Academy's Undercover Professor

Most parents, when their children dream of a future career, tend to recommend high-level jobs such as doctor or judge.

Or at least a government official called a stable job would be nice.

There are no parents who want their children to go through a difficult path.

However, in my case it was a little different.

"Son, you should become a shaman."

"What?"

These were the words my mother told me when I was growing up with my younger sister, having lost my father early and just being a wild child.

My family wasn't very well off, but I was still trying to earn money and study hard to become a doctor. Or become a scientist or developer.

My mother recommended I take such a basic route, not a liberal arts or even artistic route, but a path to a completely different dimension.

What should I say about this theology major?

"Uh, what?"

"you didn't hear me, so let me say it again. You have to become a shaman."

"I don't like it."

My answer was firm.

I won't be a shaman. Why all of a sudden in the first place?

At my bold answer, my mother raised her eyebrows once and spoke in a firm tone.

"You have the qualities of a shaman. All the spirits are watching over you. There is no other way for you than to be a shaman."

Hearing that, I was dumbfounded.

What are the qualities of a shaman? Do I have such a talent?

Beyond absurd, I just couldn't think of anything.

Since then, my mother has mainly told me things that shouldn't be said to her son, such as that I have a peculiar quality, that I am destined to be harmed if I do not become a shaman and receive divine guidance.

What was my answer at that time?

"Never, no."

"If you don't, you will be in big trouble one day. It's all because I'm worried about you."

"If it's for me, you should support me on my path!"

I remember saying it so firmly and locking myself in my room.

To be honest, I was just embarrassed and angry. You can't give praise to a child who has properly designed his life since middle school, but give up everything and become a shaman?

At those words, I studied harder with a sense of rebellion.

My mother constantly forced me to do religious things and taught me all sorts of myths, magic, witchcraft, and other bizarre knowledge.

But I didn't give up. The more she did, the more I raised my fever by acquiring all kinds of rational knowledge to strengthen my head.

When more than 10 years have passed and you have become an adult and settled down as a member of society.

I died.

in a car accident.

'It was really absurd.'

Could this be what my mother said about getting angry?

And what was even more surprising was what happened right after that.

I am alive. To be precise, it would be right to say that he died but was reborn.

Do you think the afterlife exists? I thought everything my mother said was a lie, but it was all true.

Foolishly, I have come to realize through the experience of death that human beings do not properly realize what they have not experienced themselves until they have experienced it.

And what am I doing now?

"I will go to class. Open your textbooks. Continuing from last time, I will tell you how to draw a magic circle."

I am a teacher at the magic academy.

... ... How did this happen?

********************************

A magical engineering locomotive emitting pure white steam arrived at the station.

Clap!

The sound of compressed steam spewing out as the metal meshed with iron resonated coolly.

The customers waiting at the station got on the train one by one, and I took a deep breath before boarding as I watched the scene. The fresh air permeated my lungs, making me feel invigorated.

The sky was cloudless and clear. The chilly winter air, soon to end, gave a pleasant feeling of freshness.

The departure time of the magical engineering locomotive heading to the Exilion Empire was running out. I raised my hand and lightly brushed my face. A strange sensation between the gloved hand and skin - the mask was definitely attached. It was necessary to hide my identity.

I got on the train, moving naturally to avoid suspicion.

"I'll check your ticket," the conductor said as I boarded. I took it from my coat pocket and handed it over.

"Confirmed. Mr. Gerard. Have a nice trip." I nodded lightly at his polite greeting.

The ticket said Room 403 - the third cabin in the fourth car. The narrow corridor allowed just one person to pass, doors spaced widely apart. This luxury train had all seats partitioned into rooms.

No. 401.

No. 402.

No. 403.

'Here.' I checked the nameplate and entered. The smell of old wood wafted in as I opened the door.

The interior wasn't fancy but had everything - padded seats divided left and right, luggage storage, even a signal bell to summon staff if needed. 'Not bad.'

I sat down lightly, having no heavy bags. The seats were soft, being a luxurious train. Looking out, I saw the vast northern mountain landscape. Snow-capped peaks like giants in white conical hats. Soon this train would squeeze through them.

'Now that I've come this far, I can relax.

' My name is Gerard. I was once an ordinary man in Korea - in my past life, before dying mysteriously in a car accident. This world I awoke in, where magic and science coexist, is completely different from Earth.

Here I enjoyed a new second life.

'I should rest well until we arrive.'

The Exilion Empire is the largest, most powerful country on this continent. Birthplace of magic engineering, where magic and machines are equal, where wizards and magic towers exist. I was heading there now.

'I wonder if we stop at Lederbelk first.' I checked the pamphlet. The final destination was the imperial capital. But no train went straight from another country to the capital. Even this luxury, security-checked train had stops along the way.

Lederbelk was first, a more famous city than the capital in some respects. It housed the magic academy, dream of all aspiring wizards. 'An academy? What an amazing world.'

Decades into my second life, much still didn't make sense. My old life's imprint was profound. But I had no academy business, no need to worry about it.

As I thought this, the train shuddered once - about to depart?

Soon the horn blew announcing our departure. In under a minute we'd be through the mountains.

'Do I have this room to myself? I hope it's comfortable.' Just then the door creaked open, dashing that foolish thought.

In came a well-dressed man in his mid-twenties, wearing a frock coat like mine. No staff would dress that way - clearly my roommate. Ask and you shall receive, it seems. At least I wouldn't travel in solitude.

'Can't relax fully with company.' He looked at me. "Hello." I nodded slightly, responding minimally as if shy. He didn't mind, sitting across from me.

The horn blared as we departed. Initially rattling, soon the train smoothed out. The high price bought speed and comfort exceeding regular steam engines.

The window scenery raced by - conifers standing in thick snow, pure white mountains automatically drawing the gaze.

I took out the newspaper next to the pamphlet. No laptops here - papers and books were the boredom-killers. The front page announced the civil war's end in Utah, where we'd departed.

Blackletter articles were illustrated with photos of the victorious princess faction. "The Utah civil war has ended," my companion stated through the paper. I lowered it from my face to respond.

"Yes, I'm glad it finished quickly." We discussed the war briefly.

"Oh - I'm Rudgar Chelsea," he introduced himself. A noble name, though he lacked aristocratic arrogance.

"I'm Gerard. No surname," I replied, revealing my commoner status.

"I'm from a fallen noble line," he said, understanding that.

We exchanged destinations - him to Lederbelk, me sightseeing in the capital.

He was newly appointed to teach at the Seorn magic academy. I was impressed. That place trained the continent's magical elite. Teachers were rigorously selected. He must be quite skilled, though he downplayed it.

We discussed a rumor that a mercenary named Machiavelli had turned the civil war's tide. I pretended no knowledge, but in fact recognized that name. How could I not? Before 'Gerard,' I was the mercenary Machiavelli.