NOVEL WEB Ch. 7
Chapter 7
The moment Henrik stepped onto the dais, the hall fell as silent as if every student had been strangled.
Curiosity, suspicion, and-buried just beneath-outright dismissal.
Hundreds of eyes pinned him in place, but he kept the cord of his nerves pulled tight and greeted them calmly.
“Did I miscalculate?”
The tepid response made him cock his head.
When the Department of Magic and the Knighthood professors had been introduced, the applause had been thunderous; now no one lifted a hand.
He had worn the black suit Ted provided, had fussed with his hair until every strand obeyed-yet the room felt colder than a tomb.
As he descended the steps, Ted clapped a consoling hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t look so glum. The Palace is still sitting on your file; they haven’t announced the sovereign-class kill. Once the story breaks, they’ll look at you differently.”
“Good. For a second I thought you were going to blurt it out yourself.”
“Information that sensitive? If I’d spilled, the duchy would have my head.”
A first meeting with the students.
The welcome had been frosty, but Henrik walked away counting it as experience gained-nothing more, nothing less.
* * *
“Hmph, Demonology. Sounds like a joke major.”
The girl sniffed, glaring at the man in the ill-fitting black suit.
He stood stiff-hipped, clearly unaccustomed to crowds.
“The dean’s praise was just charity. No matter how famous he is, he’s here to milk the academy for coin like every other washed-up Hunter.”
She sighed, and the sentiment rippled through the rows around her.
None of them saw the point of Demonology.
The demons roaming the countryside were bottom-feeders; a half-competent mage could exterminate them between breakfast and lunch.
Paying tuition to learn how felt like buying a manual on squashing mosquitoes.
“An elite like me has better things to do.”
Demonology was a filler course, nothing more.
The confident girl’s name was Amecitia Flammeur.
Eldest daughter of Count Flammeur, she had entered Sefira Academy on a full scholarship earned by raw grades.
She planned to double-major in Magic and Knighthood, graduate as a battle-mage, and drag her declining house back into prominence.
“No point memorizing the face of a professor I’ll never need.”
She tossed her head and walked away, unaware she would regret those words before the week ended.
* * *
Course-registration day.
Amecitia’s hands shook as she scanned the board.
“This... this can’t be happening!”
[Magic, Year 1: Basic Mana Theory - 30/30. Full.]
[Knighthood, Year 1: Elementary Drill - 30/30. Full.]
The two classes she had plotted her entire timetable around were already capped.
Wham!
She seized the edge of the bulletin board and rattled it.
“Thirty slots? Out of three hundred freshmen? Are they serious?!”
Grumbles erupted around her.
“Right? Professors keep retiring, so there’s barely any sections. And sophomores retake the intro classes, so we’re squeezed into whatever’s left.”
Amecitia slid to the floor.
“What do I do...?”
On acceptance day she had dreamed of marching into a knightly order as a combat-mage.
Revive the family name, repay her father’s debts-plan A shredded at step one.
“Guess I’ll aim for next quarter...”
“Might as well pick a liberal-arts elective to stay busy.”
Students drifted away, choosing placeholders.
But Amecitia lacked both time and money.
The scholarship covered tuition, not dorm fees, meals, or supplies.
A viscount’s daughter on aid was already a scandal; the Flammeur coffers simply had nothing left.
“Father scraped to give me this chance. I can’t waste three months.”
She surged to her feet and scoured the board, eyes burning.
“Find something useful. Something that trains battle-mages and pays.”
Alchemy?
Lucrative, yes, but combat-light and drowning in red tape-selling potions required licenses she couldn’t afford.
Astrology?
Fortune-telling paid, yet it steered her nowhere near a battlefield.
Psychology? Philosophy?
Armchair scholars reading dusty tomes-she needed open sky, sword in hand, firebolts flying.
Then a line snagged her gaze.
[Demonology, Year 1: Survey of Demonkind - 2/30.]
The course everyone mocked suddenly looked like a lifeline.
Hunters-freelance demon slayers-needed no permits.
Villages under siege posted bounties: a few low-rank horns bought groceries for a month.
She had watched her father’s old friend, a knightly-captain, butcher a pack of lesser demons with half a spell and a wink.
If she could handle low-ranks, mid-ranks were just bigger targets.
“Lucky me. I already know the drill.”
Amecitia pictured the captain she idolized, sword flashing in sunlight.
“Mid-rank, low-rank-what’s the difference? A bit more muscle. I can manage.”
She hated admitting it, but for now, Demonology was the only class that fit her purse, her schedule, and her dream.
She marched to the registrar before the last twenty-eight slots vanished.
It was only for the credits-and the cash.
Definitely not because she wanted to be a Hunter.
Amecitia ground her teeth so hard she could hear them creak.
The very thought that she, who had sneered at the department during orientation, was now enrolling in its course made her furious.
“Three months. Just three months, that’s all. Pitch a tent outside the registrar three nights before sign-up opens and camp. That’ll do.”
After all, first-years had to finish the common curriculum before they could declare a major.
“Think of it as filling the credit gap.”
She drew a long, steady breath.
“Yeah, it’s only three months. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She scrawled Demonology across the form, marched to the counter, and slapped the paper down.
“Only two other people bothered? Must be seriously unpopular.”
A newspaper tacked to the wall caught her eye.
She remembered skimming an article about the new professor. Curiosity piqued, she tugged the sheet free.
[Slum-born Hunter Henrik Dusk, Hero of the Northern City]
The headline was so over-the-top she burst out laughing.
“Even for click-bait, that’s stretching it.”
The piece praised him for wiping out a mid-rank demon on some frontier town and collecting grateful testimonials from the locals.
“Mid-rank, seriously? If it had been a high-rank, maybe I’d applaud. Our captain could drop the Demon King himself.”
She snorted, folded the paper, and shoved it back.
“Slums to the Academy-impressive climb. Guess from his shoes it looks like success.”
For a second she drifted into thought.
“Will they even teach combat moves in there? Fat chance. What can a Rank 2 expect when everyone around is Rank 3 or higher?”
Then an idea flashed like lightning: a loophole brilliant enough to sneak her into Knighthood lectures.
“Sorry, Professor, but this might actually work.”
Chuckling to herself, she handed over the form.
“Look at that lunatic...”
“Must’ve cracked after failing every other course...”
Students muttered as she strutted down the corridor, still grinning.
* * *
A bitter taste crawled up his throat.
Second floor, main hall-mostly faculty offices. Henrik had claimed one and was already drowning in paperwork.
[Demonology, Year 1: Basic Survey of Demonkind - 3 / 30 enrolled]
When registration closed, the tally stood at three.
“Figures.”
He’d never expected crowds. Before the war, demonology had been academia’s punching bag.
Humans rarely value a subject until catastrophe stares them in the face, and Henrik had no words for how depressing that was.
Some visionaries studied alone, but the field was a patchwork of half-myths with no clear definitions, so academies shunned it.
“I spent years sorting the mess into something teachable. How could students know?”
Still, ten would have been reasonable; three felt like a joke.
Quitting wasn’t an option, though.
He began flipping the forms.
“...!”
The names lit up the page.
[Grimory - Notes: Valedictorian freshman. Intense curiosity toward demonkind. Major undeclared.]
[Amecitia Flammeur - Notes: Exceptional talent in sword and spell. Personally requests Department of Magic.]
[Carmen MacClane - Notes: Scion of MacClane Merchant House. Handle with care.]
Grimory, Amecitia, Carmen.
He’d never met them in his previous life, yet every name rang a bell.