Chapter 12: My Big Chicken.

The academy’s mornings start early.
In the Arkan Kingdom, where electricity isn’t developed, sunset means bedtime, and sunrise is wake-up time.
Staying up late or sleeping past dawn is a privilege for upper-class folks indulging in late-night work parties.
But today, I’m claiming that privilege.
Though it’s spring, the high-altitude academy mornings are chilly, and my hot water bottle spirit, Tarte, is so cozy I can’t leave the bed.
It’s not my fault—it’s Tarte tempting me into laziness.
Also, Silhime opened the window at dawn, letting cold air in.
Let me repeat: it’s not my fault.

“—!”

Silhime, rustling her clothes irritably and jiggling her chest, seems to say, “Get up already.”
But I can’t move until Tarte wakes.
She stirred a few times but is now in her third nap.
My usual pre-breakfast jog is a lost cause today.

“Tarte, it’s almost breakfast time.”

The breakfast bell rings, and I nudge her.
At “breakfast,” her eyes snap open, and she urges, “Let’s eat!” full of energy.
Good—she’s not dwelling on last night.
My underwear, used as her bib, is soaked in drool in the worst possible spot.
I quietly ask Silhime to wash it discreetly.
She nods, stuffing it into the laundry pile.

Tarte refuses Silhime’s carry, wanting to hold my hand, so I guide her to the cafeteria.
It’s nearly empty—everyone’s probably out for morning exercise.
As the upper class is the warrior class, you’re not fit for it if you can’t keep up with the military.
Even healers or artifact technicians need enough stamina not to fall behind on marches.
Few are martial artists or athletes, but everyone can manage a 5K run.
Except one person…

Tarte wants yogurt, so I get her some.
Silhime only needs tea.
Relieved I don’t have to cover two extra meals, I note Tarte muttering about wanting a honey spirit but devouring her yogurt.
With no plans today, I decide to introduce Tarte to my prized mount after breakfast.
Rolling tribe mounts are rare in human lands and perfect for entertaining her.

“Silhime, clean up that mushroom pile and tidy the room,” Tarte orders, pointing at my laundry.
“—♪”

Silhime looks delighted.
I feel guilty, but are all maid spirits workaholics?

I take Tarte to the beast stable managed by the breeding club, a group that tames animals or magical beasts without contracts.
The goal is to learn upper-class skills, not just care for animals.
The stable houses riding mounts—not always horses.
Riding skills are essential for upper-class status.
I brought my mount despite being broke.
Joining the club waives stable fees and halves feed costs, in exchange for tending mounts and letting others use them for practice.
Poor as I am, I agreed instantly.

In the club’s changing room, I swap into work clothes, urged by Tarte’s “Hurry up!” and her smacking my butt.
Her fancy robe drags on the stable floor—utterly improper.
A passing senior looks shocked.

“Horses, hippogriffs, even wyverns! So cheeky for a servant,” Tarte says.
“Not all mine. My mount’s over here.”

I call her to my mount’s stall.
Noticing me, it rises and stretches its neck affectionately.

“Not a cockatrice… a Koketris from the Rolling tribe?” Tarte asks.
“You know it? I wanted to surprise you…”
“First time seeing one.”

My mount, a Koketris, is a giant chicken bred by the Rolling tribe’s simplistic logic: “If a cockatrice comes from a chicken, why not a giant one?”
Unlike the dangerous, poison-spitting cockatrice, which requires multiple mages to subdue, a Koketris is just a big, docile chicken, especially this female, tame and friendly.

“Illegal Pitch, meet Tarte, my contracted spirit. Say hi.”
“Calling a girl ‘Bitch’ is harsh,” Tarte says.
“Not Bitch—Pitch, like pitching. For throwing.”

Illegal Pitch takes to Tarte, wagging her fluffy tail feathers.
Unlike the cockatrice’s snake-like tail, Koketris have long, beautiful ones.
This one, with a white body and black-tipped tail, craves Tarte’s praise.

“Good girl, lovely tail feathers,” Tarte says.

Either she reads hearts well or understands my incomprehensible words like Silhime.
Praising the tail makes Illegal Pitch ecstatic, bonding instantly thanks to her friendly nature.
Seeing her feed bucket, she’s eating well, so I take her for a sand bath.
At an empty training field, she joyfully digs in, kicking up sand.
It’s a pain to level later, but chickens will be chickens.
As she rolls, Tarte gets caught up.
She’s tough—no need to worry.

“No thought to help?” Tarte, crawling out from under Illegal Pitch, puffs her cheeks and glares.
“You looked like you were having fun…”

As Illegal Pitch continues rolling, Tarte’s dangling robe gets caught, pulling her into the feathers with a wave of sand.
Wearing such a frilly outfit near a sand-bathing Koketris is asking for trouble.
Be glad it’s not an escalator or conveyor belt.

Satisfied, Illegal Pitch shakes off the sand.
I sit her in an empty spot and level the pitted field with a rake.
I ask Tarte to brush sand from Illegal Pitch’s claws, and she happily agrees.
When Tarte says, “Lift your right leg,” Illegal Pitch lifts her left but obeys the command to lift a leg.
I’m amazed—usually, I brush her, and she gets my intent, but Tarte, just meeting her, commands with words like they’re conversing.

Cleaned up, Illegal Pitch carries Tarte around the field, tail high, swaying proudly—a sign of her great mood post-bath.
Tarte, riding bareback without saddle or reins, waves excitedly, balancing perfectly like it’s not her first time.

“Aray-kun, may I?”

Turning, I see Zoldietta in work clothes like mine.
She’s in the breeding club too, leading her hippogriff, not yet big enough to fly with a rider but larger than a pony, suitable for her.
With a bird’s upper body and wings, hippogriffs love sand baths.
Unlike griffons, which see humans or horses as food, hippogriffs have horse-like diets and don’t attack, so they can be tamed without contracts.
The club focuses on taming creatures through skill, not magic, so all beasts here are docile.

I move a log blocking the entrance to let Zoldietta and her hippogriff in.
Illegal Pitch clucks and approaches—her female hippogriff is a close friend.
I’d love to hear their “girl talk.”

“I was talking with seniors—we want to take them to the pasture today,” Zoldietta says.
“Yeah, haven’t taken them since the snow melted…”

The “pasture” is just a field outside Mou Viviana.
We exercised them in the narrow field during winter, but wide spaces prevent stress and health issues.

“With new student recruitment, it’ll get busy, right?”

True.
Newbies need supervision for beast care or riding practice.
Horses are tall—for 10-year-olds, sitting higher than their height is scary, and a bad fall can injure.
Koketris sit lower and crouch for riders, ideal for beginners, so I’ll be busy.
With new students, playtime will be limited.

“Leaving soon?”
“There’s time. It’ll be noon when we reach the pasture—sound good?”
“I’ll grab my armor undergarment and lunch.”

I need to return to the dorm for my undergarment.
Illegal Pitch, wanting more play, shakes her head stubbornly.

“Come on, we’ll take you to the pasture later…”
“Good girls get to play in a bigger space,” Tarte says.
“—!”

Ignoring me, Illegal Pitch obeys Tarte and returns to her stall.
What’s with this gap?
Does she see Tarte as her master now?

Back at the dorm, I grab my undergarment and backpack.
Silhime’s gone, but the laundry pile is too—she’s at the washroom.
I detour to the welfare building, buying a sandwich for me, scones for Tarte, and filling a canteen with tea.
At the stable, a crowd’s gathered—taking all the horses and beasts, a big group.

I duck into the changing room to don my undergarment, a thick, two-piece bodysuit-like magical armor with woven magic circles.
Proper undergarments, worn under magitech armor, are bulky with clasps and supports, feeling like “real armor.”
The simplified version, designed for standalone use, is a cheaper alternative.
The academy area has few monsters, but wild dogs, snakes, or unlucky encounters with boars or bears happen, so wearing it outside town is advised.
With magic flowing, it’s tough enough to resist a boar’s tusk, though you’ll still get knocked back.

Undergarments are basically underwear, so wearing them publicly is improper.
I throw on work clothes and exit.
A large cart pulled by an armored dragon is loaded with tables—a full-on picnic.
I let Tarte ride Illegal Pitch and take another Koketris whose owner, busy with research, rarely lets it out.
It’d be sad to leave it behind.

“Ready? Beasts lead, dragons middle, horses last. Single file, move out!”

Led by a senior on a hippogriff, 20 mounts head for the picnic.