Training. (1)
Sophien on the throne gazes intently at the "Imperial Speech."
"……."
The grand hall is wrapped in silence. The emperor's eyes meticulously scan every line. This is a far cry from the old days, when she'd skim a few sentences, grow bored, and dismiss them.
The ministers find this change in their emperor profoundly disconcerting. Romelock and Cruhan, leaders of the two major political factions, are especially rattled.
"……."
"……."
They exchange silent glances.
They had assumed that Sophien's apathy toward politics and domestic affairs meant she could never be a sage ruler—but at least a "politics of harmony" led by the ministers would suffice.
At last, Sophien speaks.
"I shall revise the first sentence of this speech."
"……Ahem. You mean the speech, Your Majesty?"
This emperor is utterly capricious.
Ignoring her ministers' counsel and even seeking to alter the speech itself—these are the hallmarks of a tyrant.
"Indeed."
"Your Majesty, there is nothing amiss with the speech. It was drafted jointly by Minister Romelock and Minister Cruhan."
The sixty-year-old veteran Romelock speaks up. Cruhan, of the opposing faction, bows in agreement.
The two factions have formed a temporary alliance.
"Yes, quite right. It is a most vital address, endorsed by all the ministers—"
"No."
Sophien cuts them off and points to the first sentence.
"Is there any need to name each continental nation one by one?"
The speech opens by listing the eight great powers of the continent, starting with Leok and ending with the Yuren Duchy.
"Simply change it to 'the eight nations.'"
At first glance, it seems a mere ceremonial flourish—but the order matters.
The sequence in which the emperor utters each nation's name is a weighty diplomatic signal to the continent's powers.
"That will not do, Your Majesty. Pray understand—this is the legacy of history and diplomacy handed down from His Late Majesty."
"Pray understand!"
"Pray understand!"
The ministers' pleas echo like a chorus. Sophien presses a finger to her temple and shakes her head.
"Enough. I am not bound by the past. Revise the first sentence, and inform them as such."
"Under—"
"In any case!"
The emperor snaps, rising abruptly. Her piercing aura forces the ministers to avert their eyes.
"This is my will. The morning's agenda ends here."
She strides toward her chambers. Protests of "That will not do—!" erupt belatedly, but she spares them no glance.
"……Filthy vermin."
Back in the heart of the palace, she flings the speech aside.
"How much gold was lavished on this one speech? How much did they gorge themselves on to produce it?"
Every nation on the continent, great or small, sends bribes to the empire. Tribute would be a fairer term, but the issue is that over seventy percent flows straight to the ministers.
It was all thanks to Emperor Krevaim's mild temperament.
"That gold is mine now."
But this speech will send a message to the nations.
Your bribes to my ministers are now worthless—so direct your efforts to the imperial house instead.
There are other displeasing parts, of course, but if she pushes too hard, those clever rats might respond shrewdly.
For now, curbing their scheming is key.
Thus, to avoid hassle, she must play the impulsive, arrogant despot.
"Politics…… truly tedious."
Flopping onto her bed, Sophien succumbs to boredom once more.
Lying there blankly, she recalls not politics, but her everyday life—her every memory.
Hundreds of years of death and regression.
Through those days, Deculein had staked his life alongside her.
Yet lately, Sophien finds his "hidden feelings" burdensome.
That always-sincere emotion feels strangely uncomfortable.
"……Perhaps."
Sophien doesn't know why Deculein spared Julie from ruin.
Rational deduction is impossible. Only emotional conjecture remains.
"That man truly abandoned his woman……."
Sophien can't fathom it. Human emotions are a madness she has yet to master—perhaps never will. And Deculein hides his heart too well.
"Hm……."
Sophien lifts her head from the bed's edge to gaze at the snow globe. Snow still falls within.
"Kairon. You wouldn't know either."
A lifelong bachelor who knows nothing of women.
"I only wish that man wouldn't trouble me so……."
Sophien eyes her reflection in the mirror.
Undeniably beautiful. A fact acknowledged by all on the continent.
"Tch."
Even this beauty vexes her.
Clicking her tongue, Sophien pulls out a transmission paper linked to her old tutor knight, "Julie."
"Whatever may come."
She pities the Julie who resembles Kairon. A strange guilt lingers for taking what was hers.
Once this affair settles, she'll summon her back to the palace…….
…….
The brutal north, where tens of thousands of monster hordes migrate south each year. The frontier marches that etched "northerners are hardy" into continental lore.
Among them, in the square of the Phairden Knights—the holy ground revered by all—stands Julie.
"……Knights of winter."
The order's headquarters numbers three hundred. Including knights on missions across the territory, it's several times that—and each brims with pride in their affiliation and origins.
"……."
Thus, their gazes toward Julie are far from kind. From the back row, they shoot her sidelong glares of disdain. Though direct Phairden blood, her disgrace as a knight is unforgivable, rank be damned.
"The 'southward migration' draws near."
Zeit on the platform spares her no glance. Julie accepts it as natural.
"Monster waves will crash upon the frontier. Yet His Sacred Majesty has pledged fitting support to the Phairdens, so I shall deploy knights to key strongholds. We will maintain unbreakable lines."
Thirteen strongholds, selected by Zeit and his staff.
Phairden knights may volunteer for one.
"Ascend the platform one by one and declare your resolve."
The front-row knight steps up first. He salutes Zeit in northern fashion, then announces to the assembly.
"I, Griffin. I shall reveal the knight's valor and resolve at Rohelr's walls."
No stronghold is easy. All are fitting death traps.
—Descendant of heroes, Griffin!
Thus, Phairden knights cheer their comrades' choices.
"Victor here. I shall safeguard the villages from Domon Fortress."
—Belloris's outer swordsman, Victor!
Every Phairden knight bears at least one such glorious epithet. Their echoes fill the square.
The capital scoffs at such antiquated relics, but in Phairden, the tradition still inspires knighthood.
"Bormas chooses the harsh Dokunkan!
—Gerun's giant, Bormas!
Choices proceed—but one stronghold remains unclaimed.
The worst among the eleven, yet not shunned from fear or hardship.
It is reserved for the most dishonored knight—or rather, left for them to claim as their own "path to atonement."
"……."
Thus, when Julie ascends, all eyes converge. No earth-shaking cheers—just silence.
Julie speaks without hesitation.
"I choose Recor Dak."
Recor Dak. A prison for the world's worst criminals, a human bulwark against southward monsters.
Where over eighty percent of inmates perish within a year—a hellscape. Yet Julie volunteers.
"Understood."
Zeit nods to her. The knights offer no cheers, but their piercing stares soften.
"Knight Dayah has chosen Recor Dak."
Zeit avoids her name. Julie is no fragile knight to take offense at such trifles.
"Yes, sir."
Descending, she meets the knights' eyes—resentment, pity, disappointment, sorrow, anger, betrayal…… myriad emotions.
Julie endures them all.
Compared to what that man did to her, this is the lightest of trials.
"After one month of training, you depart for your strongholds. Hone your skills personally until then."
Zeit's words carry charisma without raised volume.
The Phairden knights roar their assent like subjects before a king.
"Yes, sir!"
* * *
The Imperial University Tower has entered midterms. My class has none, so my duties as professor are limited to reviewing assistants' papers.
"Hey. Why's your ride so damn comfy? Same brand as mine."
On the way back to Yukline Manor. Ihelm in the passenger seat mutters.
I silently pull out a book. The bestseller Blue Eyes, gifted by Sophien.
A season still too early for winter. Great snowflakes blanket the capital…….
"What's this now?"
As I read the opening, Ihelm fiddles with the seatbelt incessantly.
For reference, the belt is my design contribution. This world lacks safety standards.
Traffic accidents are rare anyway, with so few cars.
Vroooom— Vrrrooom—
Ihelm stretches and retracts the belt, toying with it.
"Magic item?"
Irritating. I set the book down.
"Shut your mouth."
Ihelm shrugs.
"Just explain it. What is this?"
With Telekinesis, I snap his belt into place. Click— Ihelm chokes briefly.
"Ah. Restraint function. For prisoner transport, huh."
"……."
I don't correct him. This brazen freeloader who hitched a ride on sight might as well be a prisoner.
"Hm? Hey, isn't that Ifrin over there?"
Ihelm points out the window.
"……."
Ifrin waddles in a backpack, boxes trailing like pets behind her. Adorably applied Telekinesis.
Ihelm grins and rolls down the window.
"Hey!"
"Eek!"
Ifrin startles like a cat, whipping around.
"What?!"
"Called you 'cause I missed ya. Why?"
"What the hell…… Oh, Professor?"
She spots me, head tilting.
"You two together?"
"Yeah. Same route. You?"
"……Sending luggage ahead. I passed."
Ifrin glares at Ihelm. Laser-like.
Whether from him or not, "Ipari" is catching on for Ifrin lately. Even Allen might call her that soon.
"Passed what?"
Ifrin glances at me warily, scratching her neck instead of answering.
Ihelm presses.
"What'd you pass?"
"……Yukline mage training."
"Oh? That? Announcement's not out yet."
"Pre-admission."
"Pre?"
Ihelm eyes me.
Yukline's continental mage training.
Held winters on the territory's Lake Island—a development program for exceptional university mages from various nations. Famous mages mentor daily…….
So Yeriel told me.
Didn't expect Ifrin to make it.
"Your prof must hate you? Sneaking you into a big program like that, reeking of nepotism."
"Wh-what?! It's not nepotism!"
Ihelm chuckles at flustered Ifrin.
"Anyway, Ipari. Midterms done?"
"No. Half left, but near perfect scores—wait, not Ipari!"
"Oho? Perfect?"
"……Yeah."
"Training's a week, right?"
"Think so. Right, Professor?"
Ifrin asks me. I roll up the window without replying.
Ifrin gapes outside, but I know little of the training myself. Admitting ignorance is out of the question.
Ihelm says,
"Right. Deculein. Mentors secured?"
"……."
Yeriel asked me to handle it.
Nothing finalized, but not difficult. Rozerio, Longdalp, Ruina—my network's decent.
"Hey. Looks like you're short a few. Want me?"
Ihelm acts cocky. I narrow my eyes at him.
He snickers.
"Deal, though. Just tell me why you didn't save Julie—gyack!"
I fling open the door and eject him instantly.
* * *
……I begin mentor recruitment in earnest.
For Yukline's program, a roster of nobodies like Rellin or whatever would tarnish my reputation.
First: Rozerio. I summon her under pretense of student consult.
"Rozerio. Will you mentor at this Yukline training?"
"Hm~? ……Ah~ kehahaha."
Rozerio's posture turns arrogant. Arms crossed, leg over knee, eyeing me.
"Well~ But you know my schedule's tight these days—"
"Rozerio. You know."
I cut her off.
"Student expulsions from my class are at my discretion."
"……."
Her eyes narrow slyly. I meet them impassively.
Rozerio flashes a chilling smile.
"Heh. Threatening me?"
"……."
I say nothing, pulling the roster from my drawer and gripping a red pen.
Rozerio flinches.
"……No time, really? It's just a week."
"Later lectures cover pure series elements. Far harder than now, but rewarding."
Rozerio sweats coldly. Gulps loudly.
I inch the pen forward.
One red line, and she's off the roster.
"……."
Her eyes bulge; sweat beads from temple to jaw.
The pen touches paper…….
"Fine! Geez! So petty."
Rozerio snatches the pen.
I nod, hiding a smile.
"Good. Contract."
…….
Next: Ruina.
"Sure, whatever."
Ruina accepts my terms outright. No haggling, no delay.
"Satisfying conditions."
"……Is that so."
"Yes. See you at training? Busy with research now, so—"
She smiles brightly and rises. Pauses, turns.
"Oh, boss. Take care of yourself. Don't get sicker……."
…….
Third: Longdalp.
I offer him a special incentive: money.
"Hm…… I dunno, lad…… This old timer's not swimming in time either……."
Longdalp hesitates, but I place a turtle on the table. A long-lived tortoise of top-grade diamond mana stones.
"……Ahem!"
Clearing his throat loudly, Longdalp pockets it slyly.
"Agreed. You've shown such devotion, and I once wronged you greatly. Let's call it reconciliation between Yukline and me!"
He guffaws and signs the contract.
* * *
Three days later. Midterms nearing end.
Sipping coffee back at the tower, Ifrin startles at the bulletin board crowd.
"……What?"
Tower bulletin: postings for trainings, programs, quests. Mages swarm it.
Curious, Ifrin spots familiars amid the throng.
"Hey~ Ipa!"
Julia—now "Ipa" from "Ipi," thanks to Ihelm's "Ipari" nonsense.
Ipari—no, Ifrin sighs deeply.
"……Just call me Ipi?"
"Oh? Ipi!"
"What're you doing here? ……And her. Lucia."
Lucia, mage from a prestigious house with bad blood toward Ifrin. Staring blankly at the poster.
"~Remember that Yukline training? Mentors announced."
"Yeah. And?"
Ifrin got pre-admission. Probably Deculein's doing.
"And look at the mentors, Ipi. Insane."
Julia jingles pricey artifacts, pointing. Ifrin looks.
First: Deculein. Expected…… but Rozerio, Longdalp, Ruina, Ihelm, even addict Astal and a Verhert elder?!
Ifrin gapes.
"Wh-what? Verhert elder coming down?"
"Yeah! Place is chaos."
"Dzekdan?!"
"No, not grand elder. Just elder."
"Ah……."
Luxury beyond luxury—a once-in-a-lifetime for common mages.
Hence the crowd.
"Tower's pandemonium. Slots are trading for hundreds of thousands elne."
"Hundreds of thousands?"
"Yeah. You pre-admitted, right? Jealous."
"……."
Eyes turn to Ifrin. Chilling stares.
"Well, Julia. I'm off……."
Ahem. Ifrin slips away hastily.
"……Heh."
Yet her steps feel feather-light.
"Puhahaha! Uwahu~"
Clip-clop— clip-clop—
Ifrin practically floats down the tower hall.