Chapter 77: Still No Clue (3)
Chapter 77: Still No Clue (3)
The morning sun rose with a dazzling brilliance.
With a sharp shing, the curtains were pulled back, and radiant morning light flooded into the room.
"Uuuugh..."
As if he hated the sunlight, Patrick pulled the blanket over his head and curled into a ball. However...
"Young Master. You have classes to attend, don't you?"
"Mmm... Why? I'm under suspension."
"Your suspension ended as of yesterday. You must participate in classes starting today."
"Huh? Really?"
Patrick blearily opened his eyes and sat up.
Standing before him was April, dressed in a crisp maid’s uniform, holding his school uniform.
"Ah, I wanted to rest a bit more."
"Please wash up and get ready. I will prepare breakfast."
"Tsk, can't be helped, I guess."
Regrettably, his honey-sweet suspension was over.
During his time off, he had spent his days lounging around the dormitory and his nights at the pub run by Red, drinking free booze and living the high life.
Was a suspension supposed to be like that?
Of course not.
It was only possible because it was this guy.
Regardless, Patrick washed up, ate the breakfast April had prepared, and headed out for class.
As he left, April bowed politely behind him.
"Keep the trouble to a minimum, Young Master."
"Got it."
Shouldn't she be telling me not to cause any trouble at all?
The number of first-year students at the Academy had decreased slightly.
Due to the incident Patrick caused, Royist had become a shell of a man, and about half of those who followed him had yet to return.
Originally, there were about a hundred first-years.
If they had been lined up in ten rows of ten, the formation would have been perfectly square, but now there were gaps scattered here and there. And...
"Oh, what's this? Do I have to stand in line too?"
A figure appeared late, tossing out a comment while everyone else was already lined up.
It was Patrick.
The professor looked at him and asked, "Are you Patrick Schneider?"
"Yeah. And who are you, Professor?"
"I am Grant, a professor of the Knight Department."
Patrick looked at the arrogant professor with a bored expression.
"Oh, really? Mornin' then..."
"..."
It was a greeting that seemed to say, O spirits of all the slackers in the world, lend me your strength.
'Is this guy really an aspiring knight?'
No matter how he looked at it, the boy seemed to have taken a wrong turn in life.
The professor cleared his throat and continued.
"Ahem. Go stand in the back. Class will begin shortly."
"Yessir..."
Patrick moved as instructed with a sluggish gait. Every single action he took was grating, but the professor merely frowned.
"Patrick, you shouldn't get on the professor's bad side."
"Huh? You're..."
Coincidentally, the spot where Patrick stood in line was right behind someone he knew.
"Matt?"
"It's Matthew."
"Right, Stew. Good to see ya."
"..."
Matthew hung his head with a sorrowful expression.
At this point, it was clear Patrick had no intention of remembering his name.
Just then, the professor spoke.
"Today, we will have sparring practice with upperclassmen. The second and third-years will be your opponents."
The students' faces lit up with excitement at the professor's words.
There was much to learn from sparring with seniors.
Furthermore, second and third-years at the Academy were clearly stronger than they were.
As the professor finished speaking, a group of people appeared from one side of the training grounds.
Those in blue uniforms were the second-years, and those in purple were the third-years.
The first-years in their white uniforms grew tense at the appearance of their seniors.
The Knight Department was famous for its strict hierarchy between seniors and juniors.
"But there are fewer third-years than second-years. Is it always like that?"
Except for Patrick, of course.
The other first-years looked at him as if to say, 'You don't even know that?'
But Patrick glared back with eyes that said, 'What are you looking at, you punks? Eyes down.'
Then, Matthew whispered in a small voice.
"The Academy's advancement exams are difficult. That's why the number of students decreases as the grade level goes up."
"Ah, is that so?"
Now that he thought about it, he felt like he had heard something like that before.
Only a tiny fraction of Academy students actually graduated; most were said to drop out at an appropriate time after repeatedly failing the advancement exams.
Even if they dropped out midway, they were already treated as excellent talents in society, so it wasn't particularly shameful.
As a result, there were currently fifty second-years.
And only about thirty third-years.
The fourth and fifth-years were away on separate training journeys outside the Academy.
Patrick looked at the second and third-years with a bored expression, then his eyes twinkled slightly.
"Hey, Stew."
"It's Matthew."
"Whatever. Who's that woman standing at the front of the third-years—mph!"
"Hey, hey, hey! Shhh!"
Matthew hurriedly covered Patrick's mouth.
Then, he whispered in a voice so low it was like he was crawling.
"You can't speak so carelessly. That is Princess Isabella."
"Mmph? Mmph-mmph?"
"Yes. A Princess. Do you understand? Aack!"
Patrick bit Matthew's finger.
"Ptooey. How long were you going to keep your hand there?"
"That hurts..."
"Look at this 'knight' whining. What are you going to do if a monster bites you?"
"I'm bleeding, though?"
"So what?"
"Never mind. It's nothing..."
Matthew slumped his shoulders.
It seemed this new friend of his was quite far from normal.
Still, even if he was a strange friend, a friend was a friend, and he couldn't just let him commit Lèse-majesté out of ignorance, could he?
Meanwhile, Patrick looked at the Princess and thought:
'If she's a Princess, she's royalty, right? Since I'm a noble... Wait, do I have to be loyal to her? Me? Jincheon, the Radiant Dragon Hero? Loyalty?'
He had to.
That was the destined hierarchy between one born into a landed noble family in a feudal society and one born as royalty.
In principle, that was correct. It was correct, but...
'...Me?'
From Patrick's perspective, this was bound to cause resistance.
In his past life, Patrick was a man of the martial world.
Many things defined the identity of a martial artist, but the most famous among them was the unwritten rule that the government and the martial world do not interfere with each other.
A man of the martial world didn't go crying to the magistrate just because he got stabbed somewhere.
The government, for its part, ignored the sword-fights between martial artists as long as the commoners weren't involved—or rather, as long as they weren't involved in large numbers.
Consequently, to martial artists, officials were people to be viewed like a cow looking at a chicken—with total indifference.
As for the Emperor or the Imperial Family, they were merely concepts that 'existed somewhere.'
But now that he was reborn, what do you know?
He was a noble.
He was in a position where he had to swear loyalty to royalty from birth.
Until now, he had been a minor noble from the countryside, so he hadn't had any dealings with royalty.
But at this moment, a real royal was right before his eyes.
Someone he would naturally have to serve if he intended to live as a noble in this world.
'Serve? Me? Who? Royalty? Me?'
Patrick had never served anyone in his entire past life.
If he had to say, his Master was the closest thing to that, but strictly speaking, serving and following were different, weren't they?
Whether it was the leader of a prestigious orthodox sect or the Alliance Leader of the Martial Arts Alliance, if they got on his nerves, he would just...
[Come here! You punks.]
[A problem? A probleeeem? Let me personally teach you how I solve most of the world's problems!]
[Die! Die! Die!]
That was how he had been.
And now, that Patrick was supposed to swear loyalty to someone?
This was a major event that shook his very identity to its core.
"Ugh... Well, I'll watch and then decide."
"Decide what?"
"None of your business."
Patrick stared intently at the woman called the Princess.
As if he were appraising her.
Isabella Black Atronia.
Black hair and pale skin.
Combined with her mysterious silver eyes, she created a fantastical atmosphere.
She was clad in a knight's uniform rather than a dress and held a sword instead of jewels, but her beauty was not diminished in the slightest.
If anything, she looked even more haughty and beautiful.
The expressions of the first-years looking at her were dazed, as if they were enchanted.
"I'd heard the rumors, but..."
"The rumors didn't do her justice. To think she'd be this beautiful."
"Indeed, no wonder her fame as the kingdom's greatest beauty has spread so far."
"I heard a member of the Imperial Family even proposed to her once."
Hearing the first-years whispering, Patrick smirked.
'Kingdom's greatest beauty, my foot.'
In the end, this was just like the martial world.
When a fairly pretty girl was born into a powerful family, people would say she was the prettiest in the region.
As a result, the title of "Greatest Beauty Under Heaven" was always something the kids from prestigious orthodox sects took turns holding.
"Uuuugh... You filthy orthodox sect bastards, did you have to hog everything to feel satisfied?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing."
"...?"
"Anyway, those prestigious orthodox types are just full of greed. Those Emei Sect girls, they're supposed to be serving the Buddha, so why do they care so much about their looks? What does being pretty have to do with the Buddha? This is all..."
Patrick grumbled on and on.
Matthew wouldn't understand, but right now, Patrick was venting his rage against the tyranny of the prestigious orthodox sects of the martial world, who insisted on keeping all the good things for themselves.
Never mind that his own wife had been the First Flower of Sichuan.
While Patrick was continuing his solitary struggle against the absurdities and pettiness of the martial world's orthodox sects...
A third-year approached and spoke.
"Are you Patrick Schneider?"
"Beat it, man. Unless you want to die."
"...?"
"Ah, sorry. What did you say?"
The third-year looked at him with a bewildered expression and said, "I am Luon, a third-year."
"Ah, right."
"It's time for sparring, but you don't seem to have an opponent."
"I guess not. Are you going to be my opponent, Senior?"
At Patrick's words, the third-year named Luon nodded and said, "Come this way."
"Yessir. Man, what a pain."
"..."
Seeing Patrick's expression, which genuinely looked like he couldn't be bothered, Luon thought:
'What kind of guy is this?'
He had truly never seen someone like this before.
It was the custom of the Knight Academy to at least pretend to be obedient when a senior gave an order.
But what was with this guy?
Luon frowned and said sternly, "Do you not know that a senior's orders are absolute during class?"
"Really?"
"...Did you seriously not know?"
"How should I know? No one taught me."
And what would I do with that information anyway?
At Patrick's expression, the third-year let out a groan and pressed his fingers against his eyes.
If the professor weren't watching, he would have loved to have a go at him right then and there.
But he couldn't.
'Patience. Let's just be patient.'
His job was to bring this arrogant and bizarre first-year over.
"Just follow me."
"Yessir. Got it."
With an attitude that clearly screamed, 'I don't want to go, but I'll go just this once,' Patrick followed him to a corner of the training grounds.
Other third-years were already sparring with first-years.
"Slow! Move your feet! Your feet!"
"Yes!"
"Don't take your eyes off the sword! Focus!"
"Yes! Understood!"
The juniors learned from seniors who were more skilled than them, and the seniors solidified their foundations by reviewing their own techniques through the process of teaching.
In that sense, instructional sparring between students was extremely useful.
Provided the intentions were pure, that is.
"Jordic. I brought him."
"Good work. Now step aside."
Luon brought Patrick before someone and then slipped away.
And before Patrick could say anything, the opponent who had been waiting stood up and spoke.
"Are you Patrick Schneider?"
At that sight, Patrick let out a sigh.
'I knew it.'