I Possessed the Heroine’s Teacher

“That magician really caused quite a nuisance.”

It was the first time I had ever seen such a being. What was that monster? I’ve fought against resurrected demon dragons and kings of demons before. While they were formidable creatures in their own right, the elf before me was on an entirely different level. I knew elves lived long lives, which gave them ample time to master swordsmanship, magic, and gain vast experience. But this elf’s skill transcended all expectations—it wasn’t a level of strength that could be explained away as “just an elf” or “just a prodigy.”

If it had been the old me, maybe I could have managed, but the current me, without the power of the Spirit King, found it overwhelming.

“…Yet you set such inexperienced beings as sentries. Foolish. I see fragments of talent in some of them… and others seem unused to their newfound power, as if they’ve lost their strength.”

Glacies, with blood in her mouth, spoke up:
“Who exactly are you? Someone with your level of skill—why are you aligned with the Black Round Table?”

The black-haired elf replied:
“I am the one who holds the seat of Lancelot within the Black Round Table. Our interests aligned, nothing more. I’ve never shared their ideology.”

Introducing himself as Lancelot, the elf continued to overpower us with nothing more than the sheath of his sword, not even the blade. When I tried to cast a powerful magic spell using a high-ranking spirit, he countered it with a spell of his own that nullified mine.

Both his swordsmanship and magic were of the highest caliber.

“You’ve never shared their ideology? Don’t give me that crap, you stinking pointy-eared bastard.”

I absolutely hated people like him.

“If that’s really how you feel, then why? I’ve heard all about what you and your kind have done. People have died because of you. And you think just saying, ‘That’s not my ideology,’ makes it all okay? You lunatic.”

Looking at him reminded me of my old self—pathetic, wallowing in denial after losing my master. Back then, I had told myself the same lies: “I never intended for this to happen,” or “I didn’t want my master to die.” I convinced myself that if I had known, I would have listened to my master’s words. Every day, I denied reality.

But denial didn’t change the truth.

I had foolishly trusted a so-called friend and ended up leading my master to their death. I had, even as a joke, uttered words about wanting my master gone. Every day, I stressed him out, burdening him. That was the bitter truth.

That’s why people like him—claiming they’re different, that their beliefs are different—made me sick. It was like staring into a mirror and wanting to vomit from self-loathing.

“Indeed, my actions may have led to the deaths of many. But so what? Does it change anything?”

“What?”

“The people who died because of me… soldiers, mercenaries, children from the slums, and maybe a few parents who committed suicide after losing their children. Soldiers and mercenaries trade their lives for money. If they lose their lives, it’s absurd to think they should harbor grievances over it.”

“Don’t give me that crap… What about the children who died because of you? The parents who took their own lives after losing them?”

“Do you really think we’re the ones who killed those children? What about the nobles who handed over such facilities for a few coins? The ones who stayed silent even when they heard children crying as they were taken away? Or the parents who willingly sold their own children? The world is rotten, and all I did was take advantage of it.”

“Don’t spout your twisted logic. Out of all the rot in the world, you’re the most rotten.”

His tone, as if claiming the fault lay with the world and not him, ignited my rage. It reminded me of her—the one who caused my master’s death. The memory made me feel like throwing up.

“Hmm, fair enough. It seems you were taught well by a good master. In that case, I should take you seriously too.”

Lancelot drew his sword from its sheath. He had overwhelmed us with just the sheath; if he fought seriously, the outcome was obvious.

“Glacies… I don’t like it, but it seems we’ll have to work together for this one. Let’s give this ‘cooperation’ thing a shot.”

“I agree. To destroy a greater evil, one must sometimes overlook the lesser evils.”

Did that woman just call me a lesser evil? What a hypocrite—she was practically a walking embodiment of evil herself.

“Fang of the Fire Dragon—!”

I prepared the most powerful spell I could muster.

“Sword of darkness… I offer you a sacrifice.”

Glacies grasped her family’s ancestral demonic sword barehanded, feeding it with her blood. The blade, said to grow stronger by absorbing the blood of its enemies or its wielder, now drank deeply. Whenever she faced a dire situation, she would offer her blood, a testament to her resolve.

“Pierce and burn all that is wicked!”

My blue flaming spears and Glacies’s blood-red slash flew toward Lancelot. Dodging was impossible. Blocking the flaming spears would leave him vulnerable to the slash of the blood-forged blade, which would melt him. Blocking the slash would let the flaming spears reduce him to ash.

It was an attack we poured our very lives into. Killing this damned elf seemed like a fair trade.

“… I’m sorry, but I cannot die just yet.”

And with those words came the ominous sound of a blade cutting through the air. Unlike the sharp and invigorating sound of Glacies’s or Camellia’s strikes, this was a vile noise that tightened my chest, stirring unpleasant and suffocating emotions.

That dreadful slash alone swept away both my and Glacies’s attacks.

“━━━━ Until I ask the questions I’ve long desired to ask of the one who reigns above us.”

“Then ask me. I’ll ask them for you. And after you get your answer, just drop dead. Oh, but don’t expect a proper answer.”

The “one who reigns above us” must refer to that brat of a god.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes about that subject.”

Though, I actually could ask them. Even now, that brat was perched on a branch, observing our battle with an air of amusement. To be precise, the brat was laughing mockingly at Lancelot, rather than showing genuine interest in the fight.

Not that it mattered—no way that ill-tempered brat would give a proper answer anyway.

“It seems the strike you just delivered was your best effort. Hmm… I understand enough. I suppose I can leave now.”

“Stay right there! Who said you could go?!”

Damn it, my mana was nearly depleted. Judging by her labored breathing, Glacies must have used up a significant amount of blood as well.

“I didn’t come here today to kill you. There’s no need for unnecessary bloodshed.”

It was clear he could kill us any time he wanted but simply didn’t see the need. Treating others like pigs in a slaughterhouse—if only I had my original strength, I could at least fight him evenly. If that wretched brat hadn’t sealed my power, I wouldn’t be enduring this humiliation.

“Galahad, let’s go.”

“Yes, Sir Lancelot.”

From the shadows emerged a masked woman with long black hair. She reached out to take Lancelot’s hand.

“You are…”

I recognized her presence instantly. That despicable woman who had feigned pity and friendship while plotting behind my back. The one who had conspired with demons and played a part in my master’s death.

“Kyrilla…”

Then she removed that detestable mask. Her eyes and hair resembled Camellia’s, but there was an unsettling difference—a lewd, almost succubus-like aura emanated from her. It really was Kyrilla.

“You know my real name? How interesting. But even so, I’ll have to leave for today.”

“Stay right there, you damned bitch! What, scared?”

“My, such a foul mouth. Haha… It’s not you I’m scared of. Some truly terrifying magicians are on their way.”

Before I could grab her by the hair, she clasped Lancelot’s hand, and he slashed the air to create a dark portal. Together, they disappeared into the void. Damn it—I had resolved to end her with my own hands this time…

Then, the sound of hurried footsteps reached my ears, followed by a voice that calmed my rage and agitation.

“Iris!!!!”

It was my master. And beside him stood Lorcha. Judging by their presence, it seemed both had formed contracts with Spirit Kings. It wasn’t surprising—Armadura was a steadfast type who would naturally respect someone like my master, and Valena had always protected the Macklin family.

Still, their contracts only made my own failure sting more. Without a Spirit King, I had just suffered a humiliating defeat. Damn that brat.

“Iris, my dear disciple, why are you crying all of a sudden?”

I was simply overwhelmed by how pitiful I’d become, stripped of my Spirit King’s power.

My master supported my wounded body and began inspecting Glacies’s injuries as well.

“It seems you’ve avoided serious injuries. That’s a relief. But might I ask what happened to lead to this?”

“Yes, I apologize for the trouble. We encountered someone named Lancelot here and engaged him in battle, but… regrettably, we allowed him to escape.”

“Regrettably” my foot. We didn’t even scratch him. We were thoroughly beaten with nothing but his sword sheath before he casually walked away. But pride must have kept her from admitting that part.

“By the way, Iris… have you seen a skinny blond man running in this direction? He goes by the name Gawain.”