The Grand Duchess Raises Her Hand
Even after that, Fredric kept trying for quite a while to talk Rebecca and me down.
"Sorry, Fredric. But I can't let this go."
"...Would you please just focus on the material, my lord."
"..."
We were, without a doubt, the two most childish eighteen-year-olds in the Empire, and not a single word from Fredric got through to either of us.
The poor tutor of House Zernias, having finally realized that talking us down was all but impossible, let out a long sigh.
"...Ha. Very well, then. I shall replace today's lesson with a quiz."
He threw both hands—and both feet—up in surrender to the two stubborn mules before him.
And so began the official quiz for a Wish Ticket.
The first question of this grand contest.
"What is the surname of the Imperial royal family?"
Flash—
Before Fredric had even finished the sentence, Rebecca's hand shot up.
"Lady Rebecca?"
"...Schuelgart."
"Correct."
The moment the word correct left his mouth, Rebecca glanced sideways at me.
Her look carried a subtle, unspoken contempt—the kind that asked, You don't even know something this simple?
And I, the unfortunate recipient of that irritating stare, felt genuinely wronged.
It wasn't as though I'd stayed silent because I didn't know the royal family's surname.
I had read the original novel. How could I possibly not know the surname of its protagonist, the Crown Prince?
The novel had mentioned it dozens of times—I couldn't even count anymore.
"...Wasn't this supposed to be about the Church?"
That was the part I took issue with.
Until just a moment ago, the lesson had been entirely about the Church of the Empire. So why, all of a sudden, did the Imperial surname come flying out of nowhere?
"If I only set questions about the Church, then my lord, who has recently been studying it, would hold an unfair advantage. In the interest of fairness, I believe it is proper to draw from other subjects as well."
"..."
But Fredric, wearing a stern expression, dismissed my excuse in one clean stroke.
And honestly, even a four-year-old would have found that argument airtight.
"One to zero."
"...Fine."
There was a certain smugness in the way the Duchess delivered those words, but I had no choice but to graciously admit my defeat on the first question.
Vowing that the next one would be mine.
"Next question."
"...Just give it to us already."
"Hurry up."
"Who currently holds first in the line of succession to the Imperial throne?"
Flash—
This time, my hand and Rebecca's shot up at almost exactly the same moment.
So close, in fact, that it was hard to tell whose had gone up first.
But almost simultaneously still meant that one hand had been a hair faster.
"Young Master Albert?"
"...Crown Prince Mikhail Schuelgart."
And the faster hand belonged to me.
"Correct."
At Fredric's ruling, I nodded as if it were only natural.
First in the line of succession—the next Emperor—was, of course, the protagonist of this novel, Mikhail Schuelgart.
Admittedly, I had dropped the original midway and never confirmed the ending, but surely nothing had gone wrong and Mikhail had become Emperor as intended.
"One to one. My lady."
And of course, I didn't forget to announce the tie while shooting a look at Rebecca, who was glaring daggers at me.
"...I knew that one."
"I knew the royal surname too, just like you did, my lady."
"Just you wait."
"Fredric? Next question, if you would."
"...Yes, my lord."
Fredric, who had been staring at the two of us with the expression of a man wondering what on earth am I to do with these children, began reading the next question at my prompting.
"The Empire has one more ducal house besides the Duke of Valencia's. What is the name of that house?"
Flash—
This time Rebecca raised her hand as though she would never, ever lose on speed again—fast as a beam of light.
By the time my hand was halfway up, hers was already fully raised.
"Lady Rebecca?"
"...The Bluebell Duke Family."
"Correct. As expected, you are very well informed, my lady."
At the word correct yet again, Rebecca's face bloomed with pride.
And staring at that insufferably smug expression—the kind that made your blood boil just to look at—a thought suddenly occurred to me.
"My lady."
"...What."
"Did you, by any chance, use magic just now?"
"..."
It had been strange.
Even I had sometimes reacted before a question was fully read, but a gap in speed this extreme was another matter entirely.
Since when could a human hand move at the speed of light?
She wasn't some psychic from a dime-a-dozen comic book.
"My lady?"
"..."
Despite my repeated calls, Rebecca couldn't meet my eyes—like a child caught red-handed.
Seeing that, I was certain.
'...She did use it.'
My beautiful, insufferably competitive fiancée had tried to cheat her way to victory with magic.
But interrogating her here would accomplish nothing, so I made my choice.
"Fredric. What happens if someone uses magic during an important exam?"
I decided to trust in the judgment of the referee—the fairest method in the world.
"Ordinarily, it results in a score of zero... However, as I never stated any rules regarding magic at the outset, I shall overlook it this once."
"Did you hear that, my lady?"
"...Yes."
Whether from the shame of being caught casting a sneaky speed spell or not, both of the Duchess's cheeks had flushed bright red at some point.
"...Two to one."
"..."
And yet she still kept score without missing a beat. It made me want to smack her, honestly.
But whether I wanted to smack her or not, the referee of this bet had just declared a leniency ruling, so I swallowed my objection.
"What is sacred power?"
The next question was, at long last, one related to the Church—the very thing I'd been waiting for.
I had predicted that if a Church question came up, sacred power would be a guaranteed topic.
"Young Master Albert?"
I raised my hand without a moment's hesitation.
Sacred power—or holy power, if you prefer another word for it.
A special ability that could only be wielded by priests of the Church who had been called by God.
It was something entirely different from magic, which ordinary people could learn to some degree through training.
It was, by and large, specialized in life—and specifically in healing.
In fact, the main reason the people of the Empire believed in God and visited the Church at all was to have their illnesses treated through sacred power.
That alone told you how vital an ability it was, both to the Church and to the Empire.
And the priest with the greatest sacred power among them was called the Saintess—or the Saint.
"...A flawless answer."
Clap, clap—
The moment I finished, Fredric applauded as if he'd witnessed perfection itself.
"..."
Rebecca, too, was staring at me with wide eyes, as if she'd had no idea I was this learned.
Which was fair enough.
It wasn't that Fredric had never lectured on sacred power—but nearly everything I'd just said had been written out plainly in The Crown Prince Wields a Sword.
It was practically answering with the answer sheet in my lap. How could she not be surprised?
"I confess I was quite worried, my lord, seeing as you slept through every lesson I gave on sacred power. To think you were studying behind my back all this time."
"..."
"This humble teacher is moved."
My tutor Fredric looked to have gone beyond surprise and into genuine being-moved territory.
My conscience did twinge a little at the sight of his sincerely touched face.
But I figured that having read the original novel was, for all intents and purposes, the same as studying in this world, and let it slide.
"That makes it two to two."
"..."
At my crisp declaration of a tie, Rebecca began to bite her lip—nervous, perhaps.
She had surely assumed this would be an easy victory.
Rebecca had been raised with every manner of education as the next Duke of Valencia, so a common-knowledge quiz must have seemed trivial to her.
But unfortunately for her,
her opponent was a transmigrator of novels.
And in the rules of this world, no one—not the author himself—could beat a transmigrator.
"Since we're now tied, this next question will be the last."
At Fredric's announcement that he would end things with the coming question, Rebecca and I both gave small nods of agreement.
Setting an even number of questions and risking a tedious tiebreaker would have been pointless.
Wrapping things up cleanly at five was the wise choice.
"Hmm..."
Fredric hummed, apparently unable to decide what the final question should be.
Which only served to ratchet up the tension flowing between Rebecca and me.
"...I've decided on this one."
At last, Fredric's decision came down.
"What is the name of this generation's Saintess?"
"...I beg your pardon?"
Rebecca's voice rose in protest, as if to ask how anyone was supposed to know that.
And it was more than fair. No—not knowing was the normal response.
However important the Saintess or Saint might be,
everyone simply addressed them as the Saintess or the Saint. Who on earth called them by their given name?
"...Too difficult, perhaps? I could substitute another question..."
Even Fredric, who had set the question, seemed to have anticipated Rebecca's reaction and was moving to swap it out.
For an ordinary person, not knowing the name of their own generation's Saintess was entirely normal.
"...The answer is Estelle."
For an ordinary person, that is.
"..."
Both Fredric and Rebecca stared at me, dumbfounded.
And in the silence that filled the study, I quietly declared:
"Three to two."
That I had won this quiz bet, too.