Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor

Kafka ran.

In a world that was about to meet its demise, Kafka ran. Even as the ground trembled and cracks spread across the streets, he continued running without looking back.

Even when buildings collapsed around him, Kafka ran.

Chunks of stone and debris crashed onto the roads. Clouds of dust filled the air, reducing visibility and making every step uncertain, yet he continued forward.

Even when people around him screamed in panic, Kafka ran.

The cries of strangers echoed from every direction. Parents called out for their children. Children cried for their parents. Some begged for help, others screamed in terror at the sight of the Black Dragon.

Kafka gritted his teeth.

Most of the time, people were all just talk.

It was easy to speak of hatred. It was easy to speak of revenge. It was easy to claim that the world deserved to burn when one was removed from the consequences.

Reality was different.

When the moment finally arrived, when ideals collided with reality, the gap between expectation and truth often became painfully obvious.

For Kafka, who had aided in the world’s catastrophe in the hope that everything would finally come to an end, that gap had never felt larger.

He was getting cold feet.

No, perhaps he had always been getting cold feet.

Perhaps he had simply refused to acknowledge it until now.

Hearing the horrific screams of people who had absolutely nothing to do with him, Kafka finally realized something.

This wasn’t it.

This wasn’t what he wanted.

Hatred was a strange thing.

People often imagined it as a desire to destroy others. In reality, more often than not, it began as a desire to stop hurting.

The problem was that many failed to distinguish between the two.

When people suffered long enough, they sometimes convinced themselves that destroying the source of their pain would make them feel better. And when they couldn’t identify the source, they simply chose something else to blame.

The world, society, and other people.

Anyone would do.

Kafka had been no different.

He had mistaken his desire to escape suffering for a desire to see suffering inflicted upon others.

But hearing those screams now, seeing people desperately trying to survive, he finally understood.

Their pain did not lessen his own.

Their fear did not comfort him.

Their deaths would not bring his family back.

No matter how much destruction occurred around him, the emptiness inside him remained exactly the same.

"Ah..."

Kafka stumbled.

His foot caught against broken stone, sending him crashing onto the ground. The impact scraped his hands and knees, but he barely noticed the pain.

Kafka had never had any qualms about dying.

He had nothing to live for anyway.

That was what he had told himself.

That was the conclusion he had repeated over and over again until it became a truth he no longer questioned.

Yet as he lay there, breathing heavily, something felt wrong.

If he truly had nothing to live for, then why was he running?

If death truly meant nothing to him, then why had he fled from the Professor?

Why had fear gripped his heart?

Why had his body instinctively chosen survival?

Growing up, Kafka knew he was special. He was much smarter than his peers and far more mature than most children his age.

Before everything fell apart, Kafka had ambitions and desires just like everyone else.

He had dreams, goals, desires, and a future he looked forward to.

Like any child, he imagined what kind of person he would become when he grew older. He imagined the places he would visit, the things he would accomplish, and the life he would build for himself.

Then tragedy happened.

And somewhere along the way, Kafka convinced himself that the person who once held those dreams had died.

Perhaps that was why this realization hurt so much.

Because hatred had become convenient.

Hatred simplified things.

As long as he hated the world, he never had to think about what he had lost. As long as he focused on revenge, he never had to confront the fact that he was grieving.

It was easier to be angry than it was to be sad.

It was easier to blame others than it was to admit that some wounds simply had no one left to blame.

Kafka slowly pushed himself off the ground.

His heart still pounded within his chest as he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent so long avoiding.

Perhaps he did not want revenge.

Perhaps revenge had simply been the shape his grief had taken.

After all, what was revenge if not a negotiation with reality?

"Someone help me! My husband...!"

Just like that woman, countless people around him were desperately seeking aid, trapped beneath rubble, or searching frantically for missing family members.

Everywhere he looked, people were struggling to survive.

"Huh...?"

But something had caught his attention.

As Kafka scrutinized the woman more carefully, his expression froze.

"Ah..."

Of course, she looked familiar.

It was his mother.

The very same mother who had abandoned him after his father died.

For a moment, Kafka just stood there as if time held no meaning. The screams around him faded into the background.

"Please! Somebody help him!"

Tears streamed down his mother’s face.

In one arm, she tightly held a young child. Before her, a man lay pinned beneath a collapsed section of concrete as a length of exposed steel rebar had pierced straight through his abdomen.

The man groaned weakly.

Every breath looked painful.

"...."

Kafka stared silently.

A strange feeling settled within his chest. Was it hatred? Resentment? Bitterness?

Why was it that he had ended up in a situation like this while his mother had gone on to build a new family, seemingly forgetting all about him?

"...I see."

Kafka lowered his gaze.

Unlike him, his mother had tried to find her own happiness.

If that happiness came at the cost of abandoning him, then she had been willing to make that choice.

Unlike Kafka, who had spent years wallowing in self-pity and resentment, his mother had chosen to continue living.

It was not a pleasant realization. It was certainly not a comforting one. If anything, it hurt.

Yet despite that, Kafka slowly turned around and began walking away.

The best revenge was not revenge at all.

It was success.

It was living well despite everything that had happened.

His mother would suffer the agony of potentially losing her new husband, while Kafka would continue forward and become something greater than the circumstances that had nearly destroyed him.

At least, that was what he wanted to believe.

"Ah... what a shame..."

A bitter laugh escaped him.

It had taken the end of the world for him to realize something so simple. If only he had understood sooner. If only he had more time.

If only he had never conspired with Vanitas Astrea.

Yet even so, Kafka could no longer bring himself to resent the Professor.

Vanitas Astrea might have been responsible for his father’s death. Vanitas Astrea might have been the reason his family fell apart. Yet despite all of that, it was also through Vanitas Astrea that Kafka had finally been forced to confront reality.

"Boy. Are you trying to die?"

"Huh?"

Kafka turned toward the voice.

Standing there was that scary lady, Irene. Much like everyone else, she looked like a complete mess.

"Did Vanitas Astrea abandon you, too?" Irene scoffed. "Hah. Of course he did. He has no use for you anymore, after all."

Kafka frowned. "...Why are you here?"

"Why?"

Irene looked at him as though he had asked the stupidest question imaginable.

"I’m helping people evacuate. Isn’t that obvious?"

She pointed toward the streets behind her.

Several civilians were being escorted away from collapsed buildings, receiving first aid while rescue teams worked tirelessly to pull survivors.

"You should get somewhere safe, too."

"...."

Kafka stared at her.

It was strange.

Just a few days ago, this woman had genuinely wanted him dead after discovering he had been colluding with Vanitas Astrea. The hatred in her eyes back then had been real enough that Kafka never once doubted she would kill him if given the opportunity.

Yet now she was standing here, helping complete strangers.

"...."

Perhaps noticing his confusion, Irene clicked her tongue.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Whatever problems I have with you can wait."

"...."

"If you’re going to survive, then survive. If you’re going to help, then help. Just don’t stand there making that stupid face."

Kafka found himself staring at her.

"...I don’t have the power."

Irene looked at him for a moment before letting out a dry laugh.

"That’s funny coming from someone who helped summon that living nightmare."

Her gaze shifted toward the distant silhouette of the Black Dragon.

"By all means, I shouldn’t even be looking at you like a child. In fact, I should kill you right now."

"...."

Countless people were suffering because of what he had done. Countless people were running for their lives because he had chosen to aid Vanitas Astrea.

Irene clicked her tongue.

She bent down and pulled aside a broken slab of concrete. Several exposed steel reinforcement bars groaned as the rubble shifted, allowing a trapped civilian to crawl free.

"You think guilt makes you special?"

"...."

"You think you’re the first person to regret something?"

"...."

"Tell me, Kafka Rossweisse."

Irene finally turned toward him.

"Do you want to live?"

"...."

Kafka opened his mouth.

No answer came out.

"If not, I’ll gladly kill you right now." Irene’s voice remained flat. "No one in this world would disagree with me for killing a child like you."

"...."

"What is it you want to do, boy?"

"...I want to live."

Irene stared at him.

"Pfft—"

Then she laughed.

"Uh...?"

Of all the reactions he had expected, laughter was not one of them. The confusion on his face only seemed to amuse Irene further.

"Hahaha!" She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "That’s nice and all, but this might genuinely be the end of the world."

Her laughter gradually subsided.

Yet despite her words, there was no mockery in her voice.

"Look up, genius."

Kafka instinctively raised his head.

The Black Dragon still dominated the heavens.

"You picked a hell of a time to discover your will to live."

"...."

"Alright."

"Huh?"

"If you’re done having your little revelation, then tell me something so I can understand."

The wind howled between them.

"What exactly does Vanitas Astrea wish to accomplish?"

* * *

Vanitas walked up the stairs.

Even as the world continued to shake around him, he never once looked back.

The tremors running through the palace, the distant screams echoing throughout the capital, and the overwhelming presence of Araxys all failed to draw his attention away from where he was headed.

Eventually, he arrived at the throne room.

The massive doors had already been opened. Inside, several knights were stationed around the chamber.

"E-Emperor!"

One of the knights immediately rushed forward.

"This is bad!"

Vanitas glanced at him.

The knight’s armor rattled from the force of the tremors. Sweat dripped down his face despite the cold air, and it was obvious he was struggling to maintain his composure.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, we need to evacuate immediately!"

Another tremor shook the palace. Dust fell from the ceiling.

Several knights instinctively looked upward, as though afraid the entire structure would collapse on top of them.

"Reports are coming in from every district! The evacuation routes are overwhelmed, and—"

"Slow down."

"Y-Yes, Your Majesty."

The knight visibly struggled to regain his composure, but eventually managed to calm himself enough to continue.

"The evacuation efforts are ongoing. However, several districts have become inaccessible due to structural collapses. In addition, monster sightings have been reported throughout the outer regions of the capital."

Vanitas nodded. "Casualties?"

"Unknown."

"Estimated?"

"Several thousand."

"I see."

Several knights exchanged uneasy glances. To them, the number was horrifying. Thousands of lives had already been lost, and the catastrophe had only just begun.

"And... Your Majesty... that giant monster... how are we supposed to fight something like that?"

Several others turned toward Vanitas as well. It was the question everyone wanted answered.

"It’s Araxys."

"P-Pardon?"

"The Black Dragon. The creature sealed by the Progenitor Mage, the First Archmage, Zen."

The First Archmage was a legendary figure. Stories of his accomplishments had survived countless generations, to the point where many people regarded him as little more than a myth.

"Y-You mean... the dragon from the legends?"

"The very same."

The room fell silent once more.

Suddenly, the situation became even more terrifying.

Before, they had believed they were facing an unknown monster.

Now they had learned they were facing something that the greatest mage in history had deemed dangerous enough to seal away.

"Your Majesty—"

"It’s alright."

The atmosphere shifted.

Vanitas had noticed it all this time, but a part of him had hoped these people would choose to run away instead of maintaining this farce.

Unfortunately, that hope appeared to have been misplaced.

"Run away now, and I’ll forget this ever happened."

They thought they had been subtle.

But Vanitas had noticed the moment he entered the room that they were activating the same field Index used to seal mana and imprison its targets.

While the formation itself had been concealed well enough to fool most people, hiding it from Vanitas Astrea had never been a realistic possibility.

It was a desperate plan.

They were willing to forgo their own ability to use mana and aura just for the chance of placing Vanitas at a disadvantage. The moment the field fully activated, everyone inside the throne room would be reduced to the same conditions.

That meant if they truly intended to suppress Vanitas here, then this would become a purely physical battle.

"...."

Vanitas slowly looked around the room.

Even now, he could still leave.

Even now, they could still run.

Yet neither side appeared willing to do either.

In the end, perhaps this outcome had been inevitable from the very beginning.

At that moment, a kick shot in from somewhere.

Thwack——!

Raising his arm, Vanitas blocked the strike before it could connect with his head. The impact echoed throughout the throne room, powerful enough to send a gust of wind.

"Hoh." The attacker withdrew his leg. "I didn’t expect you to be good with your hands."

"Inspector."

Vanitas brushed the dust from his sleeve.

His expression remained calm as he scrutinized the man standing before him. Standing there was a member of the Grimreapers, the extermination unit tasked with hunting demons.

The First Inspector of Unit 07, Damien Ryker.

"My gut never failed me." Damien rolled his shoulders. "From the very beginning, you’ve always been fishy, Vanitas Astrea."

The surrounding knights immediately stepped back and drew their weapons.

Several individuals stepped forward.

At first glance, they appeared no different from the surrounding knights. However, the insignias hidden under their cloaks quickly gave them away.

The Grimreapers. Members of the extermination unit tasked with hunting demons and eliminating threats deemed too dangerous to be left alive.

One by one, they emerged from among the knights and began surrounding Vanitas.

Vanitas narrowed his eyes. "That’s Emperor to you."

Damien merely chuckled. "Nah. Did you know? I’m originally from the Coalition."

The grin on his face widened.

"So you’re not my Emperor."

Another tremor shook the palace. Dust fell from the ceiling, yet neither man took his eyes off the other.

"I have to admit." Damien took a long drag from his cigarette before slowly lowering himself into a fighting stance. "I wasn’t expecting this."

"Expecting what?"

"You know." Damien gestured toward the windows. "The end of the world."

His tone was surprisingly casual.

"Honestly, I figured you’d eventually overthrow somebody, start a war, assassinate a few important people, or pull some political nonsense."

He cracked his neck.

"But summoning the Black Dragon?" Damien shook his head. "That’s a little beyond my expectations."

Vanitas stared at him for a moment.

Then he spoke.

"If you were suspicious of me for so long, why never lift a finger?"

"Huh?" Damien looked genuinely confused by the question. "Isn’t it obvious?"

He pointed a thumb at himself.

"That’s not my job. We hunt demons, not corrupt noblemen."

A few nearby Grimreapers chuckled.

For all the chaos surrounding them, Damien’s answer came with an almost absurd level of sincerity.

"You could’ve been plotting treason."

Another shrug.

"You could’ve been embezzling money."

A third shrug.

"You could’ve even been secretly running a criminal syndicate for all I cared."

He flicked away the remains of his cigarette.

"None of that falls under my jurisdiction."

"And this does?"

Vanitas’s voice remained calm.

The smile on Damien’s face gradually disappeared.

For the first time since arriving, the inspector’s expression became serious.

"Hey. Look at yourself in the mirror." Damien’s gaze locked onto Vanitas. "Do you still think you’re human?"

The demon the Grimreapers were now hunting was none other than Vanitas Astrea.

———!

Prepared for all sorts of scenarios, even the Grimreapers were familiar with fighting without relying on mana.

Weapons were drawn, specialized gadgets activated, and formations established as they moved in unison.

They attacked relentlessly.

From every direction, blades, chains, and projectiles descended upon Vanitas. The surrounding knights joined in as well, determined to capitalize on the suppression field while it was still active.

"...."

Yet Vanitas merely stood there with not a trace of concern on his face.

"You know..." His voice echoed. "You people seem to be mistaken. Mana suppressors don’t actually suppress mana. They simply lock mana to a specific threshold."

Crackle——!

"So tell me. What do you think happens when a single person exceeds that threshold?"

An overwhelming surge of mana burst forth from Vanitas’s body. The suppression field trembled as cracks began spreading throughout the formation itself.

Every attack directed at him was rendered meaningless. All weapons ceased movement. Projectiles shattered, and several men were forced backward by the pressure alone.

"The suppressors don’t mean shit."

"F-Fuck..." One of the Grimreapers stared in disbelief. "That’s impossible... These fields could even suppress Archmage Soliette!"

"Turn it off!" Damien’s voice thundered throughout the throne room. "Quickly!"

Several knights immediately rushed toward the formation’s control points.

They barely managed to take a few steps before Vanitas raised a hand.

"Windblade."

A single word.

Yet the resulting gust erupted through the throne room like a storm.

The knight nearest to the formation froze.

Thud!

Then his body collapsed, blood splattering across the floor. Blood splattered across the floor.

The formation remained active.

Silence descended over the throne room.

The reality of the situation finally sank in.

"...."

Vanitas lowered his hand.

"I gave all of you one chance."

"...."

"Don’t blame me for whatever happens next."