How to Flip the Worst into the Best - E

It was the night before the final evaluation battle was set to begin.

Rendler, who still hadn't recovered from the shock of his young master suddenly declaring his withdrawal and returning home—and who had then witnessed the even more shocking sight of said master packing his own luggage by hand—arrived at the study bearing the items he'd been sent to fetch.

"Here they are. But... why so suddenly...?"

What Rendler had delivered was none other than the Betrothal Tournament Participation Code.

A code of regulations signed by both the Grand Ducal House's Central Aide and the participants themselves, detailing the rules and laws that those entered in the Betrothal Tournament were obligated to follow.

A vast document containing no fewer than one hundred moral principles and laws that participants were never to break.

Of course, most of the entries covered things any human being would "naturally" never do and "naturally" always uphold, so few people ever examined all one hundred items in careful detail. For the important ones, the butlers usually summarized them anyway.

In any case, it was hardly something a man who had already declared his withdrawal would have any reason to seek out now.

"Ah, there's something I need to check."

Elden picked up a pen and began reading through the code page by page.

And at one particular passage, his pen stopped.

Scritch, scritch.

Elden drew two underlines and added a star.

Legal Regulation Article 12.

Having finished his mark, Elden set the code aside and leaned back in his chair.

Whether the withdrawal would be accepted was for the Grand Ducal House to decide. If the code contained provisions regarding withdrawal, they would either reject it on those grounds or take them into consideration and approve it.

Rather than fretting over a binary answer, it was wiser to prepare for the worst.

That was Legal Regulation Article 12.

And he needed one more thing.

"Rendler."

"Yes, Young Master."

"I'll need you to make a trip to 25th Street."

"Pardon...? Outings are forbidden after evening, are they not?"

"I know. Outings are forbidden for the 'candidates.'"

"...Pardon?"

At Rendler's confused echo, Elden rose from his seat, walked over, and laid a hand on the old butler's shoulder.

"But you can go out, can't you?"

"Pardon?"

"There's something I need you to buy for me on 25th Street. Something I absolutely require."

"B-but that place is a slum district, and the only thing open at night is the black market..."

Elden grinned and snapped his fingers.

Snap.

The sound was so cheerfully crisp that Rendler found it genuinely infuriating. Because he already knew exactly what that sound meant.

"Exactly. The black market that only opens 'at night.' Sorry, but you'll have to go in my place."

"...I-it's a dangerous place."

25th Street was a slum, and it boasted security to match—which was precisely why the black market thrived there, and why the worst sort of people congregated. A dangerous place for an elderly butler to venture alone.

Of course, that was a different story if one had a sturdy shield along.

"Take the guards with you."

In the end, the old butler had no choice but to obey his master's command.

"As you wish. But... what am I to purchase there...?"

Something he absolutely needed.

Something that could only be bought at the black market—and that the original Deron Kellid had always kept carefully hidden on his person.

A human being had to prepare for the worst. And to become a better human, one had to devise a clever way to flip that worst into the absolute best.

Besides, when dealing with villains, ethical scruples were unnecessary.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

If they were going to come at him with cowardly methods, then it was only right to answer them with equal cowardice.

And for that, he needed the thing Deron Kellid had always carried.

"I need a Mana Record."

"Whatever for...?"

Grin.

Elden smiled.

"Because I'm done just taking it."

Deron Kellid excelled at using people.

He knew how to wield the carrot and the stick in equal measure, and he possessed a remarkable talent for luring ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠villains into his schemes. He was also skilled at drawing out the unique malice each villain carried, and at combining those traits into something useful.

Of course, it was a talent he could only fully exercise because this was a rigid class society. The second son of a ducal house could get away with that sort of thing.

It was that very talent that had allowed him to reign as the hidden tyrant of the Royal Academy.

Kyle, the schemer who excelled at sowing discord through backbiting and rumor. Blund, the sycophant who served as his ears with a swift network of informants. And even Elden, the battle maniac who would dirty his own blade with blood if only handed a sword.

Deron Kellid had gathered their disparate natures under one roof and sat above them all as the hidden tyrant.

A villain needed an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠outlet through which to vent his malice. The prey that caught his eye was Erincia Bellock.

Unaccustomed to dealing with people, wanting nothing more than to live quietly, and possessed of such academic drive that she would graduate the Academy no matter what hardships she faced—an outstanding target. He had captured the young lady of some nameless house from a remote territory and tossed her into the enclosure where he kept his villains.

The worst of the worst. A piece of trash who reigned over other pieces of trash—that was Deron Kellid.

And so—

Good.

When he stepped forward first, a smile rose unbidden to Elden's lips.

A man who would willingly put himself out front if it meant keeping his subordinates in line. A man who, by doing so, ensured the others wouldn't get any foolish ideas. That was the Deron who lived in the original Elden's memories.

And Deron had applied the stick far more often than the carrot, so that the battle-mad Elden's fangs would never turn on him. He knew how to break a beast efficiently.

Whoosh!

That was probably why. Why he had raised a fist in the sacred fight of the Betrothal Tournament, unable to shake the old habit. Why he had trembled with rage at the insult delivered by a beast he used to command.

Of course, every one of Elden's plans had been designed for exactly this—and it made for a magnificent fuse with which to flip the worst into the best.

Thud!

Elden caught the fist that looked so very slow.

The only reason the battle maniac Elden Raphelion had once endured the whip of this feeble man was the glory of graduating at the top of the class. He had done it for the scraps tossed down from the shade of a cowardly tyrant—and now that Elden wanted nothing more from him, there was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no reason and no justification left to take a punch that moved this slowly.

A vicious smile curved across his face.

"Did you think I'd just take it quietly, like I used to?"

Deron's pupils shook hard. The tyrant who had meant to make an example of Elden and rein in the rest of his subordinates had instead been made an example of himself—cognitive dissonance was inevitable.

"Wh... what?"

Elden released the fist he had caught, just as it was.

Kyle and Blund, who had been burning with the will to join the fight, scrambled over and took up positions at Deron's side. Loyal subordinates, to be sure. Though how long that meager loyalty would last remained to be seen.

"L-Lord Deron, are you all right?"

"Elden, have you gone completely mad?"

To Blund's question, Elden answered as if the man had asked something perfectly obvious.

"It's a hard world to live in without going a little mad. That said... you all seem awfully worried about a beast you used to order around stealing your dreams."

Then he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a single round, flat object.

"Don't worry. I've said it dozens of times already and you still won't believe me—but even in the one-in-a-million chance that I somehow won the Grand Duchess's favor, I would never steal your dreams."

He had already told them several times. But for people who had closed their ears, you had to say it dozens of times more.

That the withdrawal declaration was not a strategy. That even if it had been held in abeyance, the result would not change. That for a modern man isekai'd into a medieval fantasy novel, the role of son-in-law to a noble house was a shackle—and the role of a wanderer chasing romance and adventure suited him far better.

Deron, humiliated by the beast he used to command, could not open his mouth. Kyle took up the baton in his place.

"H-how are we supposed to believe that? Your actions don't match your words."

"This should serve as an answer, I think. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Deron?"

Elden called Deron's name. Then he held up the round, flat object.

It gleamed with a lustrous black light—a device capable of recording the user's surroundings, just once. He waved it as if unfurling a fan, and the faces of the three regret-route goons drained of color in the next instant.

And of course, Kyle and Blund—who had been stuck fast to their boss's side—put distance between themselves and him. The meager loyalty of villains was a sandcastle that crumbled with a single wave.

Elden slipped the Mana Record back into his pocket and spoke.

"If the withdrawal had been a strategy, I'd take this straight to the Central Aide and expose all of you for what you are. But I'll simply keep it safe and sound."

"What? Wh-what on earth—"

"So long as you don't interfere with a withdrawn candidate who only wants to leave the world behind and enjoy some peace and romance, this recording will never see the light of day. Your cooperation would be much appreciated."

Until the withdrawal declaration was officially approved, he had no choice but to remain at the Grand Ducal Castle. A contestant who suddenly announced his withdrawal on the eve of the finals and then vanished at will would be blacklisted from the industry—and this world was a rigid class society. The Winterfell Grand Ducal House, kings of the northern territories in all but name, held power enough to make even absolute ducal houses tremble.

The Grand Ducal House enjoyed the full support of the king. He had already left an uncomfortable first impression by becoming the first person in Betrothal Tournament history to declare a withdrawal, so the sensible course was to keep a low profile and watch for a clean chance to leave.

Thirteen days at most. Endure those thirteen days, and the real healing journey would begin—so patience was wiser than vanishing.

Besides, the heroine was still denying the change. Running away now would only pour strength into that denial, and it could create complications for the culinary journey he intended to take in freedom. He had not declared his departure so he could commit that kind of foolishness.

For now, all he needed to do was hope the withdrawal would be approved—or that this Betrothal Tournament would simply end—and build an environment for the best possible healing and rest. His resolve to leave would not bend. Not for anything.

Deron, who had been frozen in place, finally finished processing the situation and opened his mouth.

"...So this was all according to your plan."

"Haha. I simply wanted to let you know there's no need to waste your strength in the wrong places."

"You arrogant little— Have you not considered the consequences?"

Of course he had considered the consequences. To the empty threat of a man who had never properly read the Betrothal Tournament Participation Code, Elden answered with a broad smile.

"Ah. It seems Lord Deron never thoroughly read the Participation Code."

"What?"

Legal Regulation Article 12—the one he had underlined twice and starred on the very first day of the transmigration.

"It's written in Legal Regulation Article 12. Have you not read it?"

He would no longer kneel to injustice.

He would no longer shed tears of grievance.

The plan he had built to keep those vows was a quiet consolation sent back to the Lee Junuw of days past—the man who had once been forced to his knees by injustice, who had spent long nights crying himself dry over his grievances.

Well then. Shall I enjoy myself in peace?