Chapter 7: Episode 7

The hall fell dead silent.

’Did he just call my name?’ Simon’s mind went completely blank.

“Student Simon Polentia. Is he not present?” the host called out again.

Simon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and forced himself to his feet. A thousand pairs of eyes, the gazes of every one of his peers, locked onto him.

“Who is he?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s Number One?”

He had never been in a place with so many people, let alone been the center of so much attention. Swallowing hard again, Simon made his way to the stage and took his place beside Serne.

With a slow exhale, Simon tried to calm himself. The host approached and gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.

“No need to be nervous. Just read what’s written here.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Serne glanced at him and gave a slight nod. Simon returned the gesture. Together, they raised their right hands.

“We pledge,” they recited in unison.

Behind them, the voices of 998 other students echoed their words. “We pledge.”

“We, the new students…”

“We, the new students…”

As his lips moved, Simon’s head swam. He had no idea if he was speaking correctly or what the words even meant. He simply focused on matching the cadence of Serne’s voice, doing his best not to let his own crack under the pressure.

And just like that, on his very first day, Simon Polentia had captured everyone’s attention.

—

“Holy crap! No way! ’You’ were Special Admission Number One?” Rowen yelled, practically vibrating with excitement the moment Simon returned to his seat.

Simon opened his mouth to explain, but their packed schedule offered no time for conversation. They were immediately ushered to their first lecture hall. The first day of school offered no reprieve; classes began without delay.

Simon was assigned to Class A. For the first semester, all first-years took the same core curriculum, spread across fourteen classes. His class started with over sixty students, but he knew it was common for that number to be cut in half by the end of the term, with underperforming classes being merged or dissolved entirely.

Stepping into the classroom, Simon didn’t recognize a single soul. Lorraine wasn’t there, nor was Rowen. The only familiar face belonged to Cindy Vivace, the girl from the bookstore, who gave him a cheerful wave.

“Hey! Special Admission Number One!”

The atmosphere was thick with the awkwardness of new beginnings, which allowed Simon to blend in without much trouble.

’First class is Cursology,’ he thought, settling into a seat near the back. He took out his textbook and looked up, catching several students who had been staring at him quickly whip their heads forward. He offered a small, bitter smile and pretended not to notice.

The classroom door swung open, and the professor entered. A thunderous cheer erupted as the students recognized him.

“Bahil Amagar!”

“It’s really him!”

The word ‘necromancer’ often conjured images of gloomy figures lurking in the shadows, tending to corpses. But that was an archaic notion. The modern necromancer was smart, practical, and stylish—a trendsetter. In fact, it was the Priests who were now seen as stuffy and conservative.

And Professor Bahil Amagar was the very embodiment of this new generation.

Dressed in a pristine white suit from head to toe, he had the proportions of a runway model. He was a bona fide star—impossibly handsome, and, despite being in his late twenties, already a member of Kizen’s elite force, ‘the Crows.’ To the students of Kizen, he was an object of absolute adoration.

Bahil flashed a warm smile at the roaring students and gave a casual wave. A few girls swooned audibly.

“Welcome, new students,” he began, his voice smooth and confident. “I am Bahil Amagar, and I will be your Cursology professor this year.”

Another wave of cheers broke out. Bahil raised his hands, skillfully calming the room, before setting his felt fedora on the lectern.

“Shall we take attendance? Since you’re all new to each other, when I call your name, please give a brief self-introduction.”

He began calling the roll. “Jamie Victoria.”

“Yes! Professor, it’s such an honor! I want to follow in your footsteps and—!”

Bahil held up a hand, cutting her off with a playful wink. “You’re not introducing yourself to me, but to your friends here. Try again.”

Light chuckles rippled through the classroom. Jamie’s face flushed as she mumbled that she was looking forward to a good semester.

After her smooth start, most students gave standard, polite introductions. Knowing it was best not to stand out any further, Simon kept his own brief and simple. A few students used the opportunity to promote themselves for future group projects, while others adopted an air of superiority, making it clear they expected others to fall in line.

“So many students full of zeal. Excellent.” Bahil set down the attendance sheet, rolled up his sleeves, and approached the blackboard. “Now, let us begin.”

His chalk tapped against the board.

With chalk in hand, he wrote ‘Cursology’ in large, elegant script. He pressed so hard on the final stroke that the chalk snapped. Unfazed, he picked up a new piece.

“Let’s start with a fundamental question: Why must we learn Cursology?”

From his very first words, Bahil commanded the room. Every student leaned forward, hanging on his every word.

“Can anyone define what a curse is?”

Right in front of Simon, a girl with glasses shot her hand into the air. “Claudia Mendes! A curse is a form of black magic that weakens an opponent while leaving my own power intact!”

“Excellent, Claudia.” The girl blushed at his praise.

“However, simply saying it ‘weakens’ an opponent might not fully resonate with some of you,” Bahil continued, pacing before the class. “Alright. Let’s imagine two knights of perfectly equal skill.” He held the chalk aloft like a sword. “They begin a fierce duel, their blades clashing. They wear down each other’s stamina, each waiting for the other to make a mistake, to show an opening.”

He wrote ‘Exhaust’ on the blackboard.

“They exchange more than twenty blows, but neither falls. Then, one knight, their swords locked, lets out a guttural roar and glares at his opponent with killing intent. The other knight flinches, his face paling with dread.”

He wrote ‘Pressure’ on the blackboard.

“Finally, a blade slashes across the opponent’s shoulder. Blood spills, and his movements become unsteady. The first knight slowly, surely, gains the upper hand!”

He wrote ‘Bleeding’ on the blackboard.

As the duel progressed, more and more words filled the board, each one the name of a necromancer’s curse. The students were on the edge of their seats, their knuckles white. Bahil’s voice rose to a crescendo.

“And at last! The knight brings his sword down, severing his opponent’s head!”

He lowered his arm, and a dead silence fell over the classroom. After a long, dramatic pause, Bahil grinned and wrote a final word on the board: ‘Doom.’

Gasps of awe echoed through the room.

“Do you understand now?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over them. “Even the most primitive, barbaric form of combat—the simple clashing of weapons—is nothing more than a series of steps to weaken an opponent and pave the way to victory.” He picked up a fresh piece of chalk. “Now, let’s look at a modern necromancer’s fight.”

He drew a crude stick figure on the board. “How does a necromancer defeat this opponent?”

He drew a large circle around all the curse words he had written, then dragged a single line from the circle to the stick figure.

“We win.”

“Oh…!” a student breathed out.

“Among the various forms of black magic, curses are elegant and simple in their structure, allowing for rapid deployment. They are so efficient that with minimal effort, you can completely destabilize your foe.” Bahil winked at a boy in the front row. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he completed and fired an ’Exhaust’ curse in less than a second.

The boy gasped and slumped in his seat, unable to move, his eyes wide with panic.

Bahil strolled leisurely toward him. “This,” he said, pulling the magic sword from the student’s bag and miming a strike to his neck, “is a modern necromancer’s fight.”

A roar of astonishment went through the classroom.

The students shot to their feet, erupting in cheers. Bahil simply smiled, gave a slight bow, and released the curse on the boy.

“I don’t know which major you will all choose, but I dare predict that at least eighty percent of you will be taking my class again next semester,” he declared, striding back to the front. “Cursology is a highly compatible field. While honing your own specialties, learn to steadily land curses on your opponent whenever you find an opening. That will be the most efficient path to securing victory.”

He paused. “Now, for something a bit more interesting.”

Beneath ‘Cursology,’ he wrote a new word.

“I personally believe that Cursology is the core of modern necromancy. The reason for this…” He wrote ‘Priest’ on the blackboard. “…is because it is the most efficient means of dealing with our primary enemy.”

He had brought up a sensitive topic in the very first class. A fierce, competitive glint appeared in the students’ eyes.

“So, I ask you: if necromancers have ‘curses,’ Priests have ‘blessings.’ One weakens, the other enhances. Now then…” Bahil smiled. “Can any student explain what makes a curse superior to a blessing?”

The room fell quiet as students exchanged uncertain glances. Finally, a hand went up. It was Jamie Victoria, the same student who had spoken first during roll call. Bahil nodded at her.

“Jamie Victoria. Curses are superior to blessings in casting speed! We can stack weakening effects on an opponent more quickly!”

“An interesting theory,” Bahil said, crossing his arms. “But incorrect. In terms of casting speed alone, the scholarly consensus is that a Priest’s blessing is slightly faster, as a curse must first break through an opponent’s resistance.”

Jamie bit her lip in disappointment and sat down.

“Any other ideas?”

Just then, an arm shot into the air. It belonged to a tall, well-built young man with strong features and thick eyebrows.

“Hector Moore.”

“Speak.”

“Almost no one trains themselves in a weakened state.”

The answer was cryptic, but a deep smile spread across Bahil’s lips. “Student. What was your name again?”

“Hector Moore.”

“I will remember it.”

A wave of envious murmurs filled the room. In a class of a thousand freshmen, being noticed by a professor was a significant advantage, a key to survival. Having one promise to remember your name was a monumental boon.

“Hector is correct,” Bahil announced. “It is because weakening magic cannot be countered through training.” He scanned the faces before him. “Everyone trains under the assumption that they are in peak condition. The measure of one’s skill is how well they perform when all circumstances are under their control.”

The students nodded in agreement.

“Humans are more delicate creatures than they appear; the slightest change can break them. Tearing the arm off an archer aiming at you isn’t the only solution. Simply obstruct his vision with conjunctivitis, induce motion sickness, confuse his sense of distance, or distract him with something else. An arrow that should have been a fatal shot will miss.” The corners of Bahil’s mouth curled upward. “A necromancer possesses countless ways to degrade an enemy’s condition. But think about it. When you’re exhausted or your stomach is twisting in knots, do you train to resist a curse? No. You take the day off.”

A few students chuckled.

“So, remember this,” Bahil concluded, his voice firm. “We must not focus on strengthening ourselves, but on devising ways to weaken our opponents.”

The students nodded, their quills scratching furiously across parchment. It sounded exactly like something that would be on an exam.

“Alright. Now, it’s time to learn a curse firsthand.”

Simon, who had been taking notes, snapped his head up. ’What? We’re learning black magic in the very first class?’

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep