The university seemed to have a vendetta against me.
First came Human Social Psychology. As if understanding humans weren't already difficult enough. Then there was Interracial Magical Social Psychology, which, despite the name, mostly meant trying to understand races that didn't think, feel, or argue like humans at all. Elves. Demons. Gnomes. My brain, never a model of efficiency, was clearly not built for this.
To make things worse, I also had Neurology. Endless diagrams, unfamiliar terminology, and exams that felt suspiciously medical. Was I training to become a doctor now? Two classes on the verge of failure, my GPA slipping away, and no realistic plan to stop it.
That was when my mentor called me in. He was the classic white-collar guy, with a permanently exhausted look in his eyes and the kind of coffee stain on the cuff of his shirt that survived countless washes.
After skimming my academic record, he suggested an alternative to getting kicked out, something called Interracial Coexistence. It was, according to him, a rehabilitation project.
The details came later. What mattered at the time was that participation would count for credits, and that refusal was not really an option.
Only after I agreed did I learn who the other participants were.
Former soldiers from the recent war. Members of races that had fought on the losing side. Some of them had held ranks. Some of them had made decisions people preferred not to revisit.
Now, they're being rehabilitated at the university. For safety reasons, I was told, their magic had been sealed. That was supposed to make things easier.
"I already know that you will not regret it, Fuminaru."
"I'd rather regret this than miss the chance to save my GPA"
"Well said, kid"
Uhh okay?
This man still thinks an 18-year-old is just a kid. I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment, but being legally an adult doesn't magically make you mature so yeah
I signed all the papers without really looking at them, while he went on about how the race would be random and there was no changing it.
The randomness could be a real pain in the ass. I'd heard some races were tougher to handle than others. But it didn't make sense to worry about it if it was random, after all.
"You have to rehabilitate an elf."
An elf. Hopefully not one of the troublemakers. I'd already heard enough rumors to make me a bit uneasy.
Right after leaving the office, I got a text telling me to meet the gnomes at the campus center. I headed over, curious what kind of elf would be waiting.
Suddenly, a portal tore open at the campus center before me, unleashing icy wind and lightning that made me step back. Standing there, flanked by two gnomes… was she.
She was facing away and slowly turned toward me. At first, I only saw her in profile, her back to me, eyes closed, but I could make out her long lashes.
Once I could make out the shape of her head, her hair and lashes caught my eye. Her hair was a vivid, nearly translucent yellow, like fresh butter gleaming in sunlight, seeming to melt into the portal's light, as if both radiances overlapped and intensified one another. Her lashes, slightly darker, provided a subtle contrast.
Wind spilled from the portal, yet her long, silken hair, falling a little past her waist, swayed gently, as did the two side-locks draped over her long ears. One would expect them to be whipped about by the summoning's force, yet, against all odds, the motion was deceptively soft, soft as a feather, with her center-parted bangs brushing lightly against her rosy cheeks. I forgot to blink.
Right as I blinked, I watched her finish turning her head, and our eyes met. They were large and almond-shaped, a watery green that darkened at the center and faded into lighter tones at the edges. Her dark pupils contrasted sharply with the luminous iris, framed by long lashes that emphasized a look of determination.
Her eyes were so captivating that I could be lost in them for hours. They were living proof that if I stared into the abyss, the abyss would stare back at me.
My eyes drifted down from our gaze, settling just beneath the brow at the bridge of the nose. From there, the rest of the face started to take shape, and bit by bit, her whole face came into view.
Her slender nose descended to the small groove of the philtrum, well-proportioned and with a gentle relief, subtly traced by a light shadow that marked the perfect path to her lips. The groove merged seamlessly with the "V" shape of her upper lip beneath the nose. This philtrum, along with its two columns, served as the ideal bridge connecting the tip of the nose, at the septum, with the beginning of the lips, creating a meeting point that formed the most perfect Cupid's bow I had ever seen.
For this reason, the philtrum is the key element linking these two parts, the once-missing link.
The groove also tells the story of how our face was formed before birth, since during fetal development, different facial regions grow from the sides and converge at the center. The philtrum is precisely the line that remains where these parts meet. When the fusion occurs correctly, the philtrum becomes visible.
I've come to believe that old stories claim the philtrum was sealed like a lock to keep knowledge from escaping. Just before birth, a divine touch wipes the mind clean and leaves that mark as proof of protection. But if it was divine protection, then mine failed: that touch condemned me, and with the lock, my obsession was born.
I almost forgot to mention that a Cupid's bow doesn't just happen, it takes perfect lips: thin, fine, and small. They did the trick, giving off an air both attractive and tender, helped along by soft-looking cheeks that completed the facial harmony.
Her beauty.
Her loveliness was immaculate.
Her beauty is undeniable.
She
Is
Way
Too.
Cute.
Cute, cute, cute.
She can't be that cute.
A war criminal can't be that cute. It's impossible for her to be that cute.
Her presence multiplies the word "cute" tenfold.
She was an enchantress.
Her genetic lottery hit the jackpot.
At the exact moment. At the perfect convergence.
The kairos, nothing more, nothing less.
It doesn't make sense… Aren't all elves supposed to be beautiful? Besides, in a roulette wheel where all the numbers are the same, no one could hit the jackpot. What mattered was hitting the nail on the head about what was going on.
Despite my sexually predictable inclinations, it was undeniable that male elves also possessed a beauty that was, to me, clearly enviable. Assuming I don't envy not being a woman, the beauty of a female elf isn't something that should matter to me.
I must also remember that I'm talking about a war criminal, but…
She's perfect, delicate, elegant…
Just as I lowered my gaze, the is turned into was, and my judgment clouded, an error code, of sorts. What appeared before me seemed like an artifact in my eyes, a glitch in my own brain's processing.
The trigger came when I caught a glimpse of a black hoodie. On it, verbatim, was written "I HATE DEMONS," in white letters that covered it completely, even on the long sleeves that barely revealed her fingers, leaving absolutely no room for doubt. On the front, a cartoon demon head was crossed out with the universal "prohibited" symbol.
Yeah, that adorned her beautiful body. Well, "beautiful" was only an assumption, since the hoodie was excessively loose and her figure was completely obscured.
Unfortunately, nothing was visible from the waist up, except for a brown necklace with a small, circular pendant of a yellow-green color, like chartreuse, partially covered by something that looked like a runic stone.
Her loose hoodie hung so low that it covered just below her hips, giving the impression that she was going commando or maybe just wearing dolphin shorts. With that style, it was hard not to question the demureness typical of elves, or at least the trait they were supposed to have. I wonder where she had gotten into that fashion.
But when I thought beauty could be nothing more than a deception, it unexpectedly reappeared in a pair of beige thigh highs, leaving a clearly visible band of skin, the famous zettai ryōiki.
Right at the point where the sock hugged the thigh, the band, whose elasticity was not enough to prevent visible compression, applied a delicate pressure to the skin, compressing it and forming a faint indented line that circled the thigh completely.
When a sock is tight enough to leave a mark on the skin, it causes the surrounding pinkish flesh to bulge subtly outward, it is precisely here that the pressure of the sock makes the thigh swell gently above the edge, as if the skin were seeking to free itself from that restraint.
Her hands rested in the kangaroo pocket, and as we held each other's gaze, she shifted her weight slightly.
So, before speaking, she pulled a vape shaped like a runic obelisk out of her front pocket with her left hand, took a drag, and let out a cloud of purple smoke. Then, in a tired voice but with enough threat to make every syllable intimidating, she asked:
"Are you the human who's gonna rehabilitate me?"
"Yes, that's me, the human." I replied, unsure whether I should bow or offer a handshake.
Clearly, I'm the least suitable human for this.
"Tsk." She clicked her tongue, frowned slightly, and rolled her eyes, looking away.
The gnome ambassador at her left, that is… at my right(?), spoke:
"Her name is Eli…" Before the gnome could finish saying her name, she interrupted him.
"Can't I at least say who I am?"
"Excuse me, miss…" said the gnome who had introduced her, but he was interrupted this time by his colleague.
"Dippy, you're such a naïve guy, the one who should be apologizing is her," said the gnome on her right in a calculating tone.
"But…" murmured Dippy, somewhat ashamed. "Shut up, and you shitty elf, you still have no right to speak, your rights remain limited until we stop being your representatives and transfer you to him" said the gnome poker-faced.
With me? Transfer her to me?
"Whaaa?! Who are you calling a shitty elf, you shitty dwarf?!" she shouted so sharply it hurt my ears a little. "Wasn't it enough just to learn this damn language?!" she demanded, as if she were about to punch him.
"In reality, we're gnomes. Dwarves were just a type of gnome that…" The nervous gnome was cut off again before he could explain. "Dippy, don't get upset," said the boss? gnome, and after speaking, he pressed a small circular button on his right hand.
The elf's green collar lifted slightly, then tightened, squeezing her neck. She froze for a moment before collapsing, knees and hands hitting the ground, back arched, head down, unable to make a single sound.
I thought the collar was just an accessory, but it turned out to be some kind of shock collar.
What the hell? she's not even an animal, Uhh well, I mean she is, but…
"Pippy, that was only for emergencies!" Dippy said, his voice trembling.
"This is an emergency. We need to leave her here quickly without causing a scene. We're right in the middle of the campus and I… I need to go to the bathroom," Pippy said with absolute seriousness, accompanied by a subtle twitch of his eyebrow.
"I-it's not fair… that I can't even speak for this," the elf whined, stretching out her words as she struggled to keep her voice.
Pippy pressed the button again, and instead of staying on her knees, she fell completely face down. The security control was brutal, but considering she was a former war criminal, I guess it was to be expected.
"It's actually fair," Pippy commented. "Instead of talking, You chose to use that stupid vape after being granted permission."
"Ha!" she laughed strangely, as if she still had some control over the situation. "And I don't regret it…" she added before passing out.
Although her body lay as if ragdoll physics had just been enabled, her left hand stayed rigid, clutching the vape as if by reflex.
Is this torture disguised as rehabilitation?
"Pippy, that's enough! She's already passed out!" Dippy pleaded.
"Fine," Pippy said lazily. "Mr. Fuminaru, sign this."
Dippy handed me a paper, a contract titled REHABILITATOR OF ELIËNNE THAL'VARAN.
"El-Eliënne Thal'varan?!"
"No time to think, young man. Sign it, I have to go. Didn't you hear me?" Dippy said.
This can't be. They told me I'd be rehabilitating a former elven war general, not Eliënne Thal'varan.
Damn it
I took the pen in my right hand, trembling. My eyes fixed on the elf, still unconscious on the floor, from which faint purple wisps of smoke rose, as if her body were exhaling everything it contained when she fell.
I can't feel entirely right doing this, but I guess it's the deal she deserves, isn't it? After all, I'm not the one doing it directly, those are the big shots who know where the leeway ends.
Is this abuse? I guess it would be if she were permanently incapacitated, dead, or something like that.
I have no idea, and I can't forget that we're talking about a war criminal. The abuses she committed were probably far worse than this, weren't they?
Uhhh, this is supposed to benefit me too, a mutual benefit. I'm helping her to rehabilitate and be a better person… well, a better elf. Besides, since the program is well-known and sponsored by the university, I'm probably not the only one facing something like this.
Well, all for raising my GPA and helping someone at the same time.
I signed, trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing.