Chapter 82: Shall We Drop the Formalities and Fight? (2)
Chapter 82: Shall We Drop the Formalities and Fight? (2)
Jincheon, the Radiant Dragon Hero.
As his name suggested, he was a madman. There was no doubt about it.
He was a certified lunatic recognized by the Orthodox, Unorthodox, and Demonic factions alike, but…
He didn’t solve everything in the world through madness alone.
Patrick often said:
[Most problems in the world can be solved by beating the crap out of them!]
He meant it.
However, the keyword here was "most." He never used the word "all."
Even Patrick knew that, occasionally, power, madness, and violence failed to resolve a situation.
In those moments, his friend, the Dragon-Chasing Scholar Zhuge Hyeon, would usually lend him his wisdom.
If he followed that friend’s advice, most tangled and complex problems were either solved or, at the very least, temporarily patched up.
After watching this process unfold beside him countless times, Patrick had learned to mimic it, much like a school dog learns to recite poetry after three years.
As the ugly fellow once said:
To divert the eyes of those in power, create a third enemy. It’s even better if that enemy’s identity is vague.
That was why he had intentionally sent Professor Late to offer a deal, making it seem as though someone was pulling the strings from behind.
In the process, returning the Ice Sword, Isis, was a teeeeeeeeeeny bit of a waste, but it couldn't be helped.
‘I looked into it, and it’s a difficult item to fence as stolen goods anyway.’
When he had asked Red if he could exchange it for cash, Red had nearly flipped, telling Patrick he’d rather be killed than try.
Indeed, Isis was too famous.
Such a renowned item was valuable, yes, but it was also a white elephant that was nearly impossible to dispose of quietly.
Keeping a treasure that was difficult to liquidate would only lead to more trouble.
In the end, he had used it boldly as a tool to blind Marquis Panola.
The Marquis would likely wonder why the person behind Professor Late had so readily returned Isis, but he would never arrive at the conclusion: “Because it’s hard to turn into cash.”
Even for a seasoned politician, reading the mind of a madman was no easy feat.
Patrick spoke with a smirk.
“Anyway, you don’t need to worry about it. Come to think of it, it’s about time for the professor to come and report.”
“Huh?”
Why would a professor report to anyone?
To a student?
Matthew felt like the hierarchy had been destructively inverted.
He couldn't help but reach a rational conclusion.
‘Has he finally lost it?’
He was right… technically.
Unfortunately, sometimes crazy things actually happened.
Like right now.
Knock, knock.
A voice came from outside the door along with the knocking.
“Schneider, are you inside?”
“Yes. Come in.”
The person who entered was Professor Late.
The strictest, most tiger-like professor in the Knight Department.
In terms of skill, reputation, and temperament, he was on a completely different level from the other professors.
Matthew froze the moment he walked in.
Patrick was currently under confinement.
If the professor saw them together like this, a thunderous scolding was bound to follow, given Professor Late’s personality.
No, it shouldn't just be "bound to"—it was a certainty. And yet…
“You were here too, Matthew.”
“A-Ah… Hello, Professor.”
Professor Late simply gave a normal greeting.
From Matthew’s perspective, even that was enough to make his voice tremble with nerves.
Patrick spoke without a care.
“Did you handle the matter well?”
“I did as you said.”
“And? How did it go?”
“Heh heh… Words can’t describe it.”
“Heheheh… It looks like it was quite satisfying.”
“Hahahaha! You should have seen that bastard Marquis Panola’s face.”
“Mwahahaha!”
“Puhahaha!”
Professor Late laughed with genuine catharsis.
The look on Marquis Panola’s face when he saw the Aura Blade; the way he grew tense at every word, his brain spinning frantically; and that final moment when he froze in pure terror at the mention of “That Person”…
“Ah, it felt like a decade-old blockage finally cleared.”
“Kuuu… You shouldn't let things stay blocked for ten years. You have to clear them within a week at most.”
“Mm, you’re right.”
“Right? Then shall we have a toast?”
“Sounds good.”
Patrick went to a corner, pulled out some alcohol, and poured three glasses, including one for Matthew.
“……”
Alcohol in the Knight Department dorms?
In front of a professor, no less?
While under confinement?
Matthew didn't even know where to begin addressing the problems here.
Should he blame the student who kept booze in his room?
Or should he curse the professor who was happily accepting a drink?
Wait, more importantly, why was he even here?
“Cheers!”
“Cheeeers!”
Watching the two of them, Matthew had a thought for the first time—one he hadn't even had during all of Royist’s bullying.
‘I want to go home.’
*
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m serious.”
“Let me ask again. Really? For real? No BS, is this 120% your own will?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Patrick looked at his friend Matthew with a dubious expression.
“So you’re asking me to train you.”
“Yeah. Please.”
“Hmm… This is a bit much.”
Patrick pondered.
His confinement had just ended, and just as he was about to start a normal academy life, he received this request from a friend.
“Is it not possible?”
“It’s not that it’s impossible. It’s just…”
Patrick’s expertise lay mostly in destructive acts—beating, breaking, and killing.
If the priests who served Kalaron, the God of Destruction, saw him, they would marvel, saying, “Oh, what a devout believer we have here.”
However, Patrick had one other specialty besides that…
“Teaching people actually happens to be my forte.”
Indeed. Surprisingly, this was the area where Patrick’s true value shone.
In his past life, how much research had he done to overhaul the foundation of the Twin Dragon Sect’s notoriously difficult martial arts for the sake of his talentless juniors and disciples?
The reason he had traveled around, visiting the Nine Great Sects and the Five Great Families to request (threaten) them for a glimpse of their techniques, was all to somehow normalize the absurdly difficult Twin Dragon Sect’s Unique Martial Art.
And ironically, the results of that research had blossomed across the world’s boundaries, right in the soldiers of the Schneider fief.
Raising two hundred 3-Star level soldiers within five years.
That was an actual achievement Patrick had accomplished.
Honestly, it would be far more efficient to fire all the academy professors and give their combined salaries to Patrick to handle the students.
So, he could teach.
He could teach very well.
Setting aside the feast of pain and hell implied by the word “well,” he was confident he could produce firm results.
“It’s going to be a bit tough if you train under me. Are you okay with that?”
A bit? A biiiiit?
If the soldiers back in the Eastern Schneider fief had heard this, they would have collapsed, coughing up blood.
But the wealthy young master, ignorant of reality, spoke with sparkling eyes.
“It’s only natural for it to be tough. That’s what I’m hoping for.”
“Oh, I like that attitude.”
And so, a poor little lamb walked into hell on its own two feet.
To teach someone, one must first know their current standing.
Patrick engaged in a simple spar to gauge Matthew’s current level.
“Haaah!”
Clack. Cl-clack! Clack.
Wooden swords clashed fiercely in the training ground.
Matthew lunged at Patrick, drenched in sweat, while Patrick silently parried the attacks.
For thirty minutes, he tested Matthew’s abilities and aptitudes in various ways—sometimes attacking, sometimes defending.
“Huff… huff… Well… how was it?”
As Matthew spoke between gasps for air, Patrick gave him a bright smile.
“Hey, buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you considered doing something other than being a knight?”
The results were in.
Matthew didn't have even a shred of talent.
Patrick was confident. He believed that even if someone wasn't a genius, as long as they had average talent, he could raise them to at least 3-Star level through a proper amount of hell and reasonable hazing.
But the thing was…
‘Wow… this is serious.’
There truly wasn't a speck of talent for the sword to be found.
No, how was this even possible?
This was the Knight Department of the Royal Academy, a place with fierce competition for admission.
To get in here, shouldn't one have been recognized as a talent through some sort of exam?
And yet, Matthew’s state was dire.
“How did you even get into the academy?”
“…Well…”
Seeing Matthew hesitate, Patrick spoke as if everything finally made sense.
“Did you donate a whole building to the Knight Department or something?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“The Administration Department library, the Law Faculty archives… and the Diplomacy Department cafe…”
“Real something to be proud of.”
Tsk. What a beautiful world where money solved everything.
Patrick let out a sigh.
Why was this guy, who had such an absurd amount of money, so desperate to swing a sword?
If Patrick had been born in Matthew’s environment, he wouldn't have even touched a blade.
Power? If you have enough money, you can command ghosts—why bother with living warriors?
In the first place, why was the son of the wealthiest man in the kingdom letting himself get bullied?
“…Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking, ‘Why does this guy live like this?’”
“You have zero talent, but your intuition is sharp as a tack.”
“……”
Matthew felt wounded, but Patrick didn't care.
He was deep in thought.
Was the time and effort required to turn this talentless hack into a functioning knight a fair price to pay for establishing a connection with the Elvador Merchant Group and prospering his family’s business?
‘Ugh, it’s definitely a gain, but…’
Money really was a wonderful thing.
It commanded ghosts, it commanded warriors, and it even commanded madmen.
Patrick made his decision.
“Fine. I’ll take responsibility and make sure you can call yourself a knight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really, really. I’m the man who dragged hundreds of people who didn't even know how to hold a sword up to 3-Star level.”
“Hahahaha.”
Matthew laughed, thinking it was a joke.
But he didn't know. Patrick could actually do it. Though, just how grueling that process would be was another matter entirely.
“In exchange, I have a favor.”
“Huh?”
“Introduce me to your father later. I have some business to discuss.”
“……”
“Is that a no?”
“No, no. It’s not that it’s a no…”
Matthew was flustered.
He wasn't slow; he could tell. He knew the reason Patrick was suddenly acting friendly was because of his family.
But this was…
‘Isn't this a bit too blatant? Is this how nobles usually act?’
It wasn't as if Matthew had never dealt with nobles targeting his family’s wealth before.
However, the way nobles approached him was always arrogant and coercive, looking down on him.
Royist, who used direct physical force, was a prime example. Even if they didn't use violence, most would subtly pressure him, implying that as a commoner, he must follow them as a noble.
But Patrick…
“Kuu, for real? You promised, okay? No backing out later.”
“……”
He had never met someone so blatant.
Weren't nobles supposed to value honor more than life and never lower their dignity before a commoner?
Patrick showed none of that.
Having lived his past life as the eldest disciple of a sect of beggars, Patrick knew.
Dignity and honor didn't put food on the table.
To survive, you needed money.
First and foremost, you needed money.
Dignity or honor that got in the way of making money didn't matter.
This was a fair trade. Patrick would teach Matthew the sword, and Matthew would introduce Patrick to his father—a mutually beneficial transaction.
“Hehehe. Then let’s start right today.”
“From today?”
“Ahem, time waits for no man. Every minute and second of this moment is precious.”
“Uh… yeah. I guess so.”
“Good. Then let’s get started. Hehehehe…”
Watching Patrick’s smile, Matthew tried his best to logically grasp the ominous reality.
‘This is a fair trade. Fair… it’ll be fair, right?’
Like hell it would.