The Principal of the Adventurer Academy—Garrick Thorne, S-rank adventurer and living headache magnet—finally returned home.

  He was caked in dried mud, his boots a disgrace, and his tattered cloak smelled faintly of roasted lizard. Slung over his shoulder, as casually as someone might carry a sack of potatoes, was the severed head of a young dragon, its scales still smoldering in patches.

  He trudged up the path to his estate just outside the Academy grounds, grumbling under his breath. When he reached the gate to his manor, he stopped dead.

  His mailbox was overflowing. Not just stuffed full—there were letters piled on top of it, spilling down like a paper waterfall.

  Garrick squinted. “I leave for two months to kill one overgrown flying samander, and come back to this mess?”

  He opened the gate with a kick and dragged the dragon head behind him, leaving a gouged trail through the gravel. The moment the heavy door creaked open, his faithful maid stood waiting.

  “Welcome home, Master Thorne,” she said, bowing deeply. “The house has been prepared, and your bath is ready. Oh, and congratutions on the successful hunt.”

  “I don’t need a bath, I need a necromancer to bring me back from the dead,” Garrick muttered. “Where’s Vivianne?”

  “Attending lectures at the Academy today. Also, sir, the King announced your triumph in the royal papers. There will be a parade this weekend to commemorate your glorious victory.”

  Garrick froze. “…What parade?”

  She held up the test issue of the Morning Herald. His face—smeared with soot and dragon blood—grinned from the front page.

  Garrick stared at it for a long moment, then muttered, “Next time I see His Majesty, I’m casting Silence on him for a month.”

  Still grumbling, he dumped the dragon head at the side of the porch and began flipping through the mailbox, tearing open the top letter.

  My name is Bertram Rindle. I request immediate assistance clearing a Rockback boar infestation near my farm—

  He tossed it into a woven basket beled Academy Missions.

  The second letter:

  I’m Wende Hollowthorn, mother of Arletta Hollowthorn, First-Year Healer css. I’m furious to hear the Potion Crafting professor failed to expin the proper use of scrolls, and worse—another student charged my daughter money to learn it—

  Garrick chuckled. “Old Orlin’s still making trouble, huh? And as for that student—welcome to the real world, Miss Hollowthorn. If you can’t outsmart your cssmate, you pay him.”

  Before he could read another, the maid returned with five additional boxes of letters, carefully stacked in her arms.

  Garrick looked at them. Then at her. Then back at the boxes.

  “…I should’ve let the dragon kill me.”

  “Wouldn’t have fixed the mail, sir,” she replied cheerfully.

  Grumbling like a cornered beast, Garrick opened the next letter.

  Second in command of the Capital Guard here. One of your students assaulted seven civilians—

  “Then arrest the little shit!” he snapped. “Why are they writing me about it?”

  He tossed that letter into the basket beled Dean’s Problem, then reached for another, muttering to himself.

  “I swear, next time the Guild sends me on a dragon hunt, I’m not coming back.”

  Garrick reached deep into the test pile, his fingers brushing against the edge of a cream-colored envelope sealed with a familiar wax insignia. He pulled it free and squinted at the name in the corner.

  Professor Rhea.

  “Hmph. That overachiever,” he muttered, tearing the envelope open with a practiced flick. “Let me guess—she’s finally come to her senses and wants to quit wasting her talent on snot-nosed brats.”

  He braced himself for the resignation letter.

  But instead of regretful farewells or lofty future ambitions, the letter began with a formal greeting and quickly dove into the subject matter.

  I’m writing to inform you about a peculiar first-year student under my care—one whose physical condition defies every norm we’ve seen in recent years. The boy is, frankly, pathetic when it comes to stamina. He colpsed after only thirteen ps around the training field.

  Garrick groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

  “Thirteen ps? That’s not even a full warm-up. How in the hell did a sack of wet undry like that pass the entrance exam?”

  He read on.

  Naturally, I suspected a deeper issue and referred him to Professor Alric for examination. The results were... arming. The boy’s body is riddled with high-level curses—powerful, ancient ones that even Alric, with all his experience, refused to treat directly.

  That made Garrick pause.

  The letter crinkled in his hands as his grip tightened.

  “…Even Alric wouldn’t touch it?” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “That old goat stitched a student’s soul back together after a teleportation accident—and he’s scared of this?”

  Garrick leaned back in his chair, lips pressed into a hard line.

  The letter continued, firm and professional as ever.

  Professor Alric offered two possible solutions. The first is to kill the student and resurrect him free of the curses.

  Garrick choked on nothing.

  “What the hell kind of first option is that!?”

  He read the next line with dread.

  Obviously, that’s not something we can do in good conscience—

  “No shit,” he muttered.

  —so I’m requesting official permission for the student to be privately taught Dark Magic, under Alric’s supervision, with the goal of eventually unraveling the curses himself.

  He let out a long, tired sigh and leaned back in his chair.

  “Dark magic. Of course it comes back to that.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking.

  After a pause, he grabbed a quill and scratched out a quick response on a fresh sheet of parchment:

  Permission granted. If Alric’s handling it, I trust he’ll keep it quiet. Just make sure the brat doesn’t blow himself up or summon a hellbeast in my courtyard. We’ve already had enough incidents this year.

  —Garrick Thorne

  He folded the letter, sealed it with his crest, and tossed it in the outgoing tray.

  Then, sighing again, he reached for the next envelope in the ever-growing pile.

  Garrick reached for the next envelope, only half-reading the sender’s name. His eyes scanned the contents—then narrowed sharply.

  A student of noble lineage has been accused of bullying, extortion, and threats toward several cssmates. There are multiple witnesses, and the accusations are serious. However, the student’s family has offered a sizable donation to the Academy’s discretionary fund in exchange for leniency. The treasurer recommends we accept the deal. Final approval rests with you.

  Garrick’s fingers drummed on the desk. He leaned back in his chair and stared through the high window, lips drawn in a ft line. After a long pause, he snatched a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, and began to write:

  Let it be known that titles and coin are not shields against justice in this Academy. If the accusations are true, the student will face punishment like anyone else. Send word to the family that their donation will be used—to hire an impartial investigator. Any attempt to interfere will be added to the list of charges.

  —Garrick Thorne

  With a snap, he sealed it and dropped it into the tray.

  The next letter came from another professor—he recognized the over-embellished handwriting even before he opened it.

  Principal Thorne, I humbly submit a request for the immediate promotion of my student Christopher Lightwatch, whose performance far exceeds that of his cssmates. I believe he would flourish among second-years, where his talents can be better nurtured…

  Garrick rolled his eyes and muttered, “Another one of these.”

  He didn’t even bother replying formally. On a bnk scrap, he scribbled:

  Rejected. If he’s so far ahead, make the css harder.

  —Garrick Thorne

  He moved on, and the stack of letters slowly shrank. Each one felt like a pebble chucked at his forehead.

  Compint. Request. Grievance. Budget appeal. Internship proposal. More noble whining. Another farm raided by goblins. The usual.

  Then, another letter with a familiar seal slid into his hand.

  Professor Rhea.

  Again?

  He broke the wax and unfolded it.

  Principal Thorne, this letter concerns the student referenced in my previous message—the one whose body is heavily cursed.

  Garrick arched a brow, half-expecting the worst.

  The boy is still alive, and well. However, after a full month without your response, he happened to overhear a conversation between myself and Professor Alric concerning his condition.

  “…Tch. So the boy eavesdrops, too. Great.”

  Rather than panic or despair, he requested to learn the truth. Upon receiving it, he chose to sign a magical contract to begin studying Dark Magic in the hopes of curing himself.

  Garrick lowered the letter, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled.

  “He signed the contract himself, huh... Alric must’ve approved it.”

  His eyes drifted back to the parchment.

  For the record, neither I nor Professor Alric encouraged him. The decision was entirely his own.

  Garrick scratched his chin.

  “Well... at least the brat’s got spine.”

  He reached for his quill and penned a short reply:

  Permission confirmed. Since the student has already signed the contract and the situation was disclosed by faculty, I’ll allow it. Continue to monitor his progress and keep him away from all forms of graveyard from now on.

  —Garrick Thorne

  As he sealed the reply and tossed it in the tray, Garrick sat back and let his eyes drift closed for a moment.

  “A cursed boy learning dark magic, nobles bribing their way out of punishment, professors asking for promotions, and I’ve still got three boxes to go...” He groaned. “Why did I come back again?”

  Garrick cracked his neck and reached for the next letter in the pile. The seal was familiar—his own secretary's. That either meant something important… or something annoying.

  He slit the envelope with practiced ease and unfolded the neatly typed parchment.

  To Principal Garrick Thorne,

  A reminder: the annual Inter-Academy Competition against the Royal Academy has been officially scheduled. The event will take pce from April 29th to May 1st and will be hosted on the Adventurer Academy’s grounds, as per the rotating schedule.

  Logistics are already underway. Food and accommodations will be arranged by our regur contractor, as confirmed. A follow-up meeting will be scheduled next week to finalize spectator seating and prize allocations.

  Student registration opens on April 15th and will close on April 22nd. Notices will be posted in the dormitories, cafeteria, and all main hallways as of tomorrow.

  —With respect,Secretary Elwin

  Garrick groaned and let his forehead thunk gently against the desk.

  “That damn tournament again…”

  He liked a good fight as much as anyone, but organizing three days of coordinated chaos with two hundred overeager students and a dozen nobles breathing down his neck? That was a different kind of battle altogether.

  Still, tradition was tradition. And at least it kept the kids busy.

  He scribbled a quick "Acknowledged" at the bottom of the notice and signed his name before tossing it into the 'Handled' pile.

  “Let’s hope the Royal Academy doesn’t bring another griffon this year,” he muttered. “Or I will throw their headmaster off the balcony.”

  With that, Garrick reached for the next letter—his war with paperwork far from over.