Necromancer Academy’s Genius Summoner - Chapter 411

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Summoning Genius of the Necromancer School – Chapter 411
Once they crossed the border and entered the Sacred Federation, everything moved like clockwork.
They leaped through a series of Teleport Magic Circles that Israphil had prepared in advance, and the final destination was a “great city” that reminded one of Langoustin.
And the very first place they visited in this city was—
“Well? How does it look?”
An upscale tailoring shop.
The fitting room curtain swept aside, and Simon emerged with a somewhat bashful smile, dressed in a pristine white formal suit and a crimson necktie.
Israphil smiled with satisfaction.
“It suits you beautifully! Our little nephew~”
The shop assistant beside her nodded enthusiastically in a hundred-fold agreement.
Simon stood before the mirror in his new clothes and touched his hair, which had been bleached white.
It still felt strange, but the more he looked at it, the more he found it growing on him.
“Don’t worry too much about it.”
Israphil added quietly.
“Your hair will return to its original color in a couple of days.”
The two of them left the tailoring shop with one new suit in hand.
Israphil walked gracefully down the street and snapped her fingers with a crisp sound. A transparent Barrier unfolded around them.
“Here—a false identity card and profile. From now on, your name is Sean Hadder. You’re an eighteen-year-old Priest from Bizer 2nd Cathedral in the Hafen Region.”
Simon took the false identity card and profile with a bewildered expression.
A Saint arranging forged credentials through a broker? He genuinely wondered if this was even permissible.
“Um, are you really sure about this?”
The Holiness of Priests emanates from blind, absolute faith in the Goddess Deva.
However, if one were to betray that faith in the goddess of their own volition, they would sometimes find themselves bound by compulsion, unable to wield Holiness as before—a condition known as Holy Slump.
Simon had been worried about precisely that point, but Israphil laughed softly.
“Everything is done to prevent greater evils and threats! The goddess will surely forgive you willingly.”
This woman, at least, would never fall into a Holy Slump.
“By the way, Israphil.”
Simon surveyed his perfectly prepared appearance and continued.
“Is my outfit right now connected to this mission somehow?”
Israphil shook her head.
“First, we need to bring a guide. This outfit is for that purpose.”
“Ah. So we’re going to meet them now?”
She smiled brightly.
“Yes! Let’s go help rescue that child.”

* * *
She had wanted to become a Saint.
It was the dream of every girl born in the Sacred Federation.
A being who shines like a twinkling star in the night sky. One whom all people revere and praise, one who, born as human, has ascended to the rank of a demigod nearest to the goddess.
And her beloved teacher, “Anna,” was also a Saint, and while attending Efnel, she had even been called the reincarnation of “Anna Cross,” which only added to the pressure.
Naturally, she had resolved to become a Saint and follow in Anna’s footsteps.
Back then, she had believed that the moment she became a Saint—the long-held dream and goal—the world would be hers and she would be utterly happy.
So then, now.
‘Am I happy?’
Rette was smiling. But inside, she was not smiling at all.
The Grand Cathedral’s founding anniversary gala. Countless people were pouring into the Grand Cathedral.
“Look! Look there! It’s the Saint of Stars!”
“……How can one be so noble?”
Rette stood with composed posture, displaying a carefully arranged smile before the masses.
There was no “Rette” here.
Only the fact that “the Saint has arrived.”
“Your Holiness.”
The Paladin assigned to her guard approached and knelt on one knee before Rette.
“I am honored to serve you.”
Rette answered with a smile that had become fixed to her face.
“Yes.”
When she extended her pale hand, the Paladin pressed his lips to the back of it and rose.
Intoxicated with the honor of serving and guarding the Saint, the young Paladin’s body was tensed and his face flushed with excitement.
‘……My legs hurt.’
Of course, Rette was thinking nothing at all.
All she cared about was when this tedious ordeal would finally end.

* * *
Being a Saint was far messier work than it looked.
It was no exaggeration to say that the Federation’s major ceremonies and events all involved a Saint. In a culture where a Saint’s participation was regarded as the blessing of the goddess herself, crucial events and commemorations would shift around based on her schedule—a constant, grinding reality.
Duty and vocation.
Custom and obligation.
The constraints binding her were, in many ways, heavier than the power and authority she’d gained.
The rebellious streak from her Efnel student days had no currency here. Archbishops and other dignitaries, even rival Saints and the Pope himself, had begun appearing to drill her in etiquette and proper conduct.
“This puts us in a difficult position, your grace.”
“Please, consider the dignity befitting a Saint.”
When Rette stumbled, those around her suffered. They felt the weight of invisible pressure, and she pressed through each grueling day burdened by their unspoken distress.
Her smile, her voice, the smallest twitch of her facial muscles, her manners, her speech—even her thoughts and values.
Everything she’d once possessed was being “corrected” to match what a Saint should be.
“A Saint represents the Goddess Deva herself. She must look upon all people with compassion, regard them with mercy, and never lose her radiant smile….”
With each passing season, in the hands of greedy old men from Efnel and their rigid contemporaries, Rette Shardenelle was disappearing—being sanded down and remolded into a flawlessly crafted doll.
Yes, she understood now.
They didn’t need her.
They needed only a doll to smile during important ceremonies.
And when war came, a bonus—combat strength to charge into battle and die for them.
What hurt most of all was that even Israphil, the one person she’d trusted, no longer showed her warmth.
“Rette. Now that you’ve become a Saint equal to me, I will no longer tolerate childish behavior.”
Israphil, who’d volunteered as her mentor, had taught her etiquette with a severity that wrung away every tear.
At least there was this mercy: a regulation mandated a three-year course at Efnel for any girl who awakened as a Saint in her teens. She wouldn’t have to part with her roommate Lilinet or her other friends.
Of course, Saint’s lessons were added on top, and she had to maintain top grades in all her Efnel coursework, so the burden multiplied many times over.
Then came the break, and the moment she left school, hell began.
Her schedule was murderous—she had no idea how many places she visited in a single day.
“Blessed are we to behold the Goddess’s daughter, closest to divinity itself.”
Some bishop or other.
She couldn’t remember his name. Better not to bother.
She simply offered her doll-like smile, extended the back of her hand, knelt before him as he pressed his lips to her skin, wept tears of gratitude for the goddess’s grace.
“Ah, blessed are we to behold the Goddess’s daughter, closest to divinity itself.”
A senile old fool.
Some provincial bishop drowning in money, apparently—he’d recently taken to arriving at her events using a Teleport Magic Circle.
“Ah, this old man scarcely knows what to do before such noble beauty.”
His mouth spoke of nobility while his eyes traced the line of her chest and legs.
Did he think she couldn’t tell?
Filthy, senile creature.
‘Goddamn it.’
Rage bubbled up from deep in her chest.
‘Crush his windpipe with a palm strike, follow up with a soccer kick to the jaw, then finish with a three-hit combo to the bridge of his nose with my knee before he comes to.’
She thought this way and smiled like a doll.
Here, in this moment, she was a doll.
A doll. That was all.
Not a person.
It was easier to think of herself that way.
She only wished for this time to end quickly.
“Blessed are we to behold the Goddess’s daughter—”
‘Drop dead.’
“Blessed are we to behold the Goddess’s—”
‘Choke on it.’
“Such radiant beauty leaves this old man without measure—”
‘Then let me measure out a place for you in hell.’
Her patience was nearing its absolute limit, but her body moved on instinct, each gesture of propriety carved bone-deep into her reflexes.
“Thank you. May the Goddess’s blessing be upon you.”
By now she didn’t even know what words were coming out of her mouth.
She was in a trance.
“Yes. The Goddess shall surely look upon you with favor.”
Viewed from a step back, there was no tragedy more absurd than this.
Israphil’s voice coming from her own lips, peddling divinity, while people wept with gratitude and wonder at her mercy and compassion.
The Sacred Federation is truly a remarkable nation.
As time passed and Rette met with every high-ranking official, she was utterly exhausted. Her escort, Paladin, spoke up.
“Saint of the Stars. We should proceed to the next location.”
Again?
“Right now?”
She asked with a sharpness to her tone, but this fanatical Paladin had no idea she was angry.
He was a madman who firmly believed that a Saint’s greatest joy was bestowing blessings upon the servants of the goddess.
Irritation suddenly welled up in Rette as she turned away.
“I’ll just be a moment.”
“Allow me to escort you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Wait here.”
“Wherever you go, it is my duty to protect the Saint-”
In that instant.
Rette’s body rotated in a full spin.
Whoosh!
Her leg came at him with a furious gale, and her heel stopped with a sharp snap just inches from Paladin’s face.
The wind rippled across his cheek, and his teeth and gums were laid bare.
“Listen.”
“Y-yes?”
“Don’t you understand basic words? Who else is in this hallway besides you, you idiot?”
Paladin’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
It was infuriatingly predictable—the very image of ‘Our sacred Saint speaking such vulgar language!’ written across his face.
“I was only trying to protect the Saint-”
“So you’re planning to follow me into the bathroom too, you dumbass?”
Crack!
Rette flicked her heel against his head and walked away with sharp, deliberate steps.
Paladin lay sprawled on the floor, his expression now: ‘Our sacred Saint going to the bathroom!’
God, seriously.
She genuinely despised him, wanted to kill him dead.
Click-click.
Rette walked forward, pressing her hand to her forehead. As she slipped out the back of the room, an empty corridor stretched before her.
As she walked, she peeled off the ornaments from her head, the saint’s robe draped across her shoulders, and the high heels—all tossed aside. Beneath the outer layer was her Efnel uniform.
She was still officially a student of Efnel, so the standard dress code for formal occasions was the uniform topped with a saint’s robe.
‘Whatever criticism comes later, I’m taking a break from the rest of this schedule, period.’
She desperately needed some fresh air.
And.
‘Anna, I miss you.’
She longed to see her.
How on earth did Anna and Israphil manage to endure all this time? She genuinely found herself admiring the older Saint predecessors.
‘Lilinet, I never thought I’d miss you.’
The faces of her friends from Efnel came to mind.
At least they hadn’t caught her like this—she was truly grateful for that.
If they saw her now, so different from how she appeared at school, performing these dignified Saint-like gestures while blessing the elderly, they would have held their sides laughing until tears came.
-Heh.
Laughter?
In the nearly empty corridor, a soft laugh echoed.
Rette flinched without thinking and turned her head. A man in a white formal suit with white hair leaned against the wall, arms crossed, stifling his laughter.
‘What is this guy grinning at—wait.’
Her pupils dilated sharply. The man was uncrossing his arms and walking slowly toward her.
His white hair swayed as his eyes and face gradually became clear.
Rette’s lips parted, her expression going blank.
Her body and mind froze solid.
Perhaps the one person she was even more desperate not to see like this than Lilinet or her other friends.
But his presence here was impossible.
Had she finally lost her mind?
Gone mad?
She rubbed her eyes and looked again—his image only became clearer.
“Long time no see.”
A familiar voice. A face she knew well. A smile with a hint of mischief.
And above all.
“Rette.”
Not a saint, not the goddess’s closest daughter.
A man who called her by her name with such certainty.
“……What?”
Rette’s face flushed crimson.
“W-w-why are you here?! No, wait—did you…did you see?”
“See what?”
She rushed at him and seized his necktie, wrenching it tight as she cried out.
“Did you see what I was doing at the banquet?!”
The tips of her ears burned red as she shouted.
Simon, his necktie caught, spread both palms outward in a calming gesture.
“Rette, you’re choking me.”
“Forget it! Erase it! Wipe it completely from your head, you bastard!!”
“I can’t just make my memory vanish. But you really did look like a saint…”
Her face had reached its limit, flushing deep red.
Rette clenched her fist with a sound like a scream.
“Forget it, forget it, forget it, forget it!!”
Snap.
A hand appeared, catching her fist. An unexpected figure emerged from behind Simon, and Rette’s eyes went wide.
“I’ve told you before—break the habit of throwing punches first. Haven’t I, Rette?”
“I-Israphil…?”
Israphil smiled softly.
“Come with me. I have things to discuss with both of you.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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