Dawn of the Dead?
In the silent underground chamber, he positioned five rat pups—two on each side and one in the center—to form perfect symmetry, then sank into deep thought.
Disposal...
Piercing their hearts with thin needles and then sending a current through to burn them for confirmation would end it.
The simplest method was actually to drill through their skulls and strike the brains directly... but that caused too much damage to the corpses.
High damage reduced manifestation efficiency. For instance, missing an arm might drop output from 1% mana expenditure to about 0.7%, but brain damage could plummet it to as low as 0.1% depending on severity.
That's why headless corpses were utter garbage in terms of cost-performance—far too inefficient for any black mage to bother with unless desperate.
Thus, the students assigned these bodies would quickly notice something off and file complaints with me through the department office.
Assignments and midterms were based on the provided corpses, so they'd rage about unfair treatment compared to others.
The proper fix would be informing Princess Elizabeth, the chairman, and getting five new bodies. But that meant confessing the truth about his abilities.
He could lie if the imperial deliveries weren't inspected separately, but they were, so he'd need solid justification.
It's not an ability that could be exploited even if known...
Still, no benefit in letting it leak.
"..."
After prolonged deliberation, he decided to hold off on truly killing these five comatose rat pups with needles for now.
He was simply too intrigued by the method inducing coma.
If he learned it, the applications were endless—and it could serve as perfect insurance later.
Nothing disguised mortality better than actual death for mortals.
This judgment had solid basis, of course.
These comatose pups were ordinary folk, born without mana. No one would dare terrorize the academy, guarded day and night by rotating shifts of imperial knights and mage corps.
To inflict real harm, they'd target after corpses were distributed to students.
Considering that...
The coma would likely lift naturally during next week's third-week black magic lecture.
Knowing the schedule implied an inside collaborator—and catching that collaborator was key.
Delay distribution, and...
The plan unravels. The collaborator might then visit the basement to reapply whatever induced the coma.
Even if not that exact day, sometime in the third week... they'll slip up.
If no bite came, he'd make them proper corpses and distribute.
Of course, the coma might lift daily rather than after n days, so he stroked the altar, opening the Netherworld gate.
Assuming daily cycles meant constant surveillance to avoid blowback.
As long as no lives were lost, the imperials had no grounds to fault him.
Screeech!
A dark door etched with bizarre runes swung open, revealing the hazy first layer beyond.
Unlike this dawn, odd ear-like protrusions jutted from the nameplate's upper corners.
"Observation, surveillance, spying."
He murmured the key words toward those ears.
Language didn't matter as long as it had structure—Korean or English from Seojin's memories would transmit fine.
"..."
Beyond the gate, the haze cleared, revealing a grotesque scarecrow-like figure plastered with eye pairs.
"Payment immediate, term ten days, item rental."
Its name—or moniker—was Peephole.
Half-powered, it projected visual surveillance of a designated area onto an object.
"...The transaction is complete."
"You may extend the ten-day term as needed. Summon me again if desired."
⟨ Peephole ⟩
The myriad eyes blinked shut in unison.
A greeting, perhaps.
He waved awkwardly, cut mana, and sealed the gate.
Renting for ten days cost valuables randomly plucked from his interspatial pocket—roughly 44 million Bern in value.
Like Ferzen's first Netherworld deal...
The entities' goodwill felt alien.
Was receiving Netherworld favor an unlisted trait?
"..."
Status window showed only question marks.
He shelved the thought, setting the half-powered Peephole's target to this basement.
Retrieving a small hand mirror from interspace and linking it...
Perfect.
Not his face, but the luminous stone-marked basement appeared clearly. He coffined the bodies and left.
Detouring to the department office, he bluntly instructed Alphonse to post notice of corpse distribution after next week's third lecture.
"Ah, Professor."
"Something to say?"
"Yes. Your... wife came by."
"Euphemia?"
"I've never seen her properly, so not certain, but she didn't seem like an imposter. I told her to head to your fourth-floor office..."
"Understood. Carry on."
"Yes!"
What wind blew Euphemia to the academy?
Puzzled, he ascended.
* * * * *
Click, click-click-click!
"What..."
Main building fourth floor, room 404—Ferzen von Schweig Ruerg's office. Euphemia twisted the handle, but it wouldn't budge.
She'd come up since no one said he'd left.
Where is he...
A Brutein-sealed letter arrived at the mansion. The delivering servant said no urgency, but she'd come to scout her future workplace anyway.
Wait, and he'll come.
No lectures today. A short wait should suffice even if paths crossed.
Thus, she awkwardly scanned the empty hall.
Few passersby meant no prying eyes—fortunate.
Ow...
Walking to learn the capital's layout sans carriage the culprit?
She rubbed the dull ache climbing her waist.
Yesterday's memories suggested lower belly, really.
Left hand on belly, golden eyes blinking, she slid her right from waist downward.
This...
She pulled away, staring at the span from entrance to womb—horror dawning.
Never seen another's, but instinctively: absurdly savage length.
His cruelty extended there, brutally so.
"..."
Laughable to feign shock now.
Bang!
"...!"
Hands dropping, body flinching, Euphemia gripped her skirt and offered graceful curtsy to the woman emerging from 403.
"You are..."
"Euphemia el Lerenne Ruerg."
Not "Ferzen's wife"—pride.
"..."
"..."
Awkward silence.
Names earned reciprocity, yet the 403 woman appraised her disdainfully.
"Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"If you're flaunting wedded bliss, at least cover up properly."
Neck indicated, Euphemia startled, hastily adjusting her loosened collar.
Walking sweat prompted untying for cool air in empty hall—backfire.
Manners...
Marking visible spots lacked consideration. Cursing absent Ferzen inwardly, she flushed.
"Poor you."
"Pardon?"
"Ruerg's impoverished, sure, but did you need to seduce that man?"
"..."
Never seduced. It was coerced.
Yet third eyes saw differently?
Made sense—Brutein's heir trekking to Ruerg for forced marriage strained belief.
"Indeed."
But ignoring that, recognizing the barbed words...
"Only met once, yet he crossed from Brutein to Ruerg vowing to claim me as wife. Who'd expect?"
Not denial—affirmation with flesh added.
Likely a noblewoman smitten by his polished facade, ignorant of truth. Protest futile; better scratch back.
Uriel grimaced, lifting her hat brim slightly.
About to retort...
"Euphemia."
Familiar voice from behind halted her.
"Why here?"
Ferzen brushed past, ignoring her.
"This..."
"From Brother?"
"Not urgent."
"I see. Come in."
Unlocking, he naturally placed a tender hand on her waist, guiding inside.
Slam!
Door shut, leaving Uriel alone. Expressions cycling irritation and displeasure, she spun sharply, heels clacking down the ramp.
"..."
Lecture soon.
Mouth open, only sharp barbs would fly. Better skim ahead, assign new tasks to wrap up.