The Scandalous Sketchbook

My low, chilling shout echoing suddenly through the alley made the shoulders of the two men in their flashy silk coats twitch upward in shock.

"Wh-what the hell are you? We were just in the middle of proposing a perfectly legitimate and artistic deal to this young lady!"

"Yeah! For a kid, her work's pretty damn good, so we were offering a generous price—what's with the meddling?!"

The moment I heard their excuses, my judgment was sealed.

Trash bastards.

"Two grown adults cornering a terrified kid in an alley and bullying her—that's not what people usually call a 'legitimate deal.'"

I spat out the words in a voice like nails scraping the pavement, perfectly shielding Oscar behind my broad back.

"Luring a minor into a deserted alley and creating a coercive atmosphere. Adults who can't even act their age should be ashamed."

"Coercive? What nonsense!"

"Misunderstanding, young man! We just loved her unique style so much we had to buy it!"

Wow, how can they be so brazen?

I snorted and cut off their flimsy excuses without mercy.

"Judging by your clothes and accents, you're not from the Empire. Don't you feel any shame toward your own kids?! I don't know about your homeland, but in the Empire, this kind of approach is straight-up illegal and grounds for arrest."

Drawing from a decade as a teacher, I unleashed a barrage of facts and the suffocating pressure unique to a student supervisor. Having reformed hundreds of delinquents, my perfect intimidation left them utterly overwhelmed, reduced to mumbling idiots.

Cowed by the icy glare of this mad old fogey who'd appeared out of nowhere, the two men clicked their tongues in aggrieved frustration and backed away without a proper defense.

"Tch, damn it! Talk about bad luck running into a lunatic…… Fine! We'll go!"

Flourishing the hems of their silk coats, the two men scurried out of the alley. Only after the frantic clack of their shoes was swallowed by the bustling street noise did I slowly retract the razor-sharp intensity of a student supervisor, my back still ramrod straight.

Poor kid. Surrounded by those hulking, ugly adults in broad daylight—must've been terrified.

I tsked inwardly, loosening my fists, which had been clenched tight from tension.

No matter how shitty the Empire's public safety was, trying to bribe and pressure a young student in the middle of the capital in daylight? Back in my past life, that would've meant calling the parents and handing it over to the police station immediately—a major incident.

A heavy silence settled in the depths of the now-vacant alley. The petite female student hiding behind me was still clutching her thick leather-bound sketchbook to her chest like it was her lifeline, trembling like a leaf.

Through strands of her soft ash-brown hair, Oscar von Arzen's cheeks were deathly pale. Her thin shoulders shook with each ragged breath.

She looked just like a small herbivore holding its breath before a massive predator, stirring my decade-honed educator's protective instincts once more.

I called out to her in the most compassionate, warm adult voice I used to soothe wounded students.

"You're safe now, Lady Arzen. I've chased off all the bad adults."

At my gentle reassurance, Oscar's shoulders jerked. Head bowed, she gripped the leather edge of her sketchbook even tighter with trembling hands—her knuckles white from the vise-like strength.

"Trying to buy a student with money in the heart of the capital in broad daylight. What a depraved world."

I glanced at the worn sketchbook clutched to her chest. The shiny, frayed edges of the leather cover spoke volumes about how passionately she'd poured her artistic soul into her drawings.

"Filthy scum. Targeting a pure student like this."

I sighed, bending my knees slightly to meet her gaze at eye level.

"Must've been scary, but you held out without letting them take it. Good job."

How perfect and touching—the ideal line from a devoted educator. I basked inwardly in pride at protecting my persecuted student, a kind smile curving my lips.

But the instant my warm words reached Oscar's ears, her pupils didn't fill with relief. Instead, they darted wildly like a condemned prisoner hearing the guillotine drop.

"Th-that's…… not it, Sir Evans……!"

A mosquito-like rasp escaped her quivering lips. She looked up at me with a face a hundred times more horrified than when those burly merchants had cornered her—her pale cheeks flushing tomato-red, shame and shock twisting into a grotesque mask.

"Those men weren't trying to buy me with bad intentions……!"

Oscar gasped for air, unable to finish. Her eyes dropped not to me, but to the battered leather sketchbook she clutched so desperately.

"Th-they just wanted to buy…… this sketchbook for a high price……! P-please don't misunderstand……! I didn't do anything……!"

Oscar stammered incoherently, backing away. I frowned slightly at her overly defensive, flustered reaction.

The merchants wanted to buy the sketchbook for a high price?

My rational, decade-seasoned teacher's brain spun into gear.

Shit, did I get it wrong? Were they just trying to do an honest art deal, and I barged in like a nosy old fart, ruining her precious first sale?

The men's aggrieved protests flashed through my mind.

[We just loved her unique style so much we had to buy it!]

"Ahh! I'm so sorry, Lady Arzen! I made a huge blunder!"

I was about to slap my forehead in embarrassment over my rash interference when—

"Just how amazing must that masterpiece be for foreign merchants to offer a fortune right here in the street?"

Elarra's voice rang out as she approached from the alley's depths. True to her Sterling Trading Company heiress roots, her emerald eyes already gleamed with the sharp scent of new art deal profits.

"Could we see that brilliant artwork too?"

Elarra asked politely, stepping toward the sketchbook.

"Eek!"

Oscar yelped like a wounded animal, whipping the sketchbook behind her back.

"N-no, it's nothing! J-just doodles……! R-really, just worthless landscapes! You absolutely can't see it!"

Her face burned like it might explode as she shook her head frantically. But that desperate attempt to hide it only ignited the curiosity of the beasts lurking patiently nearby.

"What is it? What? I wanna see too!"

Reina poked her silver head out from behind me, where she'd been waiting quietly. Like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a giant dog spotting a new toy, her purple eyes dangerously sparkled toward the sketchbook hidden behind Oscar's back.

"Kyaa! N-nooo……!"

Oscar twisted in horror, but her opponent was the Empire's strongest in raw power and reflexes—the grand duchess herself. Reina's dragon leather-gloved hand swished lightly through the air, and the leather sketchbook Oscar had defended with her life magically flew into Reina's grasp.

"Your Highness! No matter how curious you are, you can't just snatch someone's personal belongings……!"

I reached out to protect the student's precious privacy and scold her, but right then—

Flap—

As Reina raised the sketchbook to eye level, the worn strap holding the leather cover snapped loose with a pathetic give. The thick pages fanned out like a deck of cards mid-air, gravity halting them at the longest, flattest-spread page with a deceptive click.

"Nooooo!!!! Don't look!!!!"

Oscar tore at her ash-brown hair with both hands, collapsing onto the stone pavement. It was the gut-wrenching, horrific wail of someone witnessing the apocalypse.

And my gaze locked helplessly onto the double-page spread in Reina's hands.

"……."

Even the alley's whispering winds seemed erased in that instant.

What burned into my retinas wasn't some "worthless landscape" Oscar had tearfully defended. Filling the sketchbook was a meticulously detailed portrait—crafted from dense graphite shading and rough lines, yet pulsing with such overwhelming lifelike intensity that I could almost hear breathing.

No, "portrait" was too clinical, too academic for the grotesque, decadent aura it exuded.

The composition depicted a suffocating hierarchy of power. A man's silhouette gazed down coldly from above. Glimpses of firm muscles showed through his disheveled shirt, his inorganic, arrogant eyes piercing off the page with vivid clarity. His veined, rough hand gripped the end of a leather belt—or leash.

And at his feet, in the dark background, knelt a silver-haired woman tethered to that leash. Gone was her usual poise or killer instinct; cheeks flushed, her teary, moist eyes gazed up at him in blind devotion.

Perfect submission. The beastly ecstasy of utter domination, stripped of reason, densely etched onto that single page.

The problem was the subjects.

The tyrant gripping the leash with chilling eyes—it was unmistakably me, the indifferent low-rank baron heir of Class 1-1, no matter how I squinted.

And the silver-haired beast on the leash, flushed and panting—it was, without question, the Empire's strongest grand duchess holding this blasphemous sketchbook: Reina de Astrea.

"Uh…… uh…… um…… Lady Arzen……."

A meaningless wheeze escaped my lips. The rational composure I'd forged seizing countless delinquent smokes and dirty mags over a decade shattered like a window under a hail of stones.

A colossal bell tolled in my mind—not salvation, but doom.

The "artistic masterpiece" those merchants had salivated over, willing to pay top dollar for in broad daylight. It wasn't a landscape or portrait.

It was the shadowy genius gold-handed artist from the back of our class pouring her soul into a [Low-Rank Baron Sadistically Training the Grand Duchess—Ultra-Hardcore Dangerous Doujinshi]!

"……."

Silence crushed the alley.

My earlier verbose, righteous old-fart tirade against the merchants echoed in my ears, slapping my cheeks raw.

'Trying to corrupt a minor's purity!'

'Adults should protect and encourage a student's artistic soul!'

Purity? Artistic soul? Creative passion? That decadent, sinfully charged pencil sketch was light-years from "pure."

The benevolent touch, perfect light-shadow contrast, the subjects' intimate, sticky tension. This damn thing was so artistically brilliant it plunged me deeper into despair.

Wait. So that's why those merchants were drooling over it, offering big bucks……

The puzzle snapped together with horrifying perfection. They weren't sleazy brokers after innocent landscapes. They were high-end collectors obsessed with underground hardcore status-reversal smut!

I wasn't a heroic defender against minor harassers—I was just a nosy old busybody who'd cockblocked a rare 19+ doujinshi sale.

My 17-year-old body poured cold sweat down my back from bursting embarrassment, while my 37-year-old teacher's mental fortitude crumbled to ash.

But my pathetic inner collapse was mere child's play compared to the beast's innocent outburst that followed.

"Whoa! This is me and Cadel?!"

Reina's purple eyes, staring holes through the drawing, sparkled with pure curiosity and excitement—no trace of sexual shame.

"Kyaa! N-no! Please don't look! Just kill me instead!!"

Oscar wailed from the ground, hands over her face, but she couldn't block the giant dog's blind gaze fixated on its new plaything.

Reina shoved her face nose-deep into the sketchbook, chattering innocently.

"Wow, Cadel! You look so hot and scary here! But why am I on the floor tied up? What's that leather strap around my neck? Like a dog collar?"

Her long, dragon leather-gloved fingers pinpointed the taut leash I gripped in the drawing.

"Y-Your Highness! Don't look at that anymore! Close it now!"

I lunged in horror to snatch it back, but Reina's feral reflexes easily twisted away, continuing her analysis.

"Wait! This is so weird and cool! Look, Cadel—I'm tied up crying, but why do I look so happy? And you're pinning me down so tight, but why's my heart drawn pounding like crazy?"

Reina's unfiltered 19+ art review echoed clear and bright down the alley in her pure voice. Oscar was head-planting the marble floor, on the verge of passing out from hyperventilation. My pants were soaked with sweat trickling down my spine.

"Ah! I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠get it!"

Like she'd grasped some grand truth, Reina lowered the book, wagging her tail at me with a beaming grin.

"This is the new game ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Cadel likes! Right?!"

"……."

"If I behave and wear this collar, kneeling at your feet, you'll like me more!"

"……."

"Yay, Cadel! Let's do this exact thing back at the dorm later!! I can do it super good!"

"Shut that mouth right now!"

I finally snapped the flimsy thread of reason, clamping my big hands over Reina's lips.

Did this clueless beast have any idea what depraved nonsense she was yelling in the capital's heart? If that drawing—or worse, Reina's ravings—reached the ears of her doting-duke dad, my body would be monster chow in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the north, reduced to zero.

"Mmph! Mmmph!"

As Reina tugged my sleeve pleadingly with her gloved hands, her mouth muffled by my rough palm—

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch!

A horrifying friction of pen nibs madly scraping paper echoed from somewhere.

I whipped around to see my unpaid minion #1, Elarra von Sterling—who'd just helped chase off the sleazy merchants—plastered against the wall at the alley mouth.

Sweating bullets in shock, her eyes blazed like a tabloid hack scenting the scoop of the century, scribbling furiously in her notepad.

"L-Lady Sterling. What exactly are you writing?"

At my icy, trembling question, Elarra flinched and yanked the notepad to her chest. But my sharp dynamic vision had already photographed the horrific, depraved lines she'd scrawled.

"You crazy……! Hand over that notepad now!"

I hurled aside all decade-honed adult dignity and student supervisor authority, lunging at Elarra like a beast.

"Eek! S-Sir Evans's secret tastes will be taken to the grave by Sterling Trading! Ironclad VIP privacy! No leaks, just top-tier delivery!"

"The fact that crap's even in your head is already a leak! Rip out that page now!"

"Mmph! Mmmph! (Cadel, let go! I really wanna buy that collar!)"

"Just kill meeeee…… Please grind me into this pavement……."

Oscar's gut-wrenching pleas, Reina's collar-craving rampage, Elarra's capitalist hack instincts. And the blood-vomiting screams of a K-high school teacher trying to contain this madhouse.

All tangled in this insane clusterfuck, turning the capital's quiet back alley into a boiling hellish pandemonium.

---

"……Everyone, shut up and be quiet."

Exactly three minutes of horrific struggle later, I straightened my disheveled shirt collar, yanking my loosened navy tie into a throat-choking knot.

My voice was as cold and dry as a northern winter.

Thud.

I snatched Oscar's thick leather sketchbook from Reina's hands and slammed it shut with a resounding, alley-shaking bang.

Then I ripped the blasphemous page from Elarra's notepad and stuffed it deep into my pants pocket.

"Uuu…… Cadel, I want the leather collar……."

"Quiet, Your Highness. Say that vulgar word once more, and you'll eat dorm meals alone facing the wall for a week."

At my deadliest, most resolute "meal isolation" threat, Reina clapped her hands over her mouth in terror, glancing nervously.

Elarra, meeting my bloodshot icy stare, plastered herself to the wall in rigid attention, not even breathing.

The affable face of the "triumphant adult leader" who'd strutted against thugs and sleazy merchants? Deleted.

Standing in the alley's center now was the pitiless, tearless 10-year veteran student supervisor who'd busted the school's nastiest banned item (19+ subversive lit) red-handed—a demon face.

I tucked the sketchbook flawlessly under my arm, glaring coldly down at the petite girl prostrate and motionless on the stone.

I mentally pulverized the "poor kid" pity party from moments ago.

This timid student before me was a ultra-high-risk hazard who could decapitate me and doom my house to annihilation—and an underground hardcore doujinshi smith.

If I didn't stamp out this infernal spark here, my peaceful teaching life and lifeline were toast.

"……Lady Arzen. Get up off the floor now."

At my glacial summons, Oscar shuddered, rising unsteadily with her head bowed.

Her tear- and snot-smeared face was pathetically, heartbreakingly wretched.

"Wh-what happens to me now……? Am I on trial for treason against the Empire—no, the Grand Duchy? Beheaded at the guillotine……? Sob…… Sir Evans, please, just spare my life……."

Oscar rubbed her trembling hands together in desperate begging.

Honestly, I wanted to conjure hellfire and burn this cursed sketchbook on a pyre right there. But as a decade-seasoned educator, torching a student's soul-baring creation like some barbarian? No.

Besides (though its blasphemous content was nightmare fuel), the benevolent touch, anatomy, emotional lines—the raw quality was genius-level, leaving even me, the teacher, awestruck inwardly.

This talent needed redirection to sanity.

I patted the tucked sketchbook with a thick finger, declaring in utter dryness.

"As your teacher…… no, as a classmate, I see we need a deep, thorough talk about Lady Arzen's overwhelming 'artistic imagination' and highly unhealthy 'career direction.'"

"Hiiik……!"

"I'll hold this high-risk confiscated item temporarily. Want it back intact? No funny ideas—follow me quietly."

I turned my back on Oscar without sentiment, jerking my chin toward the bustling street.

"Lady Sterling. Guide us to that dessert cafe you reserved. Empty, most secluded VIP room in the back. We've got an urgent, bloodcurdling 'career counseling' session ahead."

Thus, our weekend stroll through the capital's glittering streets reformed into a perfectly grotesque procession.

The shadowy genius artist walking head-down, sniffling like a condemned traitor to the scaffold.

Beside her, the Empire's strongest clueless beast panting and tail-wagging: "You'll tie the collar on me at the dorm later, right?!"

In this near-apocalyptic chaos, my unpaid slave scheming soundproof tools and leather whips, eyes capitalist-rolling.

And leading these three ticking time bombs, a decade K-teacher swallowing pre-ulcer stress.

This was the most wretched, sinfully perfect bad ending for the outing of a past-life 37-year-old low-rank baron heir dreaming of peaceful weekend rest.