Damn Academy - Chapter 84

[Episode 84] The Shadow (7)

Trisha tossed and turned under the covers, engaging in idle chatter with me until she eventually fell asleep.

I wrote a letter to send to Silveryn.

Only Trisha’s breathing and the scratch of my pen filled my room.

Strangely, the sound of her shallow breathing brought me a sense of mental tranquility.

I stopped writing the letter for a moment and looked over at the bed.

I had been flustered when she insisted on coming to the manor, but now, seeing her asleep, it seemed like the right decision to have brought her along.

Perhaps it was the peace of mind, but my concerns that Silveryn might get angry for not sending a letter had also subsided.

It wasn’t difficult to surmise if I put myself in her shoes.

If Silveryn didn’t reply to my letter for a while, I would be worried, but I’d dismiss it casually with the thought that ‘it happens’. Most likely, Silveryn would think similarly.

Considering she designated the fireplace for sending letters is telling. Silveryn isn’t one to rage or sulk over not receiving letters. Such things… they don’t suit her.

I approached the bed and sat on the edge. And gazed blankly at the sleeping Trisha.

The pure white hair still took some getting used to.

And before I knew it, I found myself reaching out to stroke that hair but halted mid-action.

Realizing I still retained past habits, I smiled bitterly.

When I used to stroke silver locks, my nails and palm held stubborn black grease that refused to wash off. Now, my hands are very clean.

So much has changed. My appearance and my memories.

Sometimes I even forget that Liza is here in Eternia. It’s… probably for the best for me.

Liza must also be creating her own new memories. I have started to walk my own path, albeit belatedly. Once, I hoped Liza would think of and miss me, but not anymore.

I don’t wish to return to the past. The new things that I’ve embraced since parting ways with Liza have become so precious to me.

I planned to join the art club, to retain the memories with Silveryn, Trisha, and new people in the form of paintings.

Through the strokes of a brush, I’d overlap memories, and as the paintings accumulate, the lingering tinges of my past bitterness, anger, and pain would eventually fade out of sight.

Someday, Liza’s role in my life will then truly come to an end.

***

Dawn brought a light drizzle of rain. It had stopped by the time we left, but the morning fog had yet to clear.

I boarded the carriage bound for Eternia with Trisha.

She brushed her hair as she admired the twilight breaking through the dissipating mist.

Unusual was the sight inside the carriage – all of her disguise artifacts were removed.

Humming a tune, Trisha brushed her pristine white hair, then sneakily glanced at my face.

When our eyes met, she quickly looked back out the window.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Why have you reverted to your original look inside the carriage?”

She would revert back when she puts on the artifacts, so why would she bother brushing her hair?

“…Because I want to.”

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“…”

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Then Trisha retorted sharply.

“You like this appearance, too, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to recall.

“Me?”

As if questioning whether I’d ever said such a thing, she ceased brushing and fell silent.

“…Hmph.”

Did I say something wrong? Trisha suddenly seemed slightly sulky.

We rode in silence for a while until the carriage reached Eternia’s main gate, where Trisha put her artifacts back on.

“I’ll get off here.”

“Just go a little further. It’s a long walk from here.”

“No, I’m getting off.”

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“…”

As Trisha insisted, I ultimately stopped the carriage.

She alighted from the carriage, looking sullen, and said to me,

“Come pick me up at six in the evening.”

“…You want to go back to the manor together again?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, then I’ll see you at the main gate.”

Trisha suddenly yelled, her voice full of irritation.

“No! Come to the drama club to get me!”

With that, she slammed the carriage door shut. She stalked away from the carriage, clearly fuming.

“…”

Suddenly, I felt a throbbing headache and pressed my forehead with my hand.

Why is she like this all of a sudden? What’s she upset about? Everything had been fine when we left the manor that morning. Why such severe mood swings?

Her temperament is like the tropical climate; sunny one moment and then a downpour the next.

I postponed dealing with Trisha’s issue until the evening and restarted the carriage.

My immediate task was to meet with the art club’s advising professor.

***

After asking seniors, I finally found out who the advisor for the art club was.

The professor I needed to meet was ‘Georgia Pelene’, a professor of Alchemy Herbology. She also happened to be the art club’s advisor.

She welcomed me warmly into the alchemy department’s greenhouse, its walls and ceiling entirely made of glass, where she had been attending to the flowers since the break of dawn.

She had the appearance of being in her mid to late thirties, with an unassuming air about her.

“Welcome, welcome. Have a seat here.”

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Professor Georgia guided me to a small table set up in the greenhouse and brought over some herbal tea, placing it in front of me.

She sat across from me, crossing her legs.

“Drink up.”

“…Thank you.”

She examined my face for a while like one might inspect a circus animal.

“Professor?”

“Oh! Um, yes, so, you’re interested in joining the art club?”

“Yes, I am.”

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She raised an eyebrow and then nodded her head.

“Good. But you know… ahem.”

Georgia hesitated for a moment as if caught on something.

“Have we met before?”

“No, as far as I remember, this seems to be our first meeting…”

“Hmm, is that so? I could’ve sworn… Oh dear, you said you were a freshman? Silly me.”

“…”

“Sorry, sorry, too many things on my mind these days. What a mess. So, uh… are you interested in painting?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Just so you know, we aren’t training to substitute for self-absorbed nobles wanting their portraits painted. Nor are we honing our skills only to mimic objects as they are.”

“Understood.”

Georgia was bursting with words.

“And umm… you look more suited for drama or dance at a glance, but you’ll fit right in here. It’s a place that explores beauty. There are some quite lovely seniors here, so you can look forward to that.”

“…Lovely seniors?”

“What, are you intrigued? Ladies and graceful young maidens prefer things like fine arts or social dance parties. It’s more decorous and traditional. It’s no different here. There are many girls, very many. Keep that in mind.”

“…How many men are there?”

“Let’s see, around 20 percent? There’s a lot of male applicants, but most of them come with unsavory intentions… aiming for the girls. We weed those out during interviews. They disrupt the atmosphere, and the girls don’t like it either. You know what I mean?”

“You don’t think I have inappropriate motives for joining, do you?”

“When you deal with hundreds of people, it’s easy to read them after a few words. I guess I’ve become adept at mind-reading. There are those who join just to try and impress me for my Herbology class, or perverts who have the single goal to explore physical beauty. We send those kinds back. Mmm… you, at least, don’t seem to have any ill-intent. You look pure.”

It appears that even though she had softly promoted the presence of beautiful women before, she judged me safe.

The professor sipped her tea and added,

“And sending you away just like that would surely make the kids scold me.”

“…Why?”

She made a brushing gesture with her hand, as if taking back an unintentional slip of the tongue.

“Never mind. Forget the last thing I said.”

“…”

“No, rather than that, I’m curious why you didn’t go to the theatre or dance clubs and ended up here instead. There must have been some reason you were interested in those.”

There had been an offer, but that was it.

“No, I’m not sure what you’re implying, but nothing happened.”

“Did you check out other clubs before deciding on ours? I’m not saying we don’t want you, but I’m wondering if this was an impulsive decision. If there are other offers, don’t turn them down too quickly without showing some courtesy. You might end up on the wrong side of the seniors.”

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“I have no intention of changing my decision.”

She tilted her head as if something was troubling her, then said,

“Anyway, that’s good then. What was it, the combat club?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her head repeatedly, satisfied with her expression.

“That’s great. Really excellent. Honestly, all our male art club members are quite bland. There’s something I tell the men every day: ‘You’re all just boys with beads’. They lack bold decisiveness. We need men who can handle bold and strong lines like they’re wielding a sword in dance.”

“I don’t have that level of expertise…you may be expecting too much.”

The professor shook her head and spoke with an expression slightly engrossed in thought.

“It’s okay not to draw well. There’s beauty in that too. Art has no magic or artefacts; it’s all pigment and brushwork, but within it, we can see the human spirit. That’s the grandeur of art.”

“…”

It’s a complex philosophy. Will I be able to fit in here?

***

Despite being a city where institutions dedicated to establishing doctrines and exploring the divine were concentrated, it wasn’t entirely separated from secular logic.

The Holy City was awash with money, and it was a nexus of honor and power. To humans, faith was ultimately a tool used to fulfill desires, circling back to its essential purpose.

Silveryn was the most intriguing figure to the merchants, mages, knights, and clergy who flocked to the Holy City to realize their worldly desires.

From a secular perspective, she was a person without flaws.

Transcendent magical abilities, remarkable achievements, and above all, her beauty stimulated the most curiosity. The area around where she stayed was consistently abuzz with people eager to verify the rumors that “her beauty was enchanting,” circulating amongst them.

However, despite numerous entreaties, no one was granted an audience with her. Silveryn had barred all visitors, choosing to seclude herself in her room.

Her room was curtained off to block outside views, with only a single candle providing a faint glimmer of light within the spacious area.
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The letters that piled up at her door were ignored after identifying the sender.

Silveryn’s body was immune to colds and fevers, but she appeared much like a patient suffering from fever. Having lost her appetite, she hadn’t eaten anything since the previous day. The table laden with green grapes, veal ribeye steak, and a 27-year vintage Rutton wine, favored by the Duke of Gaïnax, remained untouched since a servant had placed them there in the morning.

She lacked the drive to do anything. Lying in bed, she didn’t sleep but simply let the time pass listlessly.

Her sole activity all day involved listlessly fiddling with a bottle containing a cube.

Continuing thoughts about her disciple endlessly chased each other in her mind.

Surely her heart was still beating soundly, so why hadn’t his letter arrived? Her heart had been tumultuous the evening before. Was he rolling around with a peer-aged girl? Or had he been training? He has the time for training but no time to write a letter to me?

She no longer felt angry. The accumulation of neglect had transitioned into profound sorrow. Thinking of her disciple made her heart ache as if crushed under a carriage wheel. The stifling feeling wouldn’t subside even with deep breaths.

“This wretched disciple is sure to make me ill…”

She just wanted any news from him, anything at all.

Damian was not to blame.

If there was fault, it rested with the teacher who had inadequately educated him—she blamed herself.

Biting her lip, she pounded the pillow fiercely with the hand clutching the bottle.

“I need to educate him… more… much more.”

Silveryn was aware. The relationship with her disciple had become lopsided.

She needed to re-educate him.

So that her disciple would become desperate for her scent and warmth, to the point of incapacitation.

Only then would the axes of their relationship align.

***

After completing Damian’s membership procedures, Georgia sent him away. She felt a lingering discomfort, as if something unresolved remained.

What did she miss? Even though they met for the first time, why did Damian’s face seem familiar?

She suddenly stood up from tending to the flowers in the greenhouse and headed somewhere determined.

If there was something nagging at her memory, there was one likely culprit.

She went to the art club’s storeroom, unlocked it, and entered.

Inside, paintings left behind by students who had passed through the art club were densely packed and displayed.

Georgia, hands clasped behind her back, briskly surveyed the displayed artworks. Some had been neglected for so long that paint had cracked, dust accumulated, and those placed near the window were discolored by sunlight.

Portraitures, landscapes, still lifes, abstracts, and hundreds of other paintings – she rapidly scanned them until she paused abruptly at something in the corner.

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Approaching a shrouded easel with a black cloth, she moved toward it.

The fabric, stiff and smooth as if freshly laundered, was well-maintained without a single common stain or speck of dust.

She unveiled the cloth to reveal the painting hidden beneath.

“….”

An image that seemed briefly encountered long ago.

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Georgia’s intuition had been precisely on target. It wasn’t Damian she had seen before; it was the painting.

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Two paintings were left abandoned there. One was a portrait of a boy named Damian, whom she had met that morning.

Beside it was a landscape painted in warm hues, like an illustration from a fairy tale.

Within the setting, a brown-haired boy and a gray-haired girl were facing each other inside a fountain.

The gray-haired girl touched the boy’s cheek, smiling broadly.

Even to an art novice, it was a captivating and poignant painting.

However, Georgia couldn’t recall who had painted it.

Surely, the artist was connected to the boy named Damian, but the gray-haired girl purported to be the artist had not entered the art club in recent years.

The painting bore no signature from which to deduce the creator. While searching for any clues left behind, Georgia noticed a label attached to the fountain painting and narrowed her eyes.

She read the significant title and fell into thoughtful contemplation.

Written on the label was,

[The Reason to Live].