Editor 148

Three Springs (7)

Meanwhile, Isiel drove Lippy by the book all the way to the edge of the parade ground. The elder of the twins was disqualified for stepping out of bounds.

The process was so clean that, regardless of grade, all the swordsmanship students watched the match with such focus that ether seemed to pour from their eyes.

Cleio also applauded Isiel from afar, though the sound could not be heard. Somehow, he felt as if she glanced toward the practice room, but it was such a brief moment he couldn’t be sure.

Next, as always, it was Isiel versus Arthur. No matter how the tournament bracket was arranged, the 977th class always came down to the two of them.

‘And in the end, our prince always wins. Not only is he a genius, but he’s also a hard worker.’

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As usual after exams, everyone headed to a pub in the city.

The pub “Queen Carmela,” two tram stops from the school, had become Arthur and his friends’ regular spot.

The elderly owner was shrewd, even stocking Tristein strong ale that the twins sought out. The strong ale, brought in by train cask, became the pub’s specialty.

Once everyone had finished a pint of beer in a suitable corner, Cleio took out a letter from Miets.

The dry, official envelope had an address written in strict, disciplined cursive.

Miets, still staying as a “visiting” knight at the Tristein ducal manor, had sent the letter to “Second Laboratory” of the Capital Defense Academy’s Dean Zebedi. The Second Laboratory was the official name of the building Cleio occupied.

Cleio unconsciously ran his finger over the outside of the envelope.

‘If I think Arthur inherited even his incongruously dashing, old-fashioned handwriting from Miets, it feels strange. He’s more of a father than Arthur’s real dad.’

Cleio quietly handed the letter to Isiel. Receiving mail at the laboratory was a precaution to avoid any possible leaks.

Though it looked like an inquiry about hard magical theory or mana stone information, the envelope actually contained a casual letter conveying regards to Isiel and Arthur.

Isiel opened the letter and conveyed its contents to the others.

Chel, hearing news from the northern domain, giggled.

“Your teacher acted like he was about to leave soon, but he ended up settling in for good.”

“It seems… since many Tristein knights have transferred to the capital, the few who remain make him worry about the domain’s shortage of knights.”

The thirty proud Tristein knights led by Taeserton acquired a base in the lower western bank not far from the palace.

Hebron Castle, built by Absalom II and closed during Queen Carmela’s reign, had, after decades, been renovated as the new headquarters of the Tristein knights.

A stately castle with lush forests and a parade ground—by today’s Rundane real estate standards, it was a property of location and size that only the royal family could offer.

People interpreted Melchior’s treatment of the Tristein knights as a political gesture of high regard.

‘At New Year’s or birthday celebrations, he still quietly acts as a squire as before his elevation to duke, but that can’t be all.’

The official name of the Tristein knights, now in the capital, was the “Crown Prince’s Guard.” The commotion caused by just thirty knights was not insignificant.

Pierce Clagen, commander of the Capital Defense knights, officially submitted a proposal to the royal advisory council that there was no need for two knight orders in the capital and that they should be incorporated under his command.

Of course, that proposal was reportedly dismissed without discussion. Taeserton was also a member of the advisory council, so it was as if he humiliated Pierce without a word.

Pierce’s prestige, long flaunted as the head of the king’s greatest military force, began to crack.

As Pierce had no popularity, even the nobles were said to quietly gloat at his disgrace.

“Even if he’s harsh with words, your teacher is too affectionate to ever leave. Forget retirement, he’s gone to somewhere even colder than Kishion’s barony and his hair’s gone all white like an old man’s.”

“Arthur, please mind your words. It’s natural for someone nearing fifty to go gray.”

As Isiel spoke sternly, Chel jumped in to support her against Arthur.

“Yeah, Arthur. At that age, not going bald and just having a full head of hair is a win. Isiel, go on with your story!”

“This summer, they finally finished reinforcing the north wall. Sir Rotan hesitated, but Sir Lysa pushed through decisively, so it was possible.”

“Whew~, that lion-maned knight really has spirit. He even does civil engineering well.”

“Calling Sir Lysa ‘lion mane’! Compared to you, Arthur, who’s like a thunderstruck scarecrow, he’s a thousand times the knight.”

While Chel countered Arthur, Isiel finished reading the next page of the letter. Used to their bickering, Isiel continued without paying any attention.

“Also, Sir Trude, who had been dispatched to the capital, finally got a long vacation after nearly two years and returned to the duchy… It seems he had a lot of digging to do. Even in the capital, he never got to enjoy himself, always stuck in harsh training with the Duke of Tristein, and he’s quite dissatisfied.”

He seemed so well informed, it was as if he’d spent not two but twenty years in Tristein. Miets was already being treated as a man of the domain.

‘An 8th-level sword master with such a character not standing out in the last manuscript doesn’t make sense. Miets must also be one of the characters who changed greatly in this version.’

Arthur’s speech was the same.

The protagonist Cleio had read in past manuscripts always spoke in a lofty, detached manner fitting an epic hero.

His personality traits hadn’t changed, so what was different must be the experiences that shaped him in this life. It was likely that the childhood spent with Miets played a big part in that.

The days with a teacher who taught Arthur, who had lost his mother, not just how to wield a sword but how to catch birds and fish.

Though it was a letter of regards, there was much information to be gleaned from Miets’s letter. Who among the knights remained in the duchy, the state of the domain, and so on.

By combining that information, Cleio could sketch out how Melchior was managing his direct royal guard.

Since coming to the capital, the knight order had not been dispatched anywhere, instead focusing on training in Hebron Castle.

Aside from a strange blind loyalty to the crown prince, Taeserton was a flawless knight and lord.

He was loyal to his lord, merciful to his people, fair in rewards and punishments for his knights. He lived frugally, pursuing no personal luxury or advancement. He trained harder than anyone and led his knights from the front.

The young, unmarried Duke of Tristein had considerable prestige.

So Cleio did not let his guard down.

‘Just because a sword is in its sheath doesn’t mean it isn’t a sword. The longer it waits, the less hesitation there will be when it’s drawn.’

After just two pints of beer each, Arthur and the kids hurried back to school before curfew.

Since the shorter working hours agreement hadn’t been reached, the tram was still not running.

When Cleio lagged behind, Lippy picked him up and slung him half-folded over her shoulder and started running.

After a few blocks, Leticia took the staggering Cleio and ran across six more blocks. There was no time to protest.

By the time they reached school, Cleio’s pale face had turned completely blue.

After begging them never to pick him up and run again, he finally made it back to his room, washed, and only then came to his senses.

Before bed, to calm his stomach, he poured Grand Marnier over ice in a cordial glass and shared it with Behemoth.

It was still chilly. He started the mana stone mat and went to bed early with the cat.

Various topics floated through his head—Tristein knight order, the domain, the north wall, Lysa.

Through Miets, Cleio had deliberately sent a shipment of mana ore cast iron to Lysa in his real name, to be used for repairing the north wall.

‘Of course, Rotan and Lysa will follow whatever their lord chooses, but even just a moment’s hesitation at a crucial moment could make a difference.’

Call it a kind of diversified investment, just in case.

Grrr. Puu.

Behemoth, squirming about, fell asleep and began to snore, and Cleio, who had buried his chin in the furball, soon drifted off as well.

The exam was over, his stomach was full, and he was pleasantly tipsy—perfect for a good night’s sleep.

It was a peaceful evening, like any other.

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Early morning awakens him with a sense of impending violence.

Through the dim, oppressive ether, Cleio opened his eyes. The shape floating on the floor was clear. It was a [Soundproofing] magic circle cast by someone.

A shadow flickered under the gap beneath the bedroom door. He reflexively activated “Perception.”

Trained soldiers. At least six pairs of boots with hobnails. Cavalrymen. Both firearms and cold weapons rattling with each step. The smell of tanned leather, blood, and gunpowder.

Soon, all footsteps stopped in front of Cleio’s door.

At the same time.

Creak! Crack!

Screeeeeech! Bang!

The dormitory bedroom door was violently torn off.

Men in dark navy uniforms with no insignia stood outside the doorframe, holding crowbars and axes.

They moved in the cramped space with practiced ease, not hindering each other at all.

On their backs were repeating rifles, and revolvers hung at their waists. They were fully armed soldiers.

Clatter.

The cordial glass Cleio had left on the table fell and shattered. The mixture of orange liqueur and melted ice spread lukewarm across the wooden floor.

The wall clock showed three o’clock in the morning.

Behemoth, having slipped from Cleio’s arms, puffed up his tail and bristled his fur.

“Kyaaaaaaak! (What are you doing at this hour before sunrise!)”

Even the faintest drowsiness vanished.

Cleio shot up and first hugged Behemoth to calm him.

To Cleio, Behemoth was an irreplaceable friend, but to others, he was just a half-tamed house pet.

The soldiers who barged in at this hour were unlikely to be kind to an animal that got in their way.

Cleio considered various possibilities.

The only magic circle deployed in the room blocked sound. It wouldn’t be hard to neutralize the circle of a mage lower-leveled than himself.

He could open a new circle and cast a slow spell to escape through the window.

But the judgment not to act rashly stopped him.

Click, click-clack.

A short woman appeared through the broken door. Wearing the same uniform as the unsmiling men lined up behind her, the middle-aged woman entered in low-heeled shoes, walking calmly.

With an extremely even demeanor, as if it were broad daylight and she were a guest just dropping by, she presented an emergency summons with a bureaucratically polite expression.

“Fifth-level mage Cleio Aser, please cooperate with the summons from the Albion Ministry of Internal Security.”

“What is this about at this hour?”

“The details are written in the summons.”

She leisurely handed over the envelope.

Sitting awkwardly on the bed, pajamas riding up to his shins, clutching a cat—her polite manner felt almost insulting.

For the first time in a long while, the “Promise” flared up.

“Memory” rewound at a strange speed.

Above the head of a woman with long hair braided into a crown, “Promise” displayed a message.

[Level 3 Mage]

A teacher-like bearing, gentle and soft voice, gaze that somehow never met yours, a hairstyle a generation out of fashion.

Cleio quickly guessed who she was. It had been a long time since he’d identified someone’s identity without a typical introduction.

‘…But in any case, she doesn’t seem like the type to try to soothe Melchior with a mother’s heart.’

Vesna Driscoll.

Yet another character changed from what he had read in the past.