A Silver Tongue Can Make an Undergrad Transfer (2)
Strolling leisurely across the sun-dappled grounds of Sponheim Academy, you could encounter just about every type of person imaginable. Fresh-faced new students, barely out of orientation, chatting with the young, ambitious son of a distant orc chieftain. A drunken dwarf soaked in booze from midday on, getting a stern scolding from a mage professor. Beastkin couples sneaking romantic rendezvous in the parks, spied on by a dragonkin; merfolk dipping their feet in the little lakes; humans from every corner of the realm; even centenarian elf latecomers—none of it was rare here.
This was Sponheim Academy, the empire's grand garden that gathered all those with talent and qualifications, regardless of race, nurturing each to bear their own fruit.
And I was stepping into the most elite corner of this garden, a place that drew only the cream of the crop: the lecture hall for "Introduction to the Art of War" in the Military Research Department.
"…."
Margrave Albert had dashed off early for some morning business, leaving me alone. Thinking back, I wasn't exactly the sociable type. So I was at a loss in this awkward spot, surrounded by stares in every flavor—curiosity, wariness, interest, even eyes bulging from vertical slits.
Of course, it was all because of the students. Professor Bisbaden had sworn up and down that no one would see it as favoritism, but come on—professors and students weren't the same. The ivory tower dwellers up on high often forgot how us little folk lived. I'd seen it plenty in my past life.
Tense as I was, sure enough, one of the regulars—a stern-looking guy—approached me. He towered a full head taller, a human man.
To me on high alert, he said, "Um… this is the room for today's Introduction to the Art of War lecture."
"……Ah."
Right—no way the department transfer would've been announced to everyone right away… right?
'They were just staring at a stranger out of curiosity.'
Makes sense. In a backwater world like this, rumors didn't spread overnight. Blood rushed to my face, speeding up my words.
"Ah, no. I'm Werner von Hebel, Baron Hebel from Ruticia. Professor Bisbaden recommended I join the Military Research Department."
"Oh… ah, you're the one who did the mock battle with the imperial princess?"
"Yes… pleased to meet you!"
Someone recognizing me by name alone—what a relief. I meant it sincerely.
"Ah, that's you! I didn't recognize you. Nice to meet you! So you transferred departments?"
"Was that even possible here?"
"I heard one of the upperclassmen did it. Quite a few people transfer out of here, apparently…."
The students launched into an oddly chilling chat. No bullying vibe in their attitudes, though, which was a small mercy. My seven countermeasures for hazing might go unused, but good was good.
"Sorry I'm late. Should've introduced you earlier."
Margrave Albert arrived fashionably late, and everyone swarmed with polite greetings. No one here outranked him, it seemed—their slightly awkward friendliness probably stemmed from that.
Except for her, of course.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea for this new face, different from last time's bunch. A pale hand emerged, planting on a desk. Neat nails, slender arm flowing to straight shoulders and nape, platinum blonde hair cascading past her ear. And those clear purple eyes, mirroring every gaze upon her.
Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis. The imperial princess.
She spoke in a soft, languid tone I'd never heard before. "This seat taken?"
She was already settling in, but even if bags had marked it, she'd know the owner had just vacated.
"N-No… of course not?"
Why had I let my guard down when she was an obvious fixture? I scooted over hastily. 'Damn it. Should've picked the corner.'
Margrave on my left, princess on my right. Suddenly sandwiched between the room's highest nobles. One was my ally, sure…!
'Her hair… not tied up today.'
Amid it all, I noticed her loose strands falling low because she'd leaned forward to set her bag.
"Sorry to interrupt the intros. Did I kill the vibe, everyone?"
"No, we were just chatting. Though you claimed that seat awfully naturally."
From the crowd, a notably short, prickly-looking young man spoke in archaic tones that didn't match his boyish face. His ears tapered slightly, brows and hair lush and long—elf or half-elf, probably. One of the mock battle spectators, I vaguely recalled.
"Of course, Ludwig. I invited him myself, after all. Right?"
She glanced my way, rounding those big eyes expectantly—a far cry from her reaction to the short guy.
"Uh…."
I hesitated, gauging how to respond. Because I'd said it—Professor Bisbaden's invitation!
Okay, I could brush it off as embarrassment, but it'd get noisy…!
And sure enough, a chatty student piped up. "Uh, Baron Hebel just said the professor—"
"Ah! Right! You said you'd think it over. What an honor for our house, across generations…!"
"Exactly. I put in the work, so someone like Baron Hebel couldn't pass it up. Good choice!"
We bluffed our way through…! But the onlookers—especially the short guy—radiated confusion I could practically read.
So… awkward….
"Alright, sorry for the delay. Were you having a welcome party?"
Professor Bisbaden arrived amid the chaos, his leonine mane looking less like a style today and more like a sacred beast's mark.
"Just introductions."
"Then don't crowd him. Baron Hebel? Come up front and greet everyone. Everyone else, sit."
"Yes…!"
Whew, saved. I slipped out onto thin ice, barely intact, stepping forward with a nod. A faint "Hm" trailed me, but whatever.
Academy lectures typically consist of professor or TA readings and explanations, student presentations, and discussions thereon. No multiple-choice exams here—every experience ties into the end-of-term oral exams.
Skim and BS your way? Fat chance. The real beast is proving you've memorized everything and truly grasp it. Masters in their fields will shred half-baked rhetoric with their tongues. Tougher than rote notes, even. They've dealt with slackers for years.
So no slacking just because I was invited—had to study twice as hard as the vets.
Luckily, it wasn't all brutal.
"Alright, Baron Hebel. You read up on prior lessons?"
"First class: what war and tactics are. Second: empire's war history."
"Good. Answer this: Aretas's five principles of war?"
"Legitimacy of war, timing, terrain assessment, troops and talent, military discipline. They mean—"
No legitimacy? Don't start the war. Ignore seasons? Can't maneuver. Neglect terrain? March to disadvantage. Wrong leaders? Fools command. No discipline? Can't control troops.
Aretas's work from this world overlapped heavily with my era's classics—Sun Tzu. Timeless wisdom crossed worlds. Saved me memorization time here.
"Excellent. Well prepped despite the short notice. Presentation time—today's up. Who is it?"
"Ludwig von Dennis."
The archaic-talker stood. Dennis… 'Western house?'
Neustria Duke's kin, matching Margrave Albert's rank. Half-elf explained the looks—west had plenty. Short as a girl, though.
He presented on imperial war history. As everyone focused…
Tap, tap. A white finger drummed near my arm. From the princess.
Papyrus slid under my elbow; she quilled boldly for me to see.
"Bored."
I glanced; she stared ahead, bored for real. Damn, even princesses found class dull? Intro stuff overlapped her years of history books—I got it.
Propping my chin, I quilled back.
"Already know it all?"
"Yeah. Nothing more boring than repeats."
Totally agreed. But a chill hit me; I scanned for the source—professor eyeing us. Why he'd picked me clicked.
'A friendly rival spurs growth.'
Indulging her would've wasted my spot. I quilled slyly.
"Still gotta listen."
"Why?"
"Sages say assuming you know is most dangerous."
"Stuffy."
"Keep slacking, flunk out—no more mock battles."
Pfft. A sly giggle—her mischievous one from before.
"Fine."
Papyrus was a mess now. I considered a fresh sheet, but she left it, so I did too. Didn't want to seem picky.
*
"Phew."
Stomach churning, class ended. Princess bolted surprisingly fast—no reason to linger.
"Heading out first. Next is drill for me. You signed up elsewhere?"
"Yes… your class seems for those with martial basics."
Military Research meant athletics like officer academies. No way I, sword-illiterate, joined kids drilled since childhood. Separate class for us klutzes.
"See ya later."
"Don't get hurt."
Waves exchanged, alone again. Oddly bittersweet, heading back—
"Hey."
Someone wouldn't let me. Familiar voice, at least….
"C'mere, Baron."
"…That's not polite."
"Should've reported in pronto—make me hunt you down?"
Not really. Wild mix of formal and rude, incorrigible owner: Erna Skillpinggar Harpagri. Margrave Albert's fiancée.
The scariest person I'd met in this world. Why? Total girl gangster vibe.