Excellent Means of Negotiation (1)
‘Kiyaaaaah!’
Screaming internally, I reflexively swung the shotgun’s barrel toward him.
Click—!
My pitch-black, vicious shotgun was primed and ready to blast Lucius’s chest at any moment.
Undeterred by the muzzle staring him down, Lucius approached me in an even greater state of excitement.
“Aaah! If only I could spread this gospel to the entire church…!! Brother, let us wash your feet and engage in deeper conversation.”
“H-Hey, stay back! I’ll really shoot! I can shoot!!”
“Brother Flint. Why such caution? Come now. Heh heh.”
That refreshingly bright smile felt as terrifying as a horror movie to me, knowing the novel’s ending.
“Your Eminence, the Cardinal!”
Amid the suffocating standoff, a priest came panting from afar.
“There’s an urgent matter to report!”
“What is it?”
Lucius withdrew his sticky gaze from me and turned his head.
The gasping priest glanced warily at me holding the shotgun—an unspoken order for outsiders to leave.
As I stealthily backpedaled to oblige, he spoke.
“It’s fine in front of Brother Flint. No need to hold back—speak freely.”
The priest’s eyes nearly bulged at Lucius’s words.
“Br-Bro…?”
The blood-soaked cardinal, known as the Holy See’s mad dog, had called a mere commoner cadet—not even clergy—‘brother.’
The weight of that single word was immense. The priest’s dismissive gaze toward me instantly shifted to one of awe.
Ignoring the priest’s changed demeanor, Lucius asked in a low, sunken voice.
“So, what is it?”
“A saint… A saint has appeared at the Academy.”
Lucius’s brow furrowed sharply. This was no ordinary news.
A saint emerging while Saintess Elisicia was still active?
“Priest. Tell me more.”
Overwhelmed by Lucius’s aura, the priest trembled as he spoke.
“Th-The Saintess herself declared she would appoint a cadet as a saint. She hasn’t announced it publicly, so I came to you for judgment.”
“Appoint as saint? Sister Elisicia said this herself?”
A memory buried deep in my mental filing cabinet resurfaced, making cold sweat trickle down my back.
“What’s the name of the cadet the Saintess appointed?”
The priest uttered the name.
“Kyle von Leonhardt.”
Lucius’s face went blank in an instant.
“Kyle von Leonhardt?”
He repeated it as if doubting his ears—or like he’d tasted something foul, his features twisting.
“That wastrel as a saint? Why?”
A disbelieving chuckle escaped his lips.
“No, how can a mana user even become a saint in the first place? Isn’t there some mistake?”
This world’s absolute common sense: mana users—nobles—could not wield divine power.
That was the truth set by God. Mana and divine power repelled each other like water and oil.
“I-I couldn’t believe it either, but dazzling divine power truly manifested from him.”
Is this for real?
Even I, standing by silently like a spectator, perked up at this unfamiliar development.
Lucius’s smile vanished at the priest’s confirmation.
“Brother. I’ll contact you soon regarding the contract. I must verify this rumor first.”
Lucius stormed off, his blood- and dirt-stained cardinal robes flapping wildly. The priest hurried after him, glancing nervously.
Left alone, I confirmed their presence had fully vanished before exhaling the breath I’d held.
“Phew……”
My legs nearly buckled.
Kyle that wastrel suddenly awakening divine power was bizarre, but right now, I wanted to kowtow to him in thanks.
I’d nearly been stuck on a creepy foot-washing date with the empire’s top fanatic.
Rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I shouldered the shotgun properly.
The original story was derailing beyond repair, but who cared.
Time to head back to the dormitory and write that letter to Lady Laurie.
* * *
The next day, Countess Laurie arrived at the Academy in person via Cedric, having received Flint’s letter.
Dressed in a lavish gown befitting the head of the empire’s top merchant group, she elegantly unfurled her fan in greeting.
“Flint. It’s been a while. Have you been well?”
“Yes. Thanks to the generous allowance you provided, I’ve been eating and living great.”
Laurie smiled at Flint’s cheeky reply, but her gaze swept from his head to his toes.
Then her pretty brow slowly furrowed.
“But… Flint. Are the noble cadets bullying you or something?”
“Pardon? What brings that up?”
“No, why does someone under my sponsorship look like that?”
At her pointed remark, Flint looked down at his clothes.
Days holed up in the lab refining double-barrel shotgun blueprints and mixing gunpowder had left his shirt smeared with black oil stains, sleeves frayed and singed from explosion tests.
He looked like he’d just crawled out of a slum alley.
“Oh, this? Got dusted with gunpowder tinkering with a new product. No bullying—don’t worry.”
“Haa……”
Laurie pressed her ornate lace fan to her forehead like it pained her.
But when she folded it and fixed her gaze on Flint again, her eyes had shifted from elegant noblewoman to cold, predatory merchant.
“Well, fine. Geniuses have quirks—it’s common. Enough chit-chat.”
The countess’s red lips curled slowly upward.
“Is what you wrote true? You secured a contract to supply new guns to the Holy See? Against no less than that bloodthirsty cardinal.”
“What gain would I get from lying? We haven’t signed yet—that’s why I contacted you.”
Her pupils quivered with greed at his casual affirmation, but the seasoned merchant masked her excitement, tilting her chin up.
“Impressive. I knew you weren’t ordinary when I heard you majored in theology, but this exceeds imagination. Heh heh, a compliment, of course. But…”
Thud. Laurie tossed Flint’s letter onto the table and leaned forward.
“Flint. We already have a contract. Until you graduate, we maximize scarcity by blocking gun leaks, split profits from sales of the guns and metal bullets I invested in.”
Her smiling lips contrasted with her icy gaze.
The empire’s top merchant wouldn’t tolerate a single coin’s loss—sharp as a scale.
“Now you suddenly want to form some mysterious ‘Firearms Guild,’ offer me shares, and demand massive capital and distribution? Quite bold. You’re gunning for imperial army adoption—a huge goal—and why drag me into the sensitive religious power plays?”
She leaned back leisurely, glaring at the shabby investee with hands in pockets.
“Countess. Imperial army adoption is a long-term project post-graduation. Convincing the higher-ups takes time.”
He pulled a massive red 12-gauge shotgun shell from his pocket and stood it on the table.
“But what if a mad group ready to blindly pour gold appeared tomorrow?”
“This… looks nothing like the ammo I saw before.”
“Right. This is for a brute chunk of metal called a shotgun, not a revolver. And Cardinal Lucius called it the gospel of God after seeing it—he wants to equip every soul under the church.”
Laurie’s fanning hand froze.
“Church-wide deployment……”
“The imperial budget is limited, but the Holy See’s vaults never dry under the name of faith. And if inquisitors and holy knights burn through this ammo scouring the empire? Our current Gos workshops can’t keep up. We need a massive organization for that demand.”
Flint flicked the red shotgun shell across the table toward her.
“Imperial army and Holy See. Proposal to make both continental powerhouses our customers. Still sound bold?”
Silence.
Laurie picked up the red shell, examining it closely. Her fingertips trembled faintly on the wax-coated casing.
In her mind, grand delusions meshed like gears once more.
Crushing Academy prodigies to torment the royals was just camouflage? His real aim: while the palace hesitates, seize the wealthiest, most fanatic Holy See first—and shake the empire’s entire military balance.
A chilling design weighing imperial and church powers in his palm.
Laurie shivered at the terrifying ambition radiating from this grubby engineering student.
“……Ha.”
A thick sigh laced with laughter escaped her lips.
“Flint. You should’ve worked for our guild, not made weapons.”
She snapped her fan shut and extended her hand.
“Fine. I’ll bet my gold on your conviction—no, that fearsome design. Gos Merchant Group opens all capital and networks to your Firearms Guild. I’ll back the founding too.”
“But separately from existing ammo profits, I demand 40% of the guild’s total shares. Try to haggle even 10%, and I walk.”
“Of course.”
Flint smirked and clasped her hand.
The progenitor of the arms conglomerate that would one day dye the empire in fresh blood quietly stirred to life.