The Art of the Draw (2)
After helping Anna wrap up her work and stepping outside, something hit my skin before the cool evening breeze did. The students' stares, like they were looking at some otherworldly creature instead of a person.
"……?"
What the hell? First commoner they've ever seen? It felt like the textbook medieval noble snobbery I'd only heard about. They recoiled in horror the moment our eyes met—quite the spectacle. Left a bitter taste in my mouth. Is this why everyone screams 'revolution'? That half-baked thought crossed my mind as I headed to the dorms.
That's when a man in black priestly robes came charging at me full tilt from the academy entrance. My hand instinctively went to the holster at my waist, but his shout beat me to it.
"Are you Cadet Flint, by any chance?!"
"Yeah. What's the problem?"
At my reply, the man's face lit up like he'd found salvation. He panted heavily and grabbed my shoulders.
"Are you alright? No injuries or discomfort anywhere?"
"Huh? What're you—"
The priest explained the "Academy Commoner Disappearance Panic," and that I was at the center of it. I gave the fidgety guy the rundown: no kidnappings, no thugs chasing me. Just helped out an acquaintance who got a job at the academy. The plain, boring truth.
He gave me a weird look as he listened, but sighed in relief that I was alive and well, then rushed off to report it.
Finally, some alone time.
"……Tired as hell."
I shrugged my shoulders and trudged back toward the dorms. My arms felt like lead after wrestling laundry all day. All I wanted was to crash into bed.
The next morning, as I dragged myself awake from exhaustion, a letter stamped with a familiar seal arrived. From my one and only investor, the empire's top merchant guild leader, Countess Laurie Gos.
Dearest Flint,
I slapped my knee when I heard about your Divine Studies major assignment. Your foresight never fails to exceed my wildest expectations.
Even with His Majesty's favor, supplying weapons to the conservative military requires clearing the massive hurdle of the Holy See's approval.
But you waltz right into the heart of it. You're planning to distribute firearms directly within the Holy See, conditioning their tastes first, aren't you?
Permission granted in advance. Spread them far and wide.
Once firearms become the Holy See's official weapon, distribution across the empire—no, the entire continent—and massive tax exemptions are as good as done.
Your ruthless strategic maneuvering gives me chills.
I'll visit the academy soon to discuss details face-to-face.
Countess Laurie, confident in your success.
I couldn't help but marvel at the letter.
"Merchants really see things differently..."
I'd chosen Divine Studies to supply guns to the Holy See, sure, but she interpreted it as a bid to carve out a continent-wide monopoly. Her perspective was on another level.
Anyway, if the investor's laying the groundwork, best to milk it. I ditched yesterday's grubby look, dressed my uniform impeccably, and headed to the academy—one hand on my revolver, a "gift" to win over the cardinal tucked in my bosom.
At the entrance, the Dragon Academy Head with her pink twintails was sharply inspecting cadets' uniforms.
Suddenly, I realized I'd need some serious "courage" before facing that mad cardinal.
How to boost courage? Right, that method.
I slipped behind her stealthily. Athletes sniff ammonia before games for that explosive focus and alertness, right? A sharp stench stimulating the brain and lungs.
So...
While she scolded a noble cadet's crooked tie, I struck like lightning. Hugged her from behind and buried my nose deep in her crown.
Sniiiiiiiffffff!!!
"Haaaah..."
My mind sharpened instantly. No ammonia stink like expected. Instead, a sweet sugar scent like from a luxury dessert shop, laced with cozy mana that tingled every brain cell.
A true dragon. The awakening effect was insane. I could pull my revolver even if the pope himself blocked my path.
What's her name again? Nuu... Nuuung... Little pig...?
"Nu... whatever-your-name-is Headmaster. Good morning."
"Y-Y-You mad bastard?! What the hell was that just now...! No, more importantly, what the hell were you doing yesterday? The whole academy flipped out because of you!"
She screamed, face red as a beet, but to my awakened ears, it was just BGM.
The effect even jogged her name.
"Yes, yes. Little Pig Headmaster. Fully charged now. Have a good one."
"It's 'Nuurora O. Drakion'!!! Cut the 'little pig' crap!!! You insolent brat! Stop—"
Her name's Nuuong. Got it locked in.
I left the fuming headmaster behind and marched confidently toward the Divine Studies building.
Her shout of "Catch that lunatic!" echoed behind me, but whatever. My uniform was regulation-perfect.
The Divine Studies classroom glowed with morning sun through stained glass, exuding a cathedral's solemn, overwhelming aura. I crossed the threshold with grim resolve.
But the blackboard had just one paper tacked up.
No class today due to this professor's personal circumstances.
"……?"
Class canceled? Perfectist Lucius skipping? I stood there dumbfounded as murmurs from cadets in the hall filtered in.
"As expected of the cardinal. After that performance yesterday, he needs to recharge today."
"Right? At the end, when Cadet Kyle von Leonhardt was sobbing and confessing—it gave me chills. How does he act so realistically like a torture victim?!"
Kyle? Torture? Confession? What nonsense was this?
Nothing like that in the original novel.
The headmaster's crown scent was fading, taking my courage with it.
No Lucius the runaway train should've been a relief, but an unknown dread chilled my neck.
Amid the cheering students like it was a festival, I alone broke a cold sweat.
……Not safe here. Retreat to my home turf.
I bolted from Divine Studies toward the Engineering Department.
On the way to Engineering, I felt blatant stares dogging me. Started when crossing the lake park—prime couple spot and romance fantasy date course.
Two? No, one's watching me, the other's watching the first.
I varied my pace, ducked into obscure alleys cadets avoid. Confirmed it: some creepy tailing chain behind me.
But as I entered the thickets, the balance shattered.
—Thud!
A dull impact broke the silence. The rear shadow, stealthily suppressing presence, hit the ground without a scream.
One presence left. My trigger finger itched, ready to fly.
From the dense bushes, a low voice: "Looks like we're made. Fun's over."
A figure emerged, footsteps crunching. No need to see the face.
He roughly swept back his blazing red hair: Kyle von Leonhardt.
"Kyle?"
"Don't sully my name with that filthy mouth, peasant."
Why the hell are you here?
I was pretty thrown. By original plot, he should be chasing the saintess's skirts like a simp. Why stalk me?
Entrance exam grudge? But this world has convenient, legal duels. No need for creepy shadowing.
Seeing my confusion, creases deepened on his brow. His eyes burned with far worse malice and resentment than before.
"You... still pretending you don't know what you did?"
"Beats me. I'm so damn great, I get tons of envy, but I don't recall screwing up. Wanna fight? File a formal duel. I'll accept anytime."
His sluggish greatsword play couldn't touch my revolver in a millennium.
My casual retort twisted his face grotesquely.
"Ha! Think a cowardly, vulgar scum like you has any honor left for a duel? No! Never!"
He spat venomously.
"Because of your scheme with that mad cardinal... Do you think a worm like you can even imagine what I lost yesterday?!"
Cardinal? Why bring up Lucius?
As I furrowed my brow in confusion, I finally sensed the offness.
No 'Durandal' on his back?
Missing: the knight's symbol, Leonhardt pride, that idiotically huge greatsword shattered by my special rounds last time.
Instead, at his waist: a sleek Eastern sword straight out of a wuxia novel, totally clashing with romance fantasy.
"You sell Durandal and carry that toy knife? Can't afford repairs? I could buy you a new greatsword."
"Shut up! This isn't a toy!"
He stepped forward excitedly, crushing the hilt in his grip.
"The Durandal you cowardly shattered was reborn as Nangwol, forged solely to sever your neck."
Melted-down Durandal remake: Nangwol. His eyes gleamed bluish.
"Watch your mouth, peasant. Today, you're only allowed last words and screams."
His aura was different. No heavy pressure—just razor wind slicing skin on touch.
He was dead serious. Beyond that, obsessive mania.
I cocked my head. "Looks like you tangled with the Holy See yesterday. Here to take it out on me?"
"Take it out?" He scoffed, hatred unspeakable at the end.
"Playing dumb to the end? Fine. You won't die easy."
As I frowned, clueless, his hands dropped to his waist. Right gripped hilt, left thumb nudged guard—a bizarre stance.
"Hey, chill. I'll hook you up with a hot girl, so let's skip today. You love that stuff."
"You bastard, to the end...!"
He growled beast-like. I'd planned to show him the saintess, make him fall at first sight, lose interest in me—but he acted like women didn't exist. Later I learned: my words struck his reverse scale, his "chastity belt."
"......My blade turns even holy knights to mere mortals. Just now, a Holy See watcher fell in one clash. You'll be next."
One of the presences was a Holy See watcher?
Kyle can't be that good yet.
His swirling blue killing intent rushed to the sheath. Air thinned.
In that instant, he kicked off the ground, torso twisting. No knight swordsmanship—just pure slaughter, life-on-the-line Eastern iaijutsu.
"Romantic Sword Form 1. Battō—...!"
As his lips twisted, my world slowed like time froze.
Before thought finished, instinct moved. Right hand snapped horizontal, snatching the grip.
Leather-metal scrape before air parted—muzzle already free, shortest arc to Kyle.
No sights needed. Muzzle extension locking on him: pure aim.
Right index pulled trigger full—left palm whipped like a lash, slamming hammer.
Once, twice, thrice... Clockwork precision, thresher brutality. Cylinder screamed spinning.
Tat-tat-tat-TBOOM—!
Six shots compressed into one massive blast. Muzzle flame blinded him; bullets mocked gravity, shredding his body.
Quick draw. And fanning.
Revolver's iaijutsu and rapid fire.
"Guhk?!"
Kyle, mid-draw, flew back spectacularly. Impact shook him before blade cleared.
He rolled pathetically, clutching the half-drawn hilt.
I blew smoke from the barrel, intoning coldly.
"Who taught you that? Where's your teacher?"
No jokes left in my voice.
Romantic Sword. To me, knowing the novel's track, that term shouldn't appear now. Mid-novel at earliest.
Why so soon? What the hell has Kyle been up to?
Head spinning, hands didn't stop. I loaded special rounds—mana stone powder and powder mix—into the cylinder one by one.
Last round in, cocked hammer.
—Click.
Cold metal rang. From Kyle, crumpled and trembling: a weird noise.
"......Kii, kiiing... kuuuu...."
Too pathetic for the empire's top knight prospect—like a puppy with its tail stepped on.
I approached slowly, barrel down.
Six lead balls shouldn't crumple him that bad. Nobles shield with aura basics.
"Hey, quit exaggerating..."
Up close, words stuck.
He clutched desperately between his legs with both hands.
"Ah."
A clear tear trailed from his hollow eyes.
Not a proud knight's defeat. A man's grief over irrecoverable loss.