Whispers from the Abyss
Kwaaaang! A deafening explosion tore through the air, and in the center of the training grounds, a pillar of crimson flame shot skyward. Acrid dust billowed up, while the sharp, cracking clashes of heavy iron swords relentlessly sliced through the empty air.
Monday afternoon at the Imperial Academy's outdoor training grounds. The place was a total madhouse, overrun by the empire's noble heirs unleashing their boiling hormones and uncontrollable mana in a brutal practical evaluation. Under the stinging direct sunlight, guided by the instructors, the cadets' sweat-soaked shouts rode the hot winds toward me.
"Haa..."
But completely cut off from that scorching heat, under the vast shade of a massive zelkova tree at the edge of the training grounds, I sank deep into a wide-backed wooden bench and let out a long, languid sigh. The cool shade air, free from the sun's glare, seeped into my lungs, melting the stiffness from every vertebra like butter.
My gaze leisurely scanned the pathetic struggles of my classmates rolling in the dirt on the training grounds. I lifted my glass filled with ice, brushing away the cold droplets on its surface with my thumb. The sweet, refreshing imperial iced tea slid coolly down my parched throat.
Nothing beats lounging in the tree shade during PE class.
A smug, utterly honest smile—straight out of a ten-year K-teacher veteran—curled my lips. With Professor Asher's official approval, I bore the merciful label of "official non-combatant." Thanks to that, I'd snagged an glorious automatic exemption from the brutal schedules of magic practice and combat classes.
Forcing myself into the fray among those monster-like high noble heirs, who detonated their mana like bombs, would've meant no teacher pension—just expulsion or an untimely death. Sure, I prided myself on a solid build from regular exercise and routine, but that was only by "ordinary human" standards. Among these inhuman freaks who wielded mana inside their bodies to unleash physics-defying destruction, my flesh was nothing more than a flimsy glass cup, shattering at the slightest impact.
I was just pressing the chilled glass to my cheek, half-closing my eyes, when...
"...Kukuku."
A bizarre, unidentified chuckle dropped from above—from the dense leaves of the massive zelkova tree I was leaning against, to be precise.
"...?"
Too sinister and sticky for mere wind. I instinctively gripped my glass tighter, furrowing my brow. Swish—thud. Leaves rustled roughly behind me, and a heavy shadow silently landed on the empty bench beside me.
"Behold those foolish sheep dancing their meaningless swordplay under the blood-red sun..."
It was a person. Or rather, something in human form. In this weather heading into midsummer, his uniform was buttoned to the collar. Long bangs completely swallowed his left eye, draping down to his cheek, and his perfectly uninjured right arm was wrapped in pristine white bandages like a mummy. In one hand, he clutched a worn, tattered notebook whose cover was impossible to make out.
"Unaware that their blood and sweat will ultimately be offered as tribute to the empty abyss's altar... pity the wretched souls repeating their futile struggles..."
Tristan von Shadow, heir to the count's family, Class 1-1. The guy who always hunkered in the darkest, sunless corner of the classroom, muttering incomprehensible soliloquies. Now he was perched crookedly on the bench next to me, twisting his bandaged right arm toward the training grounds while droning on with nonsense.
"And... the abyssal observer who mocks that fleeting tragedy from the safety of the shadows."
Tristan's bandaged right hand halted, pointed straight at my frozen face clutching the iced tea. His uncovered right eye gleamed with the intensity of someone who'd pierced the ultimate truth of the universe.
"..."
The cool shade air turned stuffy in an instant. I froze like a paused screen, unable to swallow or spit out the sweet tea in my mouth. My pupils quaked faintly.
"Kukuku... You seem surprised, Evans. But you can't fool my magic eye."
As I stood petrified in silence, Tristan twisted his lips upward, mistaking it for the "mastermind's dismay at being exposed."
"Those ignorant instructors mock you for being weak or cowardly, exempted from this duel. But I know the truth."
Tristan leaned his upper body abruptly toward me. A musty smell from his old notebook and the distinctive adolescent sweat wafted over.
"You're not weak. You've simply grasped the world's truths too early... so you see no value in revealing your immense 'power' to this pathetic world, right? Isn't that so, oh lord of darkness who conceals his strength?"
"...Kuhuk! Kk, kuhuk!"
I finally snapped, choking out coughs I'd desperately held back. My throat burned, tears pricking my eyes. But even this wretched physiological reaction got filtered through Tristan's rotten chuunibyou lens and reinterpreted entirely.
"Ahh... The suppressed black flame dragon writhes within you. I know without you saying. That pain, that accursed abyssal solitude... I endure it every night myself...!"
Tristan clutched his right eye with his bandaged hand, letting out creepy, chuckling groans. Emergency sirens blared in my head.
What the hell is this? What were those cringey words that just assaulted my ears? Magic eye? Abyss? Black flame dragon?
A ten-year veteran teacher who'd seen it all, but right now, cold sweat poured out worse than facing shady merchants in back alleys or stopping Reina's rampages.
Ten years in teaching. That glorious, grueling era was tailored head-to-toe to the ecosystem of "girls' high school." Delicate friendships among girls, tear-and-snot catfights, counseling on appearance insecurities—even Reina's oblivious yandere obsession or Oscar's unhealthy fannish explosions—were all in my "processable" database.
But a "pubescent chuunibyou boy" with hormones unleashing a black flame dragon? That was uncharted territory for 37-year-old Lee Dong-hoon's pedagogical dictionary—an encounter with an alien species.
How do I respond? Mocking or getting serious would scar that sensitive teen ego for life.
A twisted boy's meltdown could be way more physically exhausting than girls' squabbles.
I frantically wrung my prefrontal cortex, yanking up basic educational psychology from teacher training.
[Adolescent excessive self-reliance and hero complex (chuunibyou) stems from a fierce desire for belonging and recognition. Avoid hasty advice; offer thorough empathy and support.]
Right. This guy's just seeking solace for his exclusion from the hot training grounds, bonding with me. I squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth against the goosebumps crawling my spine, and donned the face of a "understanding adult."
I carefully set my glass aside on the bench and turned to face Tristan, locking a deep, solemn gaze on his bang-shrouded eyes.
"...Yeah."
My heavy, dry voice broke the silence, making Tristan's shoulders twitch.
"You're right, Tristan. Today... the sun's awfully red and noisy."
I'd stated a plain fact, like a weather report. But delivering it with weight made Tristan's uncovered right eye bulge like it might pop out.
"As expected...!"
He gasped, clutching his chest with his trembling bandaged hand.
"You... don't deny me! The other vermin dismissed my abyssal tongue as madman's ravings! But you... only you understand the pain of this cursed stigma within me!"
No, I never understood. I just said it's hot out.
Inside, I wailed bloody tears, but outwardly, armored in veteran teacher compassion, I slowly nodded.
Yeah, if one nod brought peace to this stormy teen, I'd gladly sacrifice my goosebumps.
That single gesture cracked open Tristan's world. He bolted up from the bench, hugging his tattered parchment notebook like a holy relic, trembling violently. A suppressed moan of ecstasy escaped his lips.
"Ahh... Mother. I've found him at last. In this pitch-black solitude, the one man I can entrust my back to... a 'friend' written as 'comrade'!"
His eyes reddened as he thrust out his rough, bandaged hand to grip my shoulder. Feeling that sticky warmth of emotion, I averted my gaze to the sky, screaming inwardly in deep darkness.
Save me. Boys aren't my specialty. I'd rather roll in that blazing sun...
The shallow peace of a K-girls' high teacher shattered pathetically before the massive delusion of a black flame dragon crawling from the abyss.
Then—
The explosions and shouts filling the training grounds cut off like a lie. In the center, amid settling dust clouds, a silver-haired figure stood alone, radiating overwhelming pressure, and began to move.
Screeeech! A piercing wind-whistle stabbed my eardrums as something hurtled toward the shade at insane speed.
"Cadel-!"
Silver lightning filled my vision, then massive dirt exploded at my feet.
"I'm here! I finished in one second again today!"
It was Reina de Astrea, the empire's strongest killing machine, who'd just swept high noble heirs aside like autumn leaves. Her face was speckled with dirt from their burst mana, but her purple eyes gazing up at me sparkled purely, begging for praise like a puppy's.
Reina knelt before the bench like collapsing, shoving her crown toward my knee.
"Cadel, I did good, right? Pet my head quick!"
"..."
I sighed deeply, inhaling her silver hair brushing my knee and the thick lavender scent clashing with the sweaty training grounds. My ten-year teacher instincts tugged at my nape.
I pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from my pocket and gently wiped the black smudges from her cheek.
"Good at what? I told you to hold back, control your strength so you don't kill their spirits, and drag it out."
For someone fresh from rampaging in the rough grounds, her skin was surprisingly soft. Tapping her cheek with the handkerchief's edge, she purred contentedly, rubbing her cheek against my knee.
"But... dragging it out means less time with you. It's their fault for being too weak."
"Backtalk. If you knock 'em out in one second, the prof can't progress the lesson. This is sparring class, not your personal slaughterhouse."
I flicked her forehead lightly with my finger in stern teacher mode. Thwack—she yelped "Aang!" dramatically, clutching it, but her lips still grinned wide at my touch.
Normally hailed as the empire's treasure, a walking strategic weapon, here she was just a spoiled kid craving praise.
"...Ah, a-ahh."
Then, a dazed moan leaked from Tristan, statue-still beside me. I whipped my head around with an oh crap.
There he was, bandaged hand frozen mid-air, pupils quaking in disbelief at the scene. His gaze flicked between Reina nuzzling my knee whinily and me indifferently wiping and scolding her.
To Tristan's eyes, this was the "abyssal epic" he'd dreamed of his whole life.
The empire's strongest duke's daughter, the asura in human skin, Reina de Astrea, blushing at a mere low baron's heir's touch, choosing voluntary submission. And that man wasn't even praising her might—instead, he "controlled" her dryly and arrogantly, like a disobedient pet.
"Th-this... is the true form of domination."
Tristan's voice quivered with awe. His uncovered right eye gleamed with eerie light.
"Ahh... I see. Beasts need no whip or meat. Only the absolute one's gaze piercing the abyss... and the invisible shadow leash binding the soul...!"
No, why do these nobles love leashes so much!
My sanity screamed, but Tristan had long departed for his own world. With divinely inspired frenzy, he flipped open his tattered notebook, gripped his pen, and scribbled furiously, as if piercing the paper.
Scratch, scratch, scratch! The grating sound echoed under the quiet shade. A familiar, chilling madness.
Oscar's weekend antics overlapped with Tristan.
"Kukuku... kuhuhuhu! Inspiration floods me! The abyssal lord and his loyal silver beast... I must complete this exquisite hymn to domination...!"
Spit flying, he buried his nose in the notebook, filling pages madly. The title blazed: [Abyssal Sovereign: Overture of the Shadow Leash].
"Cadel, why's that guy like that? Head hurt or something?"
Reina, chin on my knee, asked innocently about Tristan.
"...Ignore him. Just a friend hitting puberty extra hard."
I gently combed back her silver bangs with my fingers.
"Yeah! As long as Cadel keeps petting me, I don't care about anyone!"
Like a giant dog reveling in its owner's touch, she purred, burrowing her cheek deeper into my inner thigh. Amid the outdoor heat, this shade felt languid and peaceful.
With one lunatic gone, I could finally enjoy my afternoon break.
But a ten-year K-teacher's shallow peace always shatters at the most unguarded moment.
Thud, thud, thud.
This time, heavy, rhythmic footsteps crushed the sand—disciplined, lower-body centered gait of a rigorously trained warrior, worlds apart from Tristan's theatrical steps.
I paused my hand and looked up.
Against the glaring sun, a female student's silhouette strode toward the shade. Short-cropped hair sans frills, flushed cheeks from the heat, and a brutal training wooden sword as thick as her body slung over her shoulder, exuding lethal aura.
Beatrice von Iron, lady of the Iron count's family.