11. Art Is Not a Tool
"...You're completely wiped out, young master."
"Feels like death."
Alan was sprawled on the bed, receiving a massage from Meia. Time had flown by, and the first week's course selection period was over. There had been a commotion in the middle when Professor MacKellan got fired and Duke Mueller himself showed up at the academy, turning the place upside down. But it felt damn good inside.
"...I didn't expect you to write a letter to the duke yourself."
"He badmouthed me right to my face. Pissed me off."
"I understand."
As Meia added a bit more pressure with her hands, Alan let out a yelp.
"Ow!"
"Your muscles are pretty knotted up. You haven't been exercising at all, so you'll have to bear with the pain."
"Ugh, ack, ow ow! Meia, that hurts! I said it hurts!"
Meia silently pressed firmly into Alan's back. While he screamed, she swallowed a sigh inwardly and gazed down at the back of his head.
'He's the same as ever, from when he was little.'
Alan was beyond carefree—he was indifferent to most things. He was truly oblivious to anything that didn't interest him. He didn't pay much attention to those around him, and he never backed down from what he believed was right. Just look at how he stood his ground even before Duke Mueller, whom every imperial citizen both respected and feared.
'I can't help but worry...'
Her hands naturally pressed harder. If Alan hadn't saved her from being bullied and ostracized as a "cursed child" because of her white hair, she never would have ended up under the Mueller family's protection. Even learning swordsmanship directly from the duchess had been for the sake of helping Alan. The duke kept her by his side because of her role as a special bodyguard maid.
"Ack! Meia!"
"Please endure it. On mornings without classes, I think you should spar with me, young master."
"Why me?!"
"Your stamina has dropped a lot. Your body is all tensed up."
"Augh!"
Meia pressed hard, and Alan screamed. Having effortlessly subdued him with her fingers, she extended her index finger and spoke.
"If you neglect your training even while at the academy, I'll have to guide you personally."
"Ah, no thanks..."
"Stamina is separate from concentration. If it weakens, it'll affect your writing too. This is for your health, so please follow along."
"Fine. I got it. Stop pressing, ack!"
Having crushed Alan's resistance with ease, Meia adjusted her glasses and said,
"You've worked hard this week. How was life at the academy without me?"
"...Tough."
It wasn't a joke—he meant it. Alan wasn't incompetent enough to fail at basic living without someone hovering over him. What had worn him down were the annoying people buzzing around him.
"How's the writing coming along?"
"Why do you ask?"
"The duke said to release the next volume soon..."
"My dad?"
"Yes."
Alan rubbed his forehead.
"I'm working on the next volume for now. But I have to submit my course schedule today, so I need a break."
"Understood. I'll take the schedule to the registrar's office."
"I'll be at the desk..."
"Young master?"
In the moment Meia turned away, Alan had fallen asleep, burying his face in the pillow and letting out soft snores. Meia smiled faintly at the sight, gently laid him down properly, and pulled the blanket over him. Confirming he was fast asleep, she grabbed the course schedule from the desk and closed the door behind her.
"Sleep well, young master."
Versa Imperial Academy operated on a two-semester system. Four months for the first semester, two months of vacation, six months for the second, and another two months off—not overly grueling. But with a variety of courses packed into those four months of the first semester, cadets often suffered from a surprising lack of time.
Versa Academy's four-year programs had major-specific courses ranging from 12 to as many as 18 per department. The Knight Faculty had the fewest at 12, the Magic Faculty came second with 18, and Alan's Humanities Faculty topped them both with a whopping 24 major courses alone.
"This has to be wrong!"
The Humanities Faculty could be seen as an elite track for economics or specialized bureaucracy training, so having many courses made sense. But Alan couldn't fathom why a department without a creative writing major was the epicenter of the imperial literary cartel.
Literature, Understanding Literature, Grammar, Basics of Composition, Ancient Linguistics, Modern Linguistics, Magical Script Interpretation—the mere names made his head spin.
"Biology, theology, continental history, math... This'll drive me nuts. Isn't math for the Engineering Faculty?"
He'd already decided to drop math, so it wasn't even on the table. With his interest in magic, he'd added Basic Magic Studies, Herbalism, History of Magic, Potion-Making, and even Astronomy. Plenty to juggle.
"I'm not at Hogwarts or anything. What is this?"
A time-turner would have been nice, but no such luck. Alan grumbled, rubbing his forehead.
"Why'd Professor Quiros have to say that crap..."
Alan munched on the toast Meia had brought for breakfast, scribbling hastily on the paper. Today was the literature discussion class—the day Quiros had dumped unnecessary pressure on him.
"Why's he curious about my thoughts anyway?"
Alan swallowed his toast, checked the organized notes one last time.
"Why even have discussions?"
Alan wasn't the debating type to begin with. He loved reading books but wasn't sociable enough for sharing sessions. He didn't even like writing感想 papers. Discussions were right out. For someone whose "discussions" had been limited to online chats, face-to-face debates were a nightmare.
A knock sounded. It was Meia.
"Young master, you need to head out soon."
"Got it."
Alan pushed aside the empty toast plate and stood up.
"I called it a discussion, but it's more like a presentation where everyone shares their thoughts. If someone counters, then it becomes a debate."
Before starting the class proper, Professor Quiros announced this and scanned the cadets.
"I'm curious what you cadets think. As I mentioned last time, today's topic is: 'Is art a tool for flaunting culture and knowledge in debates?'"
In this world, at least, it totally fits, Alan thought. Literature and novels were consumed as noble luxuries, after all.
"Anyone want to present first?"
"I'll go."
Surprised murmurs rippled through the room. He seemed from a high-ranking house, but Alan paid it no mind. There were even royals in this classroom.
"To cut to the chase: yes, art was chosen as a tool for debating culture and knowledge."
"State your name."
"James Helmut von Moore."
"Moore. Of the Moore Count family. Continue."
James smirked at Professor Quiros's words and pressed on.
"Art has developed alongside culture. Nobles have had the greatest influence on cultural progress, naturally. Without nobles, commoners wouldn't have any culture to enjoy. They merely inherited scraps from what nobles partake in, so art is a tool."
"Can't agree with that."
It was Alan, arms crossed in a slouch.
"I can't agree that art is a tool for flaunting culture and knowledge."
"Alan Edgar von Mueller. Will you present?"
"Yes."
Alan met the eyes of James from the Moore family and slowly rose. All eyes in the classroom turned to him as he descended. The author of Shuren Chronicle, the hot topic not just at the academy but in the imperial capital—the youngest Mueller son. Silence fell in anticipation of his words.
Alan stood opposite James.
"First, something to clarify."
"What?"
"What is art?"
The most fundamental question. After a beat of silence, Alan spoke.
"Art has no fixed definition. What looks like a scribble to one person is art if the creator says so. Nobles greatly influenced art and culture's emergence? Not wrong."
Alan eyed James, who grinned smugly, as if to say, You have to admit it.
"But you seem oblivious that the word 'art' ultimately means the same as 'technique.' James Moore."
"Wha—"
"Nobles scorn 'technique' the most. Art encompasses both skill (技藝) and scholarship (學術). You couldn't have missed something so basic."
James's face crumpled like he'd been stung.
Alan continued.
"Art isn't just the artist's solo act—interactions with those who share it are part of art too. Obviously not a tool for showing off."
"No way! Commoners unqualified for high art can't possibly understand it!"
"Who decides that?"
James was speechless.
"Did God decree from the start that art is nobles-only? Didn't learn that in theology."
As James opened his mouth, Alan cut in.
"And if it's nobles-only, it wouldn't apply to royals either, right?"
"That's sophistry—"
"Claiming no nobles means no art implies nobles lead culture, with no room for royal involvement?"
Ignoring James, now fully silenced, Alan scanned the room.
"Art has no absolute standard. As I said, a scribble can be reevaluated as art by posterity. Thoughtless sketches can become masterpieces."
"Intriguing view. Continue, Alan Mueller."
"Nobles undeniably boosted art's development. Without noble patronage, even geniuses starve and quit."
Like Renaissance patrons supporting Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael. Roselia Continent surely had equivalents.
Alan said,
"Ultimately, art lies in the gap between tool and belief. Like its dual nature—pursuing commerce for livelihood over pure conviction. But is it a tool for culture and knowledge? I say no, decisively."
Why?
"Because art was never born as a tool, bound to anyone from the start."
Silence fell. Had the young novelist's words moved them all? Alone in the heavy quiet, Alan belatedly realized he'd ranted nonsense in a feverish haze.
...Shit.
As a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, applause erupted like thunder.