Royal Lineage Awakens

Chugota's massive body thrashed wildly in the air. Thanks to that, the Destruction Beam it had been aiming at us—more precisely, at Hairit Langrei—went astray. What power. Boooom! Even piercing through the storm, the roar rang out crystal clear. An innocent stone pillar that took the hit crumbled in a heap. A spine-chilling force. As expected from a mad but insanely strong wyvern.

How did she do that! And she unleashed wind magic powerful enough to grab and shake such a mighty monster. I checked my mana just in case, but it hadn't returned to normal. Roughly one-hundredth of my original output. At this rate, the power of my intermediate magic might be enough to shred a named monster in a single blow...

As if. With just intermediate elemental magic like that.

Then what was that just now?

...Hrm. Even Pellelian couldn't give a clear answer. Hidden power bursting forth in a crisis—classic protagonist trope. Maybe some terrifying potential lurked within me. But there was no time to probe deeper.

Chugota regained its balance and prepared another Destruction Beam.

"Kugarak!"

Then the wyvern mom pounced on her. She must have thought Chugota stole me away. In truth, I was right down here.

"Hide!"

Langrei shoved me straight into her backpack. It wasn't that big, but I slipped right in effortlessly. Inside was a zero-gravity space. Filled with all sorts of junk... I could guess what kind of place it was.

Me, entering a subspatial pocket!

Now all I could do was hope Langrei escaped safely.

While a storm raged somewhere in the mountains.

There were places bathed in warm sunlight and gentle breezes. Far away, in the kingdom's capital, Solion Impel.

Spring sun shone down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on the kingdom's premier institution, Emerald School. With the window slightly ajar, the fragrant scent of blooming magnolias wafted into the reception room. That elegant aroma—ah, magnolia.

Thanks to it, young professor Zetarov, who usually enjoyed literature, was in high spirits lately. Reciting a line of poetry would have added to his charm, but he couldn't act so sentimental in front of a guest.

Zetarov adjusted his glasses and glanced up. On the opposite sofa sat a father and son.

Boys and girls eager to enter Emerald School were a dime a dozen. Naturally, this year's enrollment quota was already filled. But not everything goes according to plan. The school prepared ample special admissions slots outside the quota.

The boy before him was an applicant, the man beside him his father. What was amusing was that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the applicant showed no tension at all. He sat with calm composure, hands neatly folded. Meanwhile, his father fidgeted nervously, picking at his nails. His leg jittered, then stopped abruptly in surprise.

Zetarov smiled softly.

"As I said before, this isn't a formal interview, so no need to be so tense. I'm not scoring you now—I'm just offering tea as an admissions officer."

"...Ah, y-yes, of course."

The student's widowed father, Royle Riddle, smiled awkwardly. He looked utterly inexperienced. No wonder. Zetarov, who had lived his life among Solion Impel's elite, could tell from his speech and accent alone—he was a country bumpkin.

"Yes, your son is exceptionally bright."

"Haha, hahaha! Thank you. Come on, kid, say thank you."

Grinning ear-to-ear at a single compliment about his child. It happened sometimes. Sudden nouveaux riches trying to get their kids into Emerald School. But most failed, requiring massive donations and still flunking the entrance exam.

Zetarov smiled faintly and glanced at the open file.

How did he get such an evaluation?

Riddle Merchant Company's head, Royle. His name had spread through Solion Impel's merchant circles. Once a humble carriage trader, he suddenly amassed capital and expanded.

No one paid attention until then. Then one day, the sealed Red Anvil Mine in Kalea Mountains reopened. Dwarf mines, especially Red Anvil, generated immense value. It shocked the capital's merchants.

Quick and bold traders rushed to Kalea City. Even importing pork regularly would yield profits. But what they heard stunned them.

Zetarov read the attached article in the file.

It wasn't a lie. Somehow, Royle had secured exclusive distribution rights from the dwarves. The entire mine's output through Riddle alone—an monopoly contract. How he pulled it off so fast was a mystery. Dwarves weren't charity cases or iron-obsessed fools.

If one company monopolized the mine's output, it could rival the kingdom's top three merchants. Massive business.

But Royle did something else.

He boldly distributed his exclusive rights to other merchants. Commissions often under 2% of sales. Considering the immense value of dwarf goods, truly 'merciful.' ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Or perhaps he panicked at the scale.

Neither, probably. Royle's innocent face suggested one, but Zetarov thought otherwise. Precise, bold calculation.

Royle first shared with the merchant alliance and two of the continent's top three. Weapons and prime goods at lower rates. Lesser players got higher commissions and cheaper items.

Thus, Riddle gained 'power.' As long as major forces wanted this setup, his position was secure. Lending valuables built a powerful network—priceless for a new merchant, more than mere funds. Tolerated and recognized by the establishment...

Ah, too many stray thoughts. Royle already eyed him anxiously.

Zetarov checked the file's end.

Baumet Writers, infamous gossip rag, wrote glowingly. Even illustrated with Riddle's serpent-emblazoned crest. Whatever bribe, it showed Royle's savvy.

"Amaen..."

And another fun fact.

"Is undoubtedly a magic genius."

"Ah...!"

That calm, kind-looking boy, unlike his father. A rare magic prodigy even at Emerald School.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

"Just my opinion—it won't affect admission. Don't worry, haha."

"Right."

Royle teared up in joy. Zetarov smiled inwardly.

Admission confirmed, at least.

Amaen Riddle. Confirmed for first-year intermediate comprehensive track.

Who's next?

After seeing off father and son, Zetarov rifled through files.

Emerald School teaches diverse subjects. Future kingdom leaders need broad knowledge in academics, arts, politics. But it fundamentally seeks well-rounded talents in both pen and sword.

Practical training in magic, swordsmanship, hunting, monster lore, archery, etc.

Special admissions include martial prodigies, though rare—standards too high. Average talent won't cut it.

But this case differed. Admission decided before interview.

Daughter of Martaine.

That Martaine house. Ruled by the Tiger Marquis. Though he died in the monster wave, vast lands razed, still a powerhouse.

That tragedy made Rania Martaine's enrollment a given. Tragic heroine. Lost mother in Grayrim, grandfather in evacuating Martine lands. Suddenly a prime heir.

Admissions couldn't refuse. Endless donations from Martaine.

Still, show something decent. Like Amaen this morning.

Rania stood tense. Simple sleeveless tunic like a village boy. Short, undeveloped, but arms and fists scarred. Martaine warrior marks.

Two knights beside her.

"Miss, relax. Just do your usual."

"Pass, and we stay in Solion Impel."

Oliver and Jarein? Seemed close. Odds low for her inheriting marquisate.

"Ready."

"Oho, show us."

Zetarov wasn't expectant. Rania clenched fist, shouted.

"Hah!"

Gale erupted. Skin flushed red. Hair whipping, aura surging—clearly...

"P-Pitch Throw Law!"

Martaine's signature. Pitch Throw Law. Rania had mastered it.

Another type of genius. Would've accepted even without Martaine name. Explained martial prodigy application.

Two admits, two geniuses in a day. Zetarov smiled, then sobered. Time for one more. But he had to visit—the applicant wouldn't come.

Unpleasant, but unavoidable.

Carriage to palace at what time?

Zetarov praised Rania smilingly amid worries.

Crackle, crackle. Campfire sounds charming. I nestled in sleeping Langrei's arms.

"Hmnya."

Heavy sleeper. Good she didn't use me as pillow.

Haa. Escaping wyvern queens in stormy demon realm—epic adventure. Glad I missed it, tucked in sub-space.

Sub-space comfy. Isil fine too. Hold out two more weeks, Isil. Fifteen days since evolution started.

When Hairit pulled me out, we'd escaped wyvern turf. Impressive resourcefulness. I couldn't have.

Hope wyvern mom and Chugota didn't fight too hard. Probably went at it fiercely. But no deathmatch. I'm 'dead,' and she has triplets to protect.

Luckily escaped here. Bonus: Hairit headed to Solion Impel with me. Wanted to visit. Royal bank vault? Hairit might help.

She didn't recognize me. Shocking. Thought she saved me knowing who I was. Nope—treated me as 'wingless wyvern pup petrified in crystal trap.'

Betrayal stings. Shook off thoughts. Focus on evolution later.

Finally, awaited message.

I'm royalty now. More precisely, a prince.

Body changed slightly. Per Pellelian, still not alive-looking, but crystal contents thickened.

Hairit shook me hard once—no life signs.

Can use magic now. But crown skills need more mana; Connection Crown still impossible. Ideally escape Hairit too...

"Who's there!"

Heart dropped. Hairit bolted up, me under arm, hand to waist.

Humans emerged from tree behind. Over ten.

"Heh heh heh..."

All rough-looking. Bandits?

"You bastards!"

Hairit thrilled.

"Here to greet me!"

"Hahaha, heard guild master coming."

Rough men were hunters. Her subordinates.

"One day from city, why bother."

"Been ages. What's that?"

"This?"

Hairit hoisted me.

"Treasure I snagged!"

"Woooah!"

Hunters swarmed, praising my looks.

"Whoa, what material? Crystal, but not ordinary."

"Mutant wingless wyvern pup died in Reverse Heaven Dungeon. Petrified by crystal mutation trap."

"That rare ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one turning to crystal statue!"

"Opaque, hard to see, but inside's creepy up close."

"Right? Awesome."

"Yes! Awesome!"

Overkill praise. Endless awe. Felt good, honestly.

Ahem. Don't touch royalty casually.

Hours later.

I entered Solion Impel majestically.