Post Traumatic Alcohol Syndrome

Ranni's gaze was loose and glossy.

Instead of seeing what was right in front of her, she simply looked past it. Vivid images overtook her vision.

Ranni, Valeria, and Natalia had all seen the same sights. When the Demons attacked, they had all bunkered down inside the Upper Girl's Dormitory together.

Valeria had a field day, preying on the powerful few who were foolish enough to enter through the front entrance. Natalia used her bow to pick a few off from a distance. As for Ranni, she had eviscerated several Demons with her magic and S-tier Skill.

They had defended the dorm well. The Demons were stumped trying to break through their defense.

There was a point in time when Ranni felt happy. Hopeful. Like they could actually pull off such a feat with ease. But in hindsight, she now knew such a notion was woefully naive.

They couldn't save everybody. And the few they did lose overtook the many of those they saved—at least, in Ranni's clouded mind.

There was one instance in particular. A second-year girl named Cassandra. She had happily shown Ranni around the Kolzig-Bondra campus just last year.

Ranni respected her. She was a good student, a good person, and a good friend. They weren't the closest, but that didn't stop Cassandra from being kind.

Bad things happened to the best. She had been caught outside when the Demons began their massacre.

And all Ranni did was watch. Someone she had viewed as a good friend was slaughtered, just a few feet away from her.

The poor girl tried to bolt through the front entrance amidst a heated battle. Just as Ranni's hopes were highest, Cassandra had been torn apart by a blistering metal saw.

Entirely bisected. Brutal and horrific. Ranni had never experienced such pure dread.

It was hard to focus after that. Her friend's death replayed over and over. There was no end in sight—she just couldn't get it to stop.

It had only been half a day since the attack occurred—she still wore the Academy uniform. It was untouched. Ranni hadn't suffered at all. Yet, it seemed like others had suffered on her behalf.

Her room was dark, her bed was made out of the dead's arms; they dragged her deeper into a suffocating embrace.

More images. More deaths—many students she had never known. Blood and gore.

The bedroom seemed to jitter. Her mind was like a thousand pinballs, all accelerating infinitely, colliding against one another in quick succession.

Just as they encroached upon the breaking point, a sound interrupted Ranni; the door to her penthouse was unlocking.

And a switch flicked.

Ranni immediately shot up and out of bed, tidying herself up. All her thoughts vanished; the facade erected itself.

Swiftly exiting her room, she was immediately greeted by a towering older man.

It was her father, Alexander Luikots. The muscular suited man had a perplexed quiver that leaked out of his aged face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

And the facade crumbled. The two entered a long hug.

…

"I should've been here."

"You're here now," she sobbed, muffled by her father's chest.

Ranni only shed a few tears. More pressing matters had already begun to take hold of her practical mind.

Her father's arrival only forewarned what was to come. For all of Humanity. Not just Cassandra.

***

"So what's your name? If you don't mind me asking…"

Mark got no response. All he got was an angry glare from under the man's sleep mask.

"Why don't you just call me the Principal, alright kid?" he bitterly deflected. "Just like everyone else does."

"Alright, 'The Principal.' If you also don't mind me asking, why did it take you so long to stop the Demon's attack?" Mark asked. "Especially if you know everything… did End pay you off?"

"No, End wasn't involved in the attack," the Principal sighed. "Look kid, I'm going to make this extremely clear for you. So bear with me. Are you with me?"

'The Demon God wasn't behind the Demon's attack? I guess that makes sense. But who even leads the Demons? The novel somehow omitted anything about Demonic leadership. The Demons were more of a simple device for William to punch down on…'

"Yeah, I'm with you," Mark replied, barely with him—he snapped out of thought.

"There are forces beyond your wildest little imagination. All unfathomably powerful. Most have collectively agreed to stay in their own lane. Yours truly being one of such beings."

"But how would defending your Academy be overstepping your lane?" Mark asked, not buying such a feeble excuse. "If anything, it's other people stepping on your lane.

"Ahhh. I was once a greenhorn like you," the Principal admitted with a reminiscent tone. "Until I got too much power too quickly. The other beings in this world snapped my horns and set the lanes. I've learned my lesson. Now I do the barest of minimums and get to live happily."

'He says that with no shame…'

It reminded Mark of himself.

Mark stared at the crashing waves in the distance as the Principal's words set in—they became tougher while the blue sky slowly turned grey with clouds. The winds blew them in.

He started at the beach. He stared at the sole umbrella on which the Principal sat under. Then he stared at himself, sitting in the uncomfortable sand.

'Absolute utter bullshit.'

Each word from the Principal's beer-covered mouth irked Mark. He loathed the deadbeat's mindset.

The Principal had everything. He was at the pinnacle of power with immense knowledge—enough to be sought out by gods for his services.

Yet, he did nothing with it. At least, nothing of real importance. He did no good for the world.

Bloodshed had shown up on his doorstep—at a place he was obligated to defend and could do so with ease.

Rather than inconvenience himself, he chose to turn a blind eye to the real world, opting to live in one where only he got to be safe and secure; this pocket dimension.

The extent of his grand life aspirations was one of hedonistic leisure. A drifting existence. Mark abhorred it.

"You don't like my answer, I presume?" the Principal asked.

"Yes."

Mark stood up. His tone teetered on the edge of anger, though he kept his demeanor neutral.

"I understand. The door is right there. It was good chatting with you, Apostle of End," the Principal pointed, and a normal door appeared on the beach.

"You as well."

Mark took hold of the cold door handle, twisting it. Pure nothingness was behind the door.

The Principal called out, just as Mark was in the midst of entering.

"By the way, there's something on your shoulder."

POOF.

"What…?" Mark replied.

But in the blink of his eye, he had returned to Everett's office—now staring into an empty wooden wall.

'Fucking bastard.'

His face scrunched in anger—then he was immediately frightened by a woman's voice to which he snapped back into a neutral demeanor.

"Did the Principal tell you something important as you were leaving?" Everett asked from her office desk as Mark turned around to meet her bored gaze.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "Said something was on my shoulder."

Everett's left eye glowed red as she squinted, her pupil becoming cat-like.

"Now that you mention it, there is something there…"

"What's there?" Mark asked. He saw nothing on his uniform.

"It's a tracker of some kind," Everett muttered. "I can barely see it."

'Someone's tracking me? Who? For what?'

Mark touched his shoulder. It didn't take long for him to make the mental connection.