Chapter 71 - Common Sense for Academy Festivals (1)

[Alchemy experiment in progress. Knock before entering.] [Baby sleeping. Do NOT knock.]

A faint stench seeped through the cracks around the clubroom door, sealed off by this flawless access-control system.

The bizarre club, founded by oddballs from three academic divisions—the College of Magic, the College of Theology, and the Knight Department of the College of Physical Education—was usually shunned, but even more so at this particular time.

No one dared approach the clubroom, which reeked of fermented herring and housed experiments conducted by undergraduates with no connection to alchemy. All the decent alchemy students who might have protested that it tarnished their discipline's reputation were crawling around their laboratories like zombies. This was why you had to study the humanities. (Arts and physical education counted as humanities in the broad sense. They just ate and played.)

“Add more anchovies.”

“B-but... if we add any more...!”

“Add more!! Are you trying to ruin the project?!”

“All right! All right, damn it!”

Amid exchanges like these, the researchers dropped ingredients into a massive container with trembling hands, looking ready to create a homunculus or a philosopher's stone.

“Taste... taste it!”

“I... I already tried it. It's your turn!”

“I'm in charge of making it! Don't pass that time bomb to me!”

“A time bomb? Did you just call our passion and memories a time bomb?”

After a heartwarming display of each offering the fruits of their research to the others, and a considerable amount of additional time, at last...

“It's... finished...”

“Damn. Never thought I'd actually live to see this.”

“It is finished, right? To me, it just looks like we dissected a monster.”

“Enough with the facts.”

Gathered in the middle of the dark clubroom like minions summoning an ancient god, they solemnly congratulated one another on their contributions. With red liquid splattered haphazardly over their white coats, the place could have passed for a slaughterhouse, if not for the smell.

Oswald tore off his mask, damp with cold sweat, and sighed.

“It has been a long ordeal...”

Eugene quietly closed his eyes and crossed himself. The angles were perfect, as befitted a theology student.

“Our Father in heaven, bring peace to this land through Your glory.”

“Hey, stop blessing it! You're purifying it!!”

Yuri smacked Eugene on the back, then smiled warmly.

“But good work, everyone. I honestly didn't think this would work.”

“I knew it would. Of faith, hope, and love, the greatest is faith.”

“It's too early to relax, everyone.”

Oswald calmly waved a hand and slowly approached the storage container.

“We've only taken the first step of this experiment. Our goal is far grander.”

“Right. Soon... ‘that day’ will come.”

Eugene swallowed hard and whispered ominously.

“On that day, at the university festival... our club shall rule over every department and every club. May the Lord protect us. The power of advanced civilization...!!”

“Honestly, I don't think anyone's going to go for this.”

“Hey, where's your national pride? Watch your mouth. This is a perfect food that can prevent cancer, epileptic seizures, and dementia.”

“You actually believed that?”

Vegetables salted, seasoned with chili powder and salted seafood, then fermented.

Yes.

They had actually made kimchi.

In the end, kimchi was a simple dish: salt some vegetables, dump in salted seafood and spices, and let it ferment. In a world with vegetables (cabbage), salted fish (anchovies), and chili powder, why wouldn't they be able to make it?

Its current appearance and smell were a little bizarre, but every twenty-first-century Korean knew this: fry kimchi or boil it, and it generally became edible. The owners of frozen pork belly restaurants had proven this truth over many years by frying up cheap Chinese kimchi.

Importing twenty-first-century innovations and riding a great tide of capital was “common sense” in possession stories, so the three Possessors eagerly decided to seize this opportunity. This took place one day, with a week left until the festival.

“We're going to be rich!”

That very day, they submitted an application to the student council to run a food stall. In a world without MicheliX, they actually named it “MichelX Fine Dining.”

* * *

“The festival's coming up soon.”

“Mm.”

“Do you have any plans for the day?”

Ivan tilted his head at Isabelle's question. A festival was ultimately an extension of the university schedule. Viewed broadly, that made it no different from the regular undergraduate curriculum. Thus, to Ivan, there was little difference between festival days and any other day.

“No.”

“FI!! NALLY!!!”

Isabelle flung aside her wooden sword and shrieked. It was not a particularly pleasing sight, so he silently picked up the fallen sword and put it back in her hand.

“Then come look around the festival with me!”

“Look around the festival?”

“Yes! You know, all that stuff. We can do some shooting, and, um, right? What else is there at festivals... Do they have magic shows...?”

Could shooting balloons really be a popular pastime in a world where firearms were considered low-grade weapons of war? And what would be special about magic tricks in a world with actual magic...? Mana could replace most sleight-of-hand techniques here.

Even as Ivan tilted his head, Isabelle's eyes were sparkling.

“Whatever they have! It's a festival! We can look around together, right? You know, as my escort. That's it. There could be an emergency!”

“Mm.”

She wasn't wrong. And that was astonishing: an inhabitant of this uncivilized, premodern medieval fantasy world had offered a sensible opinion.

As a rule, an academy festival invariably resulted in one of the following disasters: an attack by hostile forces, a professor's death, a bombardment, a rampage by a dragon or an equally powerful monster, or a declaration of war by rebels.

As he had reflected before, academies suffered more invasions than the front lines. It was only May, and the academy had already experienced three major incidents.

Ivan looked gravely at Isabelle and nodded.

“Let's do that.”

“Wow!! Amazing!! Seriously!!? This man actually listened to me...?! Q-quick, pinch my cheek. I honestly can't believe this is real.”

“Stop making a spectacle of yourself and get back to training.”

“Yep, it's real.”

Ivan brought his wooden sword down at the grumbling Isabelle.

* * *

There was no need to describe elves as arrogant and self-righteous. That was merely redundant. Yet even such elves—no, precisely because they were such elves—had firm distinctions of status among themselves.

This was no different from the cultural systems Britain and Japan had long built around “gentlemen (Britain: engages in piracy)” and “a people of harmony (Japan: engages in piracy).”

One might call it a trait shared by island peoples across worlds. In countries with nowhere to flee but the sea, the culture forced people to be polite unless they wanted mutually assured destruction. Thus, like all island peoples, elves were peaceful, friendly, mutually respectful, civilized citizens who accepted differences in status.

“Um... Miss Grikencos?”

“Yes?”

“For a while now, you've seemed... um. Has something upset you?”

“Oh my, upset me? Whatever could you mean?”

“No! Nothing! My apologies!!”

An elf departed in terror. Elpihera sighed as she watched the weakling retreat.

They were all utterly pathetic. The girls were conniving, the men feeble. Ah, how could there not be a single sturdy, powerful man anywhere? At this rate, they would have no choice but to import manliness from “humans.” The future of the elves was bleak indeed.

“Why do you keep scaring everyone?”

“What?”

“You. I'm talking about you. Your killing intent is practically spilling everywhere.”

The woman who had dragged a chair over and sat down in front of her was one of the few she couldn't drive off by force. Evelyn Rust Peiz, daughter of Duke Rust Peiz, the privy council chairman.

The girl had built the largest faction among the university's elves. Ordinarily, Elpihera might have greeted her with a smile, but this was a bad time.

“Let's speak later, Miss Rust Peiz. I have a headache.”

“Oh dear, shall I call a priest for you?”

“Mind your own business.”

With that icy reply, Elpihera rose and left a bewildered Evelyn behind. She hadn't been able to meet Ivan for ten whole days.

Her mood was abysmal, and to make matters worse, she could hardly blame anyone else for it. There had been plenty of opportunities to meet him. She had gone looking for him many times, and had even prepared gifts. The problem was that she couldn't get close enough to make out his features.

“Nngh...”

Elpihera clutched her sleeve and ground her teeth.

Being a magical genius was good. Not merely good, but quite natural! Who could possibly argue with Veolgrin's daughter being a magical genius? The problem was that the results had been too spectacular.

Creating original magic—in other words, a unique spell—while only in one's twenties was a feat worthy of admiration even among elves. True, it was a mental spell whose effects were confined entirely to herself, but how impressive was it to devise a powerful spell that warped her very perception of the world, with no side effects at all?

The only problem was that it was too impressive.

'I can't... look him in the face...!!'

She stood at the window, grinding her teeth as she looked down at Ivan far across the campus, chatting companionably with a worthless human woman. The woman was tagging along, vigorously rubbing her useless chest fat against his arm.

For all the good that would do—the man was a lunatic who couldn't be won over without an aphrodisiac... Still, how could she tolerate a stray dog daring to mark its territory on her property?

But... but!

'I... can't... get close!!'

The Illusory Shave spell let her see Ivan's bare face. But seeing his bare face made it impossible to approach him...!!

What a paradox. The first day she completed the spell, she had marched confidently up to Ivan, only to turn tail and flee.

That husky voice, seeming to scrape up from somewhere deep within him. Those deep-set, serious eyes. The smooth line of his lips, occasionally touched by a fleeting smile... And the memories she shared with him, which no one else knew.

It was too devastating a combination. He just happened to be exactly her type. And he looked far, far younger than she had expected. Enough that he somehow even felt approachable. So... so...

'This can't go on...!'

To gain an advantage over the stupid human woman trying to shave his beard and the vulgar human woman throwing herself at him, beard and all, she needed more powerful measures.

Fortunately, she knew something the other stupid humans (a redundant expression) didn't. The ancient evil god's vision of happiness had revealed Ivan's tastes. She knew every last detail of his secret preferences, things other humans wouldn't dare imagine.

Combs and dog chews.

With those two things, she could secure an unrivaled position among those lesser creatures, who knew only how to stupidly throw their bodies at him. Her resolve firm, Elpihera rose from her seat.