The Land of Opportunity
"I think we should finish our drinks in the bedroom."
"What did you say……?"
There was no doubt about it anymore. This boy was truly Yona's son.
The Grand Duke scrunched her face up in deep displeasure.
"Insoluble brat! The more I let things slide, the further you climb right over my head!"
Her voice rose sharply.
"Even if I did show a weak side from drinking, how dare you so much as mention my bedroom! The sheer gall of……!"
A short while later.
She was lying flat on the bed with a dazed, vacant expression. Simon thoughtfully pulled the blanket up over her and gave a bright smile.
"Then rest well. I'll handle things with the people outside."
Thud.
Simon did nothing at all—simply closed the door and left.
She sat there with an oddly frozen look, resting her chin on her hand.
"Yona's son…… it really is, isn't it?"
Having escorted the drunken Grand Duke all the way to her bedroom, Simon returned to the banquet hall with a rather weary look, running a hand through his bangs.
With the Grand Duke—the only person capable of keeping the Northerners in check—gone, the party atmosphere was deteriorating even further into utter chaos.
Here and there, axes and swords could be seen embedded in the walls. Some revelers lay sprawled dead drunk, while others slept with their faces jammed straight into oak barrels of wine.
"It was I who planted the flag in the Firstborn's skull!"
So shouting, a man swung his chair around wildly and cracked it against the forehead of an innocent general standing beside him. The general was already sliding his sword smoothly out of its sheath.
As Simon watched the dead-drunk Northerners, he noticed someone.
One figure stood apart from the party, conspicuously out of place. The man looked uncomfortable there, fidgeting as if seated on a cushion of thorns—a thin man with glasses, a rare sight in the North. The warriors around him either regarded him dismissively or outright sneered at him.
Apparently he was an outsider, just like Simon.
"!"
Just then, their eyes met. The bespectacled man suddenly broke into a beaming grin.
"?"
This time he even held eye contact, his smile growing deeper and deeper. Before long, he was striding straight toward Simon.
"Hello there!"
The man greeted him. Simon could feel several Northerners' murderous stares shifting over onto him.
"Ah—hello."
Not that he had any reason to refuse a greeting offered to him.
"You're Simon Polentia, the student from Kizen, aren't you?"
"……How did you know that?"
"Ahaha, how would I know? Who could possibly fail to recognize the current Student Council President of Kizen?"
Unbelievable.
So this man really was an outsider.
In the North, status and titles from outside held no weight whatsoever.
"Here."
Then, with a furtive motion, the man handed Simon a letter and spoke in a hushed voice.
"It's from my master. Please, do read it. Well then—excuse me."
Unable to endure the Northerners' stares a moment longer, he bowed repeatedly and hurried off elsewhere. Simon fiddled with the letter in his coat pocket.
From your master, he says?
His fingers brushed over a seal on the envelope's surface.
Looks like it came from a noble.
He ran his fingers slowly over the envelope, trying to picture the seal's design in his mind, but it matched none of the heraldic crests he knew.
Hmm.
Simon rose quietly from his seat and slipped away.
"Insoluble brat!"
Bang!
Just as the party was hitting its stride, the bedroom door suddenly flew open and the Grand Duke, dressed in her training clothes, shouted.
"I've decided I want your answer now! Where are you?"
She couldn't sleep.
And it struck her that if they were going to talk, now was the only time.
"Come up here at once! There are things I must ask about your father!"
At her commotion, every warrior's gaze turned toward her.
"Oooh."
The faces of the Northerners, already flushed with drink, grew even redder.
"That's our Grand Duke for you! I would gladly give my life for her!"
"I'd follow her to the very depths of hell!"
Suddenly the warriors' voices rang out, their loyalty surging.
One elderly warrior among them even wiped at reddened eyes.
"Sniff! It feels like only yesterday the little miss was this high, and now a true lady she's become……!"
Crack!
She tore a decorative fixture clean off the wall with her bare hand and hurled it. A warrior caught it square in the face and tumbled backward, blood spouting from his nose.
"Do you all wish to die?"
The warriors snapped to attention at once, their drunkenness instantly burned away.
"Godric! Where has my disciple gone?"
"Ah, my lady."
The butler Godric scratched the back of his head.
"It seems he has gone outside. I saw him receiving something from a servant of that man."
The Grand Duke's expression hardened.
"What did you say?"
Having slipped out of the castle, Simon was walking toward the address written on the letter.
To Lord Simon Polentia,
I have something of great importance to share with you. It concerns a secret of the North. Let us speak somewhere quiet.
— Thoringdon Boldmont
He had plenty of time to spare anyway. Staying in that banquet hall where weapons flew freely seemed likely to cost him more lives than he possessed, so Simon decided to meet the person seeking him out.
The destination was a spacious mansion located a fair distance from the Grand Duke's castle.
If luxury alone were the measure, it far outstripped the Grand Duke's castle. Guards were posted here and there, each with a cleanly shaven face and fine armor. They looked nothing like the Northerners.
"Thank you for visiting the House of Boldmont. What business brings you here?"
As Simon approached, two guards crossed their spears and inquired politely.
So it's a count's house.
Simon silently held out the letter. The moment they saw the seal attached to it, they lowered their spears and bowed.
"Right this way, please."
The instant Simon stepped into the garden, a crowd of butlers and servants bent at the waist in unison to greet him.
"Welcome."
"The Count is expecting you."
It was the first genuinely gracious reception he'd received since arriving in the North, and it made Simon feel oddly embarrassed.
At the same time, a question occurred to him.
Normally, a count would be the lord of his own domain. But the Carlos North was the Grand Duke Jean Arskalt's undisputed territory—there was no reason for a noble of even count's rank to set up a grand mansion here of all places.
I'll find out when I meet him.
Simon tucked the letter back into his coat and followed the butlers' guidance.
"My lord, Lord Simon Polentia has arrived."
"Yes, show him in."
A cheerful voice replied.
The door opened, and Simon stepped inside.
The interior was exquisitely decorated, potted plants arranged throughout, expensive masterpieces hanging on the walls, antique books lined up on one side.
And there sat a man, waving his hand in cheerful greeting.
Younger than I expected.
He'd imagined a potbellied middle-aged man up to his ears in authority, but the face before him was remarkably young—around Simon's own age, or perhaps a year or two older.
Simon bowed according to the Carlos court etiquette he'd learned in his Kingly Studies class.
"It is an honor to meet you, Count Boldmont—"
"Ah, there's no need for all that formality. Sit, sit."
The count rose from his seat with a smile.
"Would you like something to drink? Warm tea? Or perhaps a juice, or wine?"
"Tea, please."
Barely had Simon finished speaking when the door opened and a servant came rolling in a cart. Simon was surprised to see several more servants standing by behind it, ready to grab the cart in an instant.
A servant set the teacup before Simon and poured with practiced deference. It was a vivid orange color, with a faint fruity aroma.
Simon lifted it and took a sip.
Oh.
It was delicious enough to make his jaw drop. A taste on an entirely different plane from the North's bitter, bracing cold tea.
"Glad it suits your taste."
As Simon sipped the sweet tea, Count Boldmont sat down on the sofa across from him, smiling.
"How old are you this year?"
A rather abrupt question for a noble of count's standing to ask.
Simon set down his teacup and answered.
"Eighteen."
"Ah, then you're practically a friend! I'm only one year older—let's just speak comfortably with each other. Deal?"
"But……"
"I insist, it's fine."
With the Count of Boldmont persistently begging him to drop the formalities, Simon had no choice but to nod.
"So then."
Simon dabbed his mouth with the prepared handkerchief.
"I'm starting to wonder why you went to the trouble of calling me here."
"Because I've simply been dying to meet you!"
The count's eyes lit up.
"A Kizen student! And the Student Council President, no less, coming to the North—who would have guessed? A second-year council president, really? That's incredible!"
Simon's eyes turned serious.
The biggest reason he had come here.
"How exactly do you know that I'm Simon Polentia, and the Student Council President?"
Simon had been dispatched to the Carlos North on a special lesson.
The only people who knew both his name and his exact status were the Grand Duke and a handful of her people, like the butler Godric. Everyone else simply called him "the disciple" or "the outsider."
Yet now someone who knew his identity precisely had appeared out of nowhere and asked to meet. Simon could hardly let that slide.
"Oh, I just heard it from a friend."
Boldmont answered breezily, but Simon nodded while quietly filing away a piece of information: someone closely connected to Count Boldmont had been present among the Grand Duke's retainers.
"But more importantly! Won't you tell me about Kizen?"
Count Boldmont said, his eyes sparkling.
"I've only ever had my family's private tutoring, so I'm genuinely curious what a necromancer academy is like! I've always dreamed of it! Is it true you actually lock the students on an island and make them fight each other?"
"There is some of that, yes."
Simon told him some simple stories about Kizen, and Count Boldmont lapped up every word with obvious delight. When Simon described the Dark Festival, he even let out a "whoa—" and clapped his hands.
"Ah, that sounds like so much fun."
Count Boldmont gazed wistfully up at the ceiling.
"If it weren't for my family's obligations, I would have enrolled in a necromancer academy myself."
"Actually, I was curious about that."
Simon didn't let the opening slip away.
"The Carlos North is the Grand Duke's territory, isn't it? Why is the Boldmont house here at all?"
At the inevitable question, the count gave a wry smile. Then he raised his teacup and took a sip.
"I am the Overseer."
Details varied from kingdom to kingdom, but at least in the Kingdom of Carlos, the rank of "Grand Duke" made its holder the equal of the king within their own domain.
Before the current system of four kingdoms had been established, the North had been an independent region outside Carlos's control. The Arskalt family had effectively been the ruling kings of the North.
Carlos had wanted nothing more than to annex the northern territory, but seizing the North through war carried a risk so punishing that it dwarfed any benefit.
Even if they took it, how would they hold back the flood of monsters and undead pouring down from beyond? What noble would be willing to crawl into the northern villages to fight for them? And above all, no noble in the kingdom possessed the capability to defend the North as flawlessly as the Arskalt family did.
In the end, the Kingdom of Carlos offered the Arskalt family the title of "Grand Duke"—equal to the king within the region. In practice, it was little more than coloring the territory into Carlos on the map, while the Grand Duke retained full command authority over the North.
Naturally, in exchange for accepting the annexation, the kingdom promised a year-round supply of grain from the fertile southern lands. The head of the Arskalt family, who had been suffering through a catastrophic famine at the time, could not bear to watch his people starve to death, and so accepted the offer and joined Carlos.
"But the nobles of Carlos have always feared the North's military power."
Count Boldmont said.
"They wanted some minimal safeguard in place. And that safeguard is—"
"The Overseer."
When Simon supplied the answer, Count Boldmont beamed with obvious delight.
"Exactly! A house of count's rank or higher stationed directly in the North, responsible for overseeing and monitoring it."
"……Hmm. I'd have thought most houses wouldn't want the job, though."
"Honestly, they don't."
Among counts who could live fat and comfortable ruling their own domains, who would ever volunteer for this treacherous North? For the nobility, the post of Northern Overseer was essentially an exile for those defeated in the political struggles of the capital.
But—
"I volunteered for it myself."
Count Boldmont laced his fingers together, eyes gleaming.
"From the moment my father passed and I inherited the countship, I petitioned His Majesty the King: let the House of Boldmont serve as the North's Overseer."
"……Why?"
"Because this is a land of opportunity! Everyone else just drones on about exile and whatnot because they're blind to what's actually here."
The corners of his mouth curled upward, and for a single instant, Count Boldmont's mask slipped away.
"You see, the North has a hidden secret."