Chapter 132: Rainy Night

Amid the deafening roar of countless machines and grinding gears.

Amid Professor Meladomir’s frenzied exclamations.

Muen stood frozen in place.

What person, what construct, what authority, what throne?

A throne, that kind of thing—was that even something one could manufacture?

And this terrifying contraption that felt like it should only be pulled out at the endgame for the protagonist to shoulder in a life-or-death struggle against the final boss—what the hell was going on with this?

By the plot of the original novel, they hadn’t even cleared the Academy Arc yet, damn it!

“I had originally calculated that I would awaken five years from now to carry out this plan anew.”

In Meladomir’s amber eyes, a flicker of wistfulness appeared:

“But since I awakened early, and the course of fate has grown so chaotic even I can no longer predict it, I have no choice but to act ahead of schedule.”

So this thing really was supposed to be some late-stage final-boss-tier weapon?!

“Then... Professor Meladomir, why did you call me here, exactly?”

Muen’s knees were buckling. Even his speech had gone unsteady.

“I don’t really think I’m in any position to help...”

Muen had initially assumed Professor Meladomir wanted to use him for some terrifying, forbidden magic experiment. He’d mentally prepared himself to either succeed or die trying before even coming here.

But instead, she pulled this thing out?

What was he supposed to do with that? He couldn’t even understand how the gears were floating and moving on their own—what could he do except crouch in a corner ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) waving a little flag and cheering “Wow, boss, so cool”?

“Well, as for that...”

Professor Meladomir suddenly turned back toward him and flashed a smile with deeper meaning.

Muen jolted upright under her gaze, clutching at his collar and retreating step by step.

“W-what are you planning?”

“Well, even though I shouted a bit dramatically just now, this is only a prototype of a throne. It’s far from being a real one.”

Professor Meladomir spoke with an utterly innocent expression:

“After all, something dead, crafted from alchemy and magic—how could it possibly become a true throne on the level of a deity?”

“R-right? So then...?”

“So...”

Meladomir waved her petite hand, as if encompassing the entirety of the space around her.

“They need a vessel. A living vessel.”

“...A vessel?”

Muen’s brain short-circuited for a moment.

Then it was as if someone had dropped a Tsar Bomba into his skull—his scalp went numb with the shock.

“A vessel? Who?”

“Who else would it be?”

Professor Meladomir tilted her head in confusion:

“Is there a third person here?”

“Me?”

Muen glanced at the mechanical creation—its full form still completely indiscernible, unfathomably massive—then looked down at his own tiny arms and legs, shaking his head furiously.

“No way, no way! It’s too big! It won’t fit!”

“It will!”

“There’s no way! I’ll be ripped apart!”

“I said it’ll fit, so it’ll fit!”

Meladomir declared with steel conviction:

“Of course, it’s not like I’ll just stuff the entire thing into your body as-is. I’ll be making some improvements.”

“Improvements?”

Muen gestured vaguely. “Like, you’ll shrink it down super small, like pocket-sized?”

“No, I’ll be modifying you so anything can be stuffed inside,” Meladomir said matter-of-factly.

“...”

After a short silence, Muen finally seemed to arrive at a conclusion. He lifted his head, expression grave.

“So, is it too late for me to get off this ride?”

“You want to leave?”

Meladomir sneered.

Then she snapped her fingers.

With the grinding of mechanical pivots, the massive door behind them slammed shut.

Immediately afterward came a cacophony of locking mechanisms engaging in rapid succession.

“You think you can just take my blades and walk away? The door’s been welded shut.”

Behind Meladomir, drills, saws, axes, screwdrivers, mechanical arms—all kinds of tools unfurled like a peacock’s tail, each gleaming with a cold metallic light that drained all color from Muen’s face.

“Are you ready to receive your teacher’s love, dear disciple?” Meladomir asked with a beaming, gentle smile.

...

...

That night.

Lower district of Bellrand.

The rain washed over the muddy ground, leaving behind twisted shapes like the work of an abstract painter.

Under the dim sky, a girl with hair in two buns strained to hold up a large umbrella, shielding the silver-haired figure beside her from the pouring rain.

But that silver figure, as if bothered by the obstruction, pushed the umbrella aside and stepped directly into the deluge, not caring in the slightest as his uniform was soaked through in an instant.

Ahead of them, within an area cordoned off by bright yellow police tape, the lights blazed.

A number of black-clad figures in raincoats were busy at work near the riverbank, meticulously collecting something, occasionally placing small numbered markers on the ground.

At the center of their activity, a white chalk outline faintly marked the contours of a body.

It was clearly a murder scene.

Celicia lifted the police tape and walked straight to the center. Staring down at the corpse in the familiar academy uniform, her icy expression remained unreadable—but her hands had clenched into tight fists, knuckles pale.

“Your Highness.”

A balding middle-aged man had approached her at some point. He was dabbing his face incessantly with a handkerchief, though it was unclear whether he was wiping away sweat or rain.

“We’ve identified the victim.”

“Speak.”

“Teck Rodd. He was indeed a second-year student at Saint Maria Academy.”

“Rodd?”

“He’s the fourth son of Count Rodd. Despite having three older brothers, his considerable talent had made him the Count’s favored heir.”

Before he could finish—

A commotion erupted at the edge of the scene.

A steed neighed in protest.

A grim-faced man stepped out of a carriage engraved with the Rodd family crest and barked at the guards blocking his path:

“Let me through! Do you know who I am? I’m Count Rodd! I demand to see my son!”

The scene descended into chaos.

The guards accompanying Count Rodd clashed with those maintaining order. In the confusion, even the sound of the rain became hard to discern.

“Make him get lost.”

Celicia’s voice rang out cold and sharp.

“Eh?”

The balding man blinked. “Word-for-word?”

“Word-for-word.”

Celicia paused.

“And tell him—I’ll give him an explanation.”

And so, with Celicia’s assurance, Count Rodd left in fury but could only withdraw in frustration. Silence returned to the site. The black-clad guards resumed gathering evidence without a word, leaving only the sound of the rain to fill the world.

Celicia looked down at the body again.

The blood surrounding it had been washed away by the rain, but the corpse’s chest remained stained a deep, ominous red.

Through the shredded uniform over the left breast, one could vaguely see—something important was missing.

“The cause of death?”

Celicia withdrew her gaze.

“As... as Your Highness can see.”

The balding man wiped furiously at a forehead that wouldn’t dry and said,

“The victim died... from cardiac extraction.”