28. Things I Want to Show (3)
"Did you make this yourself again today?"
"...The servants' quarters have their own kitchen."
"You don't have to bring food like this every time. There's academy cafeteria food, too."
"I was hoping you'd at least have one meal a day from me."
At Meia's words, Alan smacked his lips with a smack.
"You put so much care into it every time that even if I'm full, I can't leave any behind."
"...You can leave some. I'll take care of it."
"Nah. Besides, it's delicious."
Meia wasn't just exceptional with the sword. This was one reason Alan thought of her as superhuman. She never lost her composure no matter the situation, her swordsmanship was top-tier, and there was nothing she couldn't do. If asked whether all Mueller family servants were like that, he'd firmly say no.
Alan set down his knife and spoke.
"I'm worried about the ingredient costs. I've got some pocket money left—want me to give you some?"
"It's fine. I'm getting donations from my colleagues in the servants' quarters."
"Donations?"
"I made some experimental dishes while practicing cooking a bit, and that's how it turned out."
"...Yeah, that's so you, Meia."
Meia gave a faint smile at Alan's words.
"Anyway, glad you're doing well without any issues. No crazy guys bothering you or anything?"
"I am a servant of the Mueller family."
Meia's maid uniform bore a silver emblem: a single silver sword pointed skyward, flanked by outstretched wings shaped like elongated blades. It was the symbol of the Mueller Ducal House. Even nobles wouldn't be foolish enough to mess with a Mueller servant. Wearing the emblem meant belonging to one of the great noble houses, the Muellers. That was how the family had protected its servants from abuses by other noble houses.
Seeing the emblem, Alan nodded.
"Still, if any asshole gives you trouble, tell me. Bro'll smash 'em."
"Not you, young master?"
"I don't have the skills for that."
A flicker of pity crossed Meia's face as Alan shook his head. When was it? Probably the first time Alan had picked up a sword and sparred directly with his brother Albert. That day, Alan's practice wooden sword hadn't just split in half—it shattered into dozens of pieces in a brutal defeat. Albert never went easy, even on his little brother, but after that, Alan noticeably lost interest in swordsmanship. Albert even felt guilty about it.
"Young master..."
"I can protect myself, but I'm not strong like Bro. Speaking of, Sis is taking longer to come back than expected. Bro said she'd be home soon."
"I don't know the details. Shall I look into it?"
"Yeah, that'd be great. I don't think anything happened to her."
Alan's words carried strong trust.
"I'll bring news as quickly as possible."
"Thanks. That was good."
"I'll clear the dishes."
"Please do."
Even after eating, Alan continued sorting his reports.
"This place is really unique. No spirit mages? Just orcs and trolls' territory? Techniques as powerful as elven magic... Man, all sorts of wild stuff pops up."
Suddenly grateful he'd come to the academy, Alan jotted down another fact he'd uncovered in his report.
"Should I copy this one extra? Rewriting is such a pain. A typewriter would be nice."
Since he only knew writing and nothing else, maybe if he tossed the idea to some dwarven kingdom, they'd make one. Alan vaguely mused.
"But that won't work right now. Shuren needs a proper encounter first. Like with a typewriter."
Hmm... Alan furrowed his brow, deep in thought.
"For now, I've decided on the character who'll appear before Shuren."
He pushed aside the report paper and pulled out a fresh manuscript sheet.
"Let's see how he reacts this time."
A mischievous grin spread across Alan's lips.
Continental History was one of the humanities department's required courses. It had an enormous number of students, but more than half were notorious for sleeping through it every time.
Professor Flint's voice was so soothing, like a perfect lullaby, that it only made it worse.
Today, his lullaby worked its magic reliably—more students than usual had their heads planted on desks like corpses.
The survivors were a select few: Alan, Felicia, Lin, and the like.
...Professor Flint's voice is just mysteriously addictive the more you hear it. Is it some kind of magic?
Alan clicked his tongue inwardly while taking notes on the lecture.
"The races commonly called Ain—orks, trolls, goblins, and such—possess intelligence equal to humans and have built their own civilizations. The tribal confederation of Oathrian dominating the eastern badlands is proof enough."
Professor Flint wrote "Oathrian" on the blackboard and underlined it firmly.
"Oathrian means something like a 'blood oath.' Few scholars study the Oathrian language family in depth, so known details are limited, but the eastern badlands aren't inhabited solely by Ain. There are also those exiled from the empire for crimes."
"So they're exiled rather than punished for their crimes, Professor?"
"Oh, excellent question. Cadet Alan."
Delighted by the rare question, Professor Flint beamed.
"Imperial law is lenient in that it strictly distinguishes ringleaders from accomplices. Ringleaders face harsh punishment, but accomplices get lighter sentences. Exiles are usually accomplices in first-degree crimes."
"First-degree crimes would be...?"
"Mainly treason or plots to overthrow the state. That's the only first-degree crime."
"Thank you, Professor."
"I wish we had more cadets like you, Alan. Ahem, continuing—"
Alan transcribed the new info into his ever-present notebook while listening.
Knowledge gained again. Fun stuff.
More material for his novel, plus actual learning—both wins. Alan kept noting as he paid close attention.
"Ah, and submit your reports today. Those without will get an F on the assignment. As expected."
Students bolted up here and there. Alan tsked at his classmates' frantic reactions to "F."
Professor Flint pressed on.
"The core of the Oathrian confederation is said to be the orc tribes. The confederation's leader, called Great Chieftain by the empire, is chosen from representatives of each race—but oddly, the orcs have held it hereditarily."
"Wouldn't other races rebel against that, Professor?"
"Mm, quite right. The Oathrian confederation did fight a civil war against tribes rebelling over orc hereditary rule. About thirty years ago by imperial calendar."
Before Alan was born. Professor Flint chuckled.
"The war's outcome birthed their key rule: 'The strongest becomes Great Chieftain.' Just hearsay, mind you—no confirmation."
"I've heard it's true. There's a record in the imperial archives."
"Oh, splendid. Thank you for confirming, Princess."
Felicia nodded lightly with a "not at all."
"In any case, candidates duel one-on-one, staking their eligibility."
Like gladiators? Alan smirked, jotting "duel ritual" in his notebook.
Professor Flint added, "Personally, I hope all this knowledge helps you cadets. Especially your novel, Cadet Alan."
"Pardon?"
Alan's eyes widened—what the hell, out of nowhere?
He spotted Professor Flint grinning.
"I'm enjoying it. Can't wait for the next volume. Hurry it up, eh? Ahem. Not supposed to indulge personal tastes like this."
"Ahaha..."
Alan laughed awkwardly, screaming internally.
Publicly mentioning it ruins the point, Professor...!!
"Ooh, volume 3 at last!"
Karl Adonel carefully took the third volume's manuscript from Alan, handling it like treasure.
As he slowly reviewed it, his expression hardened slightly.
"...Didn't see this plot coming."
"What about it surprises you so much?"
"Better if you see for yourself. Hold on."
Karl opened to the section he'd been reading and passed it to his secretary.
The secretary read the highlighted part slowly, then adjusted her slightly crooked glasses.
"...We definitely need a warning label on this."
"Planning a full upheaval? Even for fiction, this idea's too dangerous."
"Agreed."
Karl ruffled his hair and sighed. But he couldn't drop Shuren Chronicle, the lifeline of Adonel Publishing.
Shocking twist, yet gripping. Avenger versus former avenger, followed by a bombshell new character.
"This'll be a massive hit."
"The risks match. The imperial literary elders who've only criticized so far might actually mobilize."
"They can't touch the Mueller Ducal House. No matter what."
The imperial literary cartel was like a coalition of provincial nobles against central nobles—but even they couldn't challenge one of the three great ducal houses at the pinnacle, especially with Sword King Gert Edwin von Mueller, the empire's martial apex. He'd even flipped the academy upside down recently.
Karl set the manuscript down.
"We'll need that warning label. Might spark huge backlash."
"I'll contact the bindery."
"Good. Do that."
He'd set it down, but his eyes drifted back. Like an addict, Karl picked it up again.
"An orc, an orc warrior. An Aura-wielding orc great warrior befriending a human. Is that even possible? Really...?"