Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor-Chapter 143 : Marionette [3]

Several old articles were laid out before Karina, scattered across the table—each penned by the same journalist: William Camus.

They weren't particularly important, nor significant in the grand scheme of things. But that wasn't what mattered.

"Is there nothing on his final work?" Karina asked, eyes scanning the papers.

"No," Alex replied. "As I said, it was discarded."

"Then what?" she snapped. "Am I just supposed to take your word for it?"

"I wasn't particularly close to your father, Miss Maeril," Alex said calmly. "But what I can tell you is this. I'm likely the only person still alive who knew what he was investigating before he disappeared."

Karina's eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

"In any case, yes," Alex continued. "He was tracking Vanitas Astrea. That was his last known activity. And while I'm reluctant to admit it… it didn't strike me as anything significant at the time. I was more focused on everything else happening then."

"Like what?"

"The Imperial Queen's death."

A heavy silence settled between them before Alex finally spoke again.

"Well… this is all I can offer to help you, Miss Maeril. If you truly intend to pursue this further, then let me give you one piece of advice. Don't lose yourself along the way."

After all, Vanitas Astrea was already dead. The truth might still be out there, but where would Karina even end up at the end of that road?

Chasing a ghost?

"He was… my senior professor, you know," she said quietly, almost as if speaking to herself.

"What—?" Alex blinked in surprise, nearly choking on his drink.

Karina nodded slowly, eyes cast downward. "If what you're saying is true… if he really was connected to my father's disappearance… then I don't know anymore…"

Her voice trembled slightly. She couldn't reconcile the image of the man who'd guided her, challenged her, supported her, being the one responsible for her father's death.

As much as it didn't make sense, it didn't add up at all.

And yet, the pieces were starting to fit in ways she hadn't wanted them to. What unsettled her most was a certain memory she had kept quiet about.

She had once asked the Headmaster how she'd even been considered a prospect for hiring. Her talents had been acknowledged, yes, but the person who had formally recommended her?

It was none other than Vanitas Astrea.

Whether it had been out of pity… or a gesture of consolation… she couldn't say.

Without another word, Karina stood from her seat.

"What are you planning on doing now?" Alex asked.

"I don't know."

He watched her in silence.

"I really don't know."

* * *

"Hoo…."

Franz stared at his reflection in the mirror, water dripping from his hair and soaking his shirt. He had just finished receiving formal respects from several high-ranking aristocrats of neighboring empires.

With his father, the Emperor, plunged into grief after Astrid's death, Franz had been forced to stand in his place.

He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Why?"

His expression remained calm and indifferent, as if the death of his younger sister hadn't touched him at all.

He had always known of Astrid's latent potential. In his mind, he had once envisioned her standing beside him in the future.

But there had always been a problem. Astrid lacked ambition.

Worse yet, her persistent stance on equality. Her constant advocacy for commoners' rights had never sat right with him. It clashed with his ideals, with his view of the natural order.

That was why, subtly and patiently, he had worked behind the scenes to 'set her straight. To mold her into what he believed she should become.

Yet now, as he stod with those thoughts heavy in his mind, something didn't add up.

Despite everything… despite family…

"...."

He just couldn't bring himself to cry.

"How are you holding up, Irene?" he muttered under his breath.

Oddly enough, Irene hadn't shown herself even once. He knew how close she had been to Astrid—perhaps even more than he had ever been.

Was she mourning in silence? Crushed under the same grief that consumed their father?

Or was it something else entirely?

"Ah…"

Suddenly, a sharp pulse surged through his stigmata, and in an instant, waves of foreign information flooded his mind.

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I see."

Irene was doing something far more intriguing. Something that extended well beyond the confines of the Imperial Palace.

* * *

"To what do I owe this visit, Princess Irene?"

Inside the grand drawing room of the Esmeralda Duke's palace, Irene sat elegantly on an opulent sofa with her legs elegantly crossed.

"It's nothing much, Duke Esmeralda," Irene replied, a polite smile tugging at her lips. "I merely thought to stop by and express my gratitude for the Esmeralda Duchy's generous homage to my little sister."

"Ah, it's nothing, truly," Dante Esmeralda responded, offering a courteous nod. "Her Highness was a bright star of the Empire. It was only natural."

"Indeed. A star extinguished far too soon."

Dante hesitated for a moment. "If there's anything the Duchy can offer in support, I hope you'll consider us an ally in your grief."

"Oh, I do," Irene replied lightly, swirling the tea in her porcelain cup. "Which is precisely why I came."

A subtle silence settled between them. One laced not with pleasantries, but a mental clash. Dante could practically feel a bead of sweat trail down the back of his neck.

He wasn't wrong to assume that she knew.

He wasn't sure how, but he was certain Irene knew about the Ainsleys' involvement in Astrid's death. And by extension, she had come to make it known without so much as saying it outright.

But what puzzled him was why she had come here directly. It was no secret that Aetherion's first princess had practically defected to the Theocracy, despite the Imperial Family avoiding to acknowledge it publicly.

He cleared his throat, attempting to maintain composure. "Then… what matter does Her Imperial Highness wish to discuss?"

Irene met his gaze evenly, her golden eyes glimmering underneath the pale winter sun.

"I simply wish to ensure that such tragedies do not repeat themselves," she said calmly. "You understand, don't you, Duke? The importance of… accountability."

Dante's brow lifted slightly. "Accountability? On what grounds, Your Highness?"

Was she probing him? Testing his reaction?

Perhaps the Princess wasn't here to make accusations, but to confirm suspicions. To see if the Esmeralda and Ainsley families truly had a hand in the affair.

A subtle move. A psychological maneuver meant to make him slip.

But Dante Esmeralda had not earned his title by folding easily.

"Of course, I agree with Your Highness. Accountability is the backbone of order. But if you've come here implying that my House holds any such burden, I must express concern over how such a conclusion was drawn."

"I said nothing of the sort, Duke Esmeralda," she replied. "But given how rumors spread these days in… unofficial sources, it would be prudent for the Esmeralda Duchy to consider its public stance before others decide it for them."

"Unofficial sources?"

"Yes," Irene said with a nod. "It's a fact that the Esmeraldas maintain intimate ties with the Duchy of Omerta and the Duchy of Rosetta. And interestingly enough, there are also rumors originating from none other than the University Tower—that the Ainsley family had long-standing animosity with the victim… Vanitas Astrea."

"...."

Dante swallowed hard. The implications were beginning to settle in.

For context, the Duchy of Omerta oversaw the express railway networks that connected the entire Empire. Meanwhile, the Duchy of Rosetta had pioneered the innovation of magical gunpowder.

Dante's jaw tightened, his expression hardening. "Are you implying that my family had something to do with the train attack?"

"Oh, no," Irene replied, a slight smirk curling on her lips. "When did I ever say that? I was simply pointing out how curious it would be… if such rumor reached the ears of certain investigative committees. Especially when names like Omerta, Esmeralda, and Rosetta are involved."

"...."

"It would be unfortunate, wouldn't it?" she continued. "For rumors to turn into questions. For questions to demand answers. For the public to lose trust in those who stand at the top of noble society. Just imagine the headlines, 'The Empire's Dukes Involved in Treason?' What an inconvenience that would be, wouldn't it?"

Dante exhaled slowly, licking his lips. "I don't understand… Your Highness. I've served the Empire faithfully for years. This old man no longer holds the spark he once had."

Irene's golden eyes glinted beneath her lashes. "You see, Duke Esmeralda… I know things."

"...."

"Am I expected to overlook the bribes you accepted from my brother?" she continued. "The same bribes you took while he plotted to send assassins after me when I was barely more than a child?"

Dante's expression tensed.

"Or shall I pretend I'm unaware of your hand in suppressing commoner movements across the western provinces?" she added. "How you funded private enforcers to dismantle protests and buy silence with blood and coins?"

A cold silence settled between them, and Irene leaned forward.

"And yet you high nobles whisper behind my back," she continued. "Calling it a defection, as if I ever had a choice to begin with."

Dante remained motionless, but his jaw tightened.

"You all act like guardians of tradition and virtue," Irene said, rising to her feet. "But you were the first to discard both the moment it suited your interests. You call me a traitor, but it was this system, your system, that pushed me out."

She stepped slowly toward the window, her figure reflecting against the frost-glazed glass.

"I didn't defect," she said. "I was exiled in all but name."

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"And now?" Dante asked after a pause, trying to mask the unease in his voice. "What is it you intend to do?"

Irene turned to him, her expression indifferent.

"Now?" she began. "Now, I intend to return everything the Empire gave me."

"...."

"Starting with those who had a hand in my sister's death."

Dante's knuckles turned white against the armrest. "And if I say I had nothing to do with it?"

"Then you have nothing to fear," she replied, stepping toward the door. "But if you did… pray I never find the proof."

With that, she exited the room, leaving the Duke in silence.

For a long moment, Dante remained still with his eyes fixed on the door.

Then, from the shadows, a butler emerged. "What are your orders, Lord Esmeralda?"

Dante licked his dry lips, his grim expression darkening.

"Kill her."

* * *

The Theocracy was divided into several districts, each overseen by a church responsible for maintaining its internal affairs.

"Confession of sin is the evidence of God's mercy."

——Thank you, Father Christopher.

Even in the late hours of the night, the church remained open to all who sought to confess their sins.

Father Christopher Orlando, the presiding priest of the Raphael District, never forgot to offer assistance to those in need. It was the way of God, after all.

——God is truly our salvation.

"And remember," he often said. "It is not I who have helped you, but merely the will of the Lord."

Through his years of service, Father Christopher had earned the respect of the entire district. Even those who were not devout followers held the church in high regard for its charity and benevolence.

And while Christopher was not blind to those who sought to exploit that kindness, he never turned away those in need.

Even those with malicious intent, he believed, were merely lost children still capable of redemption in the eyes of God.

At that moment, just as Father Christopher had hoped it would be the final confession of the night, the door to the confessional booth creaked open once more.

Another visitor had come.

He sighed softly, then adjusted his robe and settled back into the seat.

"What brings you here, my child?" he asked gently.

——....

Silence.

The man on the other side of the screen said nothing at first. Even time, Christopher believed, was a sacred virtue. Wasting it without purpose was, in a way, a sin of its own.

Then, finally, a voice came.

——I've come to confess my sins, Father.

Christopher nodded, folding his hands. "Speak, then. Let your burden be shared."

Another pause.

——But I wonder… will you listen without judgment?

"I do not judge," Christopher replied. "I only listen. It is God who sees your soul."

——Then forgive me, Father… for the sins I am about to commit.

Christopher's eyes narrowed slightly. "...About to commit?"

——Yes. The blood has not yet been spilled. But it will be.

A chill ran down the old priest's spine. Yet his voice remained composed.

"Do you seek redemption… or absolution for what you've already decided to do?"

——Neither.

"...."

——Just as God forgives, God also punishes. And in its own way… that too is a form of forgiveness.

Christopher's grip tightened around his rosary, feeling the polished beads cold in his palm.

"….Vengeance is not yours to wield," he said. "Judgment belongs only to the Divine."

——Perhaps. But I am merely the hand that carries it out.

"That is not for you to decide, my child," Christopher replied, steadily reaching for the button. "Repentance is not a justification… and absolution is not a tool to cleanse the stains of premeditated sin."

Another psycho.

It wasn't the first time he had listened to a twisted interpretation of scripture wrapped in delusion. Thankfully, the church was not without means to deal with such individuals.

There were capable hands trained for judgment, should it come to that.

"But If you truly believe otherwise, then you are no longer here to confess… You are here to justify."

A click.

Christopher had already pressed the button to call for help.

——Maybe. But does it matter? You listened. That is enough.

But as the seconds ticked by, no one came.

"...."

A chill crept up Christopher's spine at that moment.

——Just as you are the hand of God for repentance, Father Christopher… I am the hand that delivers divine punishment.

"W-What are you saying—"

——And you, Father Raphael… must be judged.

"Wait—"

Bang—!

A gunshot rang out. The bullet pierced cleanly through the confessional booth, striking Christopher squarely in the forehead. His body slumped forward as the rosary slipped from his fingers.

On the other side of the partition, the figure calmly stood, adjusting the brim of his fedora. Hazel-brown hair fell slightly over his forehead, and his emerald-green eyes glinted under the pale moonlight streaming through the stained glass windows.

To put things into perspective, Father Christopher had long operated a scheme under the guise of benevolence. Though lauded for his charity, he was in fact the orchestrator behind a series of human trafficking operations rooted deep within the Raphael District.

"...."

He stepped out of the booth and surveyed the sanctuary.

Lifeless bodies in priestly robes lay sprawled across the floor.

Flick—!

With a snap of his fingers, magic sparked at his fingertips. The blood pooling beneath the corpses shifted and slithered across the cold stone floor.

Slowly, the crimson trail began to form a single word.

Ripper.