell's formula was revealed, followed by Georg taking the protagonist under his special tutelage. He had not known this kind of brutal overwork was part of the middle.

Whatever the process, he had been acknowledged, and he would receive instruction from a former mage of the Hero's party. Dogeon's plan itself had succeeded. His body would suffer for it—but if a little physical suffering bought him magic lessons, that was pure profit as far as he was concerned.

He tried to push himself up, stretching out an arm, only to collapse again at once. One of a transmigrator's perks was a sturdy physique, but even that wasn't enough to endure exercise that drove a human body to its absolute limit.

"…Return to positions."

The students could not comprehend what had happened. By the time they came back to themselves, their stamina had been restored as if they had never run the field at all, and they were standing in the same neat lines as before.

Only Dogeon barely managed to grasp what had occurred. In that brief gap, Georg had fully restored every student's stamina and realigned the ones who'd been scattered across the ground.

The realignment he could more or less accept—but restoration was a priest's domain, wasn't it? Between the man's body and his methods, Dogeon still couldn't understand how anyone called him a mage.

Still, it was reassuring. Learning magic directly from a monster like that meant the results would be certain.

"To those among you who do not know what just happened—I declare the following. You need not know. But ponder this one thing: why I made you run."

With a personality that twisted, he'd probably call anything you said wrong. He hadn't treated Hoyeon that way, though, and Dogeon was grateful for that much.

Believing himself the only person on this continent who understood the full potential of the Baek Empire, Dogeon was caught in a contradictory obsession: keep Hoyeon out of the main story, yet make sure nothing strange ever happened to her. If the ignorant tried to touch her—or worse, tried to harm her—

For any reason at all, the moment her parents learned something had gone wrong with their daughter, they would not stay quiet.

So every event he could accelerate, he had to accelerate—before her presence shattered the narrative. And at the same time, he had to ensure nothing serious ever happened to her. Dogeon steeled himself once more.