Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor

“So your name is Kafka?”

“Yes.”

Margaret carefully observed the boy sitting in front of her.

Truthfully, she had already been surprised enough that Vanitas had somehow ended up keeping another person by his side, much less a child like this. Knowing him, she had expected him to avoid unnecessary attachments whenever possible.

And yet, here he was, apparently dragging around a little boy.

“….”

As Margaret took a closer look at him, she gradually realized something felt strangely familiar.

The aloof expression on his face.

The monotonous tone in his voice.

That oddly detached demeanor that somehow came across as both shy and confident at the same time.

Even the way he sat there felt unnatural for a child his age, as though he were emotionally disconnected from the world around him.

Like a corpse pretending to be alive.

And at that moment, Margaret finally pieced it together.

The boy was practically the spitting image of Vanitas.

Well… aside from the fact that Vanitas was admittedly far more narcissistic.

In any case, aside from that initial introduction, only silence followed afterward.

An awkward silence.

Margaret did not particularly have much experience interacting with children to begin with, and with a child this… strange, she genuinely had no idea what she was supposed to say to him.

Kafka simply sat there quietly, occasionally glancing around the room before lowering his gaze again.

Even his mannerisms felt oddly stiff, as though he had learned how to imitate human interaction rather than naturally understanding it.

And somehow… that only made him resemble Vanitas even more.

Margaret let out a sigh internally.

“…Do you eat properly?” she suddenly asked.

The moment the words left her mouth, even she realized how ridiculous the question sounded.

Kafka blinked slowly.

“…I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I eat when there’s food.”

“….”

That answer somehow felt even more concerning.

Margaret rubbed her forehead briefly before letting out another sigh.

“…And when there isn’t?”

Kafka tilted his head slightly, as though the answer should have been obvious.

“Then I don’t.”

“…That is not how that’s supposed to work.”

Kafka remained silent for a moment before speaking.

“Only if you’re privileged.”

“….”

Margaret’s expression paused slightly at that response.

The boy slowly lowered the pastry in his hands before lifting his gaze toward her, his dull, crimson eyes scrutinizing her face.

“You’re Miss Margaret, aren’t you?” Kafka asked. “I’ve seen you before.”

“…Yes?”

“It was when my father got drafted into the military,” Kafka continued. “You were his commander.”

At those words, Margaret felt a chill run down her spine.

Kafka continued staring at her.

“You let him die.”

“….”

“You killed him.”

There was no anger or resentment in Kafka’s voice. He spoke with the same detached calmness he had shown since the beginning of their conversation, as though he were merely stating a simple fact rather than accusing her of something unforgivable.

“….”

Margaret remained silent for several moments, unable to immediately respond.

Because the cruelest part was that she could not truly deny his accusation either. Commanders gave orders, soldiers obeyed them, and eventually people died.

That was the reality of the battlefield, no matter how noble others tried to portray it.

But while soldiers eventually became numbers on reports to the military, to the families left behind, they remained fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons.

“…What was his name?” Margaret eventually asked.

Kafka blinked once, seemingly surprised she had even bothered asking in the first place.

“Hermann,” he answered. “Hermann Rossweisse. But in the Crusade Order, he was known as Sancho.”

“…I see.”

The truth was, she did not remember him at all.

At the time, she had been far too absorbed in her responsibilities to memorize the names of every knight serving under her command.

There had been too many battles, too many casualties, and too many reports piled endlessly upon one another. Eventually, people had stopped feeling like individuals and instead became numbers attached to objectives and military operations.

And during that particular period of her life, the only thing she truly cared about was erasing whatever had been tormenting Vanitas.

Margaret remembered becoming obsessed with keeping him alive, to the point where everything else around her gradually became secondary.

Because back then, at any point, Vanitas would’ve taken his own life.

That was why the soldiers under her command, the casualties, and the grieving families left behind, she had acknowledged them, certainly. But she had never truly looked at them.

“…I don’t remember him,” Margaret admitted honestly after a long silence. “I should lie and pretend otherwise, but I don’t.”

“Okay.”

That simple response somehow made Margaret feel even worse. Because there was no disappointment in his voice. As though he had never expected someone like her to remember his father in the first place.

Margaret slowly looked at the boy sitting across from her before asking, “Do you… resent me?”

“Asking the obvious.”

“….”

“But even if I did, what exactly am I supposed to do about it?”

“….”

“Besides, you weren’t the one who drafted him. You weren’t the one who started the war either.”

“…But I still sent him there.”

“Yes.”

Margaret lowered her gaze at that straightforward answer.

Kafka tilted his head before continuing.

“Mister Vanitas once told me that people like you are strange.”

“…What did he say exactly?”

“He said commanders are people who spend their whole lives trying to convince themselves that sacrificing others was necessary.”

“…That sounds like something he’d say.”

Kafka nodded. “He also said the reason people like you suffer so much is because you’re human enough to feel guilty but not weak enough to stop.”

Margaret found herself unable to respond immediately.

No commander’s hands remained clean forever. Eventually, people died by order, and the more authority one possessed, the heavier those deaths became.

Yet despite knowing that, orders still kept being given anyway.

Because stopping often meant even more people would die instead.

“…Do you hate war?” Margaret suddenly asked.

“I think poor people don’t really have the luxury to hate it.”

Margaret slowly frowned.

Kafka continued speaking in that same calm tone.

“When nobles fight, they call it politics. When knights fight, they call it honor. But when ordinary people fight, it’s usually because they’re hungry.”

The room gradually fell silent once more.

And for some reason, Margaret suddenly understood why Vanitas had chosen to keep this child around.

Despite his young age, Kafka possessed an outlook on life that no child should have ever developed in the first place. The way he spoke lacked the emotional impulsiveness typical of children his age.

And perhaps that was exactly why Vanitas saw himself in the boy.

Because Vanitas himself had always been the same.

A person who looked at the world too realistically.

“…You sound older than you should be,” she said. “A child should act like a child…”

“My father used to say that too.”

“….”

“He said children are supposed to complain more,” Kafka continued. “But I didn’t really understand how.”

“…Why?”

Kafka thought about the question for a moment before answering.

“Because whenever I complained, my parents looked more tired.”

The answer immediately caused Margaret’s chest to constrict.

Kafka continued speaking in the same detached tone, completely unaware of how heavy his words actually sounded.

“So I stopped.”

“….”

The boy’s perspective felt painfully familiar to her.

People who matured too early were usually not gifted or particularly wise beyond their years.

They were simply children who had been denied the luxury of remaining children in the first place.

Much like herself, who had lost everything while growing up.

Much like Vanitas, who had long since lost whatever innocence he had before even becoming an adult.

People had often romanticized maturity, treating it as something admirable or impressive.

But in reality, most children only became “mature” after experiencing things they should never have been forced to endure at such an age.

“…Kafka,” Margaret suddenly called out. “When this war ends… what do you want to do afterward?”

The boy looked toward her. For the first time since their conversation began, Kafka appeared genuinely caught off guard by a question.

“…Afterward?”

“Yes.”

Kafka lowered his gaze again.

It almost looked as though he had never truly considered the possibility of an “afterward” existing in the first place.

After several moments of silence, he finally answered.

“…I don’t know.”

That answer sounded strangely empty.

“Who cares anyway?”

“….”

“We’re all going to die eventually.”

For some reason, hearing those words coming from a child immediately irritated Margaret.

No, more than irritated her, it angered her.

The sheer resignation in Kafka’s voice felt far too similar to the way Vanitas occasionally spoke whenever he disregarded his own life as though it held no value.

Hearing that same outlook come from a boy this young felt fundamentally wrong.

Without thinking much about it, Margaret suddenly grabbed another pastry from the nearby plate before holding it directly toward Kafka.

“Eat.”

Kafka blinked his eyes. “…What?”

“Eat this too.”

Kafka stared at the pastry in confusion.

“…Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“…That doesn’t answer the question.”

Margaret frowned slightly before forcefully pressing the pastry against his mouth anyway.

“You’re too gloomy for a child.”

“What’s it to you—Mmph!”

Kafka instinctively grabbed the pastry before it completely smashed against his face.

Margaret crossed her arms afterward with a dissatisfied expression.

“What exactly are you two doing?”

At that moment, Vanitas, who had apparently finished whatever he had been occupied with, turned toward the two of them with a frown on his face.

Margaret awkwardly looked away for a brief moment.

“Uh…”

Nom. Nom. Nom.

* * *

For the past several months, the citizens of the Empire had been met with nothing but silence.

Despite the escalating civil unrest, the growing number of deaths, and the increasingly violent clashes between factions throughout the Empire, the Imperial Palace itself had remained eerily quiet.

There had been no official announcements made and no declarations issued. The nobles continued fighting amongst themselves while the common people were left to speculate endlessly about the state of the Empire.

And that silence, more than anything else, had only worsened the panic.

Meanwhile, the more radical factions insisted the Empire itself had already fallen and that the current government was merely desperately pretending otherwise.

But today, for the very first time since the civil war began, the Emperor himself was finally about to address the public directly.

Franz Barielle Aetherion.

The very symbol of the Empire.

From early morning onward, the streets of the capital had already become crowded with citizens gathering around plazas, public broadcasting screens, taverns, and communication stations capable of transmitting the Emperor’s speech.

Even those who hated the monarchy still came.

Because, regardless of political beliefs, everyone understood that whatever Franz said today would determine the direction of the Empire moving forward.

Inside ordinary homes, citizens listened nervously, many of them anxiously waiting for reassurance that things would somehow return to normal.

Inside military barracks, knights who had once pointed their blades against the Emperor waited in silence for the same speech.

Inside noble estates, aristocrats quietly gathered within grand halls while attempting to predict the nature of Franz’s upcoming declaration.

Would he declare martial law across the Empire?

Would he formally acknowledge the rebellion and the factions opposing the crown?

Would he publicly execute the nobles responsible for fueling the unrest?

Meanwhile, far away from the anxious crowds awaiting his appearance, Franz Barielle Aetherion calmly adjusted the sleeves of his imperial robes before turning toward the person standing nearby.

“How do I look, my friend?” Franz asked while slightly spreading his arms.

The golden embroidery woven throughout the robes sparkled, resembling flowing strands of sunlight. Combined with his golden-blonde hair and overwhelming presence, the Emperor genuinely resembled the living symbol of the Empire itself.

Vanitas glanced at him briefly before answering.

“The Golden Mane,” he replied. “A fitting appearance for the Emperor of the Empire.”

Franz immediately burst into laughter.

“Haha! Good. Very good!”

The Emperor looked genuinely pleased by the response as he turned back toward the mirror once more.

For a moment, silence settled throughout the room while Franz calmly adjusted the sleeves of his robes one final time.

Then, without looking back, he spoke again.

“Vanitas.”

“What?”

“…You know where to find me, right?”

“Of course.”

At that answer, Franz let out an amused breath before giving a small nod.

“Alright,” he said. “That puts me at ease.”

Without further delay, Franz finally stepped forward and unveiled himself upon the grand balcony overlooking the entirety of Aetherion.

The moment he appeared, the atmosphere across the Imperial Palace shifted instantly.

Beneath him stood the massive gates of the palace alongside countless knights who had yet to betray the crown as they maintained absolute vigilance over the capital.

Layers of security had already been established throughout the surrounding districts to ensure that no assassins, outsiders, or rioting civilians could breach the palace grounds during the Emperor’s address.

And even then, the tension remained palpable.

Some of the knights standing guard below had likely lost friends to the civil conflict already. Others probably had family members supporting opposing factions beyond the capital itself.

Yet despite all of that, at this moment, they still stood underneath the banner of Aetherion.

Franz slowly stepped toward the edge of the balcony.

From there, the entirety of the capital stretched endlessly before him.

The towering white structures.

The people gathering throughout plazas and streets far below.

And beyond all of that, an Empire on the verge of collapse.

For several moments, Franz simply stood there in complete silence, allowing the citizens to fully witness him.

Because appearances mattered.

And in times like these, the mere sight of the Emperor standing tall before the people was enough to calm countless fears.

“Greetings.”

Then, Franz Barielle Aetherion finally began to speak.