Duty
Each of the one hundred young masters who entered the Northern Grand Duke’s Marriage Tournament had received a special order of his own.
Because status and rank were not weighed in the selection, any man of noble blood could apply. Nearly a thousand applications had flooded in; one hundred of them passed the screening and spent a full fortnight contending through the preliminaries and the main rounds.
Tomorrow the final evaluation would begin. When the fifteen days of communal lodging ended, a single victor would be chosen—by a generous twenty-five-percent chance.
Someone would prove his usefulness. Someone would become a hope. Someone would become a help.
Fifteen days.
Endure those fifteen days and a new history would be written—a radiant, shining new history.
Therefore the idea of voluntarily withdrawing at the final evaluation was something no one had ever entertained even in imagination, a decision only a madman could make.
And so it was only natural that every gaze fixed upon Elden Raphelion, the man who had done that mad thing, regarded him as a lunatic.
Silence settled inside the small storm he had stirred.
The first to break it was Kyle, eldest son of a count’s house.
“……Withdraw? Have you been drinking in the middle of the day? Your joke has gone too far in front of such distinguished company.”
“Haha. Quite right. Are you saying that meal you were bolting down was your last supper?”
Blund dismissed the declaration of withdrawal as a jest and took up Kyle’s line. To them Elden Raphelion had never been a rival—merely a convenient tool for securing favorable evaluations, just as he had always been at the Academy.
His sudden withdrawal was therefore nothing less than bad news. A public good they had intended to consume was vanishing. Since he had never been a threat worth watching, his departure did not even alter their odds of victory.
Deron, who had kept silent until now, turned an intrigued gaze on Elden.
“…The reason?”
“How could a villain like myself possibly stand as a candidate for the Grand Duchess’s hand? I simply came to my senses a little late.”
Clink.
Deron laid his spoon upon the plate and wiped his mouth.
“Came to your senses, is it… I understand the sentiment, yet I never imagined you were so weak that you would abandon the race with the finish line right before your eyes.”
“I have lived by trampling others underfoot. A life far too filthy to become one of the noble Northern Grand Ducal House.”
Elden swept his gaze across them all as he spoke. He was offering a hint of sorts, yet to men who did not know the Grand Duchess’s true identity it was merely the self-deprecating reflection of a single scoundrel.
Of course, there were always those who felt the sting of such pointed reflection.
Blund finished his meal and slowly turned the wine glass in his hand. The blood-red wine swirled heavily.
“…Everyone lives by receiving wounds and dealing them in turn. The world reveres the man who tramples others and rises; it never reveres the one who was trampled. You know that much, surely.”
Elden smiled—the detached smile of a man who had already set the mundane world aside, and at the same time a bitter smile directed at young masters who still worshipped evil deeds.
“I do know. I am merely withdrawing because I find it repulsive that a man who made blood tears flow from someone’s eyes should dare to stand here and be judged as though he were pure.”
A voice edged with steel rang out once more amid the beautiful strains of the orchestra.
“There is no such thing as an eternal secret in this world, is there?”
A scathing indictment of wickedness, and to those who knew the truth a chilling warning. He had poured every ounce of gravity into the words, yet all he felt was the old proverb proving itself: the one who farts is the first to take offense.
Deron’s teal eyes began to forge a glint of anger.
“…You sound as though you are aiming at someone in particular. Do you mean to atone at this late hour? Even if you do, the blood tears already shed by others will never run clear again.”
When Deron, the de-facto leader of the group, openly displayed his displeasure, Blund and Kyle folded their arms or furrowed their brows in agreement.
“Young Master Elden, you have grown rather… toxic since last we met. No—frail would be the better word.”
“Blood will out. Natural order cannot be defied; to defy it one must first drain the blood itself. I wonder whether you possess that much resolve.”
Elden released a quiet sigh. Exactly the flow he had expected. These were the same men who, from the latter free chapters onward, had chosen self-deception over reflection even after the re-education sessions began.
They were doing it still—offering unsolicited lectures the moment their own faults were pointed out. They treated a man who was examining himself as a pitiful creature, wrapping their own philosophies in glittering rhetoric and using his introspection as a tool for personal gain.
Yet Elden understood them. They had been created from the beginning as characters meant to film a Hupijip. To hope for genuine repentance and reform after a mere surface-level warning was pure nonsense.
Nor did he mind that they criticized and exploited his self-reflection. As Blund and Deron had said, any display of weakness or frailty from the heir of a noble house was a demerit. Such a man was unqualified to belong to the house that ruled the frozen north. Moreover, he himself was a defeated man who had already declared withdrawal. If they chose to dig into that point, he would be grateful.
Mutual benefit. A fine current of events.
Elden smiled.
“Haha, I meant nothing by it. Pay it no mind. You asked for a reason, so I merely offered my personal impression.”
He had shown the minimum responsibility and courtesy expected of a man about to desert alone. Whether they noticed or not was no longer his concern. After all, these three thoroughly deserved the blade the third Northern Grand Duchess would one day turn upon them. Interfering any further would only hinder the heroine.
Elden set down his empty glass. From this moment he would leave everything to heaven’s will and simply watch the current flow—having cleanly cast off the sense of duty that came with being a transmigrator.
“And I have only conveyed my intention to withdraw; I have yet to hear any formal reply. I simply regarded all of you more as ‘comrades’ than rivals and thought it proper to inform you in advance.”
So long as they inflicted no direct harm upon him as a transmigrator, he had no reason to drive them away. Should that change, of course, the story would be different.
At Elden’s words Deron glanced once toward the evaluation panel, then spoke.
“Well, I shall not take it to heart. If that is your opinion, so be it. If everyone has finished, let us end the meal.”
Blund and Kyle nodded, and the pens of the hurriedly scribbling evaluators finally stilled.
Thus the first gathering of the final candidates drew to a close.
Clack, clack.
I walked the corridor with Rendler.
The first gathering was over—simpler than expected, and as uncomfortable as expected.
I had no intention of making enemies of the male leads from the novel. Nothing could be more foolish. I possessed neither the all-embracing humanity of a Sister Teresa, and one of those three might still end up the final victor. There was no need to cross any lines.
All that remained was to wait for His Grace the Northern Grand Duke to approve my withdrawal. I had already fulfilled a transmigrator’s duty; now I need only observe the current.
Whether they noticed the hint and repented, whether they noticed it and still committed deeds they would regret, or whether they survived this revenge tournament and sealed a betrothal with the Grand Duchess—I would leave it all to heaven’s will and sketch a future of my own.
The problem was…
Where the hell do I even start?
What should a modern man suddenly dragged into the Middle Ages do first? Especially a modern man who had become the young master of a declining count’s house?
Thanks to the original Elden Raphelion’s knowledge and memories I did not have to begin with literacy lessons, yet finding a way to restore a falling house lay far beyond my abilities. The original Elden had intended to raise the family’s fortunes through a betrothal to the Grand Duchess; unfortunately I harbored no such plan.
Even if the house was declining, it was still a count’s house. They say a rich man ruined still lasts three generations—there was no need to cling to the Marriage Tournament, nor to fret endlessly over the family’s fortunes.
First priority is escaping the Hupijip in one piece.
Right now the order of business was simply to weather the immediate crisis. Even if the withdrawal were rejected I would not be trapped; there were other ways to dodge the tearful Hupijip route. I had simply chosen the cleanest, surest, and fastest method.
I just want to rest.
I was hurrying toward my room when a sudden sniffling sound reached my ears—from behind me.
I stopped and looked back. The old butler immediately spun around to face the opposite direction.
………
I turned forward again, took a few steps, then twisted back once more. The old butler spun away again.
………
Trembling shoulders, hands scrubbing at his eyes, the wet sound of a runny nose…
“Don’t tell me… you’re crying?”
Rendler shook his head vigorously.
“H-haha. N-nonsense, Young Master. A speck of dust merely entered my eye, snff.”
“Dust seems to have entered your nose as well.”
“Hahaha. Th-the dust is quite fierce today.”
…Snff.
The symptoms were far too clear for such a flimsy excuse. After a short wait Rendler hesitantly turned around, eyes glistening, and bowed his head with an awkward smile.
“Forgive me, Young Master. Age must be making me ridiculous.”
“…There’s no need to apologize.”
“I was so moved by the words you spoke in the hall that I could not help showing an unsightly face.”
…Ah.
So that was the absurd reason for the tears. I had only spoken that way to deliver a warning to the regret-route male leads; without meaning to, I had deeply moved the old butler.
Snff.
Rendler beamed through brimming eyes, then flushed and grew bashful.
“This is merely the unseemly behavior of one who is far too happy. Please do not stare so intently; it shames me.”
“……”
I swallowed the urge to remark that watching an elderly butler act shy like a young girl was rather uncomfortable, and simply turned away. He seemed far more tearful than expected. If a single moment of self-reflection brought tears, a single act of kindness might send him into full-blown wailing.
Whoa. Better be careful.
Thinking that, I stepped forward to round the corner—
“Kyaa!”
Crash!
I collided head-on with a woman who had been walking quickly the other way. She wore a maid’s uniform embroidered with the crest of the Northern Grand Ducal House—a young attendant in her mid-teens.