Chapter 142
Chapter 142
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 142
Chapter Title: Ignition (3)
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The room was shrouded in heavy silence.
It was the time when everyone had finished their daily routines according to their schedules and night was beginning to fall.
Theodore White, who had done something utterly out of character for him, had shut himself in his room.
He had complained of a sudden headache and skipped all his classes for the day.
“Haa… Huu…”
Moreover, his condition had deteriorated so rapidly that he couldn’t even move from his bed, making it look as serious as if he needed to knock on the infirmary door right away.
“……”
Theodore lay curled up, buried deep inside a small, round mountain made of blankets.
He would occasionally shift position as if struggling for breath, lifting the covers slightly, but otherwise made no move to emerge.
Theodore White appeared to be withering away slowly, groaning faintly all the while.
-Creak.
Though night hadn’t fully set in, Aegis Academy—surrounded on all sides by the sea—experienced nightfall rather quickly.
A few cadets burning with academic passion might still be holed up in the fabrication labs, but most Thorn Crown House students were in their rooms, honing their studies in their chosen fields.
That meant no cadets would stealthily visit a stranger’s room at a time like this.
“…He’s really gone completely… mad?”
A lanky figure cloaked in a robe and further veiled by black lace across his face, accompanied by a small, round silhouette in stark contrast, suddenly entered Theodore White’s room.
“Where’s Arthur Usher?”
“I heard he’s been held up by Sir Whitten.”
“Friendship lasts forever, huh? His friend’s dying under the blankets, and he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“The prohibition’s effect is this impressive.”
They pulled a note from the pocket of their robes and read it carefully.
〔Theodore White’s Prohibition: According to a reliable source… Theodore White must not fail in any subject. (Omitted)… Once caught in the prohibition, he writhes in unbearable agony… The intense pain targets the body’s weakest points, risking permanent disability. The prohibition belongs to the Carol family and isn’t lethal in strength.〕
“What does the White family want from this devil?”
“They don’t want to kill him directly but wouldn’t mind if he died by accident.”
“They couldn’t handle it within the family and let it leak out this far.”
“……”
After observing Theodore’s condition for a moment, the two cadets strode in boldly, making no effort to conceal their presence or identities.
But for all their boldness in entering, neither dared approach the bed any closer.
“……”
A faint cough came from within the bed.
Now, Theodore White was nothing more than a tiny huddled shape under the blankets, emitting sounds that could have been groans or dying sighs.
“W-Who’s gonna do it…”
For people who had barged in so confidently, they hovered awkwardly around the bed in an absurdly clumsy manner.
Night deepened steadily, and if they stalled much longer, they’d be the ones facing the wrath of their assembled comrades…
“Damn it… This is really gonna be okay, right…”
“The prohibition blocks mana circulation by default. …Probably fine.”
“Then you step up first, you bastard.”
“Such a coward.”
In the end, their bickering escalated into outright arguments.
Unlike their usual restraint enforced by reason, the thrill of crossing a forbidden line had them feverishly aroused, naturally leading to a brawl.
-Thwack!
-Crash!
There was no restraint in the fists they traded.
It didn’t even seem like they were dealing with a living being—no awareness of that at all.
In an instant, the bed was soaked in blood, and the room’s original occupant—now visible only as a blanket mound—could only gasp raggedly.
“You dog! Fall into hell, you damn bastard!”
“Urk, ugh…”
It was a scene beyond description.
They tangled like beasts, eyes gleaming with madness, as if communing with something far more overwhelming and brutal elsewhere.
“Hah, kahk, hah.”
In the end, the taller of the two rose from the tangle.
The difference in build was impossible to ignore.
Under the moonlight, the fallen black robe looked swallowed by even darker patches—saturated with blood.
The one still down thrashed weakly before finding a position to breathe easier and panted heavily.
“Come… out!”
The tall cadet, hands bloodied, reached into the blankets and yanked out a thin wrist.
The patient buried inside emerged like a limp scarecrow, head bowed, dragged however the man pleased.
“……”
“Quit whining and get up, you bastard…”
With one hand dragging the slack Theodore and the other hauling the fallen cadet, he advanced with terrifying strength.
Grinding sounds—like muscle fibers snapping at their limit—echoed from within his robe.
“Devil… White family’s devil… finally… executed…”
Devolving from sentences to mere words, as if losing language itself, the cadet dragged the two limp bodies not toward the lobby but slowly toward a dim back door.
-Squeak, thud.
“…Ugh.”
“……”
-Screeech. Thump.
With every step, the two dragged bodies caught on pillar bases or decorative stands spaced at intervals, halting progress.
Theodore White, unconscious for unknown reasons, suffered worst—his lighter weight making him drag more harshly than the other.
His neatly tied hair had long since come undone, and his torn sleeve cuffs and pant hems were frayed as if he’d marched alone through hell.
“-…”
For a brief moment, his eyelids parted, revealing sharp, lively eyes—then sank back into darkness. The tall cadet, back turned while dragging them, missed it entirely.
.
.
.
A short while later, at the foot of the back mountain path, the madness-driven cadet paused, lost in thought, still dragging the two men.
No major issues dragging them like this, but the sacrificial offering’s value couldn’t be damaged for the grand finale.
After a moment’s deliberation, he fetched a garden cart parked neatly aside, dumped the two aboard unceremoniously, and pulled it along.
-Rattle.
Each major jolt made the pale-faced Theodore White’s eyes flutter open—but again, the pulling cadet didn’t see.
Deep among towering white birches and conifers, he accelerated recklessly, heedless of care.
“Hahahaha!”
Finally, the fulfillment of dedicating himself to the sublime amid all those mediocrities.
The liberation of transgression and broken reason interacted powerfully, flooding his wrecked mind with even stronger stimuli.
Now he would become a saint, a pilgrim devoting body and soul wholly to the Creator God.
-Rattle, rattle!
Gripping the rhythmically shaking cart irritably (shoulder popping with a crack), stomping onward, he used a lock of golden-brown hair tied to a branch as a landmark, plunging deeper into the woods.
“Ahahahaha!”
His mood soared higher. The best day ever.
That executor’s hair strand as a mission marker? I’ll claim it.
Some still have roots attached.
If those guys hadn’t failed fetching souvenirs from the executor, I could’ve had more than hair… like ears or fingers.
Greedier? Nose or shin, maybe.
‘No, no… Ears and fingers don’t regrow. But having those… Wait, wouldn’t the executor be different?’
Having crossed into madness and euphoria, he could no longer think rationally.
In his delusions, the executor was split into countless pieces yet remained a benevolent, fatherly soul.
“Brought ’em!”
As if boasting, he raced ahead with the cart toward the secret ritual site he’d scouted.
Behind loomed a sheer cliff facing the sea; ahead, a narrow flat space hemmed by a scooped-out rugged slope—like a small table prepared for someone lounging with the sea as a mat.
Though atop that table lay only dry twigs, axe-split desk and wardrobe chunks for kindling.
“…Huh?”
The sacrifice rite was set for four ‘saints’ to conduct together.
Yet the other two—who should’ve gathered by the bonfire for fire-play and dancing until he arrived with the devil—were nowhere.
Not only that.
The sacred fire, never to be extinguished until rite’s end, had died to black ash traces, no embers left.
“What?!”
-Splash.
His furious outcry was swallowed by the waves.
He’d brought the burnt offering, but no comrades or setup for the rite.
“Where are they?!”
His rage-filled, gleaming eyes scanned about.
He hadn’t considered it.
Beings vastly stronger than him couldn’t even be perceived in the same space.
What he faced upon looking: a cavernous void too black to call mere dark.
An utterly pitch, chilling, ominous presence.
Eyes near dead white, cold as ash, gazed down at him like prey.
“Huh?”
Arthur Usher couldn’t possibly be here.
Their comrade and ally, Sir Whitten, was supposed to handle him.
The plan’s greatest obstacle would be Arma Cruise, executor of Creator God Aegis, with his boundless mercy—next, the demon swordsman Arthur Usher.
“Why are you here—”
Before finishing, a thud like a snapped string, and he crumpled.
In fading consciousness, ‘Coward Benson’—eternal flunker of Thorn Crown House—lost even his unresolved curiosity.
All the acting insulting the executor on purpose, arm dislocated and muscles torn in preparation for the fire rite—rendered pointless.
Lord Aegis craves blood, so terribly hungry, must burn the devil’s soul to offer his body. Huh? But wasn’t this for the executor…
In that instant, his soul was wholly consumed by fragmented clamor.