Dungeon And Slave: The Lustful and Violent Slave Harem of the Guard and Students Chosen as Testers for the Succubus Dungeon - Chapter 1: The Academy Vanishes

Chapter 1: The Academy Vanishes

Private Sakuragi Academy, Guard Post, Yagumo Sanada

At the morning handover after clocking in, I was getting chewed out by the head guard, who’d just finished the night shift.

“Hey, Sanada! What’s with this report you submitted yesterday? You got the kanji wrong again, and there are grammatical errors too! You think I can pass this to the section chief? You’ve been here six months and can’t even write a single report properly—quit already!”

“Is that you telling me I’m fired?”

If he’s telling me to quit, I’ll quit. It’s not like I’m strapped for cash or anything.

Words like that might scare the four old geezers here, all in their 50s or 60s, but they don’t faze me.

“You’re 25 and still talking back every damn time! A guy who didn’t even properly graduate elementary school has no right to act cocky! Just because you’re the chairman’s favorite doesn’t mean you can slack off and not try!”

“I heard you complaining about my reports being all hiragana, so I made the effort to translate English online.”

I found a translation site and thought it’d do the trick, but it doesn’t seem to handle kanji perfectly.

Honestly, I forgot most kanji since elementary school. For someone like me, who could barely speak Japanese properly until recently, it’s too high a hurdle.

In everyday life, not being able to read or write kanji isn’t much of an issue.

You can search online with hiragana just fine, or even in English.

“I’m telling you to study kanji! Is your brain all muscle too? You can’t even use polite speech with your superiors—are you even Japanese? This is why uneducated people—”

“Didn’t you graduate high school and become a Self-Defense Force member? Not exactly a stellar academic record yourself, is it?”

At least graduate college before you lecture me.

“I’m still better than you, you piece of trash!”

“Hmm, guess that’s enough. By the way, I recorded this whole conversation where you’ve been tearing into my character. Doesn’t this count as workplace harassment?”

I said that and showed the head guard—whose face looks like an eggplant—the recording screen on my phone.

I looked it up online recently and learned about this thing called workplace harassment. When I checked what qualifies, it was exactly what this guy does to me daily.

I don’t care what a weakling like him says—he’s someone I could kill anytime—but he’s getting annoying, so I looked up how to deal with it and gave it a shot. How’s that?

“Y-You… ugh… I didn’t mean it like that… I got carried away, sorry. I’ll fix the report.”

“Sorry for the trouble. Well, it’s about time for students to arrive, so I’ll head to the gate.”

Whoa, the guy who’s usually so persistent and nitpicky shut up. I didn’t expect it to work this well.

To think you can sue over something like this—Japan’s a pretty worker-friendly country, huh?

This means I won’t have to deal with his whining anymore.

From the moment we met, this ex-Self-Defense Force guy, who claims to be from an elite unit, has been insufferably full of himself. He’s never even killed anyone, so when he brags about being from an “elite unit,” all I can think is, “Oh, really?”

Still, as expected of a former public servant, he’s got some sense of lawfulness. Good, good.

Having successfully secured a comfortable work environment, I left the guard post, opened the main gate—my usual morning post—and stood beside it.

As autumn set in, the students, now in their winter uniforms, started arriving one after another.

The guard uniform’s winter version is a standard dark navy security outfit with a cap, a white dress shirt, a gray tie, and a long coat cinched with a thick belt. The belt holds a baton and a walkie-talkie.

Even in peaceful Japan, schools apparently deal with a lot of creeps, and prestigious private schools like this one often have guards on duty.

This academy’s supposedly famous, focusing on sports and subculture, attracting talented students from across Japan and international exchange students. They even have a lot of scholarship students and a dormitory to boot.

They say graduates include Olympic athletes, people involved in famous anime productions, and popular voice actors.

The voice acting department especially has so many good-looking guys and gorgeous girls, you’d think they were chosen for their faces. Guess being a voice actor isn’t just about the voice—looks matter too.

And when you’ve got good looks, you attract stalkers.

The guard division’s caught creeps trying to sneak onto the grounds multiple times.

There was also a parent who claimed their kid was being bullied and showed up with a gang of thuggish relatives. Well, I scared them off politely, and they left.

I’m over 180 cm tall, with tanned skin, and my uniform’s tight from all the muscle. Plus, I’ve got a big scar running vertically across the left side of my face, from my forehead to my cheek, from a blade wound.

※

Back when I was a teenager, before the scar, I had sharp, handsome features, so I was often targeted by gay colleagues.

Compared to the scars on my body, this one’s no big deal, but in a peaceful country like this, a big scar on your face apparently freaks people out. So, if I hold my baton and let out a bit of killing intent, most people back off.

At first, the female teachers and the academy director were scared of me, but after I started handling trouble left and right, they warmed up to me. The chairman, an old lady who hired me, was thrilled.

She said hiring me was worth it just for that.

Talk about a lot of creeps and thugs.

“Good morning!”

“Oh, good morning.”

Despite my appearance, after six months of patrolling the school daily and standing at the gate morning and evening, some students—very few—have started greeting me. Most, like 99%, still avoid eye contact.

I return a smile to one of those rare students, a girl I personally think is the most beautiful in the academy.

I don’t know her name, but she’s in the swimming club, doing high diving. High diving’s prone to accidents, so I was told to patrol frequently during summer break.

That’s when I saw her: big breasts, a tiny waist, and a peach-like white butt in a swimsuit that dug in just right. I mentally crowned her the academy’s number one. Truly amazing breasts and butt.

After seeing her off, I narrow my eyes, as if dazzled, watching the backs of the students streaming in.

I never went to middle or high school. So, seeing kids go to school like this makes me jealous.

I wanted to go to high school like them, have fun with classmates at the school festival, putting on events together.

And sleep with high school girls nonstop. That’s the kind of youth I wanted.

This really is a peaceful country.

Some countries make elementary schoolers hold guns.

Well, that was me.

I’m a Japanese person born in Japan. But when I was 11, in fifth grade, I went with my mom during summer break to visit my dad, an engineer stationed in a developing country. That’s when terrorists attacked.

My parents fought fiercely to let me escape and were killed right in front of me. Stunned by the sight, I was kidnapped along with some of my dad’s company employees for ransom.

Back then, kidnapping citizens of developed countries for ransom was a trend, so the Japanese government, in line with the U.S. and European nations, decided not to negotiate with terrorists.

We were abandoned.

As a kid, I hated the Japanese government with all my heart, but now that I’m an adult, I get why you don’t negotiate with terrorists.

If you negotiate and pay ransom even once, Japanese people become targets again. Sacrifice the few to save the many. It’s a natural decision for those running a country.

But for the few who get abandoned, it’s unforgivable. This isn’t about logic—it’s about emotion.

As a result of being abandoned for the greater good, the terrorists, pissed that their hard-won hostages didn’t yield money, killed the adults. I, a kid, was sold to an anti-government group in a neighboring country.

I was taken to a child soldier training facility, trained to kill, and thrown into battle against government forces.

I killed. Forced into a civil war in a country I barely knew, I killed a lot of people I didn’t know and nearly died myself countless times.

But that hellish life suddenly ended when I turned 18.

The government forces, backed by a major power, came to crush the anti-government group for real.

Right before the anti-government group was wiped out, I killed the soldier watching me, escaped through the battlefield’s forest, and illegally crossed into a neighboring country to seek protection at the Japanese embassy.

Of course, I had no passport. My build and tanned skin didn’t look Japanese, and my Japanese, unused for so long, was broken and halting. They thought I was a refugee pretending to be Japanese and turned me away.

Pissed off, I decided to get back to Japan on my own. To earn money for smuggling, I worked as a bouncer in the underworld.

After over three and a half years, I finally smuggled myself into Japan and made it to my grandmother’s place in Tokyo.

That was when I was 22.

My grandmother, knowing my body was never found, had been desperately searching for me with my grandfather.

My mom’s parents had already passed, and both my parents were only children, so there were no other relatives to rely on.

They’d spent all their savings, my dad’s inheritance, and the death benefits from his company, searching orphanages and slums in the country where I was attacked.

They’d never have dreamed I was in a child soldier training facility in a forest in a neighboring country.

The strain must’ve gotten to them. My grandfather fell ill and passed away during the search. My grandmother’s body started failing too, and she was about to give up when I showed up out of nowhere.

Even after over a decade, even though the angelic-looking boy had become a rugged, muscular man, my grandmother recognized me instantly.

She sobbed with joy that I was alive and that we’d reunited.

In my heart, I apologized for lingering too long after my escape, working as a bouncer for a drug cartel to fund my getaway, getting cozy with the boss who assigned me multiple beautiful women.

I nearly got married to those women and became part of the cartel family. That was a close call.

So, after 11 years, I returned to Japan, but the Japanese government was in a bind.

They’d thought I was dead, so they were hilariously flustered when I showed up alive.

Makes sense. A kid they abandoned survived and made it back to Japan on his own.

Though I understood their decision emotionally, I wasn’t out for revenge.

But the government was terrified of me going public. It was bad timing, right before an election.

Even if refusing to negotiate with terrorists is right, letting a kid die is a fact. If I told my story online, their approval ratings would tank.

As a result, they paid me hush money—a fortune, enough to live comfortably even if I splurged.

After that, I savored being back in peaceful Japan. I hit the gym to build muscle, binged manga at manga cafes—catching up on series from when I was kidnapped and reading new ones—visited brothels, got a driver’s license, and played online games.

I lived like that for about a year and a half. Then, my only remaining family, my grandmother, passed away. She’d believed I was alive and kept searching for me. I think the relief of finding me, combined with years of stress, took its toll.

After her funeral, overwhelmed by grief and guilt, I went on a trip.

For over a year, I visited brothels all over Japan. My grief was healed.

Returning from my heartbreak comfort trip, I realized I couldn’t keep living like this in my grandmother’s now-empty house and decided to work.

With only an elementary school dropout’s education, I figured I could maybe do demolition work. I was fine with that.

But then, a friend of my grandmother’s, an old lady who’d occasionally visited and rejoiced with her when I returned, reached out.

She offered me a job as a guard at her academy in Kanagawa Prefecture, living in the academy’s dorms as a plus. I took her up on it, and here I am.

※

It’s been three years since I returned to Japan.

Having lived in a world of life and death for so long, adjusting to peaceful Japan was tough.

The tension of moving through a forest to avoid government troops, the chill of death when a comrade walking beside me suddenly got a hole in their forehead, the eyes of enemies glaring at me as they died—none of that exists in Japan.

At first, I felt something was missing. That’s when I realized I was broken.

But humans are adaptable. Even someone like me has finally started getting used to this peaceful life.

If I stay in peaceful Japan, even a broken guy like me can start over.

That’s what I thought.

As I watched the blonde, curvy exchange student—who runs by every day with bread in her mouth, yelling, “I’m late!”—and closed the gate, it happened.

Suddenly, everything went pitch black, and I couldn’t see the gate that should’ve been right in front of me.

I looked up, and it was like being left alone in a starless universe, enveloped in complete darkness.

Then came the sensation of the ground vanishing. I couldn’t tell if I was standing or falling, and the last thing I heard was the screams of students from the school building before my consciousness faded.