Got Any Change?
As the electric excitement of the Exchange Event gradually settled, the day arrived for the parents—specifically, the heads of the great noble houses—to take their leave.
In the Valdrain Empire, aristocrats formed distinct regional factions centered around their respective Great Lords. As a result, they had arrived together, and they would depart together. The capital and the academy were choked with colossal processions of family patriarchs, kin, retainers, and attendants, stretching on in an endless sea of carriages and banners.
"Take care, son! We'll see each other over the break!"
"Oh, my sweet child! Let me look at your face one last time before we go."
"Eat your meals properly, study your swordsmanship with diligence, and write to us at least once a week!"
Torn between the lingering warmth of reunion and the bitter pang of parting, parents offered tearful farewells. The professors watching this spectacle, however, shared a single, unanimous thought.
Please, just leave already.
Finally, sweet liberation.
They harassed us all day long... Sweet heavens, I nearly died from all those consultations.
Naturally, consultations had not been confined to the first-year class. There were second years, third years, fourth years, and even fifth and sixth years. Since it wasn't just the parents of tournament competitors who had attended, the faculty had spent the entire week following the Exchange Event trapped in endless, grueling interviews.
If it had merely been routine consultation, it might have been bearable. But an alarming number of parents threw shameless tantrums. A noble title did not automatically confer grace or dignity, and when parental devotion took the wheel, rational judgment was inevitably the first thing thrown out the window.
Why did every single house head have to come in person? Ugh, seriously!
Resentful glares from the exhausted professors bored into two men in particular: Amos Kundel and Darren Rihardt. The moment those two declared they were attending the Exchange Event, every house head across the entire empire had scrambled to follow suit! The ripple effects had extended far beyond the academy's walls. Taking full advantage of their trip to the capital, countless nobles had sought imperial audiences or conducted high-stakes political and commercial negotiations.
Not that the faculty cared about any of that, of course.
And none of them had the faintest idea that the two titans of the realm had made the journey solely because of Ziel.
Said Ziel was currently cornered.
"Are your thoughts still unchanged, Instructor Ziel?"
"As I have stated before, I have no interest."
"Haha, very well. Then I shall return soon with an offer you cannot refuse."
Amos Kundel was once again trying to recruit him.
Naturally, to the eyes of the watching professors, the scene took on a completely different hue.
He looks so intimate with the head of House Kundel... Did he already secure a patron line?
Instructor Ziel truly is a terrifying man.
His martial skills are absurd enough, but his political networking is just as frightening...
Nearby, Elkanto clenched his fists, lost in his own frantic calculations. Instructor Ziel is my only salvation now. He had completely burned his bridges with Professor Marchen just above him during the Exchange Event. Now, Ziel was truly the only anchor he had left.
"Oh my, look at this! You've already started chatting without me! Hahaha!"
Right on cue, Darren Rihardt strode over, wearing a broad, beaming smile.
"Instructor Ziel, write to me whenever you wish. Our family's gates are always open to you."
"Should anything unusual occur regarding student Celia Rihardt, I will contact you, Lord Darren Rihardt."
The exchange sparked fresh waves of envy among the onlookers.
Instructor Ziel, huh... I should pull him aside later for a chat. No, wait, should I go to his office instead?
The department head already seems utterly smitten with him, too...
A meteoric rise. In the span of a few days, Ziel had become the most sought-after figure in the entire Sword School. Amos and Darren in particular had zero intention of backing down.
Ziel himself, however, could not have cared less.
He possessed only one objective: to maintain this mundane cover identity, protect his current post, and settle into a peaceful, ordinary life. Transferring elsewhere had never crossed his mind for a single second. Yet, completely oblivious to this, the two patriarchs remained feverishly determined to lure him away.
"So, tell me, what magnificent offer did the esteemed head of House Kundel table this time?"
"Haha, surely you wouldn't expect me to disclose that, Lord Rihardt?"
"Come now, why guard it like some state secret? Did you promise to rip the marble pillars straight out of your estate for him or something?"
"Oh? I was under the impression that you had already offered him your own roof, Lord Rihardt. Was I mistaken?"
Behind them, the personal escort knights of both lords let out deep, synchronized sighs, their expressions identical in long-suffering resignation.
Not everyone was sighing, however.
"Haha, look at those lords clinging to Instructor Ziel. They won't let him go."
Berhal watched the spectacle with an amused chuckle. Yet beneath his hearty tone lay sharp calculation. It looks like he's chosen to stay, at least for now.
From what Berhal could discern, Ziel had turned down every proposal. While he couldn't fathom why an instructor would reject the astronomical wealth of the Great Lords, the fact that Ziel was staying was an unbelievable stroke of fortune for the Sword School.
I need to push his incentive bonus through immediately.
True talent demanded fitting compensation. The recent Exchange Event had been an unprecedented triumph, and Ziel had played the decisive role in engineering that victory. Of course, Berhal didn't intend to stop at a mere cash bonus. Though plans were still being finalized, he intended to present an exceptionally enticing proposal the moment the paperwork cleared.
Having Instructor Ziel stay put is already a massive blessing. Truly.
With Dakeus disgraced and dismissed, the department had been hanging by a thread. If Ziel—who possessed the absolute devotion of the first-year class and the fierce respect of their parents—had walked out, the fallout would have been unthinkable. Replacements were easy enough to hire, but...
No one on this continent could replicate Instructor Ziel's results.
Berhal's ambition was clear: to restore the Sword School to its former glory. It was the sole mission that had reignited the fire in an old commander who had once intended to live out his retirement in quiet obscurity. The Academy Head had personally requested his return, but ultimately, Berhal had taken the post out of deep, personal duty to his alma mater.
A sense of duty answering a sense of duty. How wonderful.
Berhal was utterly convinced that Ziel had chosen to stay out of that exact same noble calling. Whatever the case, Ziel was indispensable to his grand design. And above all, the first-year class under Ziel's care would undoubtedly become...
"A golden generation."
"Pardon?"
"That is what they will become."
Elkanto blinked in confusion at the abrupt remark, but comprehension dawned a heartbeat later. Yes! Instructor Ziel truly is the answer! His resolve hardened further. Ziel was the only lifeline he would ever need.
"Ah, by the way, Professor Elkanto."
"Yes, Department Head!"
"There is work to be done."
"Entrust me with anything, Department Head!" Elkanto answered, his voice bursting with eager vigor.
That vigor instantly withered into dust with Berhal's next words.
"Now that the Exchange Event is behind us, we must prepare for the Field Training. This year, the first years will be participating."
"The first years as well?"
"Yes. The regulations governing Field Training were amended this year. The Arcane School formally petitioned for their first years to join, and our administration agreed to match them."
The next major pillar of the academic calendar: Field Training. Elkanto could already feel a migraine throbbing against his temples. It seemed there wouldn't be a single moment to catch his breath.
Berhal, however, held a distinctly different perspective.
"The Arcane School's first years are entering the field... Don't you think our golden generation of the Sword School will deliver quite the performance?"
Bribery disguised as parental gifts. Aggressive scouting offers. Relentless interview requests.
After navigating through the chaotic aftermath of the Exchange Event, Ziel finally found a moment of peace.
"Your account shows a total balance of one hundred and two thousand, five hundred cel."
"Could you repeat that?"
"A total balance of one hundred and two thousand, five hundred cel has been confirmed."
Ziel stood before a counter at the Imperial Bank's academy branch, his brow furrowing slightly.
"My monthly salary is two thousand, five hundred cel."
The balance was far too large. He wondered if some administrative error had occurred.
"Checking the sender's details... Yes, the entire sum was transferred directly from the Academy Office of Academic Affairs."
Thump!
Ziel's heart gave a sudden, heavy jolt.
The incentive bonus.
It was the exact term Berhal had mentioned. According to the academy's faculty bylaws and payroll regulations, extraordinary achievements or special circumstances entitled an instructor to supplementary payments known as incentives. Which meant...
"It seems your performance this term was exceptional. Congratulations, sir."
His results in the Exchange Event had been formally recognized.
So doing well brings in substantial sums of money.
Proper compensation for merit. At that moment, a brand-new concept of civilian economics took root in Ziel's mind. Of course, the scale of the reward was largely due to the sheer, unprecedented magnitude of his victory, but to Ziel, the conclusion was far simpler.
"Please withdraw thirty thousand cel."
This meant he could buy significantly more chicken skewers.
A few moments later, several heavy canvas pouches were placed into his hands.
"We can also convert this into bank drafts guaranteed by the Imperial Bank. Would you prefer that? They come in minimum denominations of one thousand cel."
Ziel agreed, and the cumbersome weight vanished, replaced by a neat stack of thirty paper drafts totaling thirty thousand cel.
If I need more later, I can simply withdraw it again.
"Thank you."
As he turned to leave, hushed murmurs drifted from behind the counter.
"He comes in about once a month, doesn't he?"
"Haven't you heard? That instructor is wildly popular with the high nobility right now. They say his teaching ability is miraculous."
"Really?"
"Still, the base pay for an elective lecturer is terribly meager. Only two thousand five hundred cel, can you believe it?"
The tellers chatted in low, curious tones, but none of it registered with Ziel. Or rather, he heard every word with his sharp senses, but chose to ignore it entirely. His thoughts were consumed by a singular, radiant purpose.
Chicken skewers.
And jellies.
With this much capital, he could feast every day—no, every hour for an entire month—without making a dent in his funds. Having grown up in an underworld where money was merely a tool for contracts, Ziel had yet to grasp the concept of personal savings.
Student Celia Rihardt once mentioned that there are far more delicious foods outside the academy gates.
Had he known only the flavor of grilled skewered meat, Ziel would have marched straight toward the nearest stall without a second thought. But having crossed the threshold into the glorious realm of fruit jellies, his eyes had been opened to the vast possibilities of the culinary world.
Mint chocolate had tasted dreadful, of course. It felt like something concocted by a demon from the lowest depths of hell. But the wider world held countless other wonders.
I need to make preparations for the field training as well, so leaving the grounds is appropriate.
Earlier that morning, Professor Elkanto had mentioned the upcoming wilderness expedition. Ziel decided to use this opportunity to inspect useful equipment and provisions that might assist the students.
This will be my second excursion into the city.
The first had been to secure treatment for Yurio's breathing technique. Now, Ziel stepped through the grand academy gates once more, walking into the capital proper.
The capital of the Valdrain Empire was divided into fifty administrative districts, a layout established roughly a century prior during an empire-wide zoning reform.
Ten of these sectors bordered the Imperial Palace at the heart of the city, naturally coalescing into an ultra-luxurious aristocratic haven. Surrounding that inner circle were fifteen middle-tier sectors inhabited by prosperous merchants, artisans, and affluent citizens. Edelbein Academy occupied a sprawling estate within this secondary ring.
Ziel, however, directed his steps toward the remaining twenty-five districts extending behind the academy grounds. These were the stomping grounds of the common folk, though several sectors were notorious slums overrun by poverty and squalor. In these lower districts, the destitute vastly outnumbered ordinary laborers. Furthermore, Sectors 40 through 50 were the absolute territory of the Robson Family, a ruthless underworld syndicate.
It was midday, and the paved thoroughfares were bustling with heavy foot traffic. Watching the vibrant flow of people, Ziel felt a curious sensation stir within his chest.
It looks entirely different from how I saw it as an assassin.
To an assassin, a crowded street was merely a terrain feature that exponentially raised the probability of a successful hit and a clean escape. It was tactical data, nothing more and nothing less. But walking among them as an ordinary instructor, the scene held an entirely new texture.
"Mom, Mommy! I want that one!"
"No, dear. Your father will be home soon, so let's hurry along."
"Step right up, take a look! Cheap goods, finest quality in the district!"
Families shared warm laughter, peddlers strained their vocal cords to advertise their wares, ragged beggars huddled along stone corners, and scrappy children wove through the throng with breathless giggles.
"So this is what it looks like," Ziel murmured softly to himself as he walked the sunlit avenue.
A rich, savory aroma suddenly caught his acute sense of smell.
"Ah."
He followed the scent to a roadside stall displaying golden fried dough.
"Welcome, young master, welcome! What can I get for you? Fresh out of the boiling oil, crisp and piping hot!"
A massive iron cauldron bubbled with sizzling oil, packed to the brim with plump, round pastries frying to a deep golden hue.
"What does this taste like?"
"Heavenly, sir, simply heavenly! It's an authentic recipe from the Ersh nomads across the frontier. I traded for the secret during my travels, and now I'm the only man in the capital who makes them!"
The Ersh were wandering tribes who roamed beyond the empire's borders. It was a delicacy from very far away. The fragrant, mouthwatering scent proved impossible to resist.
"Give me one, please."
"Right away, sir! Two pieces for one cel... Huh?"
A sudden, awkward obstacle brought the transaction to a grinding halt.
"Uh... sir? Customer? We can't possibly make change for this."
Ziel had casually proffered a bank draft worth one thousand cel for a one-cel pastry.
"And besides, folk like us don't take paper drafts. Street vendors can't just waltz into an imperial branch to cash these."
The stallkeeper sighed, shaking his head. He had wondered why such a striking, handsome young man was wandering through these rough parts; clearly, he was some sheltered son of a wealthy household who had ventured out without the faintest grasp of how commoners lived.
Why would someone like that come down here anyway? Is playing commoner some new noble fad?
"Good grief, young master, tuck that paper away this instant. Someone's going to see it, and you'll find yourself in terrible trouble."
Unmatched looks paired with brandishing large-denomination drafts in broad daylight was practically an open invitation for a dagger in the ribs. Completely oblivious to the danger, Ziel calmly tucked the draft back into his pocket.
"Then how am I supposed to purchase the food?"
"Well, you'll need to go find some actual coins..."
"I only have drafts."
"...Why don't you try the money exchange down the street? And just so you know, unless you're in the central noble districts, nobody out here in the outer ring is going to accept paper money."
Ziel absorbed this new piece of civil knowledge with a slight nod, his eyes tracing the direction the stallkeeper indicated toward a weathered exchange house.
Next time, I should carry physical coins alongside drafts.
As he turned on his heel and walked down the avenue, four stealthy silhouettes detached themselves from the roadside shadows, trailing his wake.
"He's heading toward the exchange, boss."
"We take him in the alley before he gets there. Today's our lucky day, boys."
This was the outer rim of the capital, teeming with desperate wretches and cutpurses who survived by scraping the gutter—men exactly like these four. Moving with practiced, predatory stealth, they fanned out.
"Hit him all at once."
"Got it, boss."
The moment Ziel stepped into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, two men blocked his path from the front while the other two sealed the exit behind him.
"You know how this goes, pretty boy. Hand over everything you've got nice and quiet. We're with the Robson Family. Ring any bells?"
"I know of them."
"Then this'll be quick and painless."
Shring.
The leader drew a notched dagger. But before he could even brandish it, Ziel spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone.
"I hear metallic jingling from your coat."
"...What?"
"It sounds like you have small change."
"What the hell are you babbling about?!"
Whoosh!
The jagged blade slashed through the air, aimed deliberately close to Ziel's throat to terrify him into submission. A routine mugging, meant to intimidate—
"Urgh?!"
CRASH!
The thug's body was hoisted violently into the air and slammed into the stone pavement with bone-crushing force. He had no earthly idea what had just transpired. He had thrust his dagger, only for an irresistible grip to clamp onto his wrist and drive him earthward in a single, fluid motion.
"Why are you attacking me?"
Ziel's voice drifted down, laced with genuine, mild perplexity.
"Is it wrong to ask if you have change?"
"You bastard—!"
THUD!
The second thug charged, only to have his skull driven directly into the dirt. Two men down in less than two seconds.
The remaining two frozen thugs exchanged terrified glances.
"R-Run! We gotta run!"
Years of street survival screamed the obvious truth into their skulls: this man was a monster. They couldn't win. They had to bolt—
"Guh!"
"Aaargh!"
They never even managed to turn around. Two swift strikes sent them sprawling across the cobbles.
All four lay subdued. One was completely unconscious, while the other three trembled violently in the dirt. Ziel looked down at them with an impassive expression.
"I will ask again. Do you have change?"
"Y-Yes! We do! We have change!" one thug shrieked frantically, thrusting his trembling hands into his coat. He hauled out seven copper-alloy ten-cel coins. "H-Here...!"
"That is only seventy cel. Do you not have nine hundred and thirty cel more?"
"Huh?!"
The thug nearly lost his mind. Nine hundred and thirty cel?! Where the hell would street rats like us get nearly a thousand cel?!
We picked the wrong target... We're dead. We're totally screwed!
The other two desperately turned their pockets inside out, dumping every coin they possessed onto the ground. But even pooling their meager savings amounted to barely one hundred and fifty cel. They hastily rifled through the pockets of their unconscious comrade, scraping together an absolute grand total of two hundred cel.
"T-This is really all we have, sir... Every last coin..."
"You are still eight hundred cel short."
Cold sweat drenched their spines.
He's serious! He's really going to kill us over this!
Panic triggered instant internal betrayal.
"Hey! You kept a pouch hidden in your underwear!"
"You bastard! Shut your mouth!"
"Pull it out, damn you! Do you want us all to die?!"
A moment later, Ziel's brow twitched faintly. A slightly pungent, foul-smelling pouch was thrust forward, containing ten ten-cel coins. That brought the total to three hundred cel.
Still insufficient.
Ziel stared down at the pile. He held a one-thousand-cel draft. He had intended to break it into coins, but he could hardly trade a thousand-cel note for a mere three hundred cel.
"Do you have no more?"
"N-No, none! That's really everything, we swear! Please, just take that and let us go...!"
"That will not do."
Tears welled in the thugs' eyes as they broke down entirely.
"P-Please! We were wrong! We're sorry! We'll live honest lives from now on, we swear on our mothers!"
"What does living an honest life have to do with this transaction?"
A cold-blooded psycho! They had run straight into an unhinged demon!
"W-We're giving you all the money! Just take it! Please, spare our lives!"
Watching them kowtow with their foreheads pressed against the grime, Ziel tilted his head curiously.
"Are you bad people?"
He had asked to exchange one thousand cel, yet they offered him only three hundred and begged him to accept it. In other words, they intended to keep seven hundred cel of his money for themselves.
"Yes! We're bad people! Scum of the earth!"
"Terrible, filthy trash, sir!"
"Completely useless vermin!"
Hearing their immediate confession, Ziel nodded in grim understanding. They had openly admitted their malice.
"Then that settles it."
"P-Please, mercy—!"
"I will take this money."
"...Pardon?"
"Because you are bad people."
The thugs blinked dumbly, their brains short-circuiting.
He's taking the money and letting us live?
What kind of insane logic is this conversation following?
Regardless of the reasoning, the sweet scent of survival washed over them.
"T-Thank you! Thank you so much! We'll live properly from now on!"
"We'll work hard, sir!"
Ziel nodded placidly, tucking the three hundred cel into his coat. He now had small change.
I no longer need to visit the exchange house.
Three hundred cel was enough to purchase three hundred fried pastries. While he had originally planned to trade a full thousand-cel draft, these men were wicked criminals who had willingly surrendered their coin, so taking it presented no moral contradiction.
Is this what the books describe as 'unearned income'?
Recalling a financial term he had read in a civics text, Ziel paused and looked back down at the three trembling men.
"Ah, I have one question."
"Yes! Anything! Ask us anything, boss!"
"Is there a shop nearby that sells wilderness exploration gear?"
It was an entirely unexpected inquiry, but one thug nodded with furious enthusiasm.
"Yes! Absolutely! We know the best shop around!"
"Is that so? Then lead the way."
"Right away, sir!"
An explosive surge of motivation coursed through the thugs. To stay alive, they would guide him to the ends of the continent if necessary.
And so, an unlikely companionship was forged between an instructor from Edelbein Academy and three battered underworld ruffians.
"You bastards... my money... where did my money go...?"
Excluding, of course, the fourth man, who had only just groaned back to consciousness in the dirt.