Editor 39

Cleio Aser, who registered at age 17 (3)

That was as far as Arthur went.

Rosa effortlessly parried Arthur’s heavy attack.

The missed strike hit the ground, carving a groove out of the solidified earth. Arthur, unable to control his own strength, also slipped and rolled on the dirt.

Without a sound, Rosa’s sword touched Arthur’s nape.

“Waaa!!!”

“Waaa!!”

“Ooooh!”

The children and instructor, who had been watching the spar from a distance, cheered wildly.

Rosa, who had been laughing heartily, reached out her hand and helped Arthur up.

“My child, that was a good spar.”

“It was an honor for me to have you as my opponent. My dream is to one day spar with you when you are fighting at your full strength, teacher.”

Arthur’s wounds were not deep. The bleeding stopped quickly. Since it was a spar with a student, Rosa had gone easy on Arthur.

“You just can’t use [Circle of Advance], but the strength behind your sword is close to Aether Level 6. With a bit more effort, you’ll soon be able to break through to the next plateau.”

“Thank you!”

“There is just one thing. You have a habit of stepping forward too early before going into an attack, and you must fix that.”

Rosa offered additional advice as she brushed the dust off Arthur’s clothes. There was a note of considerate concern in the old teacher’s tone.

“It’s good not to know fear, but real combat is different from sparring. The one who loses composure is the first to fall to the ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he gazed dimly at the two who looked as if they were filming a wonderful sports drama, Cleio also sank into thought.

The public skill [Circle of Advance] was the symbol of a high-level swordmaster above Level 6, and was the ability to fire sword auras remotely.

‘It only lacks an area attack, but to think that monstrous ability is just below Level 6… There are over thirty Level 6 swordsmen just in Albion. At the lower levels, there are several hundred, even.’

He understood why the level of scientific development in this world was so uneven. The gaps science couldn’t fill had been plugged by the power of Aether.

The clocks in the cities built along the railway stations were synchronized by Aether conduction, instead of electrical signals.

In battle, instead of improving the performance of guns or bombs, they relied on the swordsmen’s ranged attacks.

‘I can completely understand why combat would progress that way. At about Level 8, a swordsman is basically a tactical nuke.’

Recalling the heroic battle scenes staged in the latter half of the last manuscript, Cleio nodded alone.

‘Did they say the small-scale tactical nuke has a blast radius of 500m? Within a 1km radius, everything is razed. The range of a Level 8 Swordmaster’s sword aura is 1km, so it’s about the same. To have such destructive power in a world where carriages still drive around is terrifying.’

Cleio, lost in thought with even [Perception] turned off, only realized Arthur had approached him when he saw the mud-caked boots in his field of vision.

“Cleio! What are you doing here! Were you watching my fight?”

“Well, for now.”

“How is it? I tried hard over the break.”

“If you put that much effort in twice, you’ll become a Swordmaster before you even graduate.”

“That’s a compliment, right?”

“Uh… Yeah, think whatever you want. I’m going in.”

“Wait up!”

Ignoring Arthur’s protest, Cleio trudged toward the dormitory with unenergetic steps. Arthur quickly caught up and blocked his way.

“Ah, what?”

“Come with me somewhere.”

“I’m tired now, later.”

“No. If we wait, the ice will melt and the drink won’t be the right temperature. Is that really okay with you?”

“…What drink?”

Cleio, who had been unenthusiastic, snapped his head up at almost a spinal reflex.

Arthur grinned as if he knew this would happen.

Once he realized he was caught, a flush of embarrassment flooded in.

‘I’m not a behemoth or anything.’

“As expected, you only react when it’s about drinks. It’s a champagne made by blending the Muscatel and Glycina varieties, with elderflower notes, and it’s incredibly tasty.”

“Wait, is that the one from the birthday banquet?”

“That’s right! It would’ve been at the ballroom! ‘Leognes’ gives their entire production quota to the royal family. It’s used at royal events, so unless you’re friends with a prince, you rarely get to drink it. What do you think?”

During the king’s birthday celebration, Cleio had only managed a single glass while scouting the hall.

Hearing Arthur talk about it, the taste vividly came back to his mouth.

Recalling the gentle acidity and the elegant aroma that brushed his nose, Cleio immediately changed his attitude.

“Let’s go. Where is it?”

Fatigue and all that weren’t important anymore.

.

.

.

On a September evening as late summer mingled with early autumn, the forest air remained soft, still holding the warmth of the day.

The tranquil atmosphere around the ‘Gate of Mnemosyne’ and the warding stones circling the ruin were unchanged.

‘I didn’t know what this stele was before. Who would’ve thought it was a warding stone sealing the “Gate of Mnemosyne”…’

Even after learning what it was, leaning against it used it for the same purpose.

With his back against the stele, Cleio fixed his seat and gazed rapturously at the liquid in the glass.

Streams of bubbles danced and crisscrossed with each other—a sight that never grew old.

Tasting the drink in such a comfortable setting with relaxed attire made it all the more wonderful.

‘If Melchior really wanted to win me over, he could’ve sent a box of this… Instead, he keeps sending me clothes I’ll never wear, just trying to test me.’

Arthur filled his own glass and set the bottle back in a bucket of ice water.

He had apparently cooled the drink after the spar. He was a thoroughly prepared drinker.

“It’s been quite a while since we came here, right? The last time, the drinks were good and so was the fun.”

“The ending was downright filthy. Is there anyone watching this time?”

“I did a sweep already, today’s fine. Actually, even then, I knew someone was there… but since it was a fellow student with no malice, I didn’t pay attention. That was my mistake.”

“Seriously, who was it? Don’t they have better things to do?”

“What, you didn’t know? The article was written by Fran White. That offbeat, gray-haired, bespectacled, repeating student.”

“What?!”

“Ishiel found out ages ago, but I told her not to say anything. He’s not the kind of guy who writes that stuff as a joke.”

“If it’s not a joke, what, does he have a grudge against you?”

“Why do you just assume it was about me?”

Cleio, having drunk all his drink, shook his glass like he wanted it refilled as he answered.

“Because I’ve lived a life without shame. Neither have my siblings sent assassins, nor do I have any desire to kill someone I call a friend.”

“You’re so petty, tsk. Never mind. Anyway. The eldest son of Werner Niels Hyde-White, the dynasty’s poet laureate, is doubling his efforts to expose the hypocrisy of his own ruling class.”

Cleio, who had been only looking at the new glass Arthur poured, finally turned his gaze from the glass to his conversation partner.

“That guy… is he a republican or something?”

“Probably with high probability? Heard around that he’s involved in underground organizations too. Melchior would have firmer proof stored in his drawer.”

Cleio dropped his glass. It was a moment of silent inner screaming.

‘Fuck! That guy should be busy in the laboratory in the mining country, so what’s with this random route? This novel wasn’t even that genre!’

Progress and development of history, sure, it’s a noble value. But what is someone trying to do in a fantasy world of swordsmen and mages!

If Arthur hadn’t caught the bottom of the glass with razor-sharp reflexes, Cleio would’ve been even more distraught at wasting such precious, rare drink.

What crime had the drink committed?

At any rate, Cleio kept on drinking what was left. It went down, gulp by gulp.

Seeing this, Arthur felt compelled to stop him.

“Hey, drink slower. I’m only having one more glass.”

“I’m so flustered right now, I can’t slow down.”

He increasingly suspected that the author, who may have been a contemporary of his and Minsan, had tacked on this worldbuilding to under the influence of a course called ‘Civil Society and Revolution.’

This too may have been a sign that the manuscript was falling apart, but with no way to tell for sure, he felt stifled.

“…Sometimes, you really talk like an old man.”

‘I’m practically your uncle, how could I not be old, you think I’m young?’

…He couldn’t say that, so he just made a face as if to say, ‘What, you got a problem?’

To Arthur, this was the standard Cleio expression.

Each time Cleio finished his glass, Arthur silently refilled it, and the setting sun gradually colored the sky.

The two said nothing, only drinking. As the bottle was about to empty, Arthur slyly brought up a new topic.

“Is there still no result from that ‘positive review’ earlier?”

“…….”

‘I wondered when you’d ask this.’

He was still wanting more to drink, but the bottle was empty. Cleio sluggishly placed the empty glass on the warding stone.

‘Yeah. The author’s identity can’t be solved now. Fran is the second problem. First, I’ll form an alliance with this guy, then handle each issue in turn.’

“Before we’re in the same boat, finally, I have a few things to ask.”

“Go ahead, ask all you want. I’ll gladly answer.”

Arthur settled lower to face Cleio. The boy who had trained so hard with his sword had, before he knew it, matured into a fine young man.

Arthur’s earnest and passionate eyes still shone brightly, even under the dying sunset.

Cleio ‘remembers’ every line of the manuscript that described the eyes of the ‘protagonist.’

‘A blue, burning light, an eternally unfrozen sea, the will of our era.’

He understood now. He used to think those expressions were excessive, but they were mostly right. Because that’s really how the boy’s eyes were.

Arthur was a much more vivid human being than what had been written.

A cool wind blew between the two boys.

The night laid an air of significance—history would begin here.

It was then.

A message flickered in the air between the prince and Cleio.

[? The user’s narrative engagement level is rising.]

No matter how serious Arthur and Cleio were, the ‘promise’ didn’t care about the time or place.

‘Ah.’

The oddly solemn mood quickly evaporated. He felt the moment had been ruined.

Emotional bonds like those in a ‘Peach Garden Oath’ were not allowed for NPCs who had to follow the mission guide.

‘It’s like the messenger notification telling me not to get immersed in a manuscript that’s just work and to get rid of it promptly.’

In any case, to keep the development on track, he should confirm what the protagonist found out about the previous events.

Cleio, feeling somewhat uninterested, continued his questioning.

“You told me before. You don’t know the causes of the other princes’ affairs, but you do know the results. The ominous things have happened as you knew, and you also said the remaining princes will bleed.”

“You remember it word for word… You really have a good memory.”

“Enough with the chatter, just answer my questions. What exactly do you know about the future? What exactly do you mean by ‘there will be blood’?”

Arthur, as if making a silent resolve, closed and opened his eyes, then finally began to answer.

“All I have are a few scenes. The first and oldest scene is the moment I look up, kneeling in the King’s Hall. That ‘memory’ was triggered when I was four.”

The King’s Hall was the place where every king of the Albion royal family was crowned, and Arthur, too, kneels there at the end of the manuscript.

In order to wear the crown.

‘A vision of the moment of coronation…’

Cleio compared the content of the manuscript and Arthur’s words. That scene corresponds to the ending of Volume 1. Which means it’s bound to happen.

“At the time, my father’s health hadn’t deteriorated as much as it has now, so he still came out in public. On the day he ennobled a minor noble, I happened to see my father wearing the crown. I was so happy to see it that I shouted with pride. ‘That’s mine!’ That was before I even knew the word ‘coronation.’”

“And that, in the end, is why you had to leave the palace?”

“Yes. It was the crime of ignorance. And that kid only realized it after paying far too great a price. That the self in the vision was waiting to have the crown placed on his head. For an illegitimate child and third son, to say such a thing was heresy.”

Without waiting for Cleio’s reply, Arthur continued calmly.

“As a child, I thought it all just meant I was an unlucky, crazy kid who saw weird visions. At least until the landslide in the Kision viscounty.

Even after I was confined to the Kision viscounty, I was afraid to stay in the main building of the summer villa. I would run out of bed in the middle of the night, crying and clinging to the door, so my mother had no choice but to let me use a cramped outbuilding instead of the main building.

When the main palace half-collapsed from the landslide in ‘81, the old bedroom my mother and I had used was buried under earth and rubble. If we’d been sleeping there, we’d have died.

By then, I was eight.

I could pretty much grasp what was going on. That the things I saw in my dreams, the ominous visions, were moments coming in the future.”