How to Teach a Hero at the Academy

Chapter 186 : Chapter 186

Chapter 186: The Banality of Evil (3)

Clink.

A single gold coin tumbling across the table.

The moment the rolling coin reluctantly came to rest,

"Shh!"

Henrietta pressed her index finger to her lips.

Hank's body jerked without warning. Because he was startled by the sudden sound. The tray Hank had been carrying swung with his motion. The milk inside the glass spilled over and wet the tray, and Hank, his face scrunched and huffing, whispered toward Henrietta.

"Don't make a noise out of nowhere. You scared me."

"My apologies. Your approach was simply too loud."

Henrietta turned to look back at Hank.

The candle set on the table. A thing like this couldn't possibly light up tonight. The soaked window rattled, and with an unsettling flash, lightning struck. That wasn't all. Hank's silhouette as he stepped forward looked, at a glance, like a wraith. But surely not. Henrietta shook her head. Such a thing as a wraith did not exist.

Anywhere else in Dauane, perhaps,

But inside this mansion, wraiths could not exist.

"That aside, Hank, have some manners. I was born before you. You should call me sister."

"Sister my ass. I don't believe Dad's word on that. I'm sure I was the one born first. You don't even know how to warm up a glass of milk."

"That's true enough."

Hank set the tray down on the table.

Tepid steam was rising from within the glass.

"Anyway, quiet. Don't make too much noise."

Henrietta smacked her lips.

After running her tongue over her lips, she went on.

"Our guests will be asleep. We mustn't wake them, must we."

"I know. I was being careful."

Hank picked up the glass.

After swallowing some warm milk, he wore a smile.

"They said they came from the capital. They must be awfully tired. Tired enough that it wouldn't be strange if they died. I'm sure of it."

"Right. Tired enough that dying would be better, I suppose. But then why do people insist on staying alive?"

"Because staying alive is still better, even if it's hard. If you die, it all becomes empty. You won't be able to feel fatigue anymore, but to die because you're fatigued — it would make the life you've lived up till then feel wasted."

"I see. So dying makes things empty."

That's right, and.

Henrietta murmured, propping her chin in her hands.

"Truly empty."

Henrietta's gaze swept the tabletop.

Keepsakes lay scattered there. An embroidered handkerchief, rotted dentures, a single gold coin, and the like. Every single item had been taken from an unidentified body. The uses of the keepsakes varied, but Henrietta's impression of them was the same.

All of it, merely trivial.

Far too trivial to secure a life.

"Henrietta."

Clap.

Hank clapped his hands.

"Don't space out. We have work to do."

"I know. Just wait a moment."

I want to drink the milk.

Henrietta murmured as she reached out.

After wrapping her hand around the glass and drawing a great breath, Henrietta began gulping down the milk with a ferocious momentum. Henrietta's throat rippled as she swallowed the rank, sweet milk. Hank narrowed his eyes. He gazed at the drops of milk trailing down the line of Henrietta's throat.

"Is it pretty, Hank?"

Thunk.

Henrietta set the empty glass down.

"Is your sister's neck pretty?"

"Don't talk nonsense."

Hank met Henrietta's eyes.

With the keepsake-strewn table between them.

"Let's get started. We have to hold a funeral for the dead."

"That's right. It's something only we can do."

Henrietta's and Hank's hands intertwined with one another.

The two of them slowly wore smiles, and,

<──Give us.>

Rumble.

As lightning struck again, meanwhile,

Henrietta and Hank recited the chant.

The siblings' eyes closed softly.

Vibrating, vibrating.

The table began to quake.

The keepsakes laid on the table began to clatter.

Hank opened his eyes.

And so he saw. The pitch-black sphere roiling between him and Henrietta. The apostates' magic orb, crafted by layering countless souls upon one another. It was unmistakably Ectoplasm.

Henrietta opened her eyes.

And so she saw. The faint afterimages welling up from the keepsakes strewn on the table. The souls of the dead trapped in the keepsakes were being absorbed. Absorbed, that is, into the Ectoplasm.

Rumble.

Lightning struck again, and,

<──Give us.>

And so the siblings could not see.

The single gold coin that rolled off the table.

The moment the rolling coin at last came to rest,

The dim trace of spirit leaking from it.

The mark of a soul muddied beyond measure.

***

Clatter.

Scattering dust as it opened, the entrance to the attic.

Through the narrowly parted gap, Abel's head rose into view, and,

"Be quiet."

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

A sewer rat glared at Abel, shrieking.

Its long whiskers quivering.

"Be quiet, rat."

Abel swept his arm.

After driving the sewer rat off, he entered the attic.

A sweet fragrance wafted in, faintly. Needless to say, it was the trace of black magic. Black magic tended to provoke a distinct olfactory response, and merely smelling its residue was enough to throw one into confusion.

Abel recited 'Lantern of the Battlefield.'

A small sphere gave off light within Abel's palm. By its light he surveyed his surroundings.

With every surface blanketed in dust, there were a great many devices here, fashioned for the purpose of torture. Another's faith, divine power, and finally, soul. Those were the three motive forces apostates required. In that case, the soul of a faithful divine-power bearer would be the choicest prize. Apostates spared neither means nor method to seize it. Brainwashing, drugs, torture, and the like were employed without restraint.

To make them willingly submit.

Thus seizing their faith,

To make them pray to themselves.

Thus seizing their divine power,

And in the end, killing them. To seize every fragment of their souls without remainder.

'......How ostentatious.'

Abel's brow furrowed.

He peeked at the glass tubes arranged along the walls.

Inside the glass tubes — roughly the height of a person — a viscous liquid was contained. At a glance it resembled cow's milk. An unidentified liquid with a turbid white color. It wasn't hard to make out its nature. It had to be the result of liquefying and preserving faith, divine power, and souls.

In other words, it was the result of melting entire bodies down.

'Building himself a food storehouse?'

The sheer number of glass tubes was unusual.

It appeared he had harmed at least several dozen divine-power bearers.

Could this be Henrietta and Hank's doing, the two siblings?

'No, that's wrong.'

Abel shook his head.

The dust piled in the attic was far too thick. Thick enough that no traces of footsteps could be made out.

'It looks like it's been neglected for months.'

The siblings didn't know about this place.

There was more than enough reason to be certain of that.

Above all,

'This is......'

Abel reached out and felt around on top of the desk.

A log, drenched in damp and rendered a mess. He picked it up and looked it over.

'Hendrik Owings.'

The signature written on the cover of the log stood out.

By the name, it seemed to be the siblings' father. Black magic had likely been inherited down the paternal line. The attic appeared to be the laboratory Hendrik Owings had set up.

'Outrageous.'

The log's contents were deeply blasphemous.

Methods for efficiently harvesting the motive forces of black magic. Hendrik Owings had, it seemed, devoted himself to this, repeating his experiments. The liquid rippling inside the glass tubes must have been the fruit of his toil.

The revolting part lay elsewhere. Alongside the progress of experiments recorded by date, the process of raising the siblings was also set down with great care. Their growth, the results of their education, considerations toward their proper upbringing — all of it painstakingly written.

'By day, diligent as a father......'

It was then.

Thunk. Something dropped from within the log's pages.

'......And by night, diligent as an apostate.'

Abel's gaze tilted toward the sound.

A token? Narrowing his eyes, Abel thought. Obsidian occupied its center, and about it were engraved tree and wave, flame and rock, and last of all, iron. Insignia symbolizing the five ringleaders of the Parousia Denomination were arranged upon it.

'How fortunate.'

To be staying in the dwelling of an apostate belonging to the Parousia Denomination.

Just as Abel was thinking that,

<──How fortunate.>

Suddenly, a voice reached Abel's mind.

At some point an eye had opened. The obsidian occupying the center of the token. It was glinting like a human eyeball.

That was not all.

Eyeballs began to sprout from every side of the attic. Eyes of every color revealed themselves as the mold-covered walls split open. A host of pupils tilted toward Abel, and,

Are they observing this place through the token?

Abel wondered as he picked it up.

He then bore down with force on the token, and,

Crack.

A fissure carved itself into the obsidian.

The swirling voices broke off.

Because the obsidian forming the token had been destroyed.

The eyeballs coating the walls also vanished before long, and Abel fell silent for an instant without the slightest sway, but,

'──Monica?'

Abel's expression wavered faintly.

He had set a Barrier around the sleeping Monica. To prepare for the unexpected.

'Someone is in contact with the Barrier.'

Ku-woong.

A bursting sound spread through Abel's mind.

Because the Barrier had responded.

'The siblings?'

There was no time for idle thought.

Abel moved swiftly.

Smoothly, scattering the glowing 'Lantern of the Battlefield.'

***

Ku-woong.

A bursting sound rang out without warning.

Ku-woong, again.

A bursting sound carving itself into Monica's ear.

<......Please, could you wake up?>

Monica's eyes shot open.

She quickly raised her upper body and looked around.

Damn it. Did I fall asleep? Monica thought as she ground her teeth. Came to an apostate's den and fell right asleep, didn't I. Is something wrong with my head? Had she been able, she'd have slapped her own cheek, but she didn't even have the luxury to beat herself up now.

A voice coming out of the darkness.

Monica rolled her eyes, tracking the direction of the sound.

A semi-transparent Barrier was surrounding the bed, meanwhile,

Click.

Monica's prosthetic lashed out on instinct.

As the barrel of a gun emerged from her prosthetic,

Beyond the gun barrel,

A pale, whitish form was wavering.

She couldn't be certain because of the dark night and the form being blurred, but it seemed to be the naked body of some man, wrapped in smoke.

"......Who are you?"

At that, Monica asked, tilting her head, and,

Ku-woong.

After his head bumped against the Barrier, the man smiled.

That's what I think, anyway.

Because I'm probably dead.

The man murmured.

In this mansion......,

Something really bad seems to be happening.