The Silent Conclave
A small flag bearing the image of a figure with its mouth sewn shut fluttered silently in a space utterly devoid of wind. Beneath it loomed a massive round table, the sort reserved for high council meetings. Every person seated around it wore a black robe hooded over their head, embroidered with silver thread—the number and patterns of the threads varying slightly from one to the next.
The Silence Followers. Among them, the executives known as the Silents. These were zealots who professed fanatical devotion to Nemesis, some even cutting out their own tongues or sealing their voices forever with magic.
"...It's been a long time since we've all gathered like this."
"That just means the situation hasn't been favorable."
"True enough. The outside world's started getting serious about hunting us down."
"Doesn't matter. According to Yam (Dark), we've already found the key."
Yam (Dark). The codename for the leader of the internal group that lurked in the shadows, gathering intelligence from every corner of the continent. At the relayed words, all eyes turned sharply to one spot.
"I've heard that rumor too. Is it really true?"
A nod. As a grotesque, chalk-scraping voice twisted out the question, the robed figure gave a grave, subdued affirmation. A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"Then why haven't you dragged them here yet? Don't you feel His anguished wait?"
"Spirit. Calm yourself. We delegated full authority on that to Yam (Dark), didn't we?"
Spirit. Within the Silence Followers, the head of the unit specialized in soul and consciousness magic. He was the one who cried out most desperately for Nemesis's revival, aligning with the hardliners who insisted on finding the hero's bloodline and dragging them back by force as soon as possible.
That naturally put him at constant odds with the more moderate Yam (Dark). After all, Yam (Dark)'s stance was that seizing them by force right away would only expose their existence and invalidate the ritual itself.
"...One of my subordinates made contact. Apparently, their relationship's progressing nicely. At this rate, we might secure the key soon. Wait until then."
"Ha! What nonsense...! In that time, I'll bring them here myself! So spit out every scrap of intel you have!"
"......Hoo."
Words weren't getting through. With a deep sigh, the one called Yam (Dark) drew a single sheet of paper from within their robes—a memo scribbled with concise intel from the subordinate.
"...Word is, they'll be staying at the academy over break. Security's lax during that time, too."
"Oh ho, is that so?!"
Just two scraps, but useful enough to satisfy. As Spirit slammed the table and shot to their feet, Yam (Dark) continued.
"But keep this in mind. My subordinate says they're no pushover anymore. You might even lose, Spirit."
"Kikikihit...! Hilarious advice! But since it's from a fellow follower, I'll graciously heed it today."
Swoosh....
With those words, Spirit vanished in the blink of an eye, melting into the shadows without a trace. A collective short sigh escaped the others' lips. But no one moved to stop them.
From the start, everyone here yearned desperately for His revival. That was undeniable truth, and no one could blame Spirit for stepping up to prove their loyalty.
＊
The next day, at dawn in the training grounds, only one sparring room had its lights on. I'd asked Siel ahead of time to reserve it under the student council's name for the break. The grounds had restricted hours during vacation, which had been a headache, but our council president came through. As expected from someone with such... generous assets. No, a broad mind.
"Aren, you're here early."
"Yeah. Just warming up."
I'd arrived first and was doing light stretches when Silvena showed up late. I figured we'd chat casually to loosen up, but she cut straight to it in her signature cool tone.
"Truth be told, I contacted my mother last night for advice."
"Oh, really?"
It was exactly what I'd been waiting for—my eyes lit up. Nice one, Lady Archduchess. She'd asked right away. I'd heard the grand duke had been away lately, so she couldn't get advice until news came that he'd returned to the castle.
"Mother surmised that when you manifested the sword beam, the situation was dire, or you were under intense internal pressure."
"Whoa, how'd she know? Spot on."
The insight was so precise, it gave me chills—like she'd been right there. This was the aura of a top-three swordmaster on the continent?
"It's hard to recreate such conditions artificially, so she says you need to delve inward first—have a deep conversation with your sword."
"Hmm, sounds tough. I've tried a few times, but no dice."
"I'd expect as much. Still, Mother said anyone who's glimpsed that realm can reach it again without rushing. No need to force it."
Oh ho. Spoken like true authority—the words carried real weight. Until yesterday, swinging my sword alone had me thinking, 'Yeah, this ain't happening.' But with the Northern Grand Duke personally vouching? Confidence surged out of nowhere.
"Most importantly, she said it's about pouring your entire self into that one sword. A bit abstract, but she figured you'd understand."
"Yeah, I get it. That's exactly the feeling back then."
I looked down at my sword hand, clenching and unclenching it. Right—that moment, it was all there. Why I'd swung the sword all this time. My will to climb higher. The fear that if I didn't crush the enemy right there, everything would vanish. All that faded from my mind, residing solely at the blade's tip. A single strike sending it all flying, my heart emptying into nothingness.
Yesterday, it felt like grasping at smoke. But now? Shape emerging from the haze. Not like I could pull it off right now, but... lighter, somehow.
"So today, I'll face you in earnest. Embarrassing to say it myself, but sparring a strong opponent raises your chances of insight."
"Music to my ears. Though honestly, feels like I'm imposing on you too much lately. Sorry about that."
It was a golden opportunity, but I'd caused her enough trouble recently. I scratched my head sheepishly, and Silvena—who'd been adjusting her stance—froze like a statue.
"...If you're truly sorry, could you spare some time after training?"
"Hang out? Oh, got a favor to ask?"
"Something like that. There's a restaurant I want to try. But going alone feels... awkward."
Hm? Restaurant out of nowhere? Ah, she wants me to treat her?
"No problem if that's it. Got a fat allowance after that A+ in practicals."
For a C-class kid like me on minimal stipend, footing the bill at her level of place would've been rough. But true to the academy's merit system, an A+ in practicals meant extra cash. And with only three of us—including me—getting it, the pot was even fatter.
I felt invincible.
"No. I'll cover the bill—just give me your time."
"Huh? You're paying? That's..."
But unexpectedly, she insisted on paying. Now I was the one stunned. Wait, then I'm not repaying a debt—I'm racking up more. Come on, girl.
"That feels like even more imposition... Plus, you're probably tired. Why not go another time?"
I hinted that we could go today if she'd just let me pay. Her eyes widened....
"S-spending money and time on you is never a waste."
...and she dropped a line straight out of a romance novel's male lead charming the heroine.