Editor 51

Gray Flames of Revolution (1)

During the awarding ceremony, the gallery of the hall was empty. The only attendees were the Master of Ceremonies, the Royal Chamberlain, and a few attendants to assist with the ritual.

It looked like this decoration too faced opposition from the House of Lords, but Melchior seemed to have forced it through using ‘his unique skill.’

The official notice said family could be invited, but Cleio did not call anyone.

Gideon and Vlad had returned to Colpos, and the Greyer family was incredibly busy dealing with the Centroom incident.

‘Besides, it’s embarrassing… It’s not like I’m a high school student receiving an award or anything.’

The ceremony, in which the [oath] was omitted while granting a status equivalent to knighthood, was simple.

Cleio read the formula as ordered by the Master of Ceremonies, sat when told, and stood when told, and it ended quickly.

The medal, held up by the Royal Chamberlain, was tied with a ribbon combining green, white, and navy-blue stripes. It was a golden cast with a lion and shield engraved on it.

Melchior moved his gloved fingers and pinned the medal to Cleio’s collar.

The Master of Ceremonies shouted loudly enough for the entire hall to ring.

“With this, I present to Sir Cleio Aser the Capital Defense Medal of the Kingdom of Albion, which will remain a glory forever.”

‘This is really awkward.’

The medal pinned to his collar, and the title ‘Sir’ both felt unfamiliar, so Cleio scratched the back of his head. Melchior grabbed his arm.

“Well, are you ready now?”

“…Isn’t everything finished now?”

“What are you talking about, the event is just beginning. Protect yourself, your eyes will be dazzled.”

“What do you mean, protect myself…”

Pop! Bang!

As the King’s Hall doors opened, an incredible uproar and flashes poured in all at once.

The source of the noise turned out to be flashbulbs and urgent questions from reporters.

Flash lamps that produced light with powder were loud and smoky, making it feel like walking into the middle of fireworks.

The main door of the King’s Hall, facing the central courtyard, was packed with reporters, photographers, and illustrators.

Thanks to magic, it had been quiet throughout the ceremony.

Later, Cleio learned that the magic engravings embedded with Tiflaum at the King’s Hall’s main doors were for [soundproofing][shielding].

“Sir Cleio, a word please! You are the youngest among the living to receive formal knighthood…!”

“Any personal relationship with Crown Prince Melchior…?”

“What about the beast…”

Since newspapers existed, it was only natural reporters did as well, but Cleio had never imagined such a situation.

Unlike the dumbfounded Cleio, Melchior seemed used to this kind of scene.

He placed one hand on the young hero’s shoulder, waved the other elegantly, and greeted the reporters.

“Everyone, one at a time, please. Today, Mr. Magus of the first.”

---

Melchior was truly a bizarre and frightening character.

‘How… can a guy born as 19th-century royalty handle the media so adeptly? It makes no sense.’

In almost all of today’s major dailies, there appeared photos or drawings of Cleio awkwardly posing with Melchior.

Now Cleio knew why the medal had been hurried: they needed something to allay unrest after the beast’s appearance.

While at it, it seemed Melchior intended to create a picture with the boy hero attracting public interest and popularity.

To make matters worse, the incident in the newspapers became a subject of teasing among the children.

After class, Chel naturally took the seat of honor in Cleio’s drawing room and laughed heartily.

“Hey, Rey. By now, everyone must think you’re Melchior’s right hand man, you know?”

“Let them think what they want. I didn’t know there’d be photographers waiting.”

“You really have no self-awareness—you’re now a celebrity in the capital!”

“Hmmm, but it’s too bright and shaky, so your face isn’t clear. Rifi, what do you think?”

“Right, Leticia. No matter how many times I look, this drawing is better.”

“It’s better, but it doesn’t look like him.”

Rifi held up the newspaper close at hand. Leticia looked at it, chin in hand, suspiciously.

“Even last time when you caught the beast, did the newspaper illustrators not have eyes? Why do they always draw Rey nothing like himself?”

“Right? Rey always looks limp and feeble.”

“But this ‘Sir Cleio’ in the illustration is cool and dignified.”

The twins cheerfully poked fun at him in bright tones.

Cleio just took a big mouthful of whisky from his flask. The peaty scent loosened his tense nerves as it lingered in his throat.

Of course, the Angelium twins, who never cared for atmosphere, yanked on Cleio’s school uniform collar and said whatever they pleased.

“Ew, that alcohol smell. You sound like an old man!”

“But the medal bar you have on your chest looks great! You have to wear it everywhere now, right?”

“When I told great-grandfather that I wanted this medal bar, he said I should get it myself from His Majesty the King when I grow up! Hehe.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too will get one someday.”

“What, Rey, that answer’s totally random.”

“Right. Not sincere.”

Just then, Dorm Mistress Ryuba knocked at Cleio’s dormitory entrance.

“Cleio?”

“Yes, Dorm Mistress.”

“A gift from the royal family just arrived for you.”

“A gift?”

“It seems to be food, but it’s so much that it can’t be brought up to your room. Come and see.”

“It’s food!”

“What could it be!”

“Let’s go!”

Before Ryuba could finish her sentence, the twins sprang up and pulled Cleio by both arms.

After going down to the dormitory lobby, Cleio once again felt the need for a drink. He was overwhelmed by the mountain of boxes stacked like a wall.

Dozens of boxes stamped with the crest of the Royal House of Liognan were all desserts—pies, fudge, toffee, chocolate.

‘This is truly a novel kind of torment.’

These delicious-looking sweets were a response to his mention that he couldn’t wear his dress uniform because it didn’t fit.

It could have seemed a humorous response, but to be honest, nothing Melchior did was funny to Cleio.

Only the twins, busy opening boxes, shouted in delight.

“I want butter toffee!”

“I’ll eat the orange peel chocolate!”

“Okay!”

Behemoth, who had come along, sniffed around at the mention of food and complained.

“Euuuuuuuung (I’m getting tired of sweets, why isn’t there anything with booze).”

Cleio, unemphatically opening a box, felt much the same as Behemoth.

After picking out just one box of lemon tart from the dozens, he left the rest to Dorm Mistress Ryuba.

“Ma’am.”

“Yes, Cleio.”

“Could you distribute these equally to all the students, staff, and servants at the dorm?”

“Oh, is it all right to share a royal gift like that?”

“Of course. His Highness the Crown Prince must have intended it to be shared.”

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

It felt as if he had unnecessarily enhanced Melchior’s reputation, but he had no choice but to reply that way this time.

.

.

.

With a pie box in one hand and a flask in the other, Cleio took Behemoth for a walk around the campus.

He finished the whisky as he wandered; though, in truth, Behemoth managed to snag almost half of it.

Having finished his drink, the cat disappeared into the forest on campus to inspect his domain, as if his business was done.

Bolstered by the whisky flowing in his veins, Cleio forced himself to summon what little positivity he had.

‘I can’t put it off any longer. I need to persuade Fran well.’

Today, he planned to find Fran’s base of operations, having checked ahead with Dorm Mistress Ryuba, and make a surprise visit.

Clutching the box tightly, Cleio slowly made his way toward the dormitory’s north entrance. The box contained a lemon tart he had set aside.

‘With wild animals, you should at least feed them first when you want to tame them.’

Even in the previous draft, Fran was very fond of sour and sweet things. When his mind wouldn’t work, those flavors supposedly awakened his senses, or something.

From past trends, it was likely that, while the direction of the draft changed, most of the detailed settings stayed the same.

‘Today, I have to settle things with Fran.’

Since returning to school, Cleio had tried several times to meet Fran, but he had slipped away every time.

During free study time, Cleio always booked the magic practice room, but since none of his potential partners showed, he ended up practicing magic alone to his heart’s content.

As a result, he’d almost completed the theory of [Principate Angel’s Fire], connecting [Attribute Amplification][Ignition][Tracking][Acceleration], using mana iron ingots as the medium.

He also discovered something strange while working out the incantation for [Principate Angel’s Fire].

Strangely enough, the more widely cited and long-read a sentence was in his original world, the stronger the magic was when used as an incantation.

Testing the [Defensive] magic, which he used most frequently, with a new incantation confirmed it.

‘I’d heard before that adopting expressions from legends or epics was one technique in incantation writing… but for text from the other world to work as well—is it really this sloppy?’

The deeper he understood, the more mysterious the world felt, but today was not the day to wait for Fran and idle away in free study.

The problem of permanently activating ether in Tiflaum had grown urgent.

As a strategic resource determining the nation’s fate, only by maximizing its use could Albion secure superiority in the next war.

Cleio felt pressed for time.

The was progressing even faster than before. That meant war would break out even earlier.

‘At the time of the Royal Advisory Council, Duke Cruel said the Tiflaum processing problem still hadn’t been solved. The one to finally crack it is Fran… but that guy hasn’t shown a shred of interest in research. And why does he get a room so high up? Ugh.’

The rebel repeater, Francis Gabriel Hyde-White’s room, was at the end of the sixth floor in the north dorm tower.

Originally meant for students under disciplinary action, the solitary room had been claimed by the eccentric Francis, who said he preferred to live alone, according to the Dorm Mistress.

And that made sense.

Climbing the spiral staircase of the tower with effort, Cleio faced a room that looked like it should be featured in “Unbelievable Stories.”

‘What is all this trash?’

It was hard to tell if the door had been removed or what; it was difficult even to recognize the entrance.

“Fran, are you in there?”

A sharp voice came from between the towers of paper stacked as high as Cleio.

“Who is it.”

“Cleio Aser.”

“Get lost.”

He ignored the command.

Cleio carefully made his way through sheaves of papers and books, picking his way into the chaos.

Fran sat slouched in an armchair with the fabric entirely torn off.

“Who said you could come in.”

“If you didn’t want anyone coming in, you should reinstall the door.”

“Would you have ignored me like this if I were a professor or a prince? So you’re only obedient to those in power, huh.”

“Uh, I’m not sure what misunderstanding you have…”

“‘High ether sensitivity and outstanding competence in magic structure use. Has impeccable potential.’ Hah. Must have wagged your tail at Zebedee quite a bit.”

Fran was flipping through what seemed to be Cleio’s first-year, first-term academic evaluation paperwork.

“You may or may not realize, but the academic records and personal files of the Royal Capital Defense School students are considered official documents too. Taking them or copying them illegally is subject to legal consequences.”

“Ha! Legal consequences? Now that you’ve got some shiny medal, you think you’re something? I don’t find it worth talking to you anymore. Get out.”

“I don’t particularly want to stay in this dump for another second either, but I have to stick with you for the next three hours this afternoon.”

“What nonsense…!”

“If you hate having your personal space invaded that much, you should’ve come to the practice room instead. I called you several times, but you never showed.”

“Should I, the hero who protected the capital, be flattered to be hung up on by a mere repeater?”

Cleio let out a deep sigh, placing a hand on his hip.

‘At eighteen, the age for puberty is past. Why are you this twisted?’

“There’s no need for that. Here, just take this lemon tart.”

Afraid that the conversation would drag on, he hurriedly opened the box. A tangy, savory aroma spread out instantly.

“Why would I want that…!”

“Just enjoy it. I’ll look around your room, okay?”

Like feeding a stray cat, Cleio placed the box in front of Fran and, keeping his distance, looked around the room.

Whatever Fran muttered behind Cleio’s back gradually turned into sounds of eating tart.

‘Coming from the royal family, it must taste decent.’

On the bookshelf, a heavy dictionary’s cover seemed oddly carved—almost like the shape of a revolver—but Cleio pretended not to notice.

Turning his gaze to the desk by the window, he saw political pamphlets, flyers calling for participation, and printed manifestos scrapped with a stylus.

Amid the unfamiliar prints was a magazine he knew: the so-called leftist weekly, .

‘Let’s think positively. Political leanings are your own freedom—just do the research. He’s still a mage, right? Since everyone else’s competence remained the same, Fran’s should as well.’

Fran had been a mage in the previous draft too. Granted, not a high-level one.

The greatness of “Doctor Hyde-White” came not from magic, but from the field of mago-science.

Determined to persuade Fran somehow, Cleio tried a clumsy conversational tactic.

“This is . Fran, do you read this magazine too?”

Trying first to form a connection before turning to the main topic, his effort bordered on pathetic.

Having clearly opened these magazines many times, the editorial article lay spread open. The contributor listed was ‘Gibril Blanche.’

Fran had scribbled extensively in red pen all over the page. Cleio caught an important detail.

‘Wait, he basically rewrote the content. The style’s the same, but the arguments are different. Is it his own writing?’

“So… Fran, you aren’t just a reader but a contributor… Wow, impressive.”

This time the sigh came not from his body, but from the depths of his soul.

‘He’s way too dedicated!’