Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Not All Wastrels Are the Same (2)
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While knights and soldiers were covered in blood and rolling in the mud, what were the scholars doing? Those impractical dreamers were just spouting useless theories from the safety of the rear lines.
They never stepped to the front. They were nothing but smooth talkers.
That was the kind of people I knew scholars to be.
So when the old scholar came to me offering to be my teacher, I scoffed. I had no interest in learning dead knowledge detached from reality.
No, I wondered if there was even anything worth learning from him.
Not everyone who'd passed through my life had been illiterate swordsmen. Some had mastered both the blade and scholarship. Over centuries, I'd absorbed all their knowledge.
And among that knowledge were the very same hollow theories scholars peddled. There was no reason to study those useless things now from some self-proclaimed expert.
That's what I believed. That's what I thought.
But I was wrong.
The old scholar wasn't some out-of-touch dreamer or a peddler of empty sophistries.
His scholarship dealt in pure pragmatism and efficiency.
By the time I realized that, I was already chatting away with him like we were old friends.
"Exactly! That's right! You always have to watch your back. No one knows if the guy groveling at your feet has a sharpened blade—or something worse—tucked underneath."
"A harsh way to put it, but spot on, Your Highness. The Iron-Blooded Sovereign also stresses the need for a ruler to guard against the hidden thoughts of his vassals. Even favored retainers shouldn't be granted too much power."
"Right, right. People always climb if you give them too much slack."
The worldly language that any scholar I knew would have immediately branded as vulgar had me thrilled.
The people I'd associated with before were steeped in praise for humanity. I'd warned them time and again about mankind's vicious nature, but they never listened—and paid the price.
Betrayed at every meal, yet they kept believing. Forgiving again and again.
Just thinking about it made my chest tighten.
"The Iron-Blooded Sovereign likens the bond between ruler and vassal to a contract or transaction. The sovereign provides protection in exchange for a share of their military and economic power, while vassals offer loyalty in return for the sovereign's patronage and political stability."
"You got it! Relationships only last when there's give and take. Of course people follow the one who fills their belly."
To me, the old scholar's pragmatic theories on governance were more than welcome—they were like rain in a drought, soaking my parched heart.
I bantered back and forth with him for quite a while after that.
"Well then, Your Highness, let's call it here for today. We'll pick up the rest tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure. Looking forward to it."
The old scholar smiled gently, bowed his head, and left the room.
Thud, thud.
I was mulling over the Iron-Blooded Sovereign he'd mentioned, waiting for those slow footsteps to fade away completely—when it hit me, and I froze.
"Huh?"
Snapping out of it, I realized I'd somehow agreed to his lessons without thinking. Before I knew it, I'd naturally set up another meeting.
Recalling the old man's innocent "see you tomorrow" face, I realized I'd been had.
This wasn't what I'd intended at all.
"That old fox is sly as hell."
I could only let out a hollow laugh.
**
After leaving the First Prince's chambers, the old scholar went straight to the Queen.
"Lord Niccolò."
She seemed to have been waiting, greeting him warmly.
"The rumors about His Highness are half right and half wrong."
Niccolò Marchiadelle cut straight to what the Queen wanted to hear.
"His bold speech and actions match the rumors. But his sharp wit and insight? Far beyond them."
"No need to speak so kindly. He's the apple of my eye, but I know that cleverness of his is just sly tricks to torment others."
The Queen offered words of concern, assuming she could guess without being told—worried the prince's rough words might have hurt Niccolò's feelings.
"It was a delight for me as well. I lost track of time talking with someone who actually gets it."
She seemed to think it was just polite flattery.
"If you dismiss this old man's words as mere lip service, I swear here and now: I never call black white."
Niccolò spoke to the Queen.
"But I know my son. He's not the kind of boy you describe."
"If that's what you think..."
His eyes deepened.
"Then you must have made him seem that way."
The Queen narrowed her eyes.
"Are you saying he's been hiding his true brilliance all along?"
She shook her head at the Queen's question.
"To know a man's thoughts requires a hundred debates; to know his character, a thousand trials—and even that's not enough. How could I presume to know His Highness's heart after one meeting?"
He continued matter-of-factly.
"I merely glimpsed a thread of his profound thought and keen insight."
The Queen's eyes widened. She hadn't expected such high praise for her son.
Who was this old scholar?
A genius in his youth, revered as a sage in his old age.
His late-life work, the Iron-Blooded Sovereign, was too radical and worldly, tarnishing his reputation to the point of outright rejection. But true wisdom doesn't vanish.
If such a sage praised her son, it couldn't be wrong.
"Thus, I humbly ask you, Your Majesty."
As the Queen sat stunned, Niccolò fixed her with a piercing gaze.
"May I impart this old man's realizations—called vulgar and worldly by the world—to His Highness?"
"Why belittle yourself so? Everyone I know calls you a sage."
"A 'vulgar sage,' that is. I'm old and dim, but not deaf—I know how the world labels me."
The Queen didn't deny it.
He'd drawn the ire of nobles by likening the sacred ruler-vassal bond to a mere merchant's deal. That's why no one dared approach the wastrel prince as a teacher—except him, who had no students claiming his mantle anyway.
"If learning straightens a wayward disposition, then do as you wish."
The wastrel student shunned by all teachers; the teacher scorned as vulgar by all students. What a perfect match.
"You've given me purpose in my old age. I am deeply grateful for your grace, Your Majesty."
And so, Niccolò Marchiadelle publicly pledged before the Queen to become the First Prince's teacher in earnest.
Of course, the prince in question, Idrian, was blissfully unaware—merely fuming about being tricked by that sly old man.
**
Even after the old scholar left, I felt utterly bored.
With the aftereffects of that heroic poem recital not fully gone, forcing training now was out of the question. My depleted mana would have to recover on its own.
I just paced the room, at a loss for what to do.
"Man, I'm so bored."
Right after waking, I'd thrown myself into nonstop training. Desperate to reclaim my lost power, days blurred together.
Now that rest was forced on me, I couldn't settle down.
"Harder! Stronger!"
I needled Adelia, who was training just fine.
"Don't the Royal Knights train?"
I picked on Kals and the others, dutifully on duty.
But no matter how much I wandered and vented, time crawled.
Then my uncle dropped by.
In just a few days, his face had aged terribly.
His once-vibrant eyes were dull and lifeless; his youthful hair was streaked with gray.
Anyone would think he was the one bedridden.
He looked that bad.
I could tell at a glance: he hadn't overcome the heart demon I'd planted at all.
"...I'm sorry."
After a long silence, my uncle spoke. I'd braced for him to grill me about our duel, but it was an apology.
Totally unexpected.
"I broke my own promise and hurt you badly because of it. I have no excuse, even ten mouths wouldn't help."
But no—that wasn't why I'd ended up bedridden. It was from overusing Dragon's Gaze, not his aura blade.
"Hm."
The Queen's words suddenly came to mind.
About my uncle vouching for me to lift my confinement—and owing the King a debt for it.
My feelings were a bit mixed.
Revenge done, bet won. Seeing him now, my heart felt a little more generous.
"Name your price. An arm if you want it; an eye if you ask."
"What would I do with that?"
I brushed off his needless dramatics and eyed him over.
"Tch."
Watching him hang his head, I clicked my tongue without thinking.
This guy, who could've been called a Swordmaster in the old days, laid low by a mere heart demon.
Knights of this era had souls that didn't match their realms. The price of steady honing over breaking walls.
Left like this, he'd likely suffer from it long-term.
"Fine. I'll show some mercy."
He didn't even react to my words.
"First, state your wish."
His face turned deadly serious, like he'd hack off his arm here if I asked.
Of course, I had zero interest in his hairy arm.
"Uncle."
His eyes turned to me.
"Let's go out for a bit."
"Out? Your confinement's lifted—you can anytime."
I shook my head.
"No. Not that kind of outing."