Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor

Indeed, outside the lecture hall, the professor was an entirely different person. Though his strict and stern demeanor remained etched onto his impassive face, his behavior, tone, and voice said otherwise.

Though Astrid could tell there were moments when his patience wore thin, yet he always held back. Perhaps it was because he saw it as his responsibility to guide her.

In truth, accepting his favor had proven to be a blessing in itself.

"...."

Glancing at the neatly arranged notebooks filled with meticulous notes, Astrid realized she had never made this much academic progress in all her six months at the University Tower. The professor had taken it upon himself to personally tutor her in every course listed in her curriculum.

It was almost as if he were a living encyclopedia.

"...."

Gazing out the window, watching the snowflakes gently drift down from the sky, Astrid murmured, "He's late…."

Time passed quietly as she returned to her studies. Hours later, the soft click of the front door echoed from her slightly ajar room.

She immediately perked up, setting her pen aside and hurrying out into the hallway.

"Ah, Vanitas, you're back."

Vanitas stepped inside, brushing the snow off his coat. "Yes. Have you eaten yet?"

Astrid shook her head. "No. I was waiting for you."

"Is that so?" he said, glancing at her briefly before unfastening his coat and hanging it neatly on the rack. "Then that's fine. I brought food."

"Oh!"

The two made their way to the dining room. Vanitas unpacked the containers and set the food on the table, while Astrid busied herself in arranging the plates and utensils.

Astrid sat down across from him, taking a spoonful. Her eyes widened slightly as the taste settled on her tongue. "It's really good," she murmured.

They continued eating in silence until Vanitas set his spoon down and wiped his lips with a napkin.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

"Yes?" Astrid looked up mid-bite, startled. "Ah, I've just started trigonometric mana circulation. It's a bit tricky to grasp at first, but your guidelines have helped. Still needs more effort, though."

Vanitas nodded. "It's admirable you're staying focused on your studies despite everything."

A quiet pause lingered between them before Vanitas spoke again.

"Regarding the Empire… it may be a while before we can return. Things have become increasingly complicated since your supposed death."

Astrid frowned slightly. "That will be… difficult. I can only imagine the chaos once I show up alive and well."

"They're pouring resources into the investigation," Vanitas said. "Your brother, Franz, is keeping the formalities intact and holding everything together for now."

"What about my sister?"

"She's the key. Depending on what she does next… it will determine whether our return is possible so soon."

Astrid hesitated, her gaze drifting to the candlelight on the dining table.

"This… this won't ignite a war, will it?" she asked.

"That depends," Vanitas said, his tone as if speaking a simple truth rather than a possibility. "But what I can assure you… is that the corruption festering within the nobility will be cleansed to a certain extent. One way or another."

Astrid nodded slowly. That was one of the reasons she had seriously considered accepting Professor Vanitas's favor in the first place.

Truth be told, she had long been aware of the rot within the aristocratic circles. But with the current mixed governmental system, there was only so much the Imperial Family could do.

If they failed to handle things with care, a revolution could ensue at any moment.

The truth was undeniable. Generation by generation, the monarchy system was steadily declining.

Astrid could already envision a future where Aetherion would fully transition into a democratic empire. Yet, to her, that shift wasn't necessarily a problem. What truly mattered was whether capable individuals would rise to lead the Empire forward.

She knew her father, the Emperor, was no longer fit to rule in his old age. And her brother, the designated heir, was too rigid in his ideals and was blind to the struggles of the common people.

Even the high aristocrats were too proud and entitled. They had aligned themselves with the parliament, not out of a desire for progress, but simply to maintain their own power.

In truth, they were likely perpetuating the very oppression they claimed to stand against.

The real problem, however, wasn't ignorance, but awareness paired with willful disregard. Knowing the truth, yet choosing to look away.

Astrid was no different. Despite her position, even she had turned a blind eye at times. As the second princess, her influence only reached so far.

With those thoughts heavily on her mind, she spoke, "Should I join politics, too?"

"That depends," Vanitas replied. "Can you handle it? I believe Imperial children are educated in politics, no?"

"Yes." Astrid nodded. "But I'm not as deeply versed in it as my siblings."

"Then don't."

"Y-Yes?" she blinked, startled by the abrupt answer.

"Politics will swallow you whole, Astrid," Vanitas said flatly. "You strive for meritocracy, yet you have no concrete ideals to anchor your stance. Have you ever even considered joining your university's student government?"

"N-No…" she admitted, averting her gaze.

"Then what a waste."

"...."

Astrid lowered her eyes, fingers tightening around the edge of her skirt.

"You have influence, education, and a title. And yet you've done nothing to prepare yourself for the political world you claim to care about," Vanitas said.

His words were blunt, perhaps even harsh, but it was the undeniable truth.

As much as Astrid was aware of the societal issues plaguing the Empire, in reality, she had done little to position herself as an agent of change.

To begin with, it was hypocritical to speak of reform and justice like an idealistic activist, yet lack the initiative to bring change even within the confines of a lecture hall.

In certain playthroughs her life could have taken, she had been nothing more than a pawn Franz had manipulated.

Astrid rose from her seat in silence, gathering the plates, and made her way to the sink. She twisted the faucet on, letting the water run as she reached for the soap.

But before she could begin, a hand gently caught her wrist.

"What are you doing?" Vanitas asked.

"W-Washing the plates…," she replied, blinking up at him in confusion.

Vanitas raised a brow. "I told you I'd handle housework."

"I'm not helpless," she muttered, looking away. "I can manage something as simple as dishwashing."

"...."

He remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting around the kitchen. The house was far too spacious for just two people. And Astrid, confined under his instructions not to leave without him, had been stuck within its walls for days.

Perhaps it was beginning to wear on her, even if she kept insisting she was fine.

".…Okay," he said.

* * *

A narrative had quickly spread among the common folk in the Theocracy about talks of a killer who left a message in every crime scene.

Ripper.

Over the past two weeks, four prominent figures had been murdered across the poorer districts.

——What's going to happen to us now?

——Isn't it a good thing? I've only ever heard shady things about those people…

Public opinion was clearly divided. Among the more educated or well-informed, there was an undercurrent of suspicion. The victims weren't exactly saints. There had been rumors of corruption, exploitation, and backdoor dealings surrounding them.

Yet others, especially those who had received aid or benefitted from their influence, couldn't help but feel unsettled by the violent turn of events.

The victims, after all, were quite influential in the social hierarchy:

Thomas Shellberg, a prominent figure deeply involved in the government system of the Isaiah District, yet secretly a gangster operating in the shadows.

Lena Vostok, a charismatic advocate for the people and a popular candidate for local minister in the Philippian District, but deeply embedded in illegal drug production.

Christopher Orlando, a respected priest in the Raphael District, who, behind the guise of charity, was rumored to be orchestrating human trafficking.

And most recently, Amon Moretti, a notorious fugitive and revolutionary leader, known for inciting rebellion against the state.

All the murders bore the same pattern; bullet wounds, dagger lacerations, and bruises. It was no amateur's work, but clearly the work of a highly skilled Crusader.

Four powerful names, now crossed out.

And the Ripper's message had grown increasingly clear. None of the crimes were random acts of violence.

It was judgment.

And within those two short weeks, the murders had even drawn the attention of the highest-ranking paladins within the Theocracy. The situation had escalated to the point that even one of the Great Powers was dispatched.

Aston Nietzsche.

Standing atop the chapel tower, cloaked in white robes lined with gold, Aston surveyed the city below.

"What do you think, Izza?" he murmured.

A moment passed. Then, his voice shifted, softening into a more childlike cadence as another presence responded from within.

"Sounds like a brat who thinks they have real power," Izza replied with playful disdain.

"Is that so?"

The morality of the killings was… questionable. In many ways, the Ripper's actions could be seen as justified. Aston wasn't blind to the corruption that riddled those who had been killed.

They were parasites, but parasites that, paradoxically, kept the system functioning.

They maintained balance, albeit a twisted one, between the slums, the underworld, and the commoners.

Besides Amon Moretti, the others had served as figures holding up a fragile social order. Without them, unrest would grow. Rebellion would ensue. The common people, atheists, pagans, and nonbelievers, would no longer be bound to a person to follow.

And when the fire spread, not even the Church could contain it.

"I don't like this," Aston said quietly.

"Nothing we can do about it," Izza replied. "That's why we've been tasked with capturing this 'Ripper' in the first place."

"Right," Aston said, his gaze narrowing.

After a series of deductions and intelligence briefings, the paladins had begun to piece together the pattern in the killings.

Each target had held a significant position. Either socially, politically, or within the underworld, all had been tainted by corruption beneath their noble veneers.

Now, their predictions had revealed the next likely target on the Ripper's list.

Ryan Alandal.

A foreigner from the Umbral Coalition, Alandal was a renowned surgeon of the poor. On the surface, he was lauded for his remarkable success rate in saving lives.

Though his patients lived, there had been multiple complaints filed over the years, alleging the use of illegal substances during treatment, unauthorized experimentation, and, in some cases, psychological trauma induced through sedation techniques.

At that moment, a paladin appeared behind them.

"Cardinal Nietzsche!" a paladin called out breathlessly as he approached. "We were wrong!"

Aston turned, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"The target. It's not Ryan Alandal!"

"Report."

"It's Bishop Elijah of the Matthew District!" the paladin exclaimed. "We just received intel. There's been a breach at the cathedral. The guards were incapacitated, and it's highly likely the Ripper has made their appearance!"

"...."

What puzzled Nietzsche wasn't the breach itself, but the target. Bishop Elijah. He wasn't particularly significant in the political or religious hierarchy.

If so, why him?

But there was no time to dwell on the question.

Swoosh—!

His white cape billowed behind him as his figure vanished in a flash, disappearing at breakneck speed. The Matthew District was approximately 35 kilometers away. But at his current velocity, it would take him no more than three minutes to arrive.

And he did.

In just under three minutes, Nietzsche landed gracefully at the gates of the monastery, the wind from his arrival kicking up a cloud of snow and dust.

Reinforcements were still on their way, but he could hear the chaos coming from inside the monastery. Without hesitation, Nietzsche dashed forward, slipping through the large cathedral doors.

"...."

What greeted him was carnage.

Several priests lay sprawled across the floor, lifeless. Paladins, however, appeared to be merely incapacitated as their bodies were strewn across the ground without any signs of blood.

And in the center of the sanctuary, illuminated by the flickering candlelight, stood a figure.

"...."

Hazel-brown hair, glowing emerald green eyes, and a tilted fedora casting a shadow over his expression.

"You are…" the Ripper began.

But before he could finish, Nietzsche had already moved.

In the blink of an eye, the Sword Saint appeared in front of him, blade slicing downward in an arc.

Clang!

Steel collided with dagger, the force of Nietzsche's strike creating a shockwave that ripped through the sanctuary, sending the Ripper skidding backward across the floor.

Sparks danced in the air from the impact, as shards of shattered tiles cracked beneath his feet.

But the Ripper wasted no opportunity.

Bang! Bang!

He fired two shots from his revolver mid-air, even while crashing against the wall. Nietzsche prepared to sidestep, but a magic circle flared to life beneath his feet.

"What—?"

Chains of mana surged upward, binding his legs in place just long enough for the bullets to connect.

Bang!

They struck squarely, but the enchantments layered on Nietzsche's armor absorbed the brunt of the impact. Smoke hissed from the scorched plating, and the Sword Saint gritted his teeth.

"...."

He was unharmed, but annoyed. The Ripper had clearly anticipated Nietzsche's arrival from the very beginning. According to Izza, who quickly relayed the information to him, the magic circle's enchantment was to restrain Nietzsche, and only Nietzsche.

A high-tier binding array with a complexity and composition rivaling that of Sovereign-class magic.

"Three seconds, Nietzsche!" Izza's voice rang out from within.

"And three seconds is all I need," the Ripper added.

In that instant, smoke hissed from the Ripper's body, filling the chamber in a thick fog. Nietzsche, now freed from the binding circle, stomped the ground with force, cracking the marble floor beneath his feet and dispersing the smoke in an instant.

But as the haze cleared, the Ripper was already… gone.

"...."

"We've been had," Izza muttered.

* * *

"Cough! Cough…!"

The Ripper staggered down a narrow alleyway, blood splattering with each cough. That single clash with the Sword Saint had been enough to leave him feeling as though his ribs had been shattered.

Even though he had blocked the blow, the sheer force behind it had still managed to tear through part of his tendon as blood now dripped steadily from the wound.

Pain surged through every fiber of his body, and his entire body screamed in protest.

"Cough! Cough…!"

After coughing for what felt like hours, he slumped to the ground with his back pressed against the cold alley wall as the pain began to subside.

Thankfully, his Vessel trait had been enhanced with a Traits Root. Had it still been at its previous level, and had he not trained his physique to its possible limits, he knew the Sword Saint would have incapacitated him with ease.

"Haa… shit. They were close."

Fortunately, that was the last high-profile target assigned to him under the case commissioned by Irene Barielle Aetherion.

With that, once she returned, he hoped he wouldn't have to endure her fury for dragging her into a political mess in Aetherion.

Without wasting another second, the Ripper snapped his fingers, tossing aside his fedora and igniting it with pyro magic. He burned his coat and entire attire in the same manner, before slipping into a fresh set of clothes he had discreetly stashed nearby in the alley.

"Hoo…."

Just as quickly, he altered his scent using perfume magic, masking the stench of blood and battle.

Then, he removed his wig and magic lenses, revealing his true appearance.

Jet-black hair fluttered softly under the cold winter breeze, and his amethyst eyes gleamed ominously beneath the pale light of the moon.

"Hopefully, I can rest for now."

Tak. Tak—!

And with that, Vanitas Astrea stepped out of the alleyway and vanished into the night.

* * *

It didn't take long for a vendetta to erupt.

Following the attempted assassination of Irene, orchestrated by none other than Dante Esmeralda, war broke out between Irene, backed by the Gambino Family, against the Duchy of Esmeralda alongside the Ainsley Marquess Family.

While the Gambinos fought through bloodshed and force, Irene waged war through systematically exposing a series of misdeeds committed by both the Duke and Simon Ainsley.

Within a month, Simon Ainsley's carefully cultivated political reputation crumbled. His once-pristine public image swiftly transformed into that of a corrupt aristocrat. He lost the favor of the people, and before long, a rally had formed outside the Ainsley estate.

——We demand Justice!

——What do you have to say for my husband, whom you overworked to death?!

The streets were filled with the cries of the people. They demanded accountability, and justice demanded action. Pressure mounted on the Parliament, and eventually, a formal inquiry was launched.

The decision was quick. Both the Ainsley Marquess Family and the Duchy of Esmeralda were to be summoned to court under multiple allegations, ranging from corruption and political misconduct to the most damning charge of all.

The alleged orchestration behind the deaths of Astrid Barielle Aetherion and Vanitas Astrea.

And for the first time in over a decade, the Emperor himself, Decadien Aetherion, made a public appearance in the House of Justice.