Declaration of Withdrawal
Clomp, clomp.
A full five hours had already passed since I'd declared my withdrawal, and by the late afternoon, with the sun sinking toward the horizon, I was trailing after Rendler down the corridor.
The goal was dinner. The destination: the Great Hall.
If it had been up to me, I would have had the meal brought to my room—but unfortunately, the dinner on the eve of cohabitation was no ordinary meal.
The first gathering of the final candidates.
Before tomorrow's cohabitation with the Third Northern Grand Duchess began, this evening's dinner was the occasion for the final candidates to size one another up and exchange greetings.
Because it was an official event, I couldn't exactly announce I was skipping for personal reasons.
Officially, after all, I was still a final candidate.
Trailing behind Rendler, I let out a complaint, complete with a hefty sigh.
"Haaaah. Couldn't I just say I feel sick?"
It sounded like a spoiled boy's whining, but that was how much the thought of sitting down with the other final candidates put me off.
How was I supposed to get a single grain of rice down my throat while sitting there being all friendly with people I had no desire to get tangled up with?
"What is the matter, Young Master? Does dining with the other candidates make you uncomfortable?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Heh heh. How strange."
"What is?"
"You share quite the unique bond with the other candidates, do you not? I had rather expected you would be glad. It has been a very long time since last you met, after all."
…Tsk. It was precisely because of that so-called unique bond that I was like this. Begging someone who couldn't understand the truth of it would only leave my mouth sore.
If I told him, I'm Lee Junuw, a man from the Republic of Korea; this is a world inside a novel, and I've possessed the body of the person you serve, the only look I'd get would be pure contempt—something like, So the drinking finally drove him round the bend.
"Glad, my ass."
"…Hmm."
Rendler suddenly stopped walking and turned to face me.
"What."
"Still, Young Master, it is truly peculiar."
"What is."
"I have served you for some twenty-six years now, yet today I cannot shake the feeling that I am attending upon an entirely different person."
…The old head butler really was sharp.
Maybe he could even grasp the jaw-dropping secret of a modern man possessing his master's body.
Assuming the shock didn't drop him where he stood.
I snorted as if to say what nonsense is that, and strode past him.
"Hmph. So our dear old butler has learned how to talk nonsense, has he."
I knew about the deep bond between Rendler and Elden Raphelion. A short past arc had shown it near the end of the free chapters.
A father figure. At times, a mother figure as well.
Even when the tear-soaked Hupijip tragedy began, he had stayed at Elden's side, never sparing his counsel.
Perhaps that was why I found it hard to meet those aged eyes straight on.
…It feels a bit like I've stolen his son.
It wasn't a guilt I had any real claim to, given that the possession had been forced on me—but the awkward feeling was hard to shake.
The only way to ease it was to faithfully carry out the rehabilitation project of that complete wastrel of a young master, Elden Raphelion.
"You coming or what?"
I glanced back over my shoulder as I said it, and Rendler approached at a quick step, wearing his usual gentle smile.
"Heh heh. Coming, Young Master."
Before long, we were stepping into the Great Hall.
Nice.
It really did feel like a grand temple, befitting the hall of the Northern Grand Duke's castle.
Floors of fine marble, a central fountain so elaborate you could scarcely believe it was indoors, and enormous crystal chandeliers besides.
This was less a place for simply eating and more a space built for grand ceremonies.
"This way, Young Master. I shall remain over there; should you require assistance, please call for me."
"I need assistance right now."
"Speak, Young Master."
"Sit over there for me."
I pointed at the round table draped in an elegant tablecloth.
Rendler stared at me with a blank, bewildered look.
Just a silly joke. I gave a faint chuckle, patted the stunned butler's shoulder, and moved on—leaving behind a look in Rendler's eyes that screamed, Th-the Young Master… smiled…?!
At the round table, where a great candelabra burned at the center, sat the three regret-route characters.
Around them stood a middle-aged woman in sharp-tipped glasses and an elderly man who looked very much at home in a tuxedo, each holding a sheaf of papers and a pen.
They were the ones who shadowed every full gathering of the candidates and every audience with the Grand Duchess, recording individual evaluations.
In effect, the final evaluation began from this moment on.
Not that it was any of my business.
"You're all early."
I offered a brief greeting and took my seat.
Still, sitting face-to-face with the regret-route cast I had only ever seen in a novel, I felt a strange little flicker of gladness. A thoroughly ridiculous feeling, really.
Deron Kellid—second son of a ducal house and the highest-ranking among the regret-route cast—received my greeting with open distaste.
"You're late."
Mm. Hearing it in person, that low, weighty baritone was a genuinely attractive character trait.
Shame about the face—he looked like a smug gigolo pretty-boy.
Anyway.
You're the ones who showed up ten minutes early.
I had no desire to spar with them, so I answered with a single smile instead.
To my left sat Deron; to my right, Kyle, eldest son of a baronial house; and across from me, Blund, second son of a marquisate.
True to their roles as male-lead candidates in a novel, their hair came in a rainbow of colors. Lined up like this, they looked less like people and more like a flowerbed.
Blond Deron.
Blue-haired Kyle.
Red-haired Blund.
And black-haired me.
They say tragedy up close is comedy from afar—this would make for quite the spectacle.
"As all the candidates are now present, we shall have the meal served."
We might have known one another, but from this point the evaluations were in earnest, so everyone kept their words carefully measured.
No doubt they wanted to keep their cunning insides well hidden.
Unlike the preliminary and main rounds that tested martial skill and scholarship, the final evaluation focused on the person themselves.
Of course, going by the free chapters, there was no chance the ultimate victor would emerge from among these four—but still.
It's pretty damn awkward, though.
During the preliminaries and main rounds, candidates hadn't been allowed to mingle. The judging had been individual from the start, and even the martial trials had been against the Grand Ducal Order's knight-commander, so our paths never crossed.
This was the first time we'd faced one another since the marriage-contest began.
And we hadn't kept in touch after graduating from the Academy either.
I hated awkwardness.
I fiddled idly with my spoon while I waited, and soon a lavish spread was laid out, dish after dish, until at last every course was in place.
The middle-aged man who wore a tuxedo so well opened his papers and announced the start.
"We shall begin the meal."
As I'd said, from this moment every action and every exchange was for evaluation.
Even a simple meal went under the knife, and the candidates took up their utensils with pious, carefully composed postures to match.
Well.
This looks goddamn delicious.
None of that had anything to do with me.
Chomp.
I grabbed the most appetizing-looking rib and took a massive bite.
Ribs were a dish best eaten by tearing into them, after all.
At once, both evaluators' pens began to move at speed.
And when I offered a heartfelt tribute to the chef, the pens only flew faster.
"Whoa, this is fucking good."
Scratch, scrrratch-scratch-scratch.
To think I can eat like this every day.
The final evaluation… might not be so bad after all?
I entertained that idle thought as I lifted my wineglass, and one of the attendants waiting by the table stepped forward to pour.
I took a mouthful of wine and rolled it around my mouth, gargling with it a little.
Hmm. Still, nothing beats soju for a proper palate cleanser.
I half wanted to raise one finger and call out, Auntie, a bottle of soju over here—but there was no chance diluted soju existed in a medieval setting.
I settled for rinsing with wine instead, then pulled the handkerchief from my breast pocket and wiped my lips.
Flap-flap-flap.
I made sure to snap the handkerchief open like laundry being shaken out, of course.
A folded thing was only truly itself once you'd shaken it open. That was the proper way.
All the while, the two evaluators' pens never stopped moving.
You two are working hard.
I sent them a silent word of thanks for their pointless labors and was winding down my meal when Deron—neck held stiff and proud as he sliced his steak—snorted and spoke.
"You must have been rather starved. Eating without so much as pausing for breath."
"Haha. Indeed, Young Master Deron. Watching Young Master Elden eat with such gusto, even I found myself salivating."
Duke, marquis, count.
It was a final evaluation where ranks were supposedly set aside—but they already moved in the same circles, so a hierarchy settling into place was inevitable.
Kyle, who shared the bottom of the ladder with Elden Raphelion, falling in with Deron's mockery was only natural. Blund, second son of a marquis, piling on was the next natural step.
Elden was the sole heir of a declining house, and even in his academy days he had been the one stuck with all the dirty work—the lackey.
"As I recall, your appetite was rather poor during our academy years. My memory must have been distorted. Elden, were you always such a hearty eater? Hahaha."
Three regret-route characters, all heirs of distinguished noble houses, pressing down on their target with clever, cutting speech.
That kind of verbal artistry was more of a scoring factor than a demerit.
Noble society was simply that sort of place.
But sorry about that.
Even a gang-up only lands when the victim is actually playing the game—and I wasn't invested in this match at all. I barely had any interest. To me, their chirping was just the noise of blind little birds.
That was simply how they'd lived. What was I supposed to do about it?
I answered their jabs with silence alone, and Kyle wiped his mouth with a napkin and tried to gather the group.
"By the way, Young Master Deron, Young Master Blund—isn't this truly remarkable?"
"What is?"
"That of all the many participants, these particular four of us became the final candidates."
"True enough."
Having said that, Blund looked to Deron—eyes full of flattery.
No doubt he was angling for whatever crumbs might fall if Deron, the clear frontrunner, became the final victor.
"To think that four classmates from the Royal Academy would stand side by side as final candidates alongside the great Young Master Deron of House Kellid—there will be all sorts of idle rumors, haha."
At that tear-jerking display of flattery, Deron smiled with satisfaction, put a bite of steak in his mouth, and merely nodded.
This seemed like a good moment to make it clear there was no point wasting strength in the wrong direction.
Come what may—whether my withdrawal was rejected or not—I had not the slightest intention of joining this petty little war.
Drawing the line early would be easier for everyone.
I spoke to Blund.
"Ah—Young Master Blund? Forgive me, but I believe I ought to correct something."
"…What? Correct?"
"It would be more accurate to say that three classmates from the Academy became final candidates… don't you think?"
The warm, cheerful flattery-show cracked under that strange remark, and all three pairs of eyes swung toward me.
If anyone asked me for a hint—or even just the reason for my withdrawal—I would gladly answer.
That was the least responsibility, the least courtesy, a transmigrator who knew the truth and meant to escape could offer.
And besides, the three regret-route characters hadn't actually done me any wrong.
I grinned and went on, calm as anything.
"As a matter of fact, this morning I declared my withdrawal as a final candidate."
Scratch, scrrratch-scratch!
The pens began to fly at a frantic new speed.