Raging Hornet: Part Two

Raging Hornet: Part Two

An exhausted Mr. Diaz stood before his Department Head on the 36th floor of the Miraval Educational Center. His office was suffocatingly cluttered with old furniture, featuring an Aramashi carpet, which occupied half the room and seemed to hold the entirety of the world’s dust, and yellowed and peeling wallpaper that looked like it hadn’t been changed in over three centuries. Overall, there wasn’t a single centimeter of free space left, and the 'Raging Hornet' couldn’t help but question the necessity of so many lifeless marble busts depicting obscure members of the Miraval Family. However, the worst thing was how dark the room was. The Magicbuls were off, leaving a small circular window as the only source of light, but, to put salt in the wound, half of its surface was eclipsed by the head of the towering figure seated behind a grand oak desk.

“Why are you here without an appointment?” The man behind the desk grumbled, his voice backed by the rhythmic clacking of a typewriter. Or, at least, that was what Mr. Diaz assumed since the piles of paper on the side desk completely obscured the Department Head’s assistant.

”Relax, Gus. I just need five minutes of your precious time for a request my students have been begging me about all week,” Esteban explained, forcing the brightest smile he could master on his face.

“I know I’m going to regret this…but…” After eyeing Mr. Diaz suspiciously, he gave a reluctant wave of approval.

“I’m here to ask for your consent to let my students conquer their first Dungeon!” That was Mr. Diaz’s plan to help Connor.

”Denied. Now leave—I’m a busy man.” AA-Class ’Eclectic Dirigist’ Gauston De Miraval was not a man one would call attractive. His bulging eyes resembled those of a sleep-deprived frog, his round face was pockmarked like a pumice stone, and his hairline looked like the catastrophic result of a haste retreat after a total defeat. The only remotely positive trait of the ’Eclectic Dirigist’ was his bear-like physique—looking both muscular and fat—but it was clearly ill-suited for such a tight tailored suit.

”Why are you always so punctilious? I’ve been teaching Class F students for a week by now—let me have a little fun for once.”

”Oh, so it wasn’t about your student after all,” Gauston frowned. ”Also, you had all the fun you wanted at that party last month. Which is exactly why I put you in Class F—have you forgotten?”

”I’m sorry for my misbehavior—are you happy now?!” Mr. Diaz’s forced smile bent a little bit. ”I’m not asking for anything costly or some obscene privilege, just your signature to access a Dungeon that’s still in programming that no one is going to use for years! C’mon, Gus. Do it for our long-standing friendship!”

The frog eyes of the ’Eclectic Dirigist’ narrowed at the last word. ”For you?” He let out a long sigh. ”If tomorrow pirates skin you alive, I might very well send them a bottle of Bologne from my family’s vineyard.” Gus exhaled again, pushing aside the papers he’d been working on. ”Nevertheless, as Head of the Teaching Department, I ought to be as fair as the ’Drowned Phoenix’ in my decisions. So I’ll review your request, but only for the well-being of your students.” A smugging Mr. Diaz slid a folder across the desk. Gauston carefully scanned its pages, underlining interesting sentences before freezing at one particular section. ”All travel expenses will be paid by—WHO?!”

“Our department!” Diaz delightfully answered. ”Did you forget? Class F has no budget—thanks to your cuts.”

“Class F is worthless to us.”

“Shall you or I tell those brutal words to my students? Do you honestly believe they’d just accept their cruel destiny without putting up a fight first? All I’m asking for is a little funding, just enough to give them a warm memory about this Academy. Where has your heart gone, Gus?”

”If you’re so eager to help your students…why not?” Gauston bitterly relented. ”Maybe this experience will finally make you mature. Just tell me one thing—how am I supposed to report your nonsense to Mr. Durere?”

”Who cares about that creep?” Diaz waved him off. ”Besides, making up stories to preserve the so-called harmony between professors is your job, isn’t it?”

Before Gauston could respond, a cold hand tapped on Diaz’s shoulder. ”*Kekeke!* Were you talking about me?” Turning slowly, the ’Raging Hornet’s’ trembling eyes met the violet ones of SS- Class ’Grotesque Mannequin’ Constantine Durere, flanked by the steel gaze of SS-Class ’Sinful Blade’ Verdan Anhogi

”Mr. Durere! Ah-ah…what a sweet surprise!” Stammered Mr. Diaz. Vice Principal Durere was a hunched figure who barely reached his chest, looking less like a man and more like a malformed doll. In stark contrast, Mr. Anhogi, with his divinely sculpted physique, resembled Adam’s original blueprint for the human race. They were complete opposites in both character and look, and yet the two professors were inseparable. Seldom were the times the ’Grotesque Mannequin’ was seen in public without the ’Sinful Blade’ looming behind him. ”Is there any reason a living god like yourself is gracing us, unworthy mortals, with your divine presence?” The ’Raging Hornet’ turned into a ’Lovely Bee,’ but that was the effect Constantine Durere had on everyone.

”A filthy Paisano like you will never be worth my time,” Durere giggled. ”Nor that dropout who bought his position. I’m here to pay my fair share of taxes!”

Mr. Diaz perplexedly blinked as Mr. Anhogi walked over to the assistant’s desk, retrieving from his [Inventory] a stack of thick folders. ”Apologies for the delay. Here is everything you’ve requested to compile our tax returns.” The professor handed them to the hand protruding from behind the paper mountain. ”You were absolutely right. I went to that therapist you recommended to me, and after just one session, he diagnosed me with schizophrenia, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder.” He pulled out a framed certificate. ”According to this wonderful piece of paper, I am a danger to society, incapable of rational thought, and in urgent need of institutionalization—I’m going to buy a new boat with all the juicy money I’m gonna save.” For the first time in his three years as a professor at the Miraval Academy, Mr. Diaz saw Mr. Anhogi smile.

”Same here,” Mr. Dudure joined the conversation. ”I went to that same clinic, and apparently, I’m a disabled person. Isn’t that fun? I mean, just look at me, who’d ever guess I have any problems at all *Kekeke!*” Mr. Durere chuckled a little too much, and his left eye suddenly started to spin inside its socket. The Vice-Principal slapped himself, stopping the eye, but now the iris was beneath his eyelid.

”You flatter me,” said the assistant behind his fortress of paper. ”I’m simply doing my job, and knowing I’ve helped our great Class S brings me nothing but joy.” He extended his hand, moving his joined fingers up and down. ”That being said, I also need to eat, and any monetary contribution will be greatly appreciated.”

That voice—It can’t be. Mr. Diaz stepped closer to the assistant’s desk, and then froze. ”YOU!”

”Good morning, Mr. Diaz. What brings you here?”

”YOU! What are you doing here?!” Diaz roared, veins twitching.

”I got a job like you told me to do—remember?” FFF-Class ’Javelinist’ Jacques Dreux replied, seasoning his sarcasm with taunting gestures.

”Esteban, do you know Jacques?” Vice Principal Durere asked, cocking his head.

”YES! I’m his professor. He’s in Class F!” Diaz snapped.

”Condolences, Jacques. It might be hard living as a Class F, but having Esteban as your teacher? I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.” Mr. Anhogi guffawed, flashing his golden and razor-sharp canines.

”You two are too harsh. He’s a funny teacher.” He shifted his attention back to his paperwork. ”Besides, I must finish my job before my lesson starts, so…let’s talk about it later—okay?” The typewriter resumed its mechanical rhythm, but Mr. Diaz’s wounded ego was far from done.

“Gus, did you really hire a student?” He bellowed, slamming his fist on the oak desk and knocking an empty picture frame to the floor.

Gauston quickly caught it mid-fall, sliding it under the desk with studied nonchalance. “‘Hired’ is a big word. Let’s call Jacques a…ahem...paid volunteer. You see, ten days ago, a fire broke out in our archive on First Island, destroying most of the Academy’s documents.” Jacques began to whistle. “The situation was catastrophic. I needed a miracle to recover millions of files, and the Holy Trinity answered my prayers by sending me an angel.

”I was skeptical, of course. But the very next day, this young man brought me hundreds of boxes containing copies of everything we’d lost in the fire, saving us thousands of Marini and weeks of recovery work.” The ’Eclectic Dirigist’ gave his assistance an approving nod. ”Jacques has gained my trust, and when I’m overworked, he gives me a really needed hand.” Mr. Durere and Mr. Anhogi began to clap, sincerely impressed.

However, Mr. Diaz wasn’t buying it. “Wait a second. How the hell did you find millions of copies in a single day?” The professor accusatively pointed his finger, staring intensely into his student’s soul. Unfortunately for him, Jacques had shuttered his windows.

”Ahem…I know a guy, who knows another guy, who’s the cousin of a guy, who’s engaged to a woman, who’s the daughter of a very famous Class D. But I can’t say his name—everyone deserves privacy.”

”Oh, I know him,” Mr. Durere interjected after a sudden whistle. ”DDD-Class ’World’s End Archive’ Felipe Mexes, CEO of Mexes Office Solutions. But I’ve never heard of little Isabel getting married.” Durere’s eye began spinning again, and his tongue slipped out like a broken pendulum. ”Last time I saw her, she was such a comely flower…aaah…what a waste.”

”Sure, dude…that one,” Jacques started rubbing his hands. ”Now, shall we continue with our daily lives and never talk about this again?” Sadly, the sudden opening of the door shattered his plan.

A man and a woman stepped into the room, and no one at the Miraval Academy could have mistaken their stunning looks. ”Jacques, I’ve brought the pap—” S-Class ’Everlasting Spring' Aoife Sinclair froze mid-sentence. The moment the eyes of ’Everlasting Spring’ and the ’Raging Hornet’ met, an invisible storm swept through the room, flooding the room with a mix of emotions too complex for even the greatest poets to fully capture.

"‘Aoife…good—" Without uttering a word, Miss Sinclair lowered her gaze, hastily handed the document to Jacques, and exited the room amidst a heavy silence, while Mr. Diaz could only watch the scene whole unfold in front his eyes in shameful silence.

”Esteban!” Vice-Principal Durere roared. ”Thanks to your ugly face, Aoife won’t be joining our meeting! Why are we trading the most beautiful woman in the Holy Rolandish Empire for this filthy Paisano? I hereby propose to this commission that we execute this roach and bring our swan back!”

”A little harsh, but, nonetheless, fair.” Mr. Anhogi solemnly nodded.

”I…I don’t know what happened,” Diaz mumbled. ”We have our problems…but she’s never acted like that before today.”

”Don’t worry, Esteban,” SS-Class ’Fortunate Son’ Xoán Al Córdoba spoke softly, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. ”It must have been a bad day for her.”

”Good morning, Xoán,” Gauston interjected, his tone harsher than usual. ”My office seems particularly crowded today, so if you would just give Jacques what you came for and leave with your friend, that would make my day.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

”Apologies, Gus,” Mr Diaz murmured, his face sporting nothing but hollowness. ”We’ll leave as soon as you sign the documents.”

”Actually, none of us can leave until we finish discussing the funds for the next construction project,” Xoán added.

Gauston frowned. ”That session is scheduled for tomorrow.”

”Not anymore, Mr. Dropout,” Mr. Durere revealed. ”Since every Class S—except Mr. Blues, who’s busy with the investigation—were going to stop by your office for tax filings, I’ve decided to hold our meeting right here. Efficient, no? We’ll begin as soon as Kajerine arrives, so let the Paisano do whatever the fuck he was doing and get it over with.” Gauston clenched his jaw, visibly struggling to contain his fury, while Mr. Diaz took the opportunity to explain his proposal to the rest of the people in the room.

”Excellent idea, Esteban,” Mr. Anhogi expressed his support. ”A Class F Essentia saved my life after the front line collapsed during the Rouge Nox’s Requiem. The sooner we get them used to the battlefield, the better.” He lifted his shirt, revealing a brutal scar across his torso. ”Every day, this baby reminds me of his sacrifice.”

”I agree as well,” declared the ’Fortunate Son.’ ”The discrimination against Class F is completely irrational. They’re still Essentias—stronger than any Soulful. Instead of ostracizing them, we should develop strategies to cultivate their talent properly. I absolutely believe that, with the right investment, their education will be profitable.”

”Great arguments, you both. But, who is going to pay for this?” Gauston pointed out, his tone acid. ”And let’s not forget, giving any student special privileges is going to disrupt the academy's social cohesion. Other students are going to complain.”

”I don’t give a shit—*Kekeke!*” Durere guffawed. ”This is my school, and I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want. Jacques helped me evade taxes, which makes him more useful than that entire mass of retards will ever be. I hereby declare that this privilege is officially granted. And if any of our more stubborn students have any sort of issue with my decision, send that stupid son of a bitch to me." His grin widened. ”I'm always in need of fresh skins for my mannequins—*Kekeke!*” No one knew if the rumor about Mr. Durere keeping an entire basement filled with human skins was true, but no one wanted to find out either.

”Well, thank you for your support,” Diaz muttered. ”Jacques, come on. You should thank Mr. Durere.” Jacques neither looked up nor answered as the clack of the typewriter continued.

*SLAP!* A heavy palm crashed onto the back of the Javelinist’s neck. ”Why?!” Jacques groaned, his mouth contorting in pain. I thought my [HP] would reduce the pain…why it hurts so much?

”You should be thanking the Holy Trinity you weren’t one of my cadets at the 37th Fort. We punished daydreamers like you by making them walk through minefields,” Mr. Anhogi recolled his youth, drowning in nostalgia for the good old days when teenagers had no human rights.

Before Jacques could process the pain, the door opened once again. A stunning platinum-haired woman stepped into the main stage, and despite the room being packed with elites, her presence commanded immediate silence and respect.

”My dear Kajerine, you are splendid today,” Mr. Durere cooed, stepping forward to kiss her hand. Instead, he got rewarded a glare of unadulterated hatred that pierced him straight through the heart.

”Don’t ever try to touch me again—or else.” Nevetheless, the Vice-Principal chuckled at her rejection.

S-Class ’Winged Moon’ Kajerine Fibber turned to face the rest of the audience. “Would anyone care to explain why I had to stop with my vital work just to show up he—” She stopped mid-sentence after her moonlight eyes saw something unsettling on Jacques’s desk. Without hesitation, she strode across the room, snatched the papers from his hands, and flipped through them, her shock plain to see. “Are you…conducting tax consultancy without a license?!”

In the Free City of Maria, the concept of a license was notoriously fluid. According to local custom, if a client chose to hire a service provider that lacked both proper credentials and certifications, they were free to do so without legal consequences for either party—even if the job ended in all-out catastrophe. The only official licenses issued by the Marian state were single-use ones reserved for services deemed to affect the public interest and granted only after a business proved itself to be the most fitting cadidate for a specific job, and its owner’s DNA test confirmed the complete absence of Suzerain blood.

“License…? Sure, dudette—I’ve got one.” Jacques whistled before pulling a folded certificate out of his [Inventory].

The ’Winged Moon’ examined it carefully. “I’ll admit, this gem of a forgery would fool even an expert inspector. However, I have my own methods.” A black wing materialized on the left side of her back, stretching from her shoulder blade to her wrist. Then, she plucked one of her feathers and pressed it onto the document.

The black plume sank into the page, vanishing into its fibers, and after a few seconds, the paper’s atoms began to unravel—leaving nothing behind. Well, clearly the ‘Moon’ in her [Prefix] is the Original one. Jacques thought.

Atomic Autopsy was the most advanced and complex forensic procedure ever devised, but deep analysis of each atom in an object typically required months of work and highly specialized machinery that cost a fortune to produce and maintain. However, Kajerine’s [Skill] completed it in under a minute, and when she read the results—she frowned. “There must be an error!” She snapped, repeating the process three times but obtaining the same devastating result. “It’s absurd…and yet…there’s no evidence of forgery!”

“Told you, dudette,” Jacques said smugly. ”I’m a loyal citizen of the ’HRE’ with nothing to hide.”

Her eye twitched. “LIES! How is it possible that a teenager like you passed the Imperial Examination?! Do you even know the years of study it takes just to apply at the pre-selection?!”

“Oh, I understand that perfectly, Mrs. Fibber,” Jacques snorted. Some guy two hundred years ago wrote a definition using a dead word no one’s used since, and during the exam I try to write the same thing with a modern word that’s objectively better. REJECTED! I hate Starfolks so much it’s unreal. Oh, Holy Trinity, I’m begging you—burn them all with fire.

“It’s Miss Fibber,” she corrected.

“Not married? At your age? Ergh!”

Silence. Everyone in the room froze, stunned by the sheer audacity of the soon-to-be-dead young man. Except Mr. Durere, who burst into delighted laughter.

“Did I mishear?” The Winged Moon calmly said as she removed her sharp glasses. “Or should I take immediate disciplinary action for this unashamed display of disrespect toward your professor?” The feathers of her black wing sharpened like razors.

Nevertheless, Jacques shrugged at the hundreds of black blades now pointed at his neck, unflinchingly glancing at her before clearing his throat. "Shall I remind you that all Essentias have sworn to sacrifice their lives for the sake of our Empire? It's obvious the Demmies' technology will soon surpass the advantages our [Skills] provide. The only way to avoid our inevitable downfall is by increasing national birthrates, and consequently, the number of Essentias. As a Class S, your refusal to marry and reproduce is the most selfish act I've ever witnessed. So, while I admit I may have expressed my point poorly, you cannot expect me—a loyal servant of the Holy Rolandish Empire—to remain silent as I watch my nation crumble." He concluded with a haughty expression.

”You…” Miss Fibber’s eyes flared with fury, but she couldn’t directly counter his pseudo-patriotic tirade without jeopardizing her position of public servant.

“Jacques,” Dh. Miraval interjected. “If you want to continue working here, apologize immediately to Miss Fibber. As a loyal servant of the ’HRE’ myself, I, somehow, understand your concerns about our future—but let’s not fall for alarmist propaganda. The so-called Doom of Essentias has had its ‘inevitable’ deadline pushed forward since the Dark Century, and yet—we’re still here.” He folded his hands on the desk. “It’s true the Eleutheria Republic is witnessing an extraordinary advancement in its military and scientific fields—but so are we. As a member of the great Miraval family, I assure you that the ’MIMT’ is prepared for every possible scenario, and, at least for the next millennium, Essentias will remain the core of our military forces.”

Jacques nodded, then turned to Miss Fibber. “Apologies, Miss Fibber.” He humbly bowed. ”Dh. Miraval has opened my eyes. We are both loyal citizens of this great nation, and we ought to end these foolish disputes and pledge to work together for the greater good of our Empire.” The ’Javelinist’ extended his hand, and, after a long sigh, Miss Fibber reluctantly shook it. Okay, I’ve had enough fun for now. He thought, but apparently, someone hadn’t.

“Jacques is right. A beauty like you shouldn’t stay single.” Vice-Principal Durere chimed in again. “What about you and me, tonight at Le Mirav—” *CRASH!* Miss Fibber’s foot smashed directly into the face of the ’Grotesque Mannequin’ with such force that it catapulted him through the office window. It was far too small for any adult to reasonably pass through, yet Mr. Durere somehow did, flying out of the building and—straight toward the stars.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Miss Fibber brushed a strand of platinum hair from her face. “I did warn him, didn’t I?”

Mr. Anhogi, bewitched by the scene, now stared at her with the reverence of a religious believer. “Jacques, let me give you some advice. If a woman can kick you like that—hold her tight and never let her go.”

“Sure…dude,” Jacques awkwardly replied.

“My apologies, but you’ll all have to proceed without me,” the ’Sinful Blade’told them as he walked toward the shattered window. “Someone has to find him.” And with that, he leaped out of the building.

“No Principal Miraval. No Mr. Durere. No Mr. Blues. No Miss Sinclair. No Mr. Anhogi. And my window—a historical relic of this Academy—is broken.” Gauston seethed. “The rest of you may leave my office—NOW!”

“Not so fast, Gauston. This meeting has been officially approved by the Vice-Principal, and if anyone of our collegous isn’t present, it simply means they’re offering silent consent to whatever decisions we make.” Xoán’s words lit a fire.

***

“For the last time, technology is making the world smaller and smaller,” the ’Fortunate Son’ fiercely argued. “Our students deserve the chance to explore other cultures and languages, or they will never expand their horizons or their possibilities.”

“Cultural exchange?” Miss Fibber snickered. “That’s a creative way to call—war. The world sits on a hill of dynamite, ready to blast at the slightest vibration. But war has evolved. It’s no longer fought by armies in open fields, but by spies in shadows.” She steeled her voice. ”Our students should be learning cryptography, infiltration techniques, and psychological warfare, winning a conflict before it begins.”

“You’re a paranoid who wants to turn students into paranoid warmongers,” Xoán snapped. “

And you’re a naive idealist who wants to turn them into naive pushovers,” Kajerine fired back.

“Enough!” Gauston cut in, exasperated. “If the students are the ones who’ll use this new building, why not ask Jacques for his opinion?” The two titans exchanged glances, then shrugged.

“I think both of you are missing the point. Before proposing anything, we must acknowledge the complexity of Miraval Academy.” The ’Javelinist’ rose from his chair, positioning himself next his boss. ”The Educational Center and the Training Complex already offer every conventional academic tool imaginable. So, this new building must provide students with something different.” The professors leaned in as Jacques pulled a rolled-up blueprint from his [Inventory], laying it across Gauston’s desk. “I know it might sound arrogant of me, but I took the freedom to design the concept of what I call—the Miraval Cultural Hub. A place that transforms boring study and monotonous training into something far more enjoyable. Gyms to freely practice their sports or even duel, classrooms to cultivate their passions through clubs, and labs where students can experiment hands-on with what they’ve learned in theory. In this way, the students can invest their free time productively, instead of drowning it in alcohol, drugs, or other forms of petty rebellion.”

”Wait a minute! How did you know about the plan to create this project in advance?!” The 'Raging Hornet' questioned, his suspicions about Jacques only deepening.

”Well, to be honest, it was Jacques who actually found the money for the new building by advising me on a lot of forgotten expenses and abandoned projects to cut—we, indeed, donated way too much to those orphans.” The ’Eclectic Dirigist’ explained.

“Also, do you have a license for that blueprint?” The ’Winged Moon’ added.

“Blueprint?” The 'Javelinist' blinked innocently. “Please, Miss Fibber, I’m flattered by your confidence in my abilities, but this is just a concept sketch. An idea sparkled into my mind, and that blue paper was the first thing I found to write on.” After a bitter sigh, the professors turned their attention to the highly detailed drawing, and the longer they examined it, the more they got seduced by the project’s elegant design. However, their wavering expressions made it clear that the quality seemed suspiciously high for the given budget. “If you’re worried about cost, some Marian gentlemen from Port Island have offered to sponsor it. They’ll also provide soon-to-be-legal immigrants and Euralian concrete—clearly not from Euralia—all within our budget. And I’m sure that by the end of the project, there’ll be a bit of money left over for the two of you to use.”

Dr. Miraval and Mr. Diaz looked horrified, while Miss Fibber and Mr. Al Córdoba hesitated. “You know this is illegal,” the ’Winged Moon’ murmured, biting her nail.

“Illegal is such an ugly word,” Jacques replied with a wide smile. “The ‘Marian Mafia’ is just a nickname spread by the jelly elite on Royal Island—they are just honest Marian businessmen doing what Marians are known for. And what about the so-called ‘illegal’ immigrants? They’re just honest workers waiting for the approval of their visas. Why shouldn’t they work in the meantime? Let this be proof of their willingness to contribute to society.”

“And the leftover money? That’s corruption!” The 'Fortunate Son' pointed out in disgusts.

“I don’t consider it a bribe, let’s call it an extra fund that you two may use to improve our education. For example, why not fund both your initiatives? Using this money to create a foreign language club and a cryptography one within the Cultural Hub.” Silence fell, but after some awkward nods, both sides agreed.

Gauston, grumbling the whole time, filled out the necessary forms. Then Jacques returned to his desk to resume typing, the two Class S professors left the room in contemplative silence, and Mr. Diaz secured the signed Dungeon request in his [Inventory].

”Jacques, be ready. I want you at the main gate tomorrow at six o’clock.”

”But tomorrow’s my day off!”

”Not my problem!”

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