The Noble's Pawn
The clubroom of the 'Noble' sat on the top floor of the second-year central hall.
From a vantage point overlooking all of Kizen's breathtaking scenery—mountains, rivers, and fortress walls spread out below—a man walked across the carpeted floor. The second-year students who saw him whispered under their breath.
A figure who could be nothing but news within the Noble.
Malcolm Randolph, Special Admission No. 10 of the first-year class. And he had been summoned to the Noble.
Swish.
A second-year girl waiting by the door gave a light wave of her hand. Malcolm returned a casual nod, then turned his gaze to the door.
"Ready, first-year?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Your Highness—pardon, President. The first-year is here."
The girl opened the door for him.
A luxurious room revealed itself, though the lighting was dim. The antique furniture, the tables, the fruit arranged on plates—all of it seemed faded, as if drained of color.
And there, seated on a massive chair that called to mind a throne, was a man.
Andre—president of the Noble and third prince of the Dresden Kingdom. He lounged in an arrogant pose, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his hand.
"Sit."
"Yes, sir."
As Malcolm took his seat, Andre waved him closer with a lazy flick of his fingers. A woman in a maid's uniform approached on silent footsteps, setting a teacup and refreshments down before Malcolm.
Malcolm clicked his tongue inwardly.
...She's insane. This is insane.
That woman was no henchman.
Dressing a second-year Kizen student—a student who stood on equal footing with Andre himself—in a maid's uniform and ordering her about like a servant.
Perhaps she found the situation humiliating as well, because she kept her head bowed low.
So the rumors were true.
He had no idea what weakness she'd been caught with, but if the student council or the faculty ever learned of this, the entire school would erupt.
And yet even if someone exposed this and made it public, the world would simply write it off as the idle games of a foolish prince, and Andre—being royalty—would walk away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. The informant, on the other hand, would live through hell, day after day.
Malcolm had seen this kind of injustice often enough that he adapted to the situation without missing a beat. He casually waved his hand at the senior girl as if handling a housemaid, dismissive and rough.
She bowed her head and withdrew, and Andre smiled in evident satisfaction at the sight.
"Do you know why I called you all the way here?"
"No idea at all."
Malcolm answered frankly, lifting his head.
"My very presence in this place should be a stain on the Noble's reputation."
"I'm aware. You're the son of a vulgar gang boss, after all."
At the word vulgar, Malcolm's eyebrow twitched—but he didn't react beyond that.
Why the third prince of the Dresden Kingdom had summoned him was what mattered.
And what Andre said next more than repaid Malcolm for the anger he'd swallowed.
"I'm going to offer you a chance to join the Noble."
The maid-student from earlier stepped forward and carefully placed a quill and a membership form on the table.
"If you have any sense at all, you'll understand that this opportunity marks a pivotal turning point in your life."
"......"
Andre leaned forward, folding his hands together.
"A chance for a trashy gang outfit to connect with the power brokers of the Dark Alliance. When word of this gets out, I imagine your dear father will be dancing with joy."
Gangs were criminal, violent organizations, yes—but for the sake of smooth operations, they'd always needed to cozy up to regional powers and central authority.
If they could simply get inside a place crawling with the real movers and shakers of the Dark Alliance, the gang could grow several times larger than it was now.
"...What are the conditions?"
Letting a gangster's son into the Noble was like splattering dirty water on a priceless pearl.
What could be worth tarnishing their public image like this? Malcolm was certain the conditions attached would be utterly outrageous.
"Nothing much."
Andre grinned.
"Your opponent in this week's Duel Evaluation is Special Admission No. 1. Simon Polentia."
"Yes, that's right."
"He turned down our invitation to join."
Andre swept his hair back.
"A humiliation like this is beyond humiliating. If it were any other student, fine, water under the bridge—but they say it's been twenty years since a Special Admission No. 1 rejected the Noble and joined some other club instead. Twenty years. A very important tradition has been shattered right before my eyes."
Andre gritted his teeth.
"And of all times—while *I* happen to be president of the Noble."
"......"
"The complaints from outside are already pouring in like crazy. If this goes on, I won't even be able to face my predecessors' eyes after I graduate."
Andre leaned back against his chair with an exhausted expression, heaved a long sigh, then picked up the wine glass beside him and took a sip.
"So what you're asking of me is revenge, then?"
"No. Not revenge—the upholding of tradition."
Andre's eyes gleamed darkly.
"You've heard the saying around Kizen, haven't you? Be careful of the Noble. Cross the Noble, and your life becomes a nightmare. Everything's going smoothly, and then the Noble marks you, and suddenly it all starts to fall apart. I merely intend to reenact those tired old traditions one more time."
Andre pulled something from his coat and tossed it to Malcolm.
It was an artifact engraved with the crest of the Dresden royal family, no less.
"Senior. Borrowing another person's artifact in the Duel Evaluation is a rule violation—"
"It's not a loan."
Andre smirked.
"Consider it an advance payment. From this moment on, that artifact is yours. Feel free to register it with Kizen as your own property."
"......!!"
Malcolm's mouth hung open.
"In front of a crowd of hundreds of spectators, you will crush Simon into the dirt with the power of that artifact—an overwhelming, undeniable victory. And the instant the duel ends, you make this mark."
Andre waved his hand through the air, tracing the shape of an R.
The mark of the Dresden royal family.
So that was it. Defeat Simon, and credit the victory to the Noble and to Andre.
"I understand exactly what you're asking."
From Malcolm's position, there wasn't a single reason to refuse.
The flow of the situation was easy to read, too.
Andre's pride had taken a deep wound, and he was under external pressure on top of it. So he wanted to make Simon—who had dared reject him to his face—pay the price and restore the Noble's authority. To do that, he would take Malcolm in as a long-term pawn of the club.
Perfectly understandable. In this world, a noble's pride was worth more than life itself.
"I've been holding back lately because of one issue after another, but enough is enough. We need to show them what happens to those who defy us—through the fall of Special Admission No. 1. Soon, everyone will know. That Simon Polentia was never qualified to enter the Noble in the first place."
Now Malcolm could see exactly what picture Andre was painting.
"I'll accept your orders. But wouldn't it leave a far stronger message if you stepped in and made the mark yourself, Senior?"
"You have no concept of dignity, do you."
Andre laughed heartily.
"And above all, there are professors who look fondly on Simon Polentia. Why do you suppose the Curse Studies Society and Sadam both went out of their way to recruit him? Professors Bahil and Silaje are standing behind him."
"Understood. Then I'll destroy him head-on, through a completely legal route."
Malcolm drained the hot tea in front of him in a single gulp. Then he tucked the artifact into his coat and traced the R-shaped mark of the Dresden Kingdom in the air.
"In front of everyone watching—I'll show them the Noble is still alive and well."
Andre smirked.
"Now that's what I wanted to hear."
Simon couldn't focus on his classes all day.
And with good reason.
"Everyone! Gellen says your subspace artifact is finished. He wants you to come pick it up today!"
The dedicated subspace for the Overlord was finally complete.
Even during class, his head was stuffed full of nothing but the artifact. His body sat in the lecture hall, but his mind was already wandering the streets of Rochest.
The moment the day's lessons ended, Simon bolted straight for the Mutant clubroom.
"Senior! Hurry up!"
He hustled Benya until she was ready, then used Kevin's stable route to slip out past the castle walls.
"Wow, I had no idea Kizen had places like this! You're only first-years, and yet you know your way around hidden spots like these!"
Benya, crawling through the narrow tunnel, kept letting out exclamations of amazement. She stared in wonder at the stalactites scattered here and there and the groundwater trickling along the floor, then looked ahead and spoke up.
"Hey! Can't I go first?"
"No."
"Huh? Why not?"
"...Ahem. It's just—no."
And so the two of them made it through the narrow tunnel without incident and emerged into Rochest. The meeting place was a quiet stretch of open ground on the city's outskirts.
"Miss! Simon! I've been waiting for you."
Gellen pressed his bowler hat to his chest and bowed. His hair had thinned further since they'd last met—the bare patch at the crown was genuinely pitiful—but Simon did his best to pretend not to notice and returned the greeting.
"Gellen! Is it really finished?"
"Yes! I stayed up day and night, but I managed to meet the deadline, and I couldn't be happier! Here it is."
Gellen held out a ring case. Simon took it immediately and flipped the lid open.
If the subspace ring he'd worn before had shimmered with prismatic light, this one blazed with brilliant gold.
Simon shoved the case carelessly into his pocket and moved to slip the ring on at once, but Gellen added a quick word of caution.
"Ah—that ring must be worn on the left hand."
"Really?"
Simon did as he was told and slid it onto his left hand.
"Then let's test it right away. The motion pattern for opening the subspace is as follows: let your left hand hang relaxed at your side, then open and close your fist, then extend and close your index and middle fingers together, and finally open and close your fist once more."
Simon nodded and performed the motions exactly as instructed.
With a deep hummm!, a subspace yawned open behind his back.
"Whoa!"
It was a perfect custom fit—snug enough that the Overlord would fill it entirely. That was plenty, since Simon had always intended to store nothing but the Overlord in this one anyway.
Simon drew the Overlord out of his original subspace, then together with Benya and Gellen guided it into the new one.
Pop!
Fwoosh!
The moment the Overlord entered, a magic circle lit up on the floor beneath the subspace. In seconds, the entire space glowed as brightly as if someone had switched on every light.
"Let's keep the main subspace illuminated so we can study its structure. Now—all preparations are complete. Please channel your Jet-Black into the ring."
"Yes, sir!"
As Simon fed his Jet-Black into the ring, an elegant black pattern bloomed across the smooth, previously bare surface of the band.
"First, the basic function. This ring reads the user's will. Simply envision opening the subspace within five meters of your position."
"That's all it takes?"
"Yes. That's all."
Simon swallowed hard and looked beside his right shoulder. And then—
Hummm!
The subspace snapped open instantly. Out of habit, Simon reined in the Overlord's killing intent, and—
SHRRRRRAAAAAAAAK!
One of the Overlord's legs extended smoothly out of the open subspace.
"Wow!"
Benya gasped and clapped her hands in applause, while Gellen nodded with satisfaction.
The killing intent really does flow through without a single interruption. So it really is different.
Simon turned to look behind him.
There was a hole in the floor directly beneath the Overlord's body, and the creature was pushing its leg into it.
When Simon used his killing intent to draw the leg back a little, he could see the Overlord's leg recede from the hole and slide back into the subspace by the same amount. Proof that the two spaces were properly linked.
"How's the connection state of the killing intent?"
"Great! It's flawless!"
After a few more attempts, Simon decided it wasn't just flawless—it was beyond flawless.
He no longer needed to give the Overlord a separate command to insert its legs. All he had to do was open a subspace in midair and order an attack on a target, and the Overlord would push its legs through on its own.
He could wipe the preparatory motions from his mind entirely and focus purely on combat.
"This work is the result of visualizing Simon wielding the Overlord hundreds, thousands of times, and agonizing over which design would serve best."
"...Haha. I'm actually kind of moved."
"But it's too early to be impressed yet."
Gellen's eyes sparkled.
"Because the most important function of this subspace... is what comes next!"