The Harp Seal Hates the Imperial Princess and the Grand Duchess
It was an exceptionally clear day.
Sunlight squeezed through the windowpane, tracing a warm, golden pool atop the rug. Gazing blankly down at the lavender swaying gently in the garden breeze, Nox blinked his eyes slowly.
Haah.
What a truly gorgeous day. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. On a morning like this, a student on a leave of absence like me should—
—curl up and take a nice, long rest at home. Oh, absolutely.
It was the start of a flawless morning. A peaceful, tranquil sanctuary, completely devoid of any apex predators for miles around. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.
The Grolent Ducal family's countryside villa.
A quiet, cozy two-story retreat nestled half a day’s carriage ride from the main estate. Lavender blossomed in the manicured gardens, seven half-read books lay stacked haphazardly in the study, and the kitchen pantry brimmed with sweet confections sent from home.
The master of the villa—or rather, its sole occupant at present—was buried deep within an armchair right in the middle of the study. Quite literally, buried like a golden retriever who had plunged headfirst into a pile of autumn leaves.
His posture was beyond relaxed; it was the physical embodiment of unbridled sloth. If an onlooker were to peer through the window and wonder, Is this slovenly creature really a young master of a ducal house...?
Ding ding ding! Correct, alchemist!
His name was Nox Adrian von Grolent.
The youngest son of the Grolent Ducal family—one of the three founding pillars of the Arcadia Empire—and, astonishingly, a harp seal beastman.
Roughly three hundred years ago, the Grolent family had earned its noble lineage when an ordinary harp seal fisherman rescued a shipwrecked crown prince, diligently nursing him back from death’s door on warm bowls of fish porridge.
While other ducal bloodlines boasted of dynasties forged on bloody sword points and legendary martial exploits, the Grolent family proudly proclaimed:
Our honorable ancestor merely handed the crown prince an invoice for the fish.
The single most aristocratic restaurant bill in the empire’s history had somehow turned into a ducal coronet. Viewed from any angle, it was an unbeatable return on investment.
And the youngest scion of that illustrious, eccentric house was this very boy.
Blessed with snow-white hair that mirrored the first winter frost of the North, luminous sapphire-blue eyes, and a petite, harmless frame, he looked entirely out of place among high nobility. Two faint, dark spots sat just above his forehead bangs—the distinct racial marking of a harp seal beastman.
While Nox himself felt nothing about them, anyone else laying eyes on him would inevitably blurt out, What is that? Why is he so ridiculously cute? He was, in essence, the very picture of defenseless innocence.
Consequently, despite his noble birth, he possessed not a single shred of an intimidating presence. But given his species, that could hardly be helped. What on earth did people expect from a harp seal?!
Whenever he picked up a sword, the blade looked far more formidable than its master. A shield wasn't defensive gear to be carried into battle, but an ornament to hang on the wall. And if he ever engaged in arm wrestling, his opponent would be the one walking away with a crushing guilt complex.
In terms of physical ability, he was a sickly young master of catastrophic proportions.
To make matters worse, a childhood brush with death where he had nearly been devoured whole by a carnivore had left him with a deep, indelible trauma—a primal, soul-crushing terror of meat-eating predators.
...Man. Laid out like this, I really am totally hopeless, aren't I?
Whenever something large, sharp-fanged, and predatory materialized before his eyes, Nox’s heart stopped, his knees buckled, and his entire body shook like a leaf. In the worst-case scenario, he would foam at the mouth and faint dead away. Since the age of seven, that reflex had never improved in the slightest.
Goo goo gaga, I’m just a baby seal.
There was only one way such a boy could survive at the imperial academy: by clinging desperately to the professors.
Classmates terrified him. Upperclassmen horrified him. Why in the world were the overwhelming majority of imperial nobles carnivorous beastfolk?! It was a cruel, lamentable cosmic joke.
And so, he ate his meals in faculty offices, sipped tea beside his instructors, and studied quietly in professor archives. He lived the life of a voluntary, hyper-nerdy bookworm.
As an unintended consequence of essentially receiving round-the-clock private tutoring from the greatest scholars in the empire, his academic marks never fell below the absolute pinnacle.
In the end, he achieved the top score across the entire grade in the written examinations.
If the war was fought on sheets of paper, he feared no one.
However, the two individuals sharing that valedictorian podium with him were the First Imperial Princess and the future Northern Grand Duchess.
—And those two were precisely the problem.
Damn bloodthirsty wildcats.
Nox’s gaze drifted toward the torn newspaper resting on the coffee table. It was yesterday’s issue of the Imperial Gazette, still bearing a faint ring where a teacup had left a damp stain.
Nox’s eyelids twitched violently. His fingers tapped a frantic, anxious rhythm against the wooden tabletop.
Health? Did that say ‘health reasons’?!
This was a woman who, upon seeing a horse sprain its fetlock during academy equestrian class, hoisted the entire full-grown stallion onto her shoulders and hauled it back to the stables.
This was a woman who had crashed head-on into a giant bear magic beast during outdoor field training, only for the monstrous bear to prostrate itself in deep reverence before scurrying away—and she took a leave for health?!
His gaze plunged down to the article directly beneath it.
Personal reasons. Personal reasons for the sole heiress of a lineage that hunted ferocious magic beasts with their bare hands across the northern tundra.
What kind of ‘personal reason’ could someone possibly have when their idea of a brisk afternoon stroll in minus-forty-degree weather is: ‘My, what a refreshingly cool day for a walk’?!
At this point, pure, unadulterated dread was beginning to creep into Nox’s chest.
He set the newspaper down. He picked it back up. He double-checked the date, praying he had misread it. The date was correct. He prayed it was a journalistic misprint. It was not a misprint.
The boy slumped slowly against the balcony railing, sliding down until he was crumpled on the floorboards, his fleece-slippered feet twitching in futile distress.
“Why? What is your reason? Why on earth... No, what did I even do to deserve this?!”
Muttering mournfully toward the empty garden, he looked for all the world like a helpless little baby seal flopping its flippers in indignant protest against the sheer absurdity of the universe.
Utterly, delightfully pathetic.
Knock, knock, knock, knock!
A sharp, frantic pounding rattled the bedroom door. Nox froze instantly.
From beyond the corridor, the trembling voice of the villa maid filtered through:
“Y-Young Master! We have guests—!”
The maid’s voice was shaking like a leaf. There were only three circumstances under which the staff of this villa would ever tremble like that:
When the young master collapsed; when the young master hyperventilated; and—
“Nox? Where are you? Are you upstairs?”
“Hmph. Quite spacious. I should memorize the layout of this villa immediately. Where is the master bedroom?”
—when the young master’s natural predators came knocking.
“Y-Young Master...! We tried to stop them, but, w-well...!”
The maid’s frantic voice drew nearer.
No, it wasn't just her voice. Two distinct sets of footsteps echoed down the hallway.
One stride was bold and overflowing with supreme confidence, the footfalls of a sovereign convinced no door in the entire world had the right to bar her path.
The other was noiseless yet unmistakably chilling, the silent, deadly stalk of an apex carnivore gliding over fresh snow.
Nox’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. Every single hair on his body stood on end. The primal instincts of a harp seal—the culmination of three million years of evolutionary survival—screamed at the top of their lungs:
“RUUUUUUN FOOOOOOR YOUR LIIIIIIFE!!”
Gripping the balcony railing with both hands, he peered desperately down into the garden below.
It’s only the second floor. If I jump, will I break both legs? If my legs break, they’ll hospitalize me, right?
And if I’m in the hospital, I can slap a ‘No Visitors Allowed’ sign on the door! If I ban visitors, then—wait, what kind of lunatic logic am I cooking up right now?!
SLAM!
The door burst wide open.