Chapter: The Smiling Lunatic
A shiver coursed through my entire body, and I felt a sharp, sympathetic ache in my genitals. In a state of daze, I imagined a body riddled with tiny punctures, stripped of everything but the eyes.
The mere thought was bone-chilling. How could a human being endure such a thing? And could anyone who underwent that experience ever remain truly sane?
Regret began to seep into my veins. Why on earth did I sign that contract? Was I in my right mind?
Yes, I value life more than anything, but that doesn't mean life is worth clinging to in every circumstance. There are exceptional cases where death is a mercy—a relief.
Like this moment. Just passing through it makes recovering from the trauma nearly impossible; it would leave one without an appetite for months.
To what depth of depravity has this Academy sunk? And why is this cursed instructor enjoying the description so much? Why does he revel in our fear? Is he the type who wishes suffering upon everyone because he suffered himself?
I checked on the girl sitting beside me—Miranda. Her face was ashen, a sickly yellow hue clouding her features. I bet you wouldn't see such an expression unless death itself visited a criminal. It was as if every belief she held about life had been demolished.
Feeling a pang of pity, I averted my gaze. That face—the image I held in my mind only yesterday, a face more captivating than most women I had ever met—now looked like a face that had never known beauty at all.
I scanned the entire classroom, and the first thing that struck me was Amanda's composure. Despite her icy demeanor, a flicker of disgust appeared on her face for the first time since I had known her.
Excluding her, everyone was terrified beyond belief.
I returned my gaze to the instructor. My terror and revulsion were met only by a grin that split his face. With eyes shimmering as if they held all the treasures of the world, he spoke:
"Don't worry, in these next two weeks..."
He trailed off, eyeing our faces which were starving for a shred of hope, then finished:
"You will endure agony that will drive you mad—or, at the very least, it will develop your tolerance for pain. Hahaha!"
At that moment, I was certain: this teacher is insane. It seems he truly lives up to his name; "Bam," as if he were the byproduct of a total explosion of humanity.
Once again, the instructor sat on his chair. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a stuffed loaf of bread. He wiped his mouth with a napkin after taking a bite, then tucked the wrapped bread back into its place.
He stood up, combed his hair for the second time, and said:
"It seems I've strayed from the lesson… let's pick up where we left off. Ah, yes."
"Since we have already confirmed your magical talent—which is the sole reason you were granted the chance to enter the Academy—let us continue."
"In any case, the Ritual of Defilement is the most vital step to becoming a mage. It requires injecting vast quantities of beast blood into your body, but..."
He warned us, his tone sharpening:
"Beast blood contains a ratio of madness and impurities reaching sixty-five percent. That is the standard level, at least."
"However, since you are beginners who have yet to enter the world of magic or the supernatural, we have lowered the ratio to fifty percent—out of the kindness and mercy of our hearts."
"So, do not forget to thank the Academy. If it were up to me, to be honest, I wouldn't have lowered it at all."
He glanced at the class and noticed that the shocks were no longer as visible as before. He grumbled dismissively:
"Ah… you aren't fun anymore. The only reason I accepted this job was to feast my eyes on the suffering of newcomers."
"So please, for the sake of your dear teacher, hurt… suffer… please, just this once. This is the only reason I cling to life."
"Don't you think it's worth it? I am teaching you magic!"
The classroom froze completely. Tongues lost the power of speech, and faces forgot how to express. It was the aftermath of a madman spouting nonsense beyond logic. Did we even ask you to teach us? We were snatched from our homes, and now you don't just ask—you beg us to suffer?
This was what the features of most in the class shouted, but no one dared to speak. To provoke such madness is a madness in itself. Then, a beautiful, cold voice rang out:
"Instructor Bam, you haven't explained anything yet, and the session has already ended."
It was said with absolute frigidity.
Instructor Bam's face twisted into a scowl. He looked aggressively toward the speaker, but as soon as he realized who she was, his rage vanished. He spoke in an apologetic tone:
"I am sorry, Miss Amanda. It seems I lost myself."
"Since the session is over, I will conclude the explanation tomorrow."
He then turned to the rest of us and said:
"You have one hour to prepare yourselves, mentally and physically. Consider it a rest period, because you are..."
With an unsettling smile spreading across his face, he said:
"Because you are going to suff—"
Before he could finish, Amanda interrupted him again, her voice even colder this time:
"Instructor, please clear the classroom. Your time is up."
The instructor looked at her and said, "Very well."
He exited the classroom as quickly as he had entered, without warning.
But I caught a glimpse of his expression as he left. His face was filled with rage and malice. That face made his intentions clear—intentions that certainly boded ill for whoever they were aimed at.
.
And from the looks of it, our troubles with this mad wretch are far from over.