High School of Demon Hunting

The bickering between the black cat, the white cat, and the fox is just a minor diversion in life.

For several weeks in a row, no unusual incidents occurred outside the school, but Zheng Qing wouldn’t naively think that those crows had truly turned over a new leaf, or that the shroud over the Silent Forest had genuinely lifted.

The prophecy of the Horseman Priest from the night of the Qingming Festival was still vivid in his mind, and the words ’there will be bloodshed, it is ominous to see it’ made him involuntarily gloomy every time he rested.

Of course, in Xiao Xiao’s view, Zheng Qing’s ’gloominess’ was more about his fear of graduation and unease about the unknown future, with the Horseman Priest’s verse merely serving as a pretext he subconsciously sought out.

"I read a theory in a book—there are only two types of people in this world."

The Diviner from the Yuzui Hunting Team analyzed the absent-mindedness of his deskmate during the break in the Thursday potion class: "For example, when holding a bunch of grapes, one type of person eats the best ones first, while the other type saves the best for last. Logically speaking, the first type should be optimistic because every grape they eat is the best among the remaining ones; the second type should be pessimistic because every grape they eat is the worst among the remaining ones. But in fact, it’s the opposite. The reason is that the second type still has hope, while the first type only has memories."

"Seems reasonable."

Zheng Qing was accustomed to drawing inferences, and upon hearing this, he immediately began to ponder: "If a plate of grapes has both good and bad ones, the adults at home will definitely eat the bad ones first and leave the good ones for the children... Children are the hope of adults, so from this angle, the second type indeed has hope."

"That’s not the point." Xiao Xiao had already adapted to Zheng Qing’s habitual digressions, skillfully steering the conversation back: "What I want to emphasize is that being too immersed in memories is like a soul lost in the World in the Mirror, it’s very easy to lose oneself..."

"Just like Zhu Si?"

"Don’t interrupt!"

Unable to bear it, Doctor Xiao glared at him viciously, paused, then reconnected his thoughts: "That’s why I say, memories are like perfume, not too strong, but not too weak either... A little fragrance is best. Do you remember Thomas? He lost himself because he sprayed too much perfume on his memories."

Upon suddenly hearing that familiar yet strange name, Zheng Qing was momentarily stunned.

But he immediately reacted.

"Do you know the real reason Thomas defected?" He didn’t recall discussing certain details of his abduction with his companions.

"That’s a new one."

Doctor Xiao rolled his eyes and softly hummed: "After we were attacked by Nikita on the freshman orientation flight, I started paying a little more attention to that Female Demon... Her relationship with Thomas isn’t a secret, it didn’t even require me to use my family’s power, and just by checking the class logs preserved in the school library, I could find a lot of clues."

Zheng Qing sighed in admiration.

"I’m not unaware of these things," he poked one head of his recently folded double-headed paper crane with a feather pen, feeling a bit wistful: "—first it was the Ogre Tribe, then it was the Horseman Tribe, followed by the students and teaching assistants at school. One head falls, another springs up. Is this still a crow? No, it’s a Nine-headed Bird! When one head is cut off, another will grow from the neck of the Nine-headed Bird. I’m not overly immersed in memories, just worried that they’ll smear me with tar all over, then stick me with jet-black crow feathers, turning me into one of their kind."

"An interesting metaphor indeed."

Xiao Xiao raised an eyebrow, flipping through the black-covered notebook beside him: "Solving this trouble will take time, and coincidentally, you don’t have much time left in the remaining weeks of this semester... I just submitted an article to ’Alchemy’, and I haven’t properly rested in a long time. You not only have to prepare your graduation thesis but also have to prepare for that school project, where is the time to worry about those crows? Oh, and don’t forget about registering for the shape-shifting wizard certification next week."

Zheng Qing flopped his head onto the textbooks, wanting to smash himself dead.

But obviously, this height was insufficient to kill a wizard.

On the podium, the voice of the Potion Class Professor was still slowly crawling into his ears—

"...The preparation of magic potions is both rigorous and whimsical. For example, as for mud powder, we can use either yellow mud or black mud, this is its whimsy. But on the other hand, when stirring in the crucible with a glass rod, half a counterclockwise turn is half a counterclockwise turn, and it cannot deviate in the slightest, this is its rigor... From another dimension, the size and shape of the circles drawn by the glass rod in the crucible can never be uniform and orderly, cannot be completely accurate, this again reflects ’whimsy’... The rigor determines the basic efficacy of the magic potion, while the whimsy decides the appearance and the subtle differences in ingredients such as the year and moisture of different herbs..."

"I hate whimsy."

The Warlock’s head remained plopped between the book pages, muttering in a low voice—or rather, he hated uncertainty—those crows were like impurities mixed into the crucible, who knew what the final magic potion would turn into.

"But magic itself is whimsical."

Doctor Xiao used a very peculiar example: "For instance, a goat mating with a motorcycle, producing a bizarre goat that drinks gasoline, with throttles growing on its horns and black smoke spewing from its rear—this peculiar yet not entirely unreasonable fact based on the logic of mysticism is the greatest common divisor of the Magical World. In this world, magic power and magic are the true logic, and thus, the union of a motorcycle and a goat, whimsical yet rigorous."

Zheng Qing’s focus deviated as always.

"Who gave birth?"

"What?"

"I mean, that monster with smoke coming out of its butt, was it born from the goat, or from the motorcycle? How does a motorcycle give birth? And is a goat that drinks gasoline still a goat?"

Xiao Xiao didn’t seem to think this question was nonsensical, and instead, very seriously asked Zheng Qing a question: "Do you know Hinede Glisson?"

"No."

"He was a healer who once vividly described a concept similar to your question just now—I’m referring to the healer field—he said that if a patient tries to describe a headache to a doctor, language will immediately dry up, because no word is readily available to be used by him. Thus, he is forced to create his word, holding pain in one hand and a clump of pure sound in the other, squeezing them together, eventually popping out a new word. The union of a motorcycle and a goat is like this too."

Pop!

A piece of chalk flew from the podium, accurately hitting the heads of the two gossiping wizards.

Ouch!

Zheng Qing took a sharp intake of breath, clutching his head, and suddenly felt that Xiao Xiao’s words made a lot of sense—hadn’t his language dried up after being hit by the chalk?