A Regressor's Guide to Hunting in the Academy

Chapter 13

Grimory.

No surname-just Grimory. She was common-born, no, orphan-born. As an infant she had been left on the steps of the orphanage run by the Raphaela Church. The nuns, startled by a baby’s cry, carried her inside, and she grew up under their roof. Maturing faster than the other children, she took charge of the little ones so the sisters wouldn’t tire. By the time she came of age, they gave her a parting gift: permission to sit the entrance exam for Sefira Academy.

Was it natural wit? Raw talent? Whatever the cause, she passed with flying colors, beating out nobles who had been tutored since birth and entering as the top student. Rumors swirled that she must have cheated. She didn’t care; results would silence gossip soon enough.

Then she laid eyes on demonology, a subject new to her, and fell in love. Somewhere in those forbidden texts, she felt, waited the truth she had always wanted to know. Heart racing, she enrolled in the course-and pictured Henrik, the famous professor, igniting her expectations.

“One! Two! Three!”

“....”

The training yard rang with shouts. That was where she stood now, watching the knight-cadets jog past in neat rows. They glanced her way and flushed, embarrassed by their own sweat. Physical training had always been alien to her; it still was. Basking in the mild sunshine, she watched someone else suffer.

“-ugh!”

A girl crawled past, dragging weighted straps. Amecitia reached Grimory and flopped down with a thud. Gasping, she looked up through a mask of dust.

“Why... aren’t you... running?”

“Good question.”

She couldn’t say, I was born frail, so Grimory offered a dazed smile.

“Up you come, Amecitia.”

Henrik hauled the cadet to her feet; he had just made her sprint ten laps around the yard. Gripping the back of her neck, he lifted her as easily as a kitten. When her breathing slowed, he tossed her a wooden practice blade.

Grimory had no idea why they endured this brutality. What was the point?

Henrik checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Good work. You shaved thirty seconds off your record.”

Far from celebrating, Amecitia exploded. “Damn it, I quit! Kill me instead-just kill me!”

She sprawled spread-eagle at his boots. Grimory bit her lip to stifle laughter.

Henrik’s face stayed cold. “Wasn’t your goal to revive your house? Didn’t you swear to become a knight-captain?”

Silence.

Amecitia didn’t budge; she had hit her limit. Grimory sympathized-she would have refused the moment she heard the word “laps.”

Henrik disappeared into the storage shed and returned with a steel training sword. “Last request: decide for yourself whether to continue. Take this.”

He laid the blade on the ground. Amecitia lifted her head.

“Pick it up, Amecitia.”

“...Sir?”

She crept forward and accepted the weapon, trembling. Surely he wasn’t going to spar-no, probably just pummel her again.

Instead Henrik said, “Cast a magic sword.”

“A... magic sword?”

“You can’t feel your progress, so show yourself how far you’ve come.”

Amecitia straightened, awkwardly, and closed her eyes. Feel the mana. Open the circuit. Channel mana into the blade. Layer by layer she stacked the formulas, careful not to let the spells tangle, as though building a sandwich. Flame blossomed along the edge.

“Huh?”

Her eyes snapped open.

“Two minutes,” Henrik announced, studying the burning sword. “Two minutes flat.”

The same blazing weapon she had wielded in duel class hovered in her grip. Yet something felt different; Amecitia stared at it in stunned disbelief.

“That’s... odd?”

Grimory couldn’t hide her amazement.

“Impossible...”

She had watched the whole duel between Amecitia and Henrik.

So she knew exactly how staggering this growth was.

Back then, Amecitia had needed a full three minutes-almost 160 seconds-to forge a Magic Sword.

Yet after only a week of training she had shaved off a whole minute.

“Condition’s good. Not bad at all.”

Henrik gave the burning blade a casual inspection.

As he said, the sword felt far steadier than last time.

Before, the mana had blazed and burnt out fast; now it rippled along the edge like a calm tide.

“....”

Amecitia was speechless at her own progress.

Was this even possible?

She had only done some strength training-yet the difference was night and day.

“Professor, how is this even happening?”

Grimory’s curiosity spilled over; she edged closer to Henrik.

How could mere strength training change the sword so much?

Had he slipped in some secret method she didn’t know?

She had to find out.

“I just filled the gap her Magic Sword needed.”

Henrik answered as if untangling her thoughts.

“The sword isn’t the real body of the spell-it’s the body itself.”

He pointed at Amecitia.

“Fix the body and the mana settles. From any stance she can bring the sword out smoothly. Amecitia, give it a swing.”

“Yes? But....”

During the duel her sword had vanished after one or two swings; would it hold now?

She squeezed her eyes shut and slashed.

Then-

“Huh?”

The edge wavered slightly, but the sword remained.

Stunned, she looked at Henrik.

“See it for yourself now?”

“....”

“Finally understand why we train the body?”

“...Sorry.”

Amecitia bowed deeply, apology offered straight from the shoulders.

First-hand experience left no room for excuses.

Henrik’s lessons were the real thing.

“You’re still far below standard for a Demonic Swordsman.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll work harder!”

“That’s the spirit. Ten more laps.”

“...Pardon?”

“I’ll take that apology in sweat.”

Amecitia’s face crumpled; she glanced at Henrik, realized he meant it, and trudged off to the training yard.

* * *

‘...Henrik.’

Grimory murmured his name under her breath as she watched him.

His back looked perfectly ordinary.

Yet every encounter left her with an inexplicable feeling.

While she stood lost, Henrik walked up.

“Grimory.”

“Uh-yes?”

Startled, she coughed and met his gaze.

Amecitia had dragged her out earlier, but she’d stayed on the bench because Henrik had told her to wait.

He sat down beside her.

As Amecitia clumped back toward the track, Henrik pulled out a notebook and began jotting things down.

Grimory sidled closer and peeked.

Inside were Amecitia’s vital stats and a list of unfamiliar ingredients.

“Professor, what is that?”

Henrik glanced at her and closed the notebook.

“A potion formula. Tailored for Amecitia’s body-so don’t even think of copying it.”

“Potion...?”

Grimory tilted her head.

She wondered why the usually cool, detached professor cared so much for Amecitia-and whether she could ever become a student like that.

“Professor.”

“So many questions, Grimory.”

“....”

At his words she clamped up; Henrik gave a small chuckle.

“I’m not scolding you. Questions are a student’s right-just ask them all at once.”

“Ah, yes!”

Grimory’s gaze drifted to Amecitia.

Panting as she ran, she looked both pitiful and enviable.

Each steady improvement was plain to see-and the more Grimory saw, the more she wanted the same.

“Why do you go this far for Amecitia, Professor?”

Henrik considered for a moment, then answered.

“No grand reason. A talented kid deserves help spreading her wings. And Amecitia wants it badly-that’s something a professor should answer.”

Grimory looked at him again, hearing his words ring clear.

She had thought him nothing but a cold, indifferent professor, yet for a moment she glimpsed the human underneath.

Henrik watched Amecitia pounding round the distant training yard.

“Amecitia considers you a friend. Try to get along.”

“Ah... ha-ha-ha...”

Grimory answered with an awkward smile.

She was still staring blankly at Amecitia’s laps when Henrik spoke again.

“All right, your turn.”

My turn?

Grimory tilted her head.

‘Wait, he did tell me to wait. Surely he doesn’t expect me to run too?!’

The ominous thought made her inch backward.

‘If I’m born weak, I just build stamina-he can’t be using that logic, right?!’

True, she envied Amecitia, but she had never wanted to be loved that much.

All she’d wanted was a professor who would answer her questions properly-

Contrary to her fears, Henrik pulled a small book from his pocket and held it out.

“What’s this?”

“A demon bestiary. I couldn’t list every species, but I packed it with thirty low- and mid-rank demons you’re likely to meet. You should be able to memorize them.”

Grimory cracked it open.

Starting with Fig, the demon they’d studied in class, the book held imps, goblins, succubi, hellhounds-each entry laid out habits, weaknesses, how to fight them, and Henrik’s own sketches filling the margins.

“Who drew the pictures?”

“I did.”

“......”

They had the scratchy look of children’s doodles.

She had thought Henrik a flawless iron-man; the clumsy art made her snort.

“The features are accurate, so you won’t confuse them,” he said calmly, ignoring her smile.

She flipped pages, murmuring, “Hm... imp, goblin, succubus, hellhound-more than I expected.”

Then she froze.

[Demon Tracking Technique, step 1: sprinkle the reagent and you’ll see the demon’s footprints. They appear as red fog-]

A chill slid down her spine.

Grimory had been born with odd eyes; since childhood she had seen things others could not-wispy red haze drifting between people. However frantically she pointed, the nuns never saw even a wisp.

As a child she had played chase with those traces.

‘Demon footprints!’

She broke into a cold sweat.

If this was true, she had spent her youth romping in a demon’s wake.

Henrik noticed her sudden pallor.

“Something wrong? Spot a demon you know?”

“N-no.”

She wiped sweat from her brow and shoved the book into her pocket.

‘So that red fog was footprints...’

The thought that she’d been playing tag with danger made her stagger-until a memory flashed: that morning, greeting Carmen, sitting down as students walked past discussing the classmates who had fallen asleep and never woken up; for an instant she had seen red fog drifting after them.

‘No way...’

She yanked the bestiary out again and rifled the pages.

Sleep-trap.

Demon.

Several entries combined both keywords.

“......”

Henrik watched her in silence, then asked,

“Didn’t you say you had a question? Found your answer?”

She had-though the question was answering itself.

‘Professor, what do you think about the students who’ve fallen asleep lately?’

It had been casual curiosity; now the stakes had shifted.

‘Found it.’

She stopped at a warning boxed in red:

[CAUTION: victims fall into endless sleep.]

Every symptom matched.

“Grimory?”

She lifted her head slowly.

“Professor... there might be a demon inside the academy.”