A Demon Lives in the Academy (1)
"Reporting in, sir."
"Ah. What is it this time?"
The man scratching his head with an air of utter annoyance looked every bit the unemployed layabout. There was the scar cutting across his eye, the burn scars covering his neck, the long laceration running all the way down to his elbow.
And then there was the hair that hadn't seen soap in days, greasy and unwashed, and the eye crust still clinging to his lashes even though it was nearly lunchtime.
The only problem was that this man happened to be my boss.
"...This criminal, too, was killed when we were ambushed by unknown assailants while being transferred to the Imperial High Security Prison."
And right now, the problem that had just landed on my desk mattered far more than my superior's disreputable appearance.
"...Again?"
My boss — the Inspector General, head of the Imperial Audit Department — had irritation written all over his face. The look of a man already drowning in work he despised, now faced with even more of it piling on.
"Yes. As with the last incident, the coachman and the guards had been put to sleep by some means, so there were no casualties among them. However, the criminals' bodies bore traces of what could only be described as torture."
With that, I handed the Inspector General the photographs I'd taken at the scene.
His face contorted.
"Ugh, come on. Don't hand me photos like these, just tell me."
"I'm afraid I can't do that. It would be absurd for the Inspector General himself to be ignorant of conditions at the scene."
And watching this man squirm was one of my few remaining joys in life.
So I carried on.
"It appears they took their time grinding down every joint of every finger, starting from the tips of the toes. The faces of the corpses — the expressions, I mean — were all twisted into something downright grotesque."
"Ha... Same perpetrator as last time, I take it?"
"It would seem so."
After all, the scene was identical to the one left behind by the mastermind behind the academy bombing.
The sleeping coachman and guards, and above all the faces contorted as though their owners had been tortured for hours on end — the resemblance was uncanny.
The Inspector General heaved a deep sigh at my report. He scratched roughly at his hair, irritation plain on his face, and shut his eyes.
And when he opened them again, the look in them had changed entirely, as if a different man sat there.
"Then what of a connection to the serial killings of the illegal prostitution ring a few months back — and the mass murder on the Street of Liberty?"
"That's... ambiguous. The perpetrators of those two incidents appear to be the same person, but I can't say with certainty that they're the same as the one behind this case."
The common thread in the carriage ambush murders was that the criminals had been tortured. The common thread in the mass murders was that the victims had been slaughtered in an instant.
"Still. You're saying there's something similar, in your eyes."
"Yes, there is. In the mass murders, most of the criminals were indeed killed outright, but a few of the bodies bore traces of torture."
"And?"
"The weapons used in both — the corpses were crushed as if by a blunt instrument, or a mace."
"Blunt instruments, maces... There are really only two kinds of people who favor weapons like those."
The Inspector General narrowed his eyes and studied the scene photographs.
And I had a fair idea of which two groups he had in mind.
"Those groups are a bit large to call 'two kinds,' but most criminal organizations do favor blunt weapons of one sort or another."
"...And the Combat Priests and Heresy Inquisitors of the Elohim Order were fond of them too, weren't they. Maces, and the like."
"...Inspector General, isn't that a rather dangerous thing to say?"
The power of the Elohim Order rivaled that of the Empire's own knightly orders. The reason the Empire had not collapsed and continued to run smoothly was the existence of the Imperial Audit Department and the royal knights — and, equally, the Heresy Inquisitors of the Elohim Order, the Empire's one true faith.
Fanatics who showed precious little mercy — at least where criminals were concerned.
"But it tracks. Religious fanatics obsessed with punishing criminals. A method that leaves the coachmen and guards untouched and tortures only the criminals. And murder by blunt instrument."
"Whew... So what is it you're asking of me, sir?"
Having come this far, he clearly wanted something. When he was this transparent about it, it meant he'd already made up his mind.
"I'm sending an inspector. That's all."
"To where, may I ask?"
"Imperial Aeternum Academy. The official pretext: in preparation for crimes connected to the Academy, the Imperial Audit Department shall be assigned to protect it."
Absolutely not, you raving lunatic.
"...Then what would the actual objective be?"
I swallowed the curse that nearly escaped my lips and asked instead. I could roughly guess what the real objective was, and the thought of it made me uneasy.
And the Inspector General spoke quietly.
"The mass murders are ambiguous. Don't link them."
Which was to say: focus on the case at hand.
"But both of the carriage ambush murders are clearly connected to the Academy. So you will watch the Academy's staff — the professors, the students — and find the suspect."
He plucked out, point by point, exactly what I had deliberately left unsaid, and issued his orders on the spot.
"Hah... That would constitute an overreach of authority. Aeternum Academy is no ordinary academy — it is a direct appendage of the Crown."
Aeternum Academy was the only state-funded academy in the Empire. Which meant this bastard was entertaining the insane notion of auditing that place however he pleased.
"I'll speak to His Majesty the Emperor personally, so get an inspector ready to depart."
Son of a bitch.
There was no reasoning with him.
I heaved a deep sigh and gave my answer.
"...Then who should I send?"
"..."
"...? Excuse me — why are you looking at me?"
"It's obviously going to be you, so why aren't you packing? Get your things together and get moving."
Ah, this absolute bastard. For real.
I was genuinely tempted to curse him to his face and write my resignation then and there —
"You won't be needing a resignation letter. If it bothers you that much, get promoted and become my superior instead. Then you can bark at me like a dog all you like. You're Deputy Director now, so there's not far left to go."
The corner of the Inspector General's mouth curled upward, and I gave a stiff nod and left his office.
I shut the door behind me with every ounce of strength I had.
— Argh, my ears!
A shout rang out from within, but I ignored it and walked on.
Get promoted and become the Inspector General's superior?
As if that were possible. Anyone above the Inspector General answered directly to the Emperor.
This bastard.
Muttering curse after curse under my breath, I packed my things.
When the boss says jump, you jump.
What else was there to do?
Summer had slipped quietly closer.
The flowers that had graced the spring now folded their petals away, and the blooms announcing summer's arrival were slowly beginning to unfurl.
Ah — though, of course, the Academy's gardens bloomed in unchanging splendor all year round.
The breeze had turned warm, at any rate. Early in the morning it might have carried a faint chill, but as midday drew near, the mild weather became something to be welcomed.
The students' clothing was growing lighter by degrees. Only last week I'd seen students layering coats over their uniforms; now they all wore light, airy attire.
Everything looked bright and cheerful. Vivid flowers in bloom, leaves a lush green, students shedding the layers they'd been bundled in.
And yet their expressions were anything but sunny.
If anything, the brighter their outfits grew, the more they seemed to be quietly withering inside, poor souls.
Which was only natural.
The Academy was now entering the season when it grew frantic all over again.
With summer's approach came the end of the first semester. Assignments were already raining down like artillery from every lecture hall without any help from me, and in two weeks, finals would be there to greet them.
Two critically important weeks, closing out a semester that would shape their futures — or more precisely, their employment prospects.
The students were gladly burning themselves alive for the sake of their grades.
In two weeks' time, I imagined, I would get to watch them collapse like flowers withering on the stem.
It was a rather pitiable sight.
Ah, and if I may add one thing —
I'm a professor, so I don't have to suffer through any of that lol.
In any case, mercifully, I had finished preparing my exams well in advance this time.
As for assignments — well, having already received my birthday present (not mine, technically), I'd waived them.
And though I'd said it teasingly a moment ago, the truth was I'd been through that grind myself, so I had no desire to dump finals and assignments on them all at once.
When I told my students there would be no assignments until the final exam, some of them were moved to actual tears.
As for the final itself, I had built it around theory. I drafted the questions based on everything covered in the lecture hours thus far.
In other words, anyone who had paid proper attention in lecture should be able to answer every question without difficulty. Or so I believed.
[...You're sure you actually based them on the lectures?]
But Niger's voice, cutting in right then, was thick with disbelief.
I mean, come on.
"What's wrong with it? What exactly is the problem? I used the circuit-twisting technique you taught me, adding new formulas to an existing circuit, and the divine prayer for boosting output — that is basing it on the lectures, isn't it?"
I'd taken everything Niger had taught me and incorporated it faithfully, if I did say so myself.
It's an exam meant to separate the capable from the incapable, so of course I had to introduce variations. Had to slip in a trick or two. Had to test the students' creativity, too.
Besides, when I asked the other professors, they said theory finals typically came with about three days of allotted time, so I'd simply scaled the workload to roughly three days.
Hand out the exam papers on Monday, give them until Friday — generous, roomy timing. What could possibly be the issue?
[The difficulty is — *sigh*. Forget it. What's the point of saying anything.]
"...?"
No.
What is that supposed to mean?
Don't give up on them, teach.