The Final Semester - 3
The last break had been a glorious stretch of wandering about for Mar and First Snow—except Mar was not, in fact, a machine that ate around the clock, so the actual time spent out and about was modest. Two hours a day at most, no matter how long the days felt.
Thanks to that, I had been able to enjoy the kind of calm, unhurried rest the word vacation actually deserves. That did not mean I had spent the whole time without lifting a finger.
"This is material I compiled by cross-checking against local advice. Once this semester ends, it will be hard for me to help you further, so please take it as a token of my sincerity."
"Ah—no, you really didn't have to go this far..."
Notes on northern history, culture, and writing systems, put together in the spare moments of the break.
To anyone researching the North, it was the sort of material that might as well have been a treasure map. When I handed it over, Gerhardt stammered as if he had been genuinely moved.
"From the moment I decided to help you, Gerhardt, your research became my work as well. Of course I needed to do this much, didn't I?"
He looked so grateful that the giver could only smile. Gifts are made of the giver's care and the receiver's reaction—and by that measure, this one was perfect.
Moreover, the material was not built from my own memory and experience alone. Until now the North had been hostile ground, so I had had to rely on recollection. Now the North and the nomads were unmistakably part of the Empire. A single call through a communication orb would bring detailed explanations from more than a dozen grand lords of nomad origin.
They were all cooperative, too.
And the moment I mentioned "a teacher who has devoted his life to northern research," the grand lords cheerfully told me things I had not even asked. Nomads are people; it may simply have been goodwill and respect for a scholar studying them. But the grand lords, more than anyone, are the ones pushing the Empire-ization of the nomads—they want the North to become familiar ground for the Empire. The deeper imperial research into the North goes, the more they stand to gain.
Of course I had no intention of explaining any of that to Gerhardt. The fine print of motive rather spoils the charm.
"So please accept it. If it feels too heavy a burden, think of it not as satisfying a personal thirst for knowledge, but as something received for the Empire's peace and prosperity."
"Truly—truly, thank you! A lifetime would not be enough, but someday I will repay this kindness without fail!"
With that little speech of goodwill added, Gerhardt bowed at a flawless ninety degrees.
The vow to repay the debt, delivered mid-bow, was impressive in its own right. If even half the people on the continent were half as decent as Gerhardt, the place would overflow with nothing but laughter.
It would be a shame to leave a connection like this where it is.
A small desire stirred deep in my chest—the perfectly natural wish to keep a fine talent, intelligence and character both, close at hand.
Yes. Perfectly natural. When people were already scooping up fresh Academy graduates still green behind the ears, a seasoned Academy instructor went without saying.
Besides, as faction leader of the northern faction, simply letting go of a man who had poured his life into northern research would have been a failure of duty. Even if everyone else looked away, I could not look away from Gerhardt.
Scouting him outright would be hard, though.
The title of Academy teacher is an irreplaceable honor and source of authority for a scholar and educator. Even I would struggle to offer him a post that outranked it.
Hmmmmm.
"Come to think of it, Gerhardt—you once said research is better experienced in the field than read on the page, didn't you?"
"Ah, yes, that's right. Nothing surpasses the field as a source, after all."
Gerhardt, who had been gazing at the materials with the fond expression of a man looking at a late-born child, hurriedly nodded at my words.
Good.
I had worried he might be the type who hated moving around, but the faintly wistful look said he preferred being out and about to sitting at a desk. Until now he had simply been a forced desk man because the North had been closed to him.
"Then northern research should gain new life from here on."
With that, I drew a name card from my coat and signed it.
What I usually scatter among graduates whenever I get the chance are letters of recommendation—but this one would serve a different purpose entirely.
"Fortunately, I have a little acquaintance with the grand lords who administer the North. If you show them this card and say you have come for scholarly research, there will be nowhere your entry is barred."
At the words faction-leader-certified free pass, Gerhardt's eyes went wide.
In truth the North is still, for ordinary people, unknown country. Barely a year has passed since it became imperial territory; the land is vast and the population thin, scattered to begin with, while beasts are plentiful. Even as empty flattery, it is hard to claim civilians can travel there safely.
So northern entry for mainlanders is still controlled—except for soldiers of the northern garrisons and merchants trading with the North. But Gerhardt now had my name. If he wished to go north, he would not be refused; he would be given an escort.
"I-if entry is not barred...?"
"So long as you do not cross the border, you may go anywhere."
At my firm answer, Gerhardt's waist passed ninety degrees and achieved a miraculous one hundred twenty.
If I cannot take him under my command, I can at least keep him this close. The entire North is as good as my jurisdiction anyway.
My jurisdiction...
A little bitter. How did that vast territory end up under the administration of a mere Count?
All because the Emperor forced the post of faction leader on me when it was never in my stars. The grand lords of the North may have elevated me, but it is still that bastard's fault.
Lately I had been sensing a change in Later—more drive than before.
"Can't you stop shoving that damn bishop at me?"
"This is the fun part, and you want me to give it up?"
"Damn it."
Drive and skill are separate matters, of course, but compared with last semester the passion was unmistakable.
It was not that the usual Later had been lazy or listless. Only that radical, aggressive moves I would never have expected from him had been showing up more often—as if there were no longer any tomorrow left behind him.
There really isn't, either.
Regrettably, this semester is the last one in which we can all gather in one place. Eating cookies and talking, warming up with foot volleyball, turning our heads over chess—all of it ends with this term.
And yet, right up to the brink of graduation, Later has never once beaten me at chess. A truly regrettable state of affairs.
At this point, I don't want to lose either.
If we had traded wins and losses, if he were simply grinding his teeth to raise his own rate, I might have played along a little.
But my win rate is not merely higher than Later's—it is a perfect record of total victory. Leaving a scratch on that perfect ledger before graduation is not something I want either. Losing on skill would be one thing; losing because I threw a game is something to avoid.
Honestly, this guy isn't normal either.
I watched Later grinding his teeth and let out a soft laugh. The others, worn down by me, had started playing chess among themselves—Later alone kept challenging me, steadily stacking losses and steadily coming back for more.
I know that toying with the same opponent over and over is not the done thing. But when the other man accepts defeat and still demands a match, dodging him is not a knight's way either.
So when I face Later I bring every trick I have. Styles he has never seen, to rattle his mind—then provocation, to rattle him again. That is the highest respect I can show him.
The inter-class tournament is going to be chaos.
Thoughts that began with chess drifted on toward the inter-class tournament. Chess is not the only place I have to face Later.
No—the tournament is the real thing. Chess results stay inside our club and end there; the inter-class tournament is a public contest the entire Academy will see.
He'll have been sharpening his blade too.
And it is only right to assume he is thinking the same things I am. The way I treat the tournament as the real match, he will have made every preparation for victory in it.
Anything less would be stranger. A man who grinds his teeth over mere chess simply letting the inter-class tournament pass? That would take a value system twisted past saving.
So I am going in earnest as well—to decide which is stronger, Armein's sword or Uben's staff.
"Where did the chess player go?"
With that in mind, I tossed a small jab at the groaning Later. If today's provocation feeds tomorrow's win, I will make as many as I like.
"You—!"
Naturally, the effect was immediate.
It is a little strange, though. He looks like an ice mage with blood cold enough to freeze, and yet his temper turns out to be pure fire.
Did I change him?
If so, my condolences.
This year I had grown a little out of touch with Academy affairs. When Mar was on the Student Council, I naturally picked up schedules and the progress of various work; now there was no such channel. Barging into the Student Council office just to hear the calendar would look odd to anyone watching.
Anyone who saw it would think I was there for an inspection.
I forget it once or twice a week myself, but the official reason I am stationed at the Academy is Academy inspection. An inspector making a surprise visit to the Student Council office can only look like a surprise inspection.
So even when I was in the dark about Academy matters, I let it go. Anything truly important, the headmaster or deputy headmaster would tell me. Going out of my way to drag work to myself is something only a fool does.
And yet even I had begun to feel that the Academy's atmosphere lately was not normal.
"What's with them?"
Through the window, on the small practice field, Erich and Ryutis were locked in passionate sparring. Later, off to one side, poured out magic without rest—like a veteran mage who had stepped onto a battlefield.
"Ah, they're preparing for the inter-class tournament. They said they want to crown the last one with a championship."
Rory answered my question kindly.
I see. An obsession with victory, then.
I'm screwed.
Even a glance showed preparation running on serious heat, and cold sweat rose on its own. When they gear up at full power like that, the odds of an accident climb right along with it.
In the twilight of an inspector's career, when even a falling leaf has to be watched—at that critical hour, a major foreign figure might end up bleeding or unconscious—
...They already bled the year before last.
Come to think of it, however hard they go at each other, they will not get hurt worse than they did then.
Suddenly, my heart was at peace.