Chapter 153: Episode 153

The Mausoleum was the final resting place of Kizen’s greatest necromancers, a vast submarine cave at the edge of Roc Island. The place was a sacred site, teeming with paranormal phenomena that defied natural explanation. The funeral ceremonies held there were governed by long, intricate traditions—a schedule so demanding that even if followed without rest, it would last until the following dawn.

This time, in accordance with Lang’s last will, the ceremony had been simplified. But even simplified, it was expected to last late into the night. The only person showing any real enthusiasm was Umbra, the Spiritology professor in charge of the proceedings. He insisted that all the mourners perform the ritual dance—known mockingly among students as the ‘chicken feed dance’ or the ‘squid mating dance’—and he nitpicked every single movement.

After a grueling morning of tightly scheduled rituals, a short break was finally granted.

’This is exhausting.’ Aaron ran a hand through his damp hair, his steps heavy. He was a man who valued the ‘root’ of all things, but no matter how he considered it, he could find no logical connection between dunking one’s head in a subterranean waterfall and paying respects to the dead.

’I should write my will in advance,’ he mused. ’When I die, the rituals won’t just be simplified; they’ll be omitted entirely.’

Lost in thought, he stumbled upon an empty chamber in the cave. Perfect. He went inside, leaned his back against the cool stone wall, and let out a long sigh. With no one watching, he shrugged off his coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his trousers. The feeling of the breeze on his bare skin was a welcome relief, and for the first time in hours, he felt he could breathe. He was staring blankly at the ceiling, utterly spent, when a voice broke the silence.

“Professor, may I come in?” A rough, distinct dialect—southern Shahed or perhaps the Far East—reached him.

Aaron turned to see Hongfeng, the Combat Magic professor, offering a bright smile. He gave a silent nod of assent. She smoothed her formal skirt and sat down against the opposite wall, her legs neatly together.

A comfortable silence lingered before Hongfeng spoke. “How iz Zimon Polentia’z progrezz in the Zummoning artz theze dayz?”

’Asking about Simon’s progress.’ As expected, students were the primary topic of conversation among the faculty.

“It is at the level you would expect, Professor Hongfeng,” Aaron replied, too tired to elaborate. It was a curt response, but she merely smiled.

“I had hoped to focuz on teaching him Combat Magic,” she said, her expression thoughtful. Aaron stared at the cave ceiling, his face impassive. “I have taught many ztudentz at Kizen, but I have never zeen zuch raw talent. I held a ztrong conviction that if I poured all my effort into honing him, he would become the greatezt mazterpiece.”

“When did you firzt feel that conviction about the boy?” she asked, tilting her head as a lock of her tied-back hair slipped over her shoulder.

“It was likely the same moment you did, Professor Hongfeng.”

It was obvious from the very first class. That was why he had immediately requested a private meeting with Nephthys to inquire about the boy’s parents. But Nephthys had deflected, giggling and brushing off his questions with her typical, infuriatingly vague, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A genius who had appeared out of nowhere, brought to Kizen by Nephthys herself. The questions about his origins lingered, but there was no choice but to nurture his talent. In truth, he would have flourished no matter who taught him.

Just then, Hongfeng spoke again. “Then, Profezzor Aaron, do you think Zimon…?”

“I hear an interesting conversation.”

Aaron’s expression hardened. Bahil was walking in, not in his usual white suit and fedora, but in a black ensemble that looked as if it had been dipped in ink.

“I believe I just heard the name Simon,” he said, his gait slow and deliberate. He crouched down next to Aaron, removed his hat, and placed it on his knee. “When it comes to that student, I couldn’t possibly be left out, could I?”

An undisguisable wave of irritation washed over Aaron. ’Of all the places…’

“Now, now, let’s dispense with the pleasantries. We all know of the boy’s talent, don’t we? He is excellent, he is a genius, blah, blah, blah. I think it’s high time we moved past such obvious statements.” Bahil shrugged and held up his hands. “Yes! To get to the point, I want Simon Polentia, too.”

Bahil had just thrown down the gauntlet. Hongfeng regarded him with a placid smile. “The Profezzor of Curzology? That iz zurprizing. I have never zeen Zimon uze a curze.”

“Heh, ever the sharp one, Professor Hongfeng. Right for the heart,” Bahil said, playfully clutching his chest.

“But that is hardly important. The reason he doesn’t use curses is that he hasn’t yet discovered the joy in them. Once he gets a taste of this field,” Bahil’s tongue swept over his lips, “he will. Never. Be able to escape.”

Hongfeng propped her chin on her hand, a condescending smile playing on her lips. Aaron closed his eyes, his expression sour.

“More importantly, I was a little surprised,” Bahil continued, his lips twisting into a smirk. “I thought you’d simply go back on your declaration about not taking a direct disciple and snatch up student Simon for yourself.”

The offer of direct discipleship could only be extended by a professor. While not a formal rule, it was an unwritten law. For a student to ask was considered deeply disrespectful. Simon had shown a clear and profound interest in Summoning, yet Aaron was guiding him from a distance.

“A man of his word, is that the sort of conviction you hold?” Bahil pressed.

“The first semester isn’t even over,” Aaron replied nonchalantly. “It is far too early to discuss a student’s major when their talents have yet to be fully explored. All this talk of direct discipleship at this stage is abnormal. It’s the work of charlatans.”

Bahil and Hongfeng flinched inwardly but did not let it show.

Bahil clapped his hands together. “Placing the student’s future before your own ambitions! Truly, you are a model educator.”

“…Hey.” Aaron’s gaze turned to ice. “Cut the crap.”

“Aha, my apologies,” Bahil said, though the broad smile never left his face. “Ah. But…” His gaze shifted toward the entrance. “It seems student Simon has everyone wrapped around his finger.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Silage, the Hemomancy professor, appeared. His former students, Aaron and Bahil, moved to stand, but Silage waved them down with a hand. He exchanged a brief nod with Hongfeng.

“I stopped by since all the first-year professors happened to be here,” Silage murmured. “Did I make things uncomfortable?”

“No, not at all. Please, rest easy, Professor,” Bahil said with exaggerated politeness. Aaron, however, now looked genuinely uncomfortable and tried to rise from his seat.

“Hey, where are you going, Senior?” Bahil exclaimed. “This is a fascinating gathering, isn’t it? Since we’re all here, let me ask just one thing, straight to the point.”

The eyes of the other three professors fell on him.

“What do you believe is Simon Polentia’s true strength?”

A sudden silence descended upon the cave. Aaron, now standing, slung his coat over his shoulder and answered as if spitting out the word.

“Insight.”

Hongfeng followed in a calm tone.

“Diligenze.”

Silage, still standing by the entrance, grinned.

“Uniqueness.”

Bahil covered his face with exasperation. He slowly dragged his hand upward, pushing back his wet hair and sending droplets of water to the floor.

“All of you! You’re all completely wrong!”

“And you call yourselves Kizen professors? Huh! Incredible!” Bahil’s voice rose with manic energy. “You don’t even recognize the boy’s true worth! How can you possibly guide him down the right path?” He shook his wet hair, flinging water everywhere, his eyes gleaming. “His true strength is Madness!!”

He threw his arms wide as if delivering a sermon, then turned to his colleagues with a wild grin. “I’m saying he’s the kind of talent who can become truly, magnificently obsessed with something!”

—

Meanwhile, the battle in the command and control room raged on. Simon heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Through his blurry vision, he could see Serne and the Saintess Flema locked in a fierce exchange.

[Why!] Flema shrieked. [Why is a being like you in Kizen!]

She was clearly enraged, and her frustration was making her sloppy. The accuracy of her White Flame projectiles had dropped significantly.

“Oh my, what business is it of yours where I am?” Serne retorted lightly, flicking the feathers held between her fingers like shuriken. Uniquely, her feathers resisted the White Flame, holding their form for a surprisingly long time. Flema had to consciously intensify her power just to burn them away, a fact that was clearly causing her immense stress.

[This is blasphemy!]

Enraged, Flema threw her arms out, scattering a circular wave of White Flame like buckshot. Serne dodged with incredible speed, weaving through the deadly projectiles.

’It’s changed.’ Simon’s eyes narrowed as he watched them fight. The white fire, which had previously only harmed undead and necromancers, was now exerting physical force, affecting the objects around them.

Just then, Serne glanced back at him. “Simon, I don’t think one coupon stamp will be enough for this. Since she’s a Saintess, I’ll need at least two more…”

“Serne, look out!” Simon yelled.

A volley of White Flame streaks shot toward her. Serne’s flight was astonishingly fast, but the command room was an enclosed space. After a series of brilliant dodges, a single streak of flame caught her, and she was blasted out of the air.

As Flema moved to press her advantage on the fallen Serne, her gaze snapped back in annoyance. Simon had charged in, swinging his greatsword at her back. But, as before, his blade was stopped cold by the protective aura of White Flame.

[It’s the same no matter how many times you try,] Flema said, violently swiping her right hand. The flame exploded, sending Simon flying once more into the far wall.

“Guuuhhh!”

Simon clutched the searing point of impact, his body convulsing in pain.

[Yes. This is a natural counter.] A cruel smile returned to Flema’s face, her irritation at Serne forgotten. [This is the very proof of the Goddess’s existence! Those who deny Her cannot stand against Her power!]

She tilted her finger, and a barrage of white fireballs slammed into Simon’s body, one after another.

“Damn it, Simon!” Serne cried out. Her prime recruitment target was being killed right before her eyes.

“Goddammit!” Kajan snarled from across the room. He was still struggling to crawl, his body wracked with pain. He had faced countless powerful enemies, but against this Saintess, he was utterly helpless.

[For a final struggle, that was rather decent,] Flema said, extending her arm. She conjured a ball of white fire, intending to finish off the incapacitated Kajan first.

Just then, Simon, his body scorched and still smoldering with remnants of white fire, began to tremble as he pushed himself back to his feet.

[Boy!] Pier’s voice cried out in his mind.

Simon had shielded his right hand, the only part of him where the Bone Armor remained. He struggled to lift his head, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed face-first onto the cold floor.

“Ugh!” he grunted. The blow should have shattered not just his body, but his will. And yet, he forced himself to rise, dragging his legs as if they were dead weight. He managed a few steps before collapsing, struggled up, and fell face-first onto the hard floor. Drool streamed from his mouth as he staggered to his feet, a shambling corpse refusing to stay down. A look of pure disgust twisted Flema’s features. “Back off, Simon,” Serne warned, her voice sharp. “You can’t win with your current strength.”

Serne had no intention of losing her most prized recruit. She unleashed her full power. As she levitated into the air, her feathers swirled before her, forming ten massive magic circles.

’Feather Frenzy’

Hundreds, then thousands of feathers streamed through the magic circles, transforming into golden flashes of light that shot toward Flema—enchanted plumes that would not disintegrate, even against the White Flame. Flema immediately threw her arms forward, erecting a wall of White Flame at maximum output. The barrier and the feathers collided in a series of deafening roars. “Haaaaah!”

Amid the chaos, Simon was on his feet again, charging forward like a zombie. Flema was now beyond annoyed; she was utterly dumbfounded. [Just die already!] she snarled. Before Simon could even swing his greatsword, a blast of White Flame erupted, engulfing him completely. Flema refocused her attention on her shield. A sudden chill shot down Flema’s spine, and goosebumps prickled her skin. Simon, who should have been a writhing mess on the floor, was charging at her again, completely unharmed. ’What?! How?’ she wondered, bewildered. “Raaaaaaaaaah!” For a moment, Simon’s entire body seemed to be swallowed by the second wave of White Flame she conjured. But an instant later, he burst through it, flames trailing behind him like a demonic tail as he lunged forward, his eyes blazing with madness. “That attack is now…!”

The Greatsword of Ruin sliced diagonally across the Saintess’s back. Beyond the crimson fountain that erupted from the wound, Simon saw the astonished faces of Serne and Kajan, and the terror that filled the Saintess’s eyes.

“…Mediocre!”

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