A Regressor's Guide to Hunting in the Academy

Chapter 24

The Mandolin branch house lay beneath the academy city of Lemarnus.

Because the main family seat was far to the south in the imperial capital, Carlo had built this villa so he could commute while serving as department head.

Oliver, newly hired as a professor, had recently moved in as well, so now the whole household lived under one roof.

Oliver stared blankly at the sword across his lap.

He kept reliving that afternoon’s match against Henrik, tasting his own inadequacy.

Even fighting with aura at full throttle he had lost-yet the man felt nothing short of extraordinary.

On the corner of the desk lay a newspaper.

A fresh article on Henrik was making the rounds.

It told his life story: the annihilation of his family by demons, his slide into the slums, the decade spent hiring himself out as a Hunter from the back of a tavern.

Ten years.

He had been blooded at thirteen.

Knowing that, Oliver realized how far he still was from beating him.

Is real combat truly that formidable?

To a hothouse bloom like himself, the revelation was brutal.

He had already learned-through Amecitia-that rank isn’t everything, yet facing the fact stirred feelings he could not name.

The torn flesh of his palm had healed with the butler’s salve, but the ache lingered.

Another ache, too: resentment toward his father.

Carlo, once a captain of the Imperial Knights, could not have missed Oliver’s defeat.

Henrik had smashed their blades and forced a draw, yet Carlo could have declared his son the loser.

He had not.

Gratitude for salvaged pride warred with shame at being rescued.

Oliver wanted to be treated as a knight, not a pamled seedling.

I need to speak with Father.

He set the half-cleaned sword aside and left the room.

“Father? Are you there?”

He knocked on Carlo’s door; no answer.

Inside was empty.

Oliver thumped down the stairs and glanced through a window into the garden.

Carlo stood there, sword in both hands, drilling himself under the moonlight.

“...?”

A chill crawled over Oliver.

Both hands?

The right arm he had lost years ago looked whole.

Did I imagine it?

He stepped outside.

“Father!”

Carlo lowered his blade and turned.

“What is it, Oliver?”

Oliver’s gaze flicked to the arm-now gone again.

Must have been a trick of the light.

Carlo approached.

“I asked what you wanted.”

“Today’s match. I needed to ask about it.”

“The match you lost.”

Of course Carlo knew Oliver had been overwhelmed even at full strength.

“Yes. Why didn’t you record it as my loss?”

Oliver swallowed, meeting his father’s eyes.

Carlo stroked his beard, awkward.

“I did it for you. Whichever of you lost, the duel would have scarred your honor.”

“I’m a knight too! I can own my defeats.”

“First and last, you’re my son. Protecting my son’s honor is also a father’s duty.”

“It wasn’t some affair of honor-it was an exam. A grade-based exam, not a casual spar! Henrik manufactured the draw, I know, but if judgments aren’t honest, who will trust the proctors?”

Oliver’s voice cracked with frustration.

Carlo gripped his shoulder.

“Calm down. Henrik and I both acted for you.”

“....””

“I know how you feel, but it was best. Henrick wanted to avoid the paperwork, so he called it even. Try to understand.”

He thumped Oliver’s shoulder twice and headed inside.

“Next time, train harder so you don’t lose to Henrik.”

Oliver stood alone in the garden, head bowed.

Inside, Carlo’s expression turned cold.

He watched his son through the window.

“Oliver lacks experience, but his skill was sound... yet Henrik still surpassed him...”

He climbed the stairs muttering,

“Henrik Dusk... If only he hadn’t been a Hunter. Such a waste.”

* * *

“Such a waste... an utter waste...”

The next morning, demonology classroom.

Amecitia sighed at the rows of empty seats.

“Professor, we finally had students! Why did you have to go and-?”

“Well... demonology is listed as an elective, so... maybe that’s why?”

The Grimory answered her complaint with a strained smile.

Moments earlier, thanks to rumors of Oliver’s duel, the hall had filled.

Henrik had hesitated at the door, startled by the crowd, even stepped outside to check the room number.

Yet he began the lecture-until one student made a request.

“I was really impressed by the sparring with Professor Oliver. If it’s not too forward, could you teach us real combat?”

Amecitia trained as well, but she had declared demonology as her major. Most of the visitors were knighthood students-people whose specialties were already set.

Henrik eyed them, hoisted a crate, and headed for the training yard. The students trotted after him, thrilled at the thought of learning combat.

What waited for them was hell.

“Put on these weights and run ten laps of the yard. I’ll teach combat to anyone who finishes.”

Confident, they buckled on the heavy lead disks and started running. None of them made five laps; the weights were heavier than they looked, and they fled one by one.

“My grocery money... what a waste...”

Worse, because Carlo had vetoed the bet, Amecitia’s twenty silver coins came straight back to her. A windfall should feel good, but she had been counting on the profit.

Grimory giggled. “If you want money so badly, Amecitia, why don’t you challenge the professor yourself? Open the duel and bet against him!”

Amecitia shivered like a leaf. “No way. He’s using Aura now. Me, win? Don’t be ridiculous. I’d have to be crazy to even think it...”

She hugged herself and muttered while Henrik watched with a crooked smile.

Both Grimory and Amecitia were growing-slowly but surely. Thanks to this exam, Grimory had earned a Grade-1 combat certificate with magic. She had planned to stay a pure scholar, but after the succubus break-in, she’d changed her mind.

“Carmen, did you test?” Henrik asked the boy seated far in the back.

Carmen nodded. “Yes.”

“What grade?”

“Second.”

“Pass?”

“Yes.”

“Good job.”

Brief, manly, finished.

Amecitia stared at them, bored. “You’re both exactly the same. Stereotypes.”

“Men are born that way,” Grimory said, wagging her head. She left for her next lecture; the witch’s hat meant a magic-department class. These days she brought Grayson in once a week for private tutoring, so her own practice had grown fierce.

“Amecitia, to the yard,” Henrik called.

“Y-es, sir...”

Still Henrik’s reluctant pupil, she trailed him out.

The classroom stood empty.

Carmen packed his textbook, stood alone, and stared at the lectern Henrik had used. After a moment he shook his head and walked out.

* * *

Carmen walked home in silence.

Leaving the academy, he slipped through the crowded streets like a ghost-swift, unnoticed, practiced. Ten minutes away, he reached a small house, opened the door-

Whump!

A cudgel whipped toward his skull. Without breaking stride he ducked, kicked off his shoes, and caught the club on its downswing.

Swish-next came a dagger.

Carmen plucked it from the air.

A man in black butler livery applauded. “As expected, Young Master. Traps like these don’t touch you anymore.”

“I’m home, William.”

“Welcome. How was the academy?”

Carmen gave a thin smile. “Not bad.”

“Fewer people makes it harder to stay invisible-but I’m sure you managed. No-certain! I wager no one even realized an assassin was sitting in class.”

William nodded sagely.

“Will you eat first, or rest?”

“I’m starving.”

“At once, sir.”

Carmen loosened his tie and headed for the kitchen. William was already ladling stew-beef and potatoes, fragrant and steaming.

“Smells good.”

“High praise! I tested each potato for the perfect softness, then sealed in the finest beef broth.”

Carmen tasted it. “Hmm.” He tilted his head, thinking, then snapped his fingers. “Viper venom.”

“Exactly! I blended it myself-bought the toxin from a northern shop. Tribes there tip their arrows with it. Your palate is flawless; I’m moved to tears.”

William clapped like a seal.

“A worthy heir to the MacClane assassin line-though the clan is merchant now.”

“Indeed... alas, yes...”

At Carmine’s words, William lifted his chin and began preparing dessert for him.

Carmine, who had casually devoured a poisoned dinner, polished off the dessert William brought as well before sprawling across the living-room sofa.

“Henrik Dusk...”

William answered the murmur at once.

“The professor who teaches our Young Master’s lecture! Is something wrong?”

“It’s odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Those eyes-like they see straight through me. Yet he shows zero interest and still I feel watched.”

Carmine, who rarely strung more than two sentences together, had spoken at length.

Quick to catch that Carmine was seriously curious about Henrik, William snapped upright in front of him.

“Then... shall I do a little digging?”

“Hmm...”

Carmine considered, then nodded.

“Please, William.”

“Leave it to me. Everything for the Young Master.”

William melted away like mist, and Carmine, alone in the living room, smirked at the newspaper.

‘Henrik Dusk-poke that nest and something interesting will crawl out.’