A Regressor's Guide to Hunting in the Academy

Chapter 19

Inside the open stone coffin lay a rough-hewn lump of rock.

The skeleton embraced it as though cradling something priceless.

At first glance it was nothing more than a common stone, yet Henrik could feel the faint divine power radiating from within. Sephirum was nothing until the thick crust of surrounding rock was stripped away and the ore fully refined.

‘A complete Sephirum stone... How many died in the war to obtain even one of these?’

Memories of the blood-soaked war against the demons flashed before his eyes.

Henrik swallowed hard.

He could tell just by looking: this was a threat. Fully refined Sephirum held potent divine energy-utterly lethal to demonkind.

It was roughly the size of a human head. In the past, a piece one-twentieth this size had been precious enough to coat weapons with. Now an entire fist-sized chunk rested in his hands-enough to forge a complete weapon.

‘Not bad at all.’

Henrik smiled-something he rarely did-and lifted the stone. It was hefty, but manageable.

Yet the second problem soon presented itself: how to work the Sephirum? Its hardness was unmatched; the smiths scattered beneath the academy city couldn’t even shape it into an ingot, let alone craft anything. Naturally so-none had ever seen raw Sephirum, so how could they know the technique?

‘But that kid could manage it.’

Cradling the stone, Henrik turned back the way he’d come.

‘The youngest of the Vulcan Clan.’

Before his regression, one particular blacksmith had handled all of Henrik’s equipment. Henrik had grown up in a smithing household and considered himself knowledgeable, yet no amount of effort had let him surpass that man’s skill. The reason was the smith’s unique technique-one that could shape even Sephirum with ease.

The question now was whether, ten years in the past, the boy had already awakened that technique.

Hardly a problem. If he hadn’t, Henrik would simply teach him; after all, the boy himself would one day invent the method. A few hints would be enough for him to work it out.

Which left only one task. Henrik glanced toward the exit.

‘Retrace my steps.’

* * *

-Rumble!

The wall-door rolled aside and a drained Henrik shuffled out. Beyond the window, night had deepened into dawn. He’d spent longer underground than expected.

‘Who knew one extra lump of rock could give me this much trouble.’

He studied his reflection: short, average build-nothing like the peak condition he’d enjoyed before regression. He’d have to reclaim that body soon.

‘Artifacts, equipment, training, lectures... so much to do.’

He slipped off his coat and wrapped the Sephirum inside, just in case he met anyone.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs as if they’d been waiting.

“I’m telling you, I heard something!”

“You just collapsed from mana exhaustion-shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

“Aw, I’m fine! Look-perfectly healthy!”

Henrik recognized the voices.

“Huh? Professor? What are you doing up at this hour?”

Amecitia waved cheerfully as she bounded over; behind her, Grimory clutched her hat and trotted to keep up.

“Nothing special. Personal business.”

Amecitia poked the coat-wrapped bundle. “Really? Then what’s this, Professor?”

Henrik met her gaze calmly. ‘Recovered faster than I expected-her stamina training’s paying off. Time to increase the load.’

Whether she sensed his thoughts or not, Amecitia kept jabbing the bundle. “Professor? Hellooo?”

“New training gear. If you’re feeling better, you can test it tomorrow.”

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. “Ah, y-yes... of course.”

She sidled behind Grimory, who answered politely when Henrik turned to her.

“Grimory, tomorrow’s lecture is cancelled. Inform Carmine.”

“Understood-wait, cancelled?”

“I have business.”

With that, Henrik strode past them down the stairs.

“Yay! Day off tomorrow!” Amecitia cheered alone.

Grimory, however, stared back at the corridor Henrik had left, uneasy.

‘But that hallway’s a dead end...’

But she had no way of knowing a hidden passage lay beyond that dead end; she only knew Henrik had popped out of nowhere and found it suspicious.

* * *

The next morning Henrik left the academy in plain clothes.

It was time to head into the city nearby.

The city was called Lemarnus, a sprawling trade port beside the academy.

Henrik had not walked its streets in years.

Unlike the small northern town where he had spent so long, Lemarnus was vast.

From the central square to the market strips, everything felt oversized.

What set it apart most was the harbor itself.

Sea-borne trade was the city’s lifeblood.

The air tingled with the scent of exotic spices.

He could probably find quality herbs here, but herbs were not his goal today.

He was looking for the forge run by the Volkan clan.

Ten years ago-this exact moment-the Vulkan family had just opened shop in Lemarnus.

‘Lucky for me the kid loves to talk about himself; even if he hates taking requests, he’ll listen-and that’s exactly what I need.’

The youngest son of that forge: Grayson Volkan.

That was the man Henrik needed to find.

The moment he stepped into Blacksmith Alley, heat and iron smell rolled over him.

Every forge along the lane puffed white steam as quenching baths hissed.

Clank! Clank!

Bright, rhythmic hammering rang out.

But Henrik wasn’t after ordinary steelwork.

After a long walk he spotted a brand-new sign:

[Volkan Smithy]

He snorted a laugh.

Inside, crates still waited to be unpacked; wooden boxes brimmed with tools.

“What the-customers already? Well I’ll be,” a deep voice boomed.

A hulking man thudded across the floor.

He looked Henrik up and down and gave a nasal chuckle.

“Well, well, the bigshot himself. You’re Henrik Dusk, the Hunter from the papers.”

“Pleasure,” Henrik said, offering a calm handshake.

“Tyson Volkan, master of this forge. So-what weapon do you need?”

They clasped hands, then Tyson dropped to sit on an anvil block so their eyes could meet; even seated he towered.

“I’m looking for someone. Business with Grayson Volkan.”

“Grayson?” Tyson tilted his head.

“What’s our youngest got that I can’t handle?” He shrugged.

“The kid’s still an apprentice-barely scraped off his trainee tag. If you want gear, I’ll forge it myself.”

And that was the truth: ten years ago Grayson was a rookie smith, the clan’s fresh fledgling.

Tyson couldn’t let a half-baked apprentice piece carry the family name, commission or not.

“No problem,” Henrik said.

“So... arrowheads or something? Do you even know what the runt’s doing right now? Instead of swinging a hammer he’s ‘playing with magic clay’-some half-rate spell to mush metal around. Kid stuff!”

Henrik’s grin snapped sideways.

“Right? Better leave it to me, eh, Henrik?”

“On the contrary-now I’m certain. I need to see Grayson.”

The reason only Grayson could shape Sephirum was simple: he was born with a singular gift.

Not ordinary smithing-his own art.

He invented the technique to mold Sephirum, then taught it to humanity so they could survive the war.

Yet no one ever matched his finesse: using mana to knead metal like soft clay.

It demanded flawless mana control and sculptural instinct.

Without both, imitation failed.

Henrik himself lacked the knack; that was why, right up to the final war against Baal, every weapon had passed through Grayson’s hands.

His opinion hadn’t changed now.

“...You really are a first-class oddball,” Tyson muttered, scratching his head as he led Henrik inside.

“This way. Grayson’s in the back.”

* * *

This was ten years before Grayson’s skill earned respect.

To other smiths his practice probably looked like child’s play.

But Henrik knew better: that art would change the world.

* * *

“Aaaargh! Failed again!”

Deep in the forge a child’s shriek rang out.

“Nothing ever works! Why does it keep collapsing?”

Henrik opened the door to find a small boy glaring at a lump of twisted ore.

“I’m useless trash! I should just go die!”

Thud! Thud!

The boy was banging his own head on the anvil.

“Grayson!”

Tyson’s voice boomed through the forge, and the boy’s head snapped up.

“Older Brother?”

“You’ve got a guest. Treat him well-he’s important.”

Tyson gave Henrik a casual shove between the shoulder blades, propelling him into Grayson’s workshop.

“Henrik, I don’t know what you want, but the two of you play nice.”

“Thanks for the escort.”

“Tch.”

Tyson clicked his tongue and left. Henrik shrugged and studied the kid.

Mid-teens, by the look of him.

Seeing the boy in person felt oddly refreshing.

So this really is his little-kid phase, Henrik thought.

He stepped closer and spoke.

“The ore collapses because it can’t hold its shape.”

“......?!”

Grayson’s mouth fell open.

He stared as if to ask, How could you possibly know?

“Keep going,” Henrik said.

He settled beside the boy and watched him work.

Silence returned as Grayson focused, gloved hands warming the ore, kneading mana into the glowing lump like clay.

The metal shifted under his fingers-then slumped and trickled apart.

“Ah...!”

Another failure, another soft cry.

When Grayson’s shoulders sagged, Henrik caught his wrist and inspected the small hand without a word.

Clumsy mana control-he’s never been properly taught.

The energy fluttered around the boy’s palm like a nervous bird.

Good casting demands choice and restraint: where to push, where to release.

Grayson squeezes everywhere at once and bleeds power.

Teach him proper magic and he’ll pick it up fast.

But...

Henrik possessed no gift for magic.

His own theory barely covered the basics; he knew only how to fight demons, not how to cast.

A real magic tutor would speed the kid along.

Magic, huh...

A face flashed through Henrik’s mind-one person nearby who excelled at the fundamentals.

Grimory.

Top score on the entrance exam, natural teacher.

Pair her with Grayson?

Worth a try.

“Grayson, can you spare a minute?”