A Guide to Raising Snake Spirits - Chapter 20

The photos from ages five to eight didn’t hold much interest. Mizuki Nozomi skimmed through them quickly, though he did pause at a shot where his mother had forced him into a dress. His fists tightened at the memory, but he still couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

As he moved into the nine-to-twelve age range, his pace slowed. He felt instinctively that these three years were the most likely window.

He scrolled all the way to age twelve. One photo showed a young Nozomi with his hand raised, fingers curled as if gripping something invisible, pointing directly at the camera with a radiant smile. Aside from that, there was nothing.

Nozomi remembered this one. It was taken the day his Black Mamba hatched. Even with modern technology, cameras couldn’t capture the form of a spirit body. Back then, little Nozomi had agonized over how to take a commemorative photo with his beloved spirit animal. Eventually, he settled on this pose, using his hands to gesture the length and girth of the snake.

The dark-haired Guide’s fingertip lingered over the empty space where the Black Mamba would have been, his expression softening.

The Black Mamba materialized and coiled itself around his shoulders to look at the album with him, affectionately nuzzling Nozomi’s cheek with its cool, smooth head.

In the middle of this cozy moment between master and spirit, Nozomi suddenly recalled a photo he had just passed that felt slightly off.

He quickly scrolled back to the beginning of the age nine section. It was a “Live Photo” style moving image, but the angle was peculiar.

Almost all his previous photos were shot from a high angle. That made sense, as his parents were both adults over 1.7 meters tall, naturally looking down at a child.

This specific photo, however, was taken nearly at eye level. Little Nozomi was smiling sweetly at the lens.

If his parents had crouched down, the angle would have been slightly upward. This meant the photographer was likely another child, just a bit taller than Nozomi himself.

Nozomi was startled by his own discovery. He had no memory of a childhood playmate close enough to take such a photo, let alone one whose work would end up in the family album.

The dark-haired Guide slowly lowered his device and leaned back, lost in thought.

A moment later, he imported the two relevant photos into his terminal and left a message for his father.

[Mizuki Nozomi: Dad, do you remember who took this photo of me?]

His father didn’t reply immediately, likely having wandered off to some remote, signal-free region again.

“Um…” A Sentinel with a wild, permed afro asked tentatively, “Shiraishi Haru, can I borrow your Situational Analysis homework to take a look?”

Shiraishi Haru looked up at him.

Lonicera added sycophantically, “Just the last question the teacher left. I just want to see your logic.”

His partner gave him a sharp flick to the forehead.

“You couldn’t copy off me or the Class Rep, so you’re coming for Shiraishi’s now, huh?”

Lonicera clutched his head, grumbling, “You know how that old professor is. I heard the daily assignments make up the bulk of the grade, and he doesn’t give out study guides for the finals.”

As the afro-haired Sentinel took the homework and started writing, his mouth didn’t stop moving. He leaned in to gossip, “So, what’s the deal with your Guide? I thought he was a student, but he turned out to be a teacher? I was totally floored when I saw him.”

Shiraishi Haru: “…”

The Class Rep had noticed that Shiraishi hadn’t been himself since moving dorms. Their rooms were adjacent, and they shared several classes.

The Class Rep cut in, “Stop asking. There’s a pop quiz coming up soon, have you finished reviewing?”

Ye Ran nodded in agreement, “Exactly. He’s letting you copy his work, don’t pay him back with prying.”

Even a Sentinel as dense as Afro-hair caught the hint. He said sheepishly, “…Oh, right. I was just asking. Shiraishi, don’t mind me. If you don’t want to talk about it, just ignore me.”

Shiraishi didn’t actually mind the questions. He had adjusted his mindset quickly after that day, but the origin of his relationship with the Guide was difficult to explain.

After a moment of silence, he said, “…My mental domain was damaged. We were a match.”

Seeing Shiraishi open up, Lonicera took it as a green light to keep going. “So what’s the status between you two now? Marked? You guys look like there’s something going on, but also like there isn’t.”

“He has helped me a lot.”

Shiraishi struggled to define his relationship with Nozomi, so he simply stuck to the facts.

“Oh, I see.” Lonicera scratched his head. For a young, perpetually single Sentinel, this was all a bit too complex. “But honestly, if we keep going to Mental Defense class, everyone is going to recognize Instructor Mizuki eventually…”

His partner, Ye Ran, glared at him. Way to touch a sore spot.

Lonicera caught the signal and quickly changed his tune, “But don’t worry, I’m sure no one will dare say anything. I mean, what if Instructor Mizuki decides to fail them…”

His voice trailed off, eventually becoming as quiet as a mosquito’s buzz.

“In this session, we will be practicing on the terminal’s flight simulator.”

Mizuki Nozomi reached out toward the space behind him. With a swipe of his hand, the control console on the main screen enlarged. “We familiarized ourselves with the layout in the last class.”

Dense rows of buttons and instrument panels were arranged in an orderly fashion on the main screen. Below, the floating screens in front of every student displayed the same interface.

Nozomi pulled out a long, telescopic metal pointer.

“There are many models of starships. Today, I’ll be showing you the C28-6, the most classic civilian model currently in use. We’ll cover other common models later.”

“Before officially piloting a starship, you must perform a pre-flight check.” Nozomi’s gaze swept across the faces of his students. “Check the exterior and verify that all components are functioning normally.”

“Since this is a simulation, we can skip the exterior check. I’ll pick a student to tell me what comes next.”

A small window popped up on the main screen, with names and avatars scrolling rapidly.

“Stop.”

At the dark-haired Guide’s command, the scrolling slowed and eventually locked onto a face.

When Nozomi saw who the lucky winner was, he smiled.

“Student Shiraishi Haru, why don’t you answer this for us?”

The gray-haired Sentinel stood up, composed and calm. “Check the control surfaces, release the control locks, ensure the rudder and rotors are moving freely, and verify that energy levels are sufficient.”

Their eyes met. The dark-haired Guide’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “Very good.”

“The cyclic pitch stick and rudder are here. You’d better memorize their locations.”

Nozomi’s pointer tapped downward.

“Fuel mixing controls, indicators, radar display.”

“Of course, the very first step is ignition.” Nozomi arched an eyebrow, speaking with a playful half-smile, “I hope no one stalls out halfway through.”

“The operating manual is in your course files. You can all view it on your terminals. Try to complete chapters 1.1 through 1.3. Raise your hand when you’re finished, and I’ll come over to check.”

As soon as Nozomi finished speaking, the students began working on their virtual consoles.

Many looked excited. For most average people, starships were mysterious machines they would never touch in real life. Among these students taking Basic Piloting Principles, perhaps only 1% would ever get the chance to step into a real cockpit.

Because piloting required extreme physical stamina and rapid reaction times, Sentinels—with their naturally enhanced senses—usually made the best pilots. But there were exceptions.

Nozomi, for instance, was a Guide with Grade A physical fitness who had managed to join the ranks of elite pilots. By his eleventh and twelfth years of school, he was already part of a special program, graduating with a year and a half of flight experience under his belt.

Nozomi stood by the podium, observing his students. All their terminals were linked to his main screen, allowing him to monitor every person’s progress.

Some were clumsy, hitting the same button twice in a panic, while others were relatively calm. Some looked organized but stalled out during the very first ignition sequence, their virtual starships vibrating and making noises like an old tractor.

Nozomi rubbed his forehead. If these were real ships, they’d be belching black smoke by now.

He continued scrolling through the feeds, recording grades and comments on his own terminal. As he looked, one screen caught his eye. Amidst a sea of chaotic errors, this person’s operations were remarkably clean and precise.

Nozomi glanced at the name in the top left corner: “Shiraishi Haru.”

The dark-haired Guide raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the “over-aged” Sentinel back for remedial education to have such a talent for this.

He looked down and gave Shiraishi an ‘A’ for the day’s performance.

However, when the next class rolled around, it wasn’t the dark-haired Guide who walked through the door.

“Instructor Mizuki has taken a leave of absence,” Akisui announced. “I’ll be subbing for this session.”

Some students breathed a secret sigh of relief, while others groaned, knowing that a sub for Akisui usually meant a grueling combat drill.

Shiraishi Haru endured the class until the very end. The moment Akisui called it quits, he didn’t even stop to help the Class Rep up from the floor. He hurriedly wiped the sweat from his face and intercepted Akisui before she could leave.

“What happened to Mizuki Nozomi?”

“You don’t know?” Akisui allowed a look of mild surprise to cross her face. “He didn’t tell you?”

Shiraishi was too anxious to mind his tone. “Tell me… what?”

Akisui didn’t keep him in suspense. “Instructor Mizuki has entered his rut. He’s on leave for a week.”

Shiraishi froze. That wasn’t the answer he expected. He had worried the Guide was injured, sick, or dealing with some emergency.

“Are you going to see him? I can sign off on your leave,” Akisui said, seeing Shiraishi’s stunned expression. She gave him a kind smile and suggested, “You remember the way to his apartment, right? As a Sentinel and Guide with a preliminary mark, it’s only right that you check on him.”

In truth, Shiraishi would have gone looking for Nozomi even without the permission. Since Akisui had offered to handle the paperwork, Shiraishi skipped the rest of his classes for the day.

To Shiraishi’s surprise, when he arrived at the Guide’s apartment, the door recognized his face immediately. It slid open to reveal a darkened interior.

Nozomi had kept Shiraishi’s biometric access in the system.

“Sentinel Shiraishi Haru, welcome home.”

The AI butler gave its usual greeting. Nozomi used the default electronic voice, the same as the Tower dorms, but here, it somehow sounded much softer.

A thick scent of lemon drifted from the depths of the apartment. It was heavy, sweet, and clingy, different from its usual crispness, beckoning him further inside.