Chapter 41
Chapter 41
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 41
Chapter Title: Late-Bloomer Club Newbie (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The Creative Writing Club room was closer than I expected.
If you considered the Great Dance Hall the center, then among the three club rooms wrapping around it in a U-shape, the one on the right belonged to the Creative Writing Club.
*Knock knock knock.*
"It's Arma Cruise."
I waited a moment after hearing the hollow echo of my knock.
From inside the door came sounds of hurried scrambling, as if they weren't prepared for visitors.
"I'll come in."
Since I'd already notified them of my visit today, I didn't wait any longer and opened the door.
The sight that greeted me the moment I stepped inside was nothing short of spectacular.
"Ugh, ah, ah, not yet..."
Cigarette smoke that looked like a fog had rolled in.
The air carried a sickly sweet, heavy fragrance, as if someone had tried—and failed—to mask the smoke with something dubious.
It was clearly a building of the same vintage as the Dance Hall, but unlike the pristine white gleam of the Dance Hall, the Creative Writing Club room was faded and worn overall.
"..."
The transparent glass bottles scattered everywhere reeked of volatile liquids, and desks bore clear signs of hasty cleanup, with clutter tumbling off in heaps onto the floor.
For a split second, a strange sense of repulsion washed over me.
But it wasn't just the subtle antagonism I'd developed toward the Creative Writing Club.
It stemmed from something else entirely.
'Why the hell do they have island maps laid out...?'
Upside-down papers with intricate star-shaped diagrams, crudely drawn sketches, books with "Romance" emblazoned on the covers, dried herbs of unknown purpose...
'This is a full-on degenerate club.'
Even the Social Dance Club, saddled with its scandalous reputation for moral laxity, had grounds to feel unjustly accused.
Sure, a few mishaps with eye contact while dancing were only natural and instinctive for human preservation.
But what about emotional corruption?
Had the very definition of "creative writing" somehow morphed into ecstatic, mind-melting indulgence without my noticing?
"Hmm."
Even I was at a loss for words in the face of such a scene.
Meanwhile, a cadet—probably majoring in swordsmanship—who had been shielding various forbidden tomes with his body whispered to another cadet, likely from religious art studies.
Both were so intoxicated they could barely stand on their own legs, trembling and leaning on each other like newborn fawns.
'Their eyes are completely gone.'
The two, with half-lidded gazes, blatantly sized me up.
I met their stares with feigned composure, but they were so lost in their own world they didn't even register me looking back.
"-That guy's from the Classical Culture Club."
*'I can hear you.'*
The fact that Dylan showed up every morning to serenade me was known to anyone sharing the dormitory.
Dylan probably knew that too, which made him put on even more of a show.
*Clang.*
Breaking the silence, someone belatedly flung open a window.
"Ah, hot, so hot."
"Yeah, it is kinda hot."
The words didn't match the season at all, but anyway, following the bowl-cut cadet who first opened a window, Fawn A and B drew back the curtains and cracked theirs open too.
There were four people currently guarding the Creative Writing Club room, all from the Wooden Cross Class despite their differing majors.
Given how little interaction there was between classes—likely due to the island's layout—it wasn't unusual for club rosters to skew heavily one way.
The real oddity lay elsewhere.
"We got the notice of your visit, but there must've been some mix-up."
No matter how notorious the Creative Writing Club was for its depravity, they probably didn't want to show this side to a newbie who'd just submitted an application.
*'Or maybe they do, if degeneracy is their whole shtick?'*
I'd never sunk that low myself, so who knew.
The bowl-cut one, hearing me, rummaged through the pile of forbidden books and pulled out a letter that was unmistakably from me.
"Here it is!"
"What's this? An application? Who accepted it?"
"Who'd know?"
"No, but why? He's from the Classical Culture Club, right?"
"A spy?"
I wasn't one to stand on ceremony myself, but in this situation, shouldn't they apologize first?
Though with news of my Classical Culture Club membership spreading faster than expected, improving relations with the Creative Writing Club seemed unlikely anyway.
"It's only been a day since I joined the Classical Culture Club, but the rumors spread quick."
"That's..."
A hunched-shouldered cadet with round glasses sweated profusely as he spoke.
I couldn't tell if the glasses' obvious panic stemmed from getting caught or if it was just his nature.
I only hoped the sickly sweet scent wafting from his breath with every word wasn't what I thought it was.
*'Total rock bottom.'*
The Creative Writing Club deserved respect for exceeding my wildest imaginings.
Eager to escape, I prodded the dazed, stammering glasses guy.
"You gonna keep me standing here?"
I shrugged exaggeratedly, then helped the fawns—who'd forgotten their original goal of shielding books with their bodies and were now gaping—by neatly stacking the spilled volumes.
*'Loving Techniques of Beloved Lady Mary... The Black Knight Climbs the Night Tower...'*
Similar themes, red leather covers.
And every one had colorful edges, clearly packed with illustrations—trashy novels, no doubt.
*'Did you buy this crap with club funds? No? Please say no.'*
But at this point, misusing club funds was the least of their problems.
I swallowed dryly to steady myself and kept my posture relaxed, acting natural to hide my unease.
Fortunately, my calm demeanor seemed to put them at ease.
Glasses, Fawn A, B, and Bowl-Cut awkwardly dragged over desks they'd stashed away and cleared their throats.
"Anyway, I heard the Creative Writing Club is pretty big. Not many people here today."
"This is an irregular meeting. Regular ones are Fridays at 7 p.m."
I'd never heard of clubs distinguishing between regular and irregular meetings, and the timing was awfully convenient.
Aegis Academy's schedule ended all classes Friday afternoon.
I doubted the Creative Writing Club gathered then for wholesome, productive writing.
I cleared my throat and said,
"I hope you won't be too wary of a late-bloomer newbie. Graduation's looming, so all sorts of thoughts creep in. All I did at the Classical Culture Club was snag a cup of tea."
I'd already gotten the scoop from Judith about the poster wars between the Classical Culture Club and Creative Writing Club.
No need to play up any ties to the former now.
The depraved quartet guarding the room visibly relaxed a fraction.
"W-Well then... even if it's just formal, how about an entry test? Here's a page for you."
At that, Glasses dashed off and retrieved a box from a wooden cabinet that looked untouched for at least six months: white paper, ink, and a quill pen.
"The Creative Writing Club has a pretty... old-school vibe."
The quill, made from a bird of prey's feather sharpened to a point, was gunked up like it'd been in someone's mouth, and the nib was cracked.
But the real issue was the paper.
Most sheets were cut into tiny palm-sized squares, forcing Glasses to dig through the basket forever to find an intact one.
Was this hazing, or had they genuinely forgotten they were a writing club? An outsider like me couldn't say.
"What do I write?"
"Uh, um. It's creative writing, so... writing?"
Answering a question with a question—I gave up trying to figure them out.
Normally, they'd specify a genre like poem, story, or song.
*Scritch scritch.*
While I wrestled with the page, the four—who'd been standing around with blank faces—cautiously stashed their contraband.
Too late for that; I'd seen it all. But if it eased their minds, no skin off my back.
Desperate to wrap this up, I scribbled faster.
"Done."
I'd prepared for this and memorized a pre-written piece, so it was easy.
The page read:
〔Life is short
And light blazes bright
Paths lie everywhere〕
A simple rhyme matching the first line's ending—it should prove I wasn't half-assing my way in.
Though watching how they operated, I probably didn't need it.
I itched to tell the muttering Bowl-Cut—mumbling something about me being a lit major—that we were all fine arts majors.
In the end, after a lame "We'll consult the other members and let you know about official membership," I wrapped up for the day.
***
My packed schedule left me more exhausted than usual.
After a quick wash and towel-dry of my hair, the view outside was pitch black.
"Ow, stings."
The wound Theodore had carved into my neck at my request—to fool Arthur—still smarted.
Etched to resemble a branding in a fleeting glance, it looked just like a tiny magic circle.
*'This guy's got a future as a mage.'*
After slathering on some ointment, I reviewed the day's events.
'For now, the Social Dance Club... doesn't seem suspicious.'
Clony struck me as a prim and proper lady, so I couldn't fathom why she'd join a club branded as morally loose.
Maybe strict upbringing caused a rebellion.
*'A different kind of derailment from Shirley.'*
Groups of youthful students dancing all day was harmless youthful folly anyone might indulge.
But the Creative Writing Club was a whole different beast.
"Creative Writing Club, huh..."
The club housing that hooded jerk who'd badmouthed me despite no beef between us.
I'd joined all four official Wooden Cross Class clubs—not just for Hood Guy, but in case there were seconds or thirds like him.
Aegis Academy had long harbored a group undermining my reputation.
With the murder and other incidents, they'd started openly targeting me, so I struck first.
"Things just got complicated."
I'd hoped to salvage my trashed reputation and probe whatever grudge fueled their sabotage...
But now it felt like I'd waded into the mess voluntarily.
The Creative Writing Club's private depravities didn't concern me, but if they hated me specifically? That changed everything.
"Guess I'll have to play along for a while."
Luckily, Dylan—my insurance policy—seemed viable.
I'd hang with them a bit, then bail using the Classical Culture Club as an excuse if "corruption" threatened me.
"No corruption. Absolutely no corruption..."
Muttering it like a mantra, I climbed into bed.
Arma Cruise, age 24...
On the verge of graduation, dreading school like a kid and on the brink of tears.