The Welcoming Ceremony #3
As a direct descendant of the Deodore family, I liked to think I had seen my fair share of noble society.
Even so, the welcoming ceremony the academy had prepared today was so far removed from the “face-to-face meeting” I had imagined that the two barely belonged in the same category.
A grand banquet hall at the absolute peak of splendor, and within it, seats arranged with lavish care. You could have told me this was a royal ball at the palace and I would have believed you without a second thought.
They said Minerva Academy received massive support from the royal family—and it showed. Even a simple gathering between seniors and juniors casually outstripped the parties of most noble houses.
“…Lucian? Why do you look so startled?”
“You’re fine with this? I can’t tell whether this is a welcoming ceremony or some ultra-luxurious banquet.”
“As you know, Minerva Academy is backed by the crown. A scale like this isn’t extravagance—it’s the baseline. That’s the natural way to look at it, don’t you think?”
Come to think of it, Rie herself came from the Haniel family, which counted among the great noble houses. She had surely seen—and endured—banquets of this caliber more times than she could count. That was why she could react so calmly.
“Um… Lucian. About earlier…”
“Earlier… Ah. Ahem. That. What about it?”
“I mean… I… later, once more…”
Rie was embarrassed, and her embarrassment was contagious; I could feel my own face heating up in sympathy. I wished she would just shut her eyes and spit it out, but that still seemed beyond her.
After a stretch of fidgeting, she finally managed to part her lips and finish the thought.
“I—later! I’ll watch your swordsmanship again. And next time I’ll be careful not to hurt you.”
To anyone else listening, it would have sounded like nothing more than a year representative looking after a classmate. But to me—who knew the full context—why did it sound so suggestive? It was almost as if she were saying that next time, under the pretext of another sparring session, they would pick up where they had left off today.
Rie’s face went scarlet, and mine began to burn right along with it. An angel standing right in front of me, blushing so prettily she was almost painful to look at—what man on earth could stay composed in a situation like this?
“…I should go now. As year representative, I think I need to head in first.”
“Ah. Right. See you in a bit. Thanks for today.”
“Not at all. You should talk with the seniors too, Lucian.”
Rie slipped away into the depths of the banquet hall. I stared blankly after her for a moment, then collected myself and made my way toward the freshmen’s section arranged along the right side of the hall.
Raoul and the other Literary Division classmates were already gathered there, and before long Locke and the rest of the Martial Division first-years had taken their places as well.
“Did you see Lady Rie off properly?”
“Do you like Rie or something? What’s been going on with you lately?”
“I’m just an admirer, that’s all. Affection and admiration are different things, Lucian.”
“If Locke had said that, I might have bought it. What is a swordsmanship disaster like you doing admiring anyone?”
“…Fact-based legitimate violence. That’s harsh.”
I was still bickering with Raoul when, before long, a senior stepped forward.
“Quiet, everyone, if you would. First, allow me to offer my sincere thanks to all of you students who have taken the time to gather here. I am Diego Garcia von Memphis, president of the Student Council. Today we have come together to welcome the first-year juniors who will unfold yet another new dream here at Minerva Academy. Seniors, I ask that you uphold the dignity and prestige befitting your station and treat your juniors well; juniors, I ask that you observe the courtesy proper to your place. Now then—lengthy formalities grow dull, so I shall leave it at that.”
Diego, the Student Council President, raised his glass high. Every academy student present followed suit and lifted their own.
“Ah—and one more thing, everyone! Empty your glasses, but keep within bounds. Enjoy yourselves, but do not get drunk. Please observe this carefully. Spare yourselves the warnings I once received. In any case, I hope this will be a pleasant evening for all.”
Diego even threw in a bit of self-deprecation to warm the atmosphere. Smiles bloomed not only among the other seniors but on the first-years’ faces as well.
Laughing, everyone raised their glasses and called out a toast, and at last the welcoming ceremony began in earnest.
Glasses emptied, the students drifted toward those they already knew—or those they wished to know better—and exchanged smiling greetings.
“Good evening, senior. You remember me, I trust?”
“How could I forget? Second son of the southern count’s house near our territory, weren’t you?”
“That’s right. I once joined a monster subjugation with you as well…”
As expected, the most conspicuous pairings were nobles with other nobles—especially those whose territories bordered one another.
Minerva Academy was the sort of institution every noble was expected to pass through. Since its founding, scarcely anyone had risen to the headship of a house without graduating from here. For the nobility, the connections forged at the academy mattered more than almost anything else. Even after entering the political world, the networks built here endured for years to come—all the more reason to tend them carefully.
“It’s been a long time, senior.”
“Ah—ah! It has been a while… hasn’t it?”
“Please, no need for that. At the academy you’re free to speak casually, senior.”
There were amusing cases too—the child of a noble house that had sponsored a commoner, arriving as that commoner’s junior. One such pair was visible in the distance. Walls still existed between nobles and commoners, of course, but inside the academy the senior–junior relationship tended to rank above birth. Even if a commoner senior used honorifics toward a noble junior, it was simply expected that the junior would still show the courtesy due a senior. That was Minerva Academy.
It was by royal design. In the end, noble or commoner, you all stand beneath the crown—so stop erecting walls among yourselves and simply be loyal to the royal house. The capable will thrive on their own; those who only stir up conflict without ability will fall. A clear warning, delivered in that spirit, or so I suspected.
“Hey, Lucian. I’m going to go say a few hellos.”
“Go ahead.”
True to his reputation as the well-connected second son of the Gocour viscountcy, Raoul moved off at once. I watched his retreating back and was just thinking I ought to do a little networking of my own when a hand suddenly settled on my shoulder—rough, coarse, and unmistakably forceful.
Naturally, I assumed it was Locke and brushed the hand aside without much thought.
“Locke. Aren’t you going to greet the seniors? You’re supposed to be one of the promising talents in the Martial Division.”
“Promising, sure. Though the habit of just charging in whenever things start going poorly is a bit of a flaw.”
…Ah, damn it. This was the grand banquet hall where the welcoming ceremony was being held. Which meant the hand almost certainly belonged not to Locke but to someone else—very likely a Martial Division senior.
Muttering a silent curse at my own mistake, I carefully turned around.
And there he was—the senior I had thoroughly put through the wringer—smiling as he looked at me.
“At last I meet the famous theoretical genius of the first years. Good to meet you, Lucian Theodore von Deodore.”
“The honor is mine, Senior Michael Isaac von Israb.”
“Honor, nothing. I’m the Martial Division student whose soul got wrung dry by a first-year and who’s been the talk of the academy ever since.”
…I’m sorry. That was actually my fault. I couldn’t bring myself to say so out loud, so I offered the apology only in my heart. I had run my mouth carelessly and gotten a perfectly decent third-year senior demolished—how could I not feel guilty?
“Well, for me it was a rather refreshing shock, so I don’t mind. There are any number of people in this world better than I am. Realizing that gave me a chance to look back at how complacent I’d grown.”
For the record, until Rie appeared, Senior Michael himself had been called a swordsmanship prodigy. Passing the knight’s examination at his age without difficulty was proof enough of talent. For someone of that caliber to run into Rie of all people—no wonder the shock had hit him hard.
“I’m more worried about you, Lucian.”
“Pardon?”
“I hear you took a proper hit from Rie.”
“The rumor reached that far?”
At my question, Senior Michael burst out laughing—as if to say, of course it had. He added that by now most of the academy knew Rie had suddenly scooped up some male student onto her back and sprinted like a madwoman for the infirmary. At first no one had known who it was. Then they found out it was me.
Somehow, contrary to both Rie’s wishes and mine, we were becoming known all over the academy from day one. Rie had wanted to disguise us as rivals so she wouldn’t have to mind other students’ eyes—but at this rate, we were well on our way to becoming a pair that gave off a distinctly ambiguous atmosphere.
“It’s unexpected, though. You’re Literary Division, Lucian. Ah—don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not looking down on the Literary Division.”
“Not at all. I’m well aware my swordsmanship is atrocious.”
“Since you put it that way, I’ll speak freely. When I heard the story, something felt off. Rie isn’t the sort of junior who spars with just anyone. She usually gauges the gap between herself and her opponent in advance and adjusts her showing accordingly. I got thoroughly beaten myself, but not so badly I couldn’t even move. She matched herself to my level.”
“….”
“So the idea that she nearly seriously injured a student was startling. Did the two of you fight, by any chance? I can’t imagine you did, but…”
Fight with Rie? That would be the day I said goodbye to life itself!
I shook my head and gave him a rough account of what had happened—how Rie had been watching my swordsmanship, how I had stupidly misstepped and fallen, and how the strike she had already committed to had, with spectacular misfortune, caught me square in the head.
Senior Michael listened to the end, then clicked his tongue. He understood the hunger for swordsmanship, he said, but I still ought to spar with opponents closer to my own level. Fortunately Rie’s skill far surpassed that of ordinary knights; had my opponent been merely average, the wooden sword would have cracked my skull open. He did not spare me that chilling warning.
“I’m sorry, Senior Michael.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. Just be careful. It could become an offense not only to your house but to the Haniel family as well. I do respect your enthusiasm, Lucian. Even the Martial Division students don’t dare challenge Rie to a spar without thinking twice. No one wants to throw themselves at her, lose, and have their pride shredded.”
Having said that, Senior Michael casually reached out and took two glasses.
“Have a drink. Ah—it’s not alcohol, just a simple beverage, so don’t worry.”
“Come to think of it, you don’t drink at all, do you, Senior Michael?”
“What? How do you know that?”
“The Israb viscountcy is famous for being strict about alcohol. The rumors are everywhere.”
There was a rather sad history behind the Israb family’s absolute prohibition on drink. Long ago, the house had had a designated heir—capable, and of excellent character. His one weakness was that he enjoyed alcohol despite being unable to hold it. One day, after a few cups left him thoroughly drunk and reeling, he fell into the castle pond and drowned. Looking down at the body floating on the water, the Viscount of Israb had wailed and charged his children never again to let that hated liquor touch their lips. It had become a family precept handed down to this day: alcohol brings nothing good.
“Ah. That story again.”
“Did I offend you? I’m sorry. I only…”
“No, it isn’t that…. Mm. About the tragic death that befell the Israb heir.”
“Yes?”
“It’s a lie.”
“…Excuse me?”
“None of it ever happened. There never was an Israb heir who was unusually weak to drink and drowned in a pond. The whole thing was made up.”
What on earth was this? The tragic tale of the Israb family I had always known was a complete fabrication? Then why in the world did they refuse to touch alcohol?
I must have looked utterly unable to process it, because Senior Michael snickered and, as if doing me a favor, began to confide the real secret.
“There was a king in our history who was extraordinarily fond of drink. His specialty was forcing nobles to drink until they were completely soused. Unfortunately, the head of our house at the time could barely handle alcohol at all. Every day was hell, apparently. So after enduring it as long as he could, he invented a story that didn’t exist. ‘Owing to this tragic affair, I must humbly decline the pleasure of enjoying the wine Your Majesty bestows.’”
“…And that worked?”
“Even a king hesitates to trample on a family’s private grief. That was how he escaped—from the hell of alcohol. Quite the remarkable man. Ah, don’t go telling just anyone. I’m only sharing this because you’re of the Deodore family. Our houses are old friends, after all.”