Two Siblings, Worlds Apart
After driving his sister Lobelia out of her room.
Why did that woman have to be the one who inherited the talent?
The injustice maddened him, made him feel like he was losing his mind.
For years now, he had repeated those words to himself countless times.
He had thought the feeling would fade with time. Fat chance of that.
The resentment and inferiority that piled up day after day had only grown thicker.
These days, it would sometimes swallow his reason whole.
The one who inherits House Belmont is me, the son. If I had that talent, I'd use it a damn sight better than that cursed sister of mine.
To Rowell, his sister Lobelia was nothing but a fool of a woman.
She didn't know how to protect what was hers, didn't know how to get angry.
Even when someone looked down on her or hated her, far from standing up for herself, she would simply laugh it off like an idiot.
It wasn't that Rowell had always disliked his sister.
Back when he knew nothing of the world, he had followed Lobelia around devotedly, adored her. She had never once played tricks on her little brother, and whenever he wanted something of hers, she gave it up without complaint.
But even that Lobelia could never yield one thing: talent.
When did it start?
When did every glimpse of his sister excelling begin to twist something deep in his gut?
No matter how desperately Rowell trained with the sword, the attention of the family elders always flowed toward the prodigy, Lobelia.
As siblings, comparison was unavoidable.
At first he tried to shrug it off, but as a year, two years, three years of the same thing repeated, the inferiority festered inside him like rot.
The decisive moment was a remark from his father that Rowell happened to overhear one day.
"Lobelia should have been born a son."
A deep sigh drifted through from beyond the door.
"If things go on this way, the glory of House Belmont ends with my generation."
From that day on, Lobelia was no longer his sister.
She was a wall he had to overcome — had to — if Rowell was ever to be acknowledged as Rowell.
The family passes to the son.
A daughter who marries out becomes a stranger, nothing more.
In the end, the one who would become head of the house was him.
And yet no amount of effort let him catch up to his sister.
Runner-up at the Imperial Tournament two years ago.
Lobelia had fought her way into the main bracket, cut down a procession of strong opponents, and climbed all the way to the finals.
It was a talent he simply could not hope to match.
If only that woman didn't exist.
Rowell considered himself plenty exceptional in his own right.
Captain of the fencing club at 7th Imperial Middle Academy.
By tradition, the captaincy belonged to the strongest swordsman in the club.
But before the name Lobelia, all that glory and renown turned to mud.
The moment relatives show up, it's this one and that one, all of them talking about nothing but her!
This was precisely why Rowell had thrown himself at this year's Imperial Tournament with such desperation.
He wanted to show his family that he still had potential left.
He wanted to prove that Lobelia — that woman — was not the entirety of House Belmont.
Yet Lobelia, utterly oblivious to his feelings, greeted him with a bright, guileless smile every time they met.
She'd be better off dead.
He couldn't stand that smile. It made him insane.
A woman must never outshine a man. Such a being only sows discord in a family.
A woman of lesser ability was far easier to handle.
In that sense, Rowell liked Erika.
She was pretty and obedient, weaker than him, and had looked up to him for years.
Besides, if he decided he wanted her, he could have her whenever he pleased.
Her looks were excellent, too — kept at his side, she flattered him quite nicely.
Not a masterpiece, perhaps, but not a bad ornament.
I have to become the academy's representative this time! If I don't, I'll live the rest of my life under that stain.
Rowell tore at his hair for a long while before finally hauling himself to his feet and grabbing his sword.
No amount of wallowing in self-pity inside his room was going to change anything.
He made his way to the yard behind the mansion and began to swing.
1.
Lying on her bed, Lobelia opened her eyes at the faint sound drifting in from outside.
The steady hiss of a blade cutting air.
Sitting up, she carefully pulled back the curtain and peeked out.
There in the backyard stood Rowell, swinging his sword alone.
It was an hour when everyone in the house should have been asleep, yet he kept at it without rest.
He's working hard.
According to their mother, Rowell was the finest swordsman at 7th Imperial Middle Academy.
The fact that he'd even been made fencing club captain was proof enough that his skill was acknowledged within the academy.
Representative for the Imperial Tournament... he wanted it that badly, so I'm sure he'll get a good result.
Lobelia knew perfectly well that she was resented, but she still couldn't turn her back on her brother.
He was her one and only sibling.
Maybe, if he's chosen as representative, I'll get him a gift.
2.
Nothing eventful happened over the weekend.
I slept a full eight hours a day, every day, and devoted the remaining sixteen to swordsmanship. The moment my head hit the pillow, I was out cold — a stretch of deeply productive days.
And so, having ground through them, Monday evening arrived.
As usual, I was eating dinner with Master on the open ground near the training hall.
"That's tomorrow, isn't it? Your last match."
Master asked, picking at the side dishes in his lunchbox.
"That's right. Yep."
"They say your opponent is the fencing club captain. Wasn't his name Robot?"
I looked up at Master, spoon still in hand.
"Robot?"
"Yes. The name's Robot, isn't it?"
"How would a person be named Robot? It's Rowell."
"Both of them start with Ro! Whether it's Rowell or Robot, how much does that really matter?"
"Yes, yes. Of course, sir."
My offhand answer apparently displeased him, and he grumbled.
"This boy's manner of speech shows not a single shred of respect for his master."
"You caught me."
"What? What did you just say?"
"Truly remarkable, Master — reading the very depths of my heart!"
"I taught you for even one day, and you're my student for life — you don't even know the saying? Months under my instruction, and this is the attitude I get?"
"Why are you getting so worked up over a compliment?!"
It was an exchange no different from any other day.
Except that tonight, the whole scene of the meal looked radically different.
Ordinarily we would have perched ourselves on some convenient spot nearby and eaten cold, unwarmed convenience store lunchboxes.
But look at us tonight.
A mat was spread on the ground, and laid out on top of it were handmade lunchboxes packed with a dozen different side dishes.
And there was one extra person who was never usually there.
A green-haired girl sitting beside Master.
Sage.
In case anyone's forgotten who she is — she's the girl who was (supposedly) my childhood friend.
Incidentally, she was the very first one, back when the incident with my father blew up, to suggest that we pretend not to know each other.
I suspect that after she blazed that trail, the other kids looked to her example and followed it.
After that, we had no contact for quite a long time.
"Here, Master — have some of this."
"Oho! Much obliged, Miss Sage!"
"You can just call me Sage."
"One cannot be so casual with a lady."
Sage was pouring tea from a thermos for Master.
Explaining how exactly Sage came to join this little gathering takes a bit of backstory.
Apparently, Sage had noticed that I was buying four convenience store lunchboxes every single day.
That day, too, I came out of the store with my usual purchases — and there was Sage in front of it, looking at me with worry, saying that eating nothing but that garbage would wreck my health.
Then, with a sidelong air, she mentioned that she happened to have packed a lunchbox herself, and tried to hand me a bag.
Needless to say, I refused.
"I already bought these, and they're fresh items — you know they won't take a refund."
"Th-that's true, but..."
"See you around."
I thought that was the end of it.
But the next day, there she was again.
She was waiting outside the convenience store, and when I tried to go in, she planted herself in my way.
Naturally, I sidestepped her and went inside anyway.
But when I got to the lunchbox shelf that day, it had been cleaned out. It made no sense.
Convenience store lunchboxes were the one thing that always had leftover stock.
What was going on?
And if I showed up empty-handed, my master (question mark) was liable to throw a tantrum, so I had no choice but to accept Sage's help.
The girl handed one over as if she'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Honestly, my plan was to take the lunchbox and nothing more — but she invited herself along to the training grounds, too.
The real problem was Master.
This was the man who, every time I brought back convenience store lunchboxes, would erupt in complaints about how I showed him no courtesy.
What his reaction would be upon seeing a premium handmade lunchbox was painfully obvious.
"Bwahahaha! See, this is why a woman ought to be good at cooking! A woman who can cook is the number one marriage material!"
"M-marriage material...?"
Sage's face flushed red.
"The world says the prettiest girl is the best, but that's nonsense. A woman who cooks well, like Miss Sage here, is the finest of all. Ah — not that I mean Miss Sage's face is any slouch. A beauty inside and out."
"Thank you."
"Thank me for what? If anything, I should be thanking you. That boy's got surprisingly good luck with women."
Luck with women?
Master knew nothing of what had passed between Sage and me.
Not that I'd bother explaining it — it would just make this whole gathering awkward for nothing.
Sage spoke up hesitantly.
"Um... would it be alright if I came again next time?"
"Of course! Welcome any time!"
Master boomed the answer out without a moment's hesitation.
"Yuseong will be glad of it too!"
Will he, now? He can't even read my own face?
At this rate, Master looked like nothing so much as a man groveling before Sage.
Defeated by food, honestly — how spineless can you get? I wanted to call him out on it, but he'd always been this way, so what could I even say?
Anyway — upon hearing Master's answer, Sage stole a glance in my direction.
Checking my reaction, was she.
A sigh escaped me.
She'd already won Master's heart completely.
If I told her now, alone, to stop coming — what would Master do to me?
After the meal, Sage tidied up the lunchboxes, and I helped fold the mat beside her. I couldn't very well just stand there and watch.
Once everything was put away, I asked what I'd been wondering.
"Why are you doing all this for me? You're the one who said we should pretend not to know each other."
Sage's hands froze.