Ciel Midford
"The evaluation criteria for the assignment due by April 12th focused on how much unique information you gathered. Conversely, the more overlapping information, the lower your score."
Handing the attendance sheet back to Euphemia, I stepped into the lecture hall and began with a notice about the assignment.
"Scores will be announced at the end of the semester exams, and textbook preparation for the next incoming class will commence simultaneously. Now..."
I glanced at Lizzy, whose face looked exceptionally pale, then moved toward the blackboard.
Her student profile noted frequent minor illnesses, but if she was too unwell to attend lectures, she'd judge that for herself.
"Finally, during the fourth-week lecture on Aura Knights, someone asked if matching the exact training experience was necessary to improve the implementation rate."
"Th-that was me!"
"Indeed, an excellent question."
I noted the memory on the blackboard and circled it, eyeing the male student who raised his hand with a beaming smile.
"The better you understand the life of the corpse you're commanding, the more it ties directly to comprehension, aiding higher implementation rates. However..."
When receiving feedback from Memory A, empathizing with the pre-death emotions stemming from that memory allowed for even greater gains.
But most black mages lived unaware of this.
Emotions like joy, sorrow, anger, hatred... were fragments anyone experienced in life, and feedback from specific memories to boost implementation rates rarely strayed beyond them.
Yet unique, hard-to-empathize emotions certainly existed.
Prime examples: those from war's horrors.
Did a black mage need identical experiences to feel them?
No.
Though war's unique environment offered few substitutes—save repeated territorial skirmishes...
"Take Isabel Ron Pierre Genova, the witch I command, as our textbook example. The Genova count family practiced incestuous marriages, so Isabel felt a profound sense of taboo toward marrying her brother."
"..."
"This taboo—even without incest—can be experienced through other acts."
Thus, black mages needed vast knowledge and experiences.
They'd serve as substitutes when needed.
"Additionally..."
My throat grew dry.
I paused, sipping black tea to soothe it, then resumed—only to find...
"..."
Laura staring at me intently with her distinctive crimson eyes.
Was she dissatisfied with the lecture?
More amusingly naive: thinking the student in front would shield her from my view.
Our tangled history made it seem endearingly petulant, but I mischievously called her name.
"Laura de Charles Rosenberg, do you have something to say?"
"Hic!"
As the thirteen students turned to her, Laura hiccuped and shook her head vigorously.
Answering like that was poor etiquette, but knowing her stutter, I let it slide and continued.
Ten minutes before ending, I distributed charts with basic info on assigned corpses.
"As you'll see, all fourteen were mercenaries in life. I've paired opposites by gender intentionally—no complaints. This replaces the skipped midterm; finals will involve autonomously commanding your corpse to slay monsters. Raise those implementation rates diligently."
At Lizzy's desk last, I handed her the chart.
She avoided my gaze, accepting it with feeble hands.
"Lizzy."
"Y-yes..."
"If you're ill, see a physician. Don't foolishly endure lectures. Absences for illness won't deduct attendance points."
"I-I'm not... ill..."
"Certain?"
"Yes..."
She looked utterly lifeless, but if she insisted, it wasn't my place to interfere. I ended the lecture and headed to the main building.
In Ferzen's professor's office—sparse, silent, monotonous—Euphemia slumped over the desk, eyes closed.
What was that...?
Calling attendance in his stead, some students ignored their names deliberately.
If only the girls, she'd guess why—but boys too left her puzzled.
Did she seem that easy?
No. Euphemia el Lerenne Ruerg might be, but as Ferzen von Schweig Brutein's wife? Never.
Strangers wouldn't show hostility on first sight just because she seemed approachable.
...
The woman next door did the same. Capital folk all seemed desperate to devour her.
Tattling to Ferzen about non-responders would be easy, but relying on him for this irked her.
The door burst open.
"..."
Ferzen entered post-lecture.
Only one seat: the desk chair. Seeing him approach, Euphemia rose.
As he sat, experience guided her to perch lightly on his lap—but...
"..."
His reaction was lukewarm.
"Sh-should I stand?"
She half-rose awkwardly; he placed a hand on her waist, leaning toward the desk.
Naturally, she tiptoed onto the desk, knees together to hide her panties.
"Euphemia."
Chiding her modesty, his low voice naming her made her part her legs shyly, revealing pristine white panties.
"H-huh... ngh..."
His hand caressed her bare thigh, sliding higher, kneading lewdly near her crotch.
A signal...?
Inner conflict yielded; she gripped her skirt hem, lifting it herself.
Smack.
"Ah...!"
He pinned her waist, preventing escape, bending to kiss tenderly near her navel.
Smack.
"Ngh...!"
Not once—repeated, lingering teases forced her to clamp her mouth against moans.
"Hic...!"
His tongue probed her cute dimpled navel; she gasped, shuddering uncontrollably.
"Hng! Ngh... ahh...!"
Her lower belly felt erogenous, chills of pleasure unrelenting.
His hand softly pressed her breast; she collapsed limply atop the desk, belly exposed like a vulnerable pup.
"Ngh, hng..."
Soon, withdrawing, her panties clung transparently to her swollen mound, slick with arousal, obscenely outlining it.
Squish!
"Ngh...!"
Index and middle fingers pressed slowly over her crotch; viscous fluids oozed vulgarly.
Shifting panties aside revealed her twitching pink folds, wafting seductive feminine musk.
Utterly bewitching.
"Euphemia."
Alone in the lecture hall, she'd faced clear hostility from some students.
Verbal comfort from her might ring hollow.
But the suspension bridge effect existed.
Shrunk from enmity, primal lust sated... she'd remain the sole source of immense joy.
"Bend over."
"..."
The setting stirred psychological resistance; her face flushed.
"Now."
Urged with thigh pats, she flipped, presenting her ass obediently, prone.
"Ah..."
Panties slid to ankles.
Squelch...
His fingers invaded her soaked pussy, hooking to scrape familiar spots teasingly.
"Eung...!"
Despite herself, her plump ass jiggled coquettishly.
Academy—place of learning, socializing.
Ass up, pussy plunged: she felt like a naughty child, taboo thrilling her—but...
Middle then index delving, stirring relentlessly; she panted in ecstasy, clenching rhythmically.
"Hng, eek! Mmph..."
He rose, kissed gently; fingers still scraping walls, her tongue clumsy—but he masterfully entwined, deep affectionate French.
"Hic...! Krng! Eung...!"
Her body quivered; he thrust deeper, pressing the bumpy spot firmly.
"Haa...! Ah, ahh...!"
Near-convulsing, he crushed her in embrace.
Twitch! Twitch!
Each frail tremor in his arms—so endearing.
Splat.
"Haaang..."
Patting her drenched pussy splashed lewdly.
Desk papers bore raindrop-like stains of her fluids.
Sniffle...
Afterglow fading, inexplicable sorrow and self-loathing welled; she sniffled like a lost child.
But his tongue lapping tears, patting thighs—she spread legs, hips lifting awkwardly.
Slide...
"Ngh..."
Gently, he wiped her slick folds, re-pantied her ankles' captive.
Such minutiae steeped in his touch.
"Hic, eung..."
She dimly knew: hurt then heal.
Yet post-Ruerg, no kindness shown—nestled, nuzzling his chest.
Could one pass a desert puddle, muddied though it be?
"Time for lunch; you'll be hungry."
"Yes..."
11 a.m. already; they rose.
Her lingering legs wobbled like a newborn calf's.
He offered his arm; she hooked hers, half-leaning as they exited.
From afar: epitome of marital bliss.
All current discomforts fade to triviality with time's flow.
Thus, I earnestly hoped tomorrow night's wine would pair with jests from today's woes.
"..."
Six days flew; May 7th already.
Gazing at the imperial palace—towering, ablaze more vividly tonight—I lit a cigarette quietly.
Pretext secured; no issue there.
The crux: kill or fail.
Yesterday—May 6th—managing Laura's lycanthropy kept me sleepless; post-lunch, deep slumber.
Awake under an hour, mind sharp, condition peak.
"Um..."
Balcony door opened; Euphemia peeked, snow-white dress ethereal.
As ordered: no gaudy ornamentation. Pure elegance.
Azelia's craft indeed.
"Yes, let's go."
Grasping her fidgety hand.
She vaguely anticipated Ciel Midford at the palace banquet.
Yet neither voiced it, masking unease.
Carriage boarded, toward the palace.
Night sky stars clustered by the tilted moon—as if foretelling amusement—illuminating.
All here...?
At the vast banquet hall's doors, the official with the list squinted wearily.
Eight invitees absent despite RSVPs.
Ten including those pre-marked no-shows: Ferzen von Schweig Ruerg, Jeremiah von Berem Brutein.
Logged absent upon list finalization—Brutein blood precluded attendance at this imperial prelude to throne wars.
"Hm...?"
Nearly 9:30; time to leave—yet a carriage crested the hill into the palace.
"Heh..."
Banquet at 9:30, etiquette demanded by 9. What audacity?
Even post-emperor arrival?
Inside: Emperor and Empress seated.
Entering now: brazen claim of hosting.
Better skip, contact favored prince privately.
Hmph... Provincial noble unfit for center stage. I'll bellow your name grandly upon entry.
Imperial officials brimmed with pride serving the crown.
Thus, such slights twisted their guts.
"Wha..."
Spotlights revealed the crest on the entering carriage; the official gaped in disbelief.
Ferzen—immaculate black suit—descended with Euphemia.
"..."
"Take it. How long must I hold it?"
"Y-yes..."
His tall frame, crimson eyes glaring down—oppressive; the official snatched the invite hastily.
He should open doors—but dazed, he froze.
Ferzen brushed past indifferently, halting before the grand doors, extending a hand to tense Euphemia.
"Straighten your back."
"Y-yes..."
"No need for nerves. Most will just stare—no approaches."
"..."
"Remember one thing."
Bending, his pleasing baritone whispered at her ear:
"The only one deserving your bow is His Imperial Majesty."
Hand forward, he flung open the doors.
Beyond: dazzling lights, court orchestra strains.
Nobles in finery conversed.
"Ah..."
He'd said no worry—but scale overwhelmed her; first such event.
Yet his poised stride guided; she followed clumsily.
Simultaneously...
"F-Ferzen von Schweig Brutein enters!"
The official belatedly announced, recovered.
Missed name change, wife's mention—but Brutein alone riveted every gaze.
Thud... click...
Before Emperor and Empress, Ferzen corrected as if:
"I, Ferzen von Schweig Ruerg..."
"...and Euphemia el Lerenne Ruerg..."p>
...behold the Empire's sun and moon.
Buzzing hall hushed.
Orchestra alone persisted; banquet morphed to concert for noble audience.
Brutein's weight, worth.
Imperial crown? Brutein, not exaggeration.
None deemed arrogant—history-proven.
And that lineage stood before them.
Ciel... Midford...
Robelium's second prince beside this world's protagonist—I pondered silently.
If life's a stage of actors,
audience at antipode: death, the netherworld.
Yes, so...
Curtain call.
I'll strip your role,
banish to netherworld seats,
forcing you watch my life's performance.