Damn Academy chapter 240

240 – Claridium (7)

“Do you think it’s because of the mirror?”

What is he talking about?

Lilith stood there, looking dazed, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back inside, closing the door. Then I asked the old man again.

“Could you elaborate?”

“I don’t believe in that curse. It’s all lies made up by the High Council.”

“…”

“I’ve had a mirror in front of my house for over a decade. It’s something my grandmother taught me. Now they’re saying it’s a problem? I don’t believe any of it.”

He seemed like a stubborn, suspicious old man, the kind you’d often see in the marketplace.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s an old Claridium custom!”

“What do you mean?”

Rosalyn had said something different, so I was curious.

“This city was founded by exiles, refugees, and those fleeing the witch hunts. They were outcasts, living on cursed land filled with demons. They used whatever tools they had to survive and developed their own brand of magic. These customs are remnants of how ordinary people, without magic or swords, struggled to survive.”

“…Do you know the origin of these customs?”

“No one knows anymore. But I still believe in tradition. It’s not a curse.”

He seemed very stubborn. It sounded like he was in denial, but since Rosalyn had only been in Claridium for a few years, the old man’s words were more convincing to me.

Lilith nodded in agreement, as if she thought the old man had a point.

If it wasn’t a ritual for a curse, then it must mean something else. A message? A warning? Or a mark for prey?

Or perhaps the mirror had some kind of ability to repel certain demons, but that seemed unlikely. Vampires weren’t afraid of mirrors, and what kind of demon would willingly enter a house through the front door?

When he mentioned custom, it made it seem more likely that the vampire had moved the mirror. Vampires who had lived for centuries tended to be more conservative in their ways than humans. If they had been in Claridium for a long time, they would have a deeper understanding of the traditions.

“I understand. Oh, and do you know where I can find the oracle, Proxima?”

The old man blinked and hesitated, as if something was bothering him.

“P, Proxima should be at the Temple of Acastes. But I haven’t heard from her in a long time. She may be in seclusion.”

“The temple… Could it be that place where the celestial ship crashed?”

“Is there something you’re concerned about?”

“I swore long ago that I would not rely on prophecy.”

Her face held a hint of an unspoken story.

“…I understand.”

***

We set out to find Master Rotolec’s studio. Lilith followed me silently, her expression clouded with worry.

I felt a growing sense of complexity. There were no leads on the ageless man, and my tasks seemed to multiply. Perhaps it would be wiser to seek out the Prophet and ask for his assistance, rather than simply making inquiries among the townsfolk.

“Damian,” Lilith spoke suddenly. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“This notion that no one in this city can be trusted. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I feel it too… This city is strange, somehow.”

“…It’s been strange from the start.”

Abruptly, Lilith seized my wrist and halted in the middle of the boulevard.

“This is it, Damian.”

“Rotolec’s studio is still some distance away.”

“No, this is it.”

She gestured towards a shop beside us.

Next to us stood a dilapidated restaurant that looked to have been abandoned for years. Its windows were shattered, and debris lay scattered about, coated in dust and cobwebs.

“…What?”

“A place that serves excellent beef stew. The carter we met last night in the slums told me about it.”

“…What?”

My mind raced as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over me.

I looked up. It was true. A tilted sign read “Jenny & Finny’s.” Next door was Roland’s Timber Shop, just as the carter had said.

“The carter was adamant. He said he had dined there just yesterday.”

“…”

I remembered it clearly as well. But it was absurd to believe that anyone had eaten here recently. The interior was not fit for dining, or even sitting.

Taking Lilith’s wrist, I led her straight into the timber shop next door.

The narrow interior was packed with bolts of fabric. A middle-aged woman was weaving at a loom, and she greeted us with a warm smile.

“Are you looking for a marital quilt?”

“No. Might I ask you something?”

“Of course. Ask away.”

“When did the shop next door close down?”

“About a year ago, I think. Why do you ask?”

“It was a favorite of mine, and I was surprised to find it closed when I returned.”

“Oh dear. Yes, it was. They left so suddenly, without a word. I wondered what had happened to them.”

“Were you acquainted with the owner?”

“Of course. We shared a wall for a decade. How could I not know them? It was upsetting when they left without a farewell.”

“Thank you for your time.”

Ririth silently looked up at me. I held her wrist and led her out of the store.

She stood there in a daze, her eyes unfocused, then she said.

The old man at the bookstore said it. In the city… you can’t trust anyone. I think I understand what he meant now.”

“….”

I couldn’t agree more. Why would the stableman say something like that? He couldn’t have been unaware that his business was failing because he was wandering around the city so much.

“Demian, you saw the same thing I did, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like we’re being haunted.”

From the moment we arrived in this city, something has been amiss. Priscilla, who keeps brandishing her sword and sending signals for no reason, and my nerves that are on edge for no apparent reason. The falling airship, the corpse with the crushed face, the mirror curse, the creeper who was spying on our house, all of these things have happened in just two days.

It’s like we’re missing a key piece of the puzzle, and the other pieces are scattered without any connection. What on earth are we missing?

***

“Master Lautrec is not available.”

We had moved three blocks to find Lautrec’s studio, but we couldn’t meet him in person. Instead, his assistant greeted us.

Lautrec, despite his reputation as a great conversationalist, was using a dilapidated and shabby brick mansion as his studio.

We followed the assistant. In the hallway, unfinished canvases were piled up, covered in dust. The surface was cracked and discolored from being left in the sunlight for too long, but the intense brushwork of Lautrec, the conversationalist I knew, was not erased.

I had talked to a pink-haired girl named Misha about Lautrec at Rigved. She said that his family had been his patrons for a long time, but at some point they had turned away from him and he had changed his style completely. I remember that conversation clearly, as I was familiar with his work. How could he have abandoned such a sophisticated style?

“Where has he gone?”

“The master has been commissioned for a special work and is staying at the city hall.”

The city hall was not a place that ordinary students like us could visit.

“It’s a shame. He’s my idol.”

“Don’t be too disappointed. Even I, his assistant, only see him once or twice a month.”

“…He must be very busy.”

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“He’s still in high demand.”

His fellow artists had criticized his changed style, but judging by the fact that he was still in such demand, it couldn’t be that bad.

“This way. You said Westwood? Come in. He should be in here.”

The assistant stopped at the end of the hallway and opened a door. Inside, completed portraits were lined up against the wall, stacked like firewood.

I felt like I was at an exhibition, looking at the displayed paintings one by one.

“Count Schwalbe….”

It was a painting of a man in his 30s with slightly faded colors. It looked like an old painting, but Lautrec’s unique energy remained in a somewhat crude form.

“Oh, that’s a work from 30 years ago. The count was once a city councilman and was very active. His recent work is next to it.”

The one next to it was so different in style that it could have been painted by someone else.

“His style has changed a lot.”

“There has been a so-called great transformation, but it’s a bit different from what people say. I think he’s still technically advanced, if not more so.”

The assistant was not wrong.

Lautrec’s characteristic hazy figures and dreamlike, unique colors, as if encountered in a dream, were completely gone. It had now changed to an extremely realistic style. It was as if a real person had been brought into the painting and time had been stopped.

Public opinion and my own thoughts were in complete agreement. Technically excellent, but the soul was gone. This was closer to a historical record that historians would appreciate.

“What’s amazing is that the master can perfectly store and reproduce in his mind anything he has seen once. Thanks to that, he saves the trouble of having to hold the same pose for half a day, so high-ranking people pay extra to commission Master Lautrec.”

“Where is the portrait of the Westwoods?”

“Let me show you.”

The assistant points to a painting.

It shows a portrait of the old man Westwood and his wife, as I saw earlier. The wife’s face had obvious traces of age, but there were still traces of beauty.

“May I borrow a pencil?”

“Oh, here you go.”

I took out my parchment and sketched the face simply to record it. The assistant, who had been watching the lines quickly drawn one after another in silence, said:

“You are also technically excellent, my guest.”

“It’s easy to imitate.”

Unfortunately, my favorite Lautrec was gone. Lautrec’s paintings were valuable because they were styles I couldn’t imitate, but now they’ve become scraps of paper to me.

As I finished the sketch lightly and turned around, Lily suddenly called out to me.

“Demian, doesn’t this painting look like the one you drew?”

Lily points to a painting. It depicts a familiar woman.

Slender and curved body lines. Crimson hair. A small, white face shape and perfect facial features that would captivate anyone at a glance. Expensive jewelry that I dare not even think about.

It’s an unfinished work, but I can clearly see who this person is.

“…”

“You know her, right? I’ve seen her in the art room before.”

“Yeah. She’s my teacher.”

Sylverin’s portrait was in Lautrec’s studio. The extremely realistic colors caught my eye.

The assistant asks:

“Do you know her?”

“Yes, who commissioned this painting?”

“Probably not the person in question. Thanks to his genius memory, the master also creates portraits of the person the client wants. Um… wait a minute. Let me check.”

He lifted the back of the painting slightly and said:

“This is… the mayor’s request.”