Complex Clash (3)
Honestly, Prince Kian Danach wasn't the type to place much stock in his own martial prowess. Rulers weren't chosen by strength, after all, and what good was raw power anyway? In Kian's eyes, what truly mattered for a king was the ability to grasp the bigger picture and the art of handling people. Combat skill was nothing more than a secondary concern.
History had its share of monarchs who rampaged across the front lines, but unless the situation left them no choice, Kian didn't think much of it. After all, what if they took a stray blade and dropped dead? It would be worse than never fighting at all.
Yet the reason he had cultivated overwhelming skill compared to his peers came down to two factors. One was his natural talent. The other was that Morian’s culture refused to tolerate weak royalty. The kingdom’s progenitor, the Mage Queen Morian, had been a sorceress truly worthy of the word legend, and her descendants and retainers had all boasted exceptional ability. To the people of Morian, royalty and nobility were not figures who stood in the rear with their hands clasped behind their backs. They were the ones at the front, obliterating enemies with spells.
The Danach royal house already suffered from a short history and struggled to earn the nobility’s respect. They needed to eliminate every possible point of criticism. The fact that Kian had been forced to train in the very martial arts he considered beneath him—while constantly watching his subjects’ eyes—had dealt a severe blow to his pride. It also twisted his already unpleasant nature even further.
Once he obtained Lyla and seized real power in Morian, he would tear out this ridiculous custom by the roots. To Kian, who had sharpened that resolve like a blade, his own combat ability was merely a temporary tool. It only needed to last until then.
That was why he hadn’t been terribly shocked by his loss to the second-years in the previous assignment. They had entered a year earlier and honed their skills in real combat. If he had lost to the outstanding ones among them… well, it was understandable.
But.
The blade aimed precisely at his throat and the announcement of defeat in his ear were not things Kian could simply laugh off.
"Huff… huff…"
Unlike Kian, who had emerged without a single serious wound thanks to his two allies desperately blocking attacks, the noble girl before him could hardly be called unscathed. Disheveled hair, countless small cuts across her body. At the end of the match she had apparently been holding her breath; her face was flushed as she gasped for air. Looking at the scene alone, it would be hard to tell who had won and who had lost.
Yet no matter how things appeared, the result could not be overturned.
"……"
He had lost. And not even to a noteworthy opponent. The daughter of an imperial viscount house, a commoner, and some insignificant noble from who-knew-where in Spero. He had been defeated by people he wouldn’t have bothered to glance at.
That alone was an unbearable humiliation. But what followed twisted the knife even deeper into Kian’s gut.
Iris Otreang, Cuella Panel, and Riverhill emerge triumphant against Prince Kian Danach's team.
"Wow, magnificent! All of you! You worked incredibly hard!"
The moment the match ended, a young man appeared with theatrical flair. Gaudy blond hair. A monocle that looked strangely perfect despite his age. Flashy clothing that could never be called modest—the sort the green-haired archer girl would describe as “reeking of money.” The youth had more than enough presence to seize the crowd’s attention, whether for good or ill. Ignoring the surrounding commotion entirely, he walked straight toward the first-years who had just defeated Kian.
"Seeing you produce such splendid results makes this senior—who served as your instructor—truly proud. I prepared a meal that could serve as either celebration or consolation, and it looks like we’ll be using the former. Come, let’s head over quickly."
"Actually, I don’t really feel like—urk!!"
"We’ll go! We’ll go! Please take us right away, senior!"
"Cuella, no matter how much you dislike Riverhill, hitting him with an axe handle is a little…"
After the brief chaos, the blond youth—Chrome Midas—appeared ready to lead away only the students he had taught. Then he suddenly stopped, as if remembering something, and spoke to the gathered crowd of students.
"Ah, now that I think about it, every one of our juniors worked hard. Since our team won and we’re in a good mood, I’ll treat everyone! All food at the shops in the Academy commercial district today—put it on my tab!"
A moment of silence followed Chrome’s declaration. Even Kian stared at him, too stunned to speak.
What the hell was this? What kind of vulgar stunt was he pulling? No matter how rootless a merchant he might have been, he was now a proper baron of the empire. Were the rumors about him so bad that he thought this would buy him favor?
Idiot. He’s made a fatal mistake.
Poor commoners might jump at free food, but most Academy students weren’t exactly starving. Considering noble pride, an act like this should have been a blunder—
"Oh?"
"Whoaaa?!"
"Midas! Midas! Midas!"
"It’s a miracle! The wicked upstart is opening his wallet!"
"Go on, milk him dry! Legal robbery time!"
"Brothers! Gather round! A sacred crusade awaits!"
"Aaaagh! I just ate right before the match!"
"Selling potions! Digestion-promoting potions for sale!"
…Huh?
The atmosphere was completely different from what Kian had expected. He had anticipated cold silence and scornful sneers. Instead, this frenzy—what was it?
The bad rumors about Chrome had been a joint effort between the Morian faction Kian led and imperial students who found Lyla’s activities somewhat irritating. Many of the students here had, until recently, been cursing Chrome exactly as Kian had orchestrated from behind the scenes. That was why the scene before him was so bewildering.
As some students sprinted toward the commercial district as if rushing to a festival, the hesitant ones began to sneak after them, glancing around. Even a few imperial students who had secretly cooperated with Kian joined the flow. They knew something had gone wrong, yet none tried to forcibly reverse the tide. Spreading rumors from the shadows was one thing. Openly interfering here and earning Princess Lyla’s displeasure was another matter entirely. Besides, the excuse was convenient: spending Chrome’s money wasn’t the same as submitting to him.
Once those who had finished rationalizing the situation left, only the true outsiders—who cared nothing for the surrounding gazes—and Kian’s own faction remained.
Kian ground his teeth.
"I fail to see what you hope to accomplish with such childish antics."
His followers quickly chimed in.
"He’s simply flailing because he’s cornered."
"Isn’t it rather fortunate? A man with nothing is willingly spending what little he has."
"Truly vulgar. Even after obtaining a noble title, his base nature remains unchanged."
People’s hearts did not change so easily. He might have swayed them for a brief moment, but they would soon realize how futile that moment had been. Yes. It had to be that way. Only then could the burning frustration in his chest finally subside.
Kian’s prediction could not easily be dismissed as mere wishful thinking. Certainly, Chrome’s extravagant spending had shifted students’ impressions of him in a slightly more favorable direction. Yet it was far from enough to reverse public opinion entirely.
Black propaganda—spreading malicious rumors about a specific target—was an incredibly effective tactic, and countering it from the victim’s side was notoriously difficult. No matter how much Chrome or Lyla suspected Kian and his allies, catching clear evidence of mere rumor-spreading was no simple task. A clumsy counterattack risked an even stronger backlash.
Nor was Lyla in a position of such overwhelming power that she could crush Kian or the imperial nobles through sheer authority.
However—
As if the incidents Chrome had caused were merely the opening act, all kinds of news flooded in like exploding fire spells. Before the deafening wave of fresh rumors that drowned out everything else, the gossip about Chrome—already chewed, torn apart, tasted, and savored to exhaustion—had become stale material.
"No need to offer lengthy excuses."
Gazing at the feverishly heated Academy, the wicked, unscrupulous merchant quietly smiled.