Academy's Pervert in the D Class - Chapter 291
Chapter 291: carrying
Lor didn’t look back, his bare feet carrying him to the rooftop’s edge, his wind magic coiling around him as he leapt into the night, soaring over Vaeloria’s rooftops, the capital’s spires fading behind him.
The mana’s echo lingered in his senses, but he pushed it down, his heart heavy with a concern he didn’t want, his bed calling him back to the quiet of his room.
.
Kiara’s icy blue eyes lingered on the spot Lor had occupied, her sharp face unreadable, her curvy frame swaying as she fought to stay upright.
The mana’s electric hum had faded, leaving only the distant clatter of a night cart and the faint flicker of capital lanterns.
She didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching until a shadow fell over her.
Her hand twitched toward the orb, her icy gaze snapping up, but she relaxed—marginally—when she recognized the figure.
Miss Silvia stepped into the moonlight, her posture shattered.
Her hair was loose, tangled with dirt, her glasses gone, revealing sharp, weary eyes.
Her simple home clothes—a loose linen blouse and skirt—were torn at the sleeve and hem, stained with blood and grime, a deep bruise blooming across her cheek.
Her busty frame was battered, her steps uneven, but her gaze was steady as she surveyed the corpse, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“It’s done,” she said, her voice low, exhaustion weighing each word. “We need to move, Kiara. Before the mages pick up the trace.”
Kiara’s icy blue eyes flicked back to the empty space, her sharp face tightening, her full breasts rising with a shaky breath.
Silvia’s brow furrowed, her sharp eyes following Kiara’s gaze to the shadowed alley corner.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, her tone clipped, suspicion creeping in as she stepped closer.
“Nothing,” Kiara said, her voice flat, her icy demeanor snapping back like a shield.
She pushed herself to her feet, her curvy frame swaying, her injured arm limp, blood dripping from her wounds.
She didn’t meet Silvia’s eyes, her sharp face a mask as she turned away, the torn fabric of her skirt swishing against her thighs, the black lace of her panties catching the faint light.
Silvia hesitated, her sharp eyes narrowing, but she said nothing, following Kiara into the darkness.
Their silhouettes melted into the alley’s shadows, the night swallowing them as the capital’s distant lanterns flickered, the echo of their footsteps lost in the quiet.
.
The next morning, Lor woke to the bright spill of sunlight through his window, the town of Vaeloria alive with the chirp of early birds and the distant clatter of market carts setting up.
He stretched on his creaking mattress, his lean frame loosening, his black hair a mess across his pillow, his hazel eyes blinking against the golden light.
The night’s events—Ameth’s ritual, Kiara’s deadly spell in the alley—lingered like a faint ache,.
He swung his legs over the bed’s edge, his bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor, and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, the shock washing away the last dregs of sleep.
His reflection in the mirror showed his usual lazy grin, but his hazel eyes carried a shadow of unease about Kiara, quickly buried as he pulled on his academy uniform, the fabric loose but comfortable, his boots scuffing as he headed downstairs.
But soon, he noticed that something was wrong, unusual.
The familiar scent of his mother’s breakfast—warm bread, herbed eggs, smoked fish—was absent, replaced by the low murmur of voices, more than just his parents’.
Lor’s hazel eyes narrowed, his steps slowing as he climbed down the stairs and reached the dining room’s open archway.
The usual clinking of plates and sizzle from the kitchen were gone, the air heavy with tension.
His father, Eren Vayne, sat at the worn oak table, his slender frame rigid, his dark hair streaked with gray, his weathered face set in a serious frown.
Across from him were three figures in deep indigo robes, silver trim glinting in the morning light, their faces stern, one bearing the High Mage’s crest—a coiled serpent—on his chest.
Lor’s mother, Mira, stood just outside the room, peeking through the archway, her black hair tied back in a loose bun, her apron still on, her warm eyes wide with worry, her hands twisting the fabric nervously.
Mira noticed Lor, her face softening with relief, and beckoned him closer with a quick gesture, her apron rustling.
Lor stepped to her side, his voice a whisper as he leaned in, his black hair falling into his eyes.
“Mom, what’s going on?” he asked, his hazel eyes flicking to the robed figures, his senses sharp but detecting no active magic—just a heavy, oppressive tension, like a storm held at bay.
Mira’s voice was low, her warm eyes darting to Eren, then back to Lor, her hands still twisting her apron.
“The High Mage’s right hand man was killed last night,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
“Attacked in an alley near the noble quarter. They’re saying it was a witch, someone using forbidden magic—a pink mana orb, they think. And now…”
She paused, her eyes glistening, her voice dropping lower. “They want your father to take his place as the new right hand man.”
Lor’s hazel eyes widened, his lazy grin vanishing completely, his lean frame tensing.
“Dad? The right hand man?” he whispered, his voice a bit loud with disbelief.
From what he knew—after reincarnating into this world—Eren Vayne was a small-time businessman, running their family shop in Vaeloria’s market district.
He traded herbs, fabrics, minor enchanted trinkets—decent coin, enough for a comfortable but modest life, nothing lavish.
No hint of mage-level power, no whispers of a past other than what he showed.
Lor had never pried, never needed to—Eren was just Dad, gruff but kind, always at the shop counting ledgers or home tinkering with minor charms.
But this?
Mages from the High Mage’s court in their dining room, asking him to step into a role of power?
What the fuck?
Lor thought, his mind racing.
Was his father a retired mage?
A hidden powerhouse who’d walked away from the capital’s games?
The questions burned, but the stern faces of the mages kept him silent.
Before he could press Mira for more, the lead mage, a gaunt man with a hawkish nose and cold gray eyes, leaned forward, his indigo robes rustling.
“Eren Vayne,” he said, his voice clipped, authoritative, “the capital is under threat. Nobles have been dying for days—targeted, precise attacks. Last night, Xenge, the High Mage’s right hand, was killed by a rogue witch. We need your skills. Your… history with the court makes you the only one we trust to step in temporarily.”
Eren’s weathered face remained calm, but his dark eyes flickered with something Lor couldn’t read—resignation, maybe, or old ghosts stirring.
“I left that life behind,” Eren said, his voice low but firm, his broad hands resting on the table, calloused from years of trade but steady. “I’m a shopkeeper now. My family’s here.”
The mage with the crest leaned forward, his voice sharper.
“This isn’t a request, Vayne. The High Mage insists. You know the noble quarter’s mages, the old spellcraft. You tracked rogues before. We need you to find this witch before she strikes again.”
Mira’s hands tightened on her apron, her warm brown eyes glistening as she peeked from the archway.
Lor’s heart thudded, his hazel eyes flicking between his father and the mages, his mind spinning with the image of Kiara in the alley last night—her bloodied frame, the pink mana orb, the corpse at her feet.
Will she come for my dad?
The thought sent a chill through him, but he pushed it down, his lazy facade cracking under the weight of the moment.
Eren sighed, his broad frame rising slowly, his tunic straining against his shoulders.
He stepped to Mira and Lor, his large hand resting on Lor’s shoulder, his grip warm but heavy.
“Mira, Lor,” he said, his dark eyes meeting theirs, his voice steady but laced with reassurance.
“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m joining them temporarily, just to track the culprit. Nobles dying, now Xenge—it’s a mess, but I’ll be safe. I’ll visit home, keep things normal.”
He turned to Lor, his hand squeezing tighter.
“Take care of your mother, alright? Keep up with your studies. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Lor nodded, his hazel eyes wide, his voice caught in his throat.
“Yeah, Dad,” he managed, his black hair falling into his eyes, his lean frame tense.
Mira’s eyes glistened, her hands reaching for Eren’s, her voice a whisper.
“Be careful, Eren.”
The mages stood, their robes rustling, the lead mage gesturing to the door.
“We leave now,” he said, his gray eyes hard.
Eren gave Mira and Lor one last look, his weathered face softening, then followed the mages out, their indigo robes disappearing into the morning light, the door closing with a heavy thud.
Mira sank against the wall, her black hair loosening from its bun, her brown eyes staring at the door.
Lor stood frozen, his hazel eyes narrowed, his mind a storm of questions—his father’s hidden past, Kiara’s next target.