Vol 3 Chapter 12 – Boyhood: Early Summer at Twelve ・Part 2

The imperial capital was packed with towering buildings, and craning my neck like a total country rube left me stiff. No matter how much I worked out, this was one battle I couldn’t win.

But c’mon, who wouldn’t get pumped? Discovering a new zone is hype! It’s like when you fork over cash for some overpriced DLC book, unlock a fresh stage, and immediately drag your party into a chaotic grindfest.

“……Wait, where’s the beefy security squad?”

After a jostling carriage ride, we reached the Magic Academy. But the gates to Crow’s Nest Krähenschanze were wide open—zero guards, no three-headed Yakthund hounds snoozing on duty. Just some bored-looking scribes camping by the moat with desks, probably daydreaming about clients.

Hold up—a closer look revealed magic oozing from the gates. Even my amateur eyes could spot the shimmer. That meant some seriously overkill spell was baked into them. Probably…

“The barrier rejects anyone without a registration charm, so we needn’t clutter the place with unsightly armor.”

Typical mage-nest security. Shame she ruined the vibe by muttering about “labor cost efficiency” like a penny-pinching merchant.

As we crossed the near-empty bridge, our carriage drew curious stares—but folks quickly lost interest when they didn’t recognize the Staal family crest. Guess this place sees enough nobles to render one more unremarkable.

“Well now… It’s been twenty years, hasn’t it?”

Huh? TWENTY FREAKING YEARS?!

I’d heard she’d been away doing “fieldwork,” but two decades? What cosmic-level screwup gets you banished that long? I still don’t even know her specialization! What academic field requires a twenty-year exile?! If this was some indoor research topic, I’d seriously worry she poisoned the dean’s tea. You don’t get told “never come back” without royally pissing off the entire faculty!

The carriage glided into the front approach—think VIP hotel drop-off zone—and halted smoother than a greased goblin. I’d finally gotten used to the motion, so I hopped down, deployed the steps, and opened the door with a flourish.

Then, with exaggerated ceremony, I offered my hand to the extravagantly dressed Lady Agrippina. Totally unnecessary, but rich folks love these “look how rich I am” pantomimes.

Vanity’s their armor here. Beauty as a sword, fashion as plate mail, manners as a shield. Fail the dress code, and this place’s social blender will puree you—or so I’ve been told.

Not like I’d know. My idea of high society’s peasants imagining ladies giggling behind fans, not this battlefield of backhanded compliments and power plays. Though honestly, hearing my old uni buddies bitch about academia… humans never change, huh?

Agrippina’s “armor” was flawless. Her magic-styled hair (does she ever think about MP costs?!) coiled into a silverwork-perfect chignon. Her crimson gown—sleeveless shoulders on full display—boasted silk finer than dragon scales and embroidery so intricate it’d make a spider jealous. Guess nobles “keep it classy” with monochrome subtlety.

Next, Eliza descended with practiced grace. Progress! Two months ago, she’d stomp around like a duck in galoshes. Now? Full princess mode.

Her new outfit—custom-made by village seamstresses—was killer. A hooded cape over a frilly blouse, corseted skirt cinching her waist, leather boots polished to a shine. She even kept everything perfectly tidy.

I’d spent half an hour braiding her golden hair into art. Result? Literal fairy princess. No, scratch that—angelic.

The design was weirdly modern—what’s that called again? “Virginity-strangling chic”? But the seamstress claimed “peasant-core luxury” is all the rage with middle-class wannabes.

Hell if I care about trends—my little sis’s the cutest in the damn world!

Me? I’m rocking the “discreet errand boy” vibe. Dark doublet, tidy pants, hair slicked back. My job’s to lurk three steps behind, not grab attention. Though technically, hiding an “elf-forged dagger” up my sleeve in a no-weapons zone is… let’s call it a “fashion statement.”

“Stick close behind, now.”

“As you command.”

I replied telepathically (talking’s effort) while switching to formal court speech. Time to earn my bread.

Master took Eliza’s hand, and I trailed three paces back—proper apprentice-servant distance. Face stern, heart doing cartwheels as we entered the academy’s gloriously over-the-top architecture.

The Magic Academy: research hub, knowledge vault, and bureaucrat factory for the Triune Empire. I expected the lobby to buzz like a market, but nope—just oppressive silence in a black-marble hall.

The vaulted ceiling screamed “ancient bank vibes.” The counter dividing guests from staff gleamed under stained glass, manned by clerks so pristine they’d make saints feel grubby. Totally get why Master called this “the vanity capital’s vanity castle.”

Most visitors were either grim-faced students or bureaucrats hauling document stacks. Not exactly student central.

Master’s return after two decades meant paying respects to the department head. But as we approached the counter—

WHOOSH!

A gust of wind blasted past, rendering introductions unnecessary…

【Tips】 Those needing potions or minor magic help visit street workshops. Only bigwig bureaucrats bring requests here. Commoners with special needs use the mailbox by the main gate—hence the scribe stalls clustered nearby.

The Magic Academy. Since its founding, this nest of mages has seethed with endless squabbles.

Which field is noblest? The kind of debate where you wanna scream “Are you five? Play nice!” But the real bloodsport? Faction wars.

No surprise—the Academy was built by pooling egomaniacal mages from the empire’s founding states. All to harness magic for imperial glory.

500 years ago, these chuckleheads only had local networks. No distinction between “mage” and “wizard”—just sky-high egos tall enough to poke heaven’s ass.

Their apprenticeship clans bred technical lineages, each faction led by some grandmaster. Students flocked to the best, forming rival groups sweeter than toxic twins.

You think these sugar-baited (state funds/labs), rivalry-obsessed nerds could get along? Easier to make rival sports fans share beers at a game without murder.

Cue the “Academic Faction Wars”—a clusterfuck of feuds involving more duels than noble dramas. 500 years of petty grudges. Humans: universally insufferable.

Now, this den of chaos balances on the “Five Great Factions.” Five bigshots dominate seven schools, swallowing smaller groups while clashing over research.

The kicker? These are top-tier mages. Imagine nuke-wielding toddlers in a Cold War sandbox. No wonder emperors get ulcers playing referee.

Half the monarchs wanna bulldoze the place. But hey, the comedy writes itself when they back down for “practical reasons.”

Agrippina’s faction? The Dawnbreakers—“dispelling darkness with magic for prosperity.” Surprisingly wholesome for this viper pit. Their claim to fame? Magic telegrams. Let adventurer guilds coordinate across continents. Cute, right?

Her specific group? The Lehrgenitz Faction—a 200-year-old clique started solo by Lord Lehrgenitz himself.

So what’s he like?

“Bold yet precise, generous, compassionate genius who makes magic accessible to all!”

“Flip-flopping trendwhore. Silver-tongued politician. Annoying philanthropist who shoves ‘enlightenment’ down throats. Also, a creepy life-worshipper.”

Oh, and he’s human.

…Was human.

CRACKLE.

Arctic wind slashed through the hall, shredding early summer’s warmth. Clerks fled. Students yelped barriers into existence. Veterans just rolled their eyes and left.

At the storm’s eye sat Magdalenä von Lehrgenitz—the Lehrgenitz Faction’s “genius” professor.

Frost crawled over Agrippina’s barrier as Magdalenä flashed a grin so vicious it’d make demons flinch. She bowed mockingly to the lich before her.

“My deepest respects, beloved mentor~”

“How dare you…”

Magdalenä’s voice—beautiful yet grating like hell’s hinges—said everything about their “teacher-student bond.”

【Tips】 Factions aren’t official, but prestigious professors get honorary “von” titles. Not land-owning nobility—just fancy bragging rights.