Chapter 4: Contracts, Elitists, and Rules (II)
The classroom lights dimmed.
A projection formed above the students.
A dungeon battlefield appeared—collapsed stone, cracked pillars, the air thick with smoke and mana residue. Monsters prowled the ruins, their movements slow but relentless.
A party was shown mid-combat: one Contract Specialist, three combat allies.
They were failing.
The knight staggered first, blood running down her armor as she barely kept her footing, her shield cracked nearly in half.
The archer fell to one knee after taking a direct hit, her breathing ragged, fingers trembling as she struggled to nock another arrow.
The mage collapsed backward, coughing, her spell dissolving mid-cast as tears mixed with blood on her face.
All of them were dying.
The Contract Specialist shouted something—his voice muted—but his expression was clear.
Fear. Urgency. Resolve.
Rael's voice echoed calmly over the scene.
"This party has entered critical collapse. All combat members are still conscious, but none are capable of continuing combat."
The projection showed the Contract Specialist signaling a retreat.
With shaking hands, he dragged the knight first, pulling her across the ground toward a glowing checkpoint circle etched into the dungeon floor.
Then the archer, who was still conscious, gripping his sleeve weakly.
Then the mage, who clutched his collar, eyes wide but trusting.
The checkpoint activated. Inside the circle, all four remained awake. Light swallowed the battlefield, tearing the party away from the dungeon in an instant.
The projection shifted—now showing the team collapsed outside the dungeon gate, bodies sprawled across cracked stone, blood pooling beneath them. They were alive. Conscious. Barely.
"This is the final window," Rael continued.
"Intimacy Contract must be initiated before death. Conscious consent and emotional synchronization are mandatory."
A system prompt flickered briefly above the Contract Specialist's vision—then vanished.
What followed was censored. A soft white glow flooded the projection, washing out all detail inside the barrier. Only silhouettes remained.
The glow intensified, responding to shared emotion rather than motion. Mana surged violently, then settled.
The knight cried out softly as strength returned to her limbs. The archer inhaled sharply, color flooding back into her face. The mage gasped, clutching her chest as mana stabilized violently around her.
They survived.
The projection faded.
The classroom lights returned.
No one spoke for several seconds.
"…That was sex, wasn't it?" someone finally blurted out.
"Intimacy," Rael corrected. "The highest form of contract resonance."
A boy near the back raised his hand. "Isn't that… messed up?"
Rael looked at him evenly. "So is dying. And it requires absolute trust—while facing death fully conscious."
A hand shot up immediately.
"Wait—can it be done inside the dungeon?" a student asked.
Rael didn't hesitate. "Yes. It's possible."
A few murmurs spread—until he added flatly,
"And no one is that dumb."
Silence.
"Monsters don't pause because you're naked and bonding," Rael continued. "They will attack you. Interrupt you. Kill you while you're vulnerable."
A sharp breath was drawn somewhere in the back.
Another hand rose slowly, as if afraid of the answer.
"What if you're not close to a checkpoint," the student asked, voice tight, "and someone's… dying?"
Rael held their gaze.
"Then you run."
A few students flinched.
"You abandon the fight. You drag them. You leave loot behind. You scream for help if you have to."
He tapped the board once. The sound echoed.
"If you can't reach safety before death," Rael said evenly, "there is no contract to save you."
Silence pressed down hard.
"Running for your life," he finished, "becomes your only choice."
No one spoke.
A girl near the aisle stared down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if imagining them slipping from someone else's grip.
Another student near the back raised his hand—hesitant, fingers curling as if he might pull it back at any second.
"Why…" His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Why does it have to be like that?"
Rael didn't answer immediately.
The silence pressed down on the room, thick enough that no one dared whisper.
Then, with a small motion of his hand, the projection changed.
The dungeon vanished.
"In this universe, mana runs through our blood. It is life itself, the force that keeps our hearts beating and our bodies moving." Rael continued.
A clean, brightly lit room appeared instead—rows of medical beds, neatly arranged instruments, inactive monitors. Everything looked functional.
"So when mana collapses," Rael continued, "the body follows, muscles fail, organs shut down, consciousness fractures." Rael said at last. "And there are no medics, no artificial cures for mana."
Confusion rippled through the class.
"That's impossible—"
"Why wouldn't they just—"
"We can't," Rael interrupted, calm but absolute.
The image zoomed in on a body lying on one of the beds. The chest rose and fell weakly. Numbers flickered on a monitor—then glitched, distorted, and went dark.
"We've tried, " he looked at us directly.
That single word sucked the air out of the room.
The projection shifted—showing surgeons working, tools moving, procedures flawless.
Then it changed again.
The same body. Same wounds. Same loss.
But nothing improved.
"In this universe," Rael said quietly, "mana loss is hemorrhage. Internal. Total."
A student whispered, horrified, "So you can't… invent something?"
Rael shook his head once.
The image showed potions dissolving before touching skin. Spells fading mid-cast. Machines failing to register anything at all.
"Professors tried," Rael went on. "Alchemists tried. Entire civilizations tried."
His tone hardened.
"This universe rejected all artificial cures."
The room was dead silent now.
"What remained," Rael said calmly, "was the Contract System. It exist because bonding is the only thing that allows mana to circulate again in this universe."
"Why?" someone asked quietly.
Rael shook his head. "No one knows that."
Silence.
"So... That is simply how the universe works," he said. "Mana responds to connection, to trust, to intimacy."
Another student swallowed. "So… if someone's dying without a contract…"
Rael said calmly. "They die."
The weight of that settled heavily.
"At Contract Level Three, you will share each other's pain and emotional past or trauma," Rael said calmly. "That's why… you need absolute trust in your partner."
Someone at the back muttered, "Doesn't look easy..."
Rael allowed himself a thin smile. "It isn't," he said. "That's why only Elitists, are allowed to bear the responsibility."
His gaze swept the room.
"And that," he concluded, "is why choosing when to form or activate Level three is just as important as knowing how."
The board dimmed.
He looked directly at the class.
"And activating it without partner's consent, will result in expulsion at the very least. Possibly worse."
Rael turned back to the board.
[Critical Rule for Contract Specialists]
• Emotional favoritism causes debuff
• Unequal bonds destabilize contracts
"This is where most Elitists fail," Rael said. "They grow attached to one ally. Neglect the others."
He smiled thinly. "The System punishes imbalance."
"So," Rael concluded, "Contract Specialists must care equally. Trust equally. Desire equally."
A student laughed awkwardly. "That sounds impossible."
"It is," Rael said. "That's why there are so few of Elistists survived."
My throat felt dry.
Rael clapped his hands once.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you will begin basic missions and training."
Groans spread across the room.
"Your performance," he added, "will determine your value. And whether you are worth keeping alive."
That earned nervous laughter.
Rael raised a finger, stopping the growing murmurs before they could turn into chatter.
"One more rule," he said. "And this one is non-negotiable."
The board flashed a single line in stark white.
[Once a contract is formed, partners cannot be changed.]
A wave of surprise rolled through the room.
"You do not rotate partners," Rael continued. "You do not 'upgrade' them. You do not replace someone because another option looks more convenient."
Someone scoffed. "What if they're weak?"
"Then you train and get stronger together," Rael replied without hesitation.
He glanced around the class.
"The contract binds responsibility, not preference. It exists to prevent abandonment, exploitation, and emotional cheating—behaviors that destabilize contract magic and get people killed."
The room fell silent again.
"Once a Contract Specialist deals a contract with someone," Rael finished, "they stick together until death."
The bell chimed.
[Class Ended.]
Students immediately erupted into chatter.
---
Equal feelings. Equal care. No favoritism. Physical contact. Sex...
Wow. They really turned my resume into a magic system.
For someone like me—someone who'd spent years reading moods, adjusting tone, calculating just how much warmth to give without crossing the line—this academy's rules felt painfully familiar.
Balanced affection.
No favorites.
Everyone satisfied.
Yeah. I'd done this professionally.
And the worst part?
I was good at it.
Really good.
Fantastic, I thought dryly. I die, get reincarnated, and somehow I'm still in customer service.
But this wasn't my old job. Not really. Back then, there was structure.
A time limit.
A price.
A clear understanding that whatever emotions happened inside the room stayed there.
Here?
No clock.
No payment.
No pretending it didn't mean anything afterward.
If someone got hurt, it was on me.
If someone died, it was on me too...
"Congratulations, Shion," I muttered internally. "You've unlocked the premium version, now with emotional damage and no exit clause."
I swallowed.
Honestly… this was terrifying.
Because for the first time in my life, the thing I was best at wasn't pretending feelings were real.
It was making them matter.