Utopia
"One last time, really the last—will you truly go there?"
Sunlight poured through the window onto the table where teacups sat. Steam carrying the fresh aroma of steeped black tea rose languidly from them. Even after making up his mind, the young man sipped his tea in silence, as if refusing outright would be disrespectful to his mentor.
"You must have your reasons for choosing that place, but if you change your mind now, I can write a letter of recommendation for anywhere you like."
The silence over that cup of tea meant different things to each of them, and the mentor continued.
"To be honest, among all the students I've seen since taking this post at the Academy, you're not the absolute best. But in terms of versatility, you're better than anyone I've encountered."
The young man thought that if his mentor were a merchant trying to sell something, he'd never succeed. He simply stated his opinions to the person before him—without pretense or lies. The very model of an ideal scholar.
That was why the young man didn't dislike the mentor sitting across from him.
"If you want to hone your swordsmanship or magic further, the Imperial Sponsorship Bureau. If you want to handle big money, the Finance Department... No, in any field where you graduated with 'excellence,' I can—!"
"Vice Principal."
Suhwa Romanov, having quietly set down his teacup, finally spoke.
"I appreciate the advice, but as I mentioned before, I have no intention of changing where I'm headed."
His tone was calm, like delivering a death sentence to a terminally ill patient. As if none of the places the mentor had named were even worth considering.
Yet it wasn't cold. It carried an understanding of why the mentor was trying to dissuade him—tinged even with a hint of regret.
"I see... No helping it, then. Such a shame, but no helping it..."
"And isn't the Vice Principal's 'letter of recommendation' also a 'promissory note' of sorts?"
With a cheeky grin, as if trying to lighten the mood after his polite refusal, he pressed on.
"Kehahaha! There are lines of folks waiting for that 'promissory note' that snake around the Academy fields twice and still reach the front gate."
"I know you wouldn't write one for just anyone."
"Your bluntness doesn't bother me at all, lad."
[Clap clap clap clap clap]
A thunderous applause erupted from the auditorium below. It seemed the principal's graduation address had finally wrapped up—after averaging about seventeen "Er... one last thing"s to string his speech along.
"Looks like my turn's coming up soon... I'll take my leave first."
"Suppose so. I'll follow shortly. Valedictorian."
With a faint smile that said he couldn't let his guard down, the young man left the room.
The vice principal watched his protégé's retreating figure until the end, then sank into his leather chair with a small sigh. His face, thick with regret, stared blankly at the teacup.
"Vice Principal. As we discussed, it's time to head to the graduation ceremony."
"Right. Let's go."
His secretary, tidying the table with precise movements, ventured casually.
"Student Suhwa... Last day to call him that, huh. He's really going there?"
"Afraid so. First summa cum laude in history to pick that place..."
"The place where the world forgets its people. Utopia."
"...That concludes the address from valedictorian Suhwa Romanov."
[Whoa!--- clap clap clap]
Amid roaring applause—for others and himself—mortarboards flew into the air. The auditorium teemed with families and dignitaries gathered to celebrate the Academy's graduates, the empire's cradle of talent. There wasn't even standing room.
"Hey, Suhwa's speech wasn't bad. How about it—my dad's in the Imperial Propaganda Bureau, so maybe—"
"What're you talking about? You've watched him duel for four years and learned nothing? The guy's a born knight. Knight corps material."
"Tch. The Finance Bureau's already got his nameplate ready—where do you think you're poaching him?"
Among the crowd, a ring of people formed around this year's summa cum laude—Suhwa Romanov, the first in the Academy's 400-year history to earn "excellence" in all six subjects.
"Nameplates from Finance, knight corps, Propaganda—all great, but when are you graduating? Or do you even plan to?"
His voice, friendly now compared to the one that had echoed through the hall, drew laughs.
"What? Of course not. Gonna milk the Academy rules for 10 straight years as a student."
"Exactly. Live it up—no one's gonna complain when the family's wiring quarterly allowances. Why graduate?"
"Heh. Never thought this humble one would agree with these rascals... but no graduation plans for now."
The Academy: a cradle where talent alone could elevate one's status, no matter birth. Some, like Suhwa, slaved to prove their worth through skill and knowledge.
Others, like his friends here, scraped by at the bottom—safe as long as they weren't expelled.
Even in a meritocracy blind to birth, wealth and power held sway. The Academy's ethos cut down even imperial connections if you were expelled-worthy dumb. But dodge that, and it was paradise: 10 years as a student, interference-free.
For scions raised under constant scrutiny and rigid education, it was heaven on earth.
Heaven wasn't free, though. These prodigals paid in "sponsorships" scaled to grades, funneled from families to the Academy.
'No wonder you lot have zero rush to graduate.'
As Suhwa pondered their replies, the prodigals spoke up again.
"So what now for us? Our safety net, the expulsion-broker bro, just graduated."
"Eh, I'm decent with a sword—no worries~."
"You should be ashamed, relying so much on Suhwa as friends."
'And that last guy's the one who bought the most copies of the exam crib sheets I made...'
His crib-sheet racket targeting rich heirs and heiresses ended today. It had kept him flush through Academy days; he'd even toyed with going pro but scrapped it. If money was the goal, he'd have listed Finance or a major guild as his path from the start.
"You'll manage without me... probably not, though. I pulled strings one last time—memorize those, and you're expulsion-proof for three years."
Of course, he'd maximized profits to the end. Most went toward intel on Utopia.
The three exchanged meaningful, pleased smiles, then—as if it just hit them—asked Suhwa.
"So, Suhwa, where are you headed? Even the senior profs don't know?"
"Yeah, been wondering. Definitely not war or magic divisions. Asked my dad—nothing."
"......"
'How much does he suspect? Money follows info, info follows money. No wonder they're rich families.'
"Live right, and you'll never come near it your whole lives."
Two faces twisted in "What?" while a third nodded "Could be."
"No way you picked religion?"
"Forgot his divine affinity was failing? Can't believe he has a weakness—stuck with me."
"Sure. Folks gotta live right."
"Well, too public to spill here anyway."
"We nobles get it."
They knew better than most the proverb "Daytalk for griffons, nighttalk for rats." So they were cool on this front—wearing masks with ease.
A moment where the weight of nobility truly sank in: conversing only behind veils.
"Anyway, keep the debauchery moderate—no SOS letters on expulsion risks. Not that you could mail me anyway."
"Who sends letters to a guy?"
"Worry about your post-Academy selves."
"They say that worry often stems from having too much knowledge, and you are currently the very picture of that proverbial man from Qi who was consumed by groundless fears, Suhwa."
Masks or not, genuine warmth laced their laughs, encouragements, and congrats.
Thus ended the mask of "student Suhwa Romanov."
"Your credentials, please."
"Here."
The Imperial Capital, home to the Academy, was shedding winter garb for spring. But Manrmursk, Suhwa's destination, was another story—a frigid land where May snow reports were routine.
Puff! The horses harnessed to his carriage snorted white breaths in agreement.
Thanks to the previous emperor's conquest-driven infrastructure, even backwaters like Manrmursk boasted smooth, standard roads for supply lines.
As Suhwa marveled at the improved world, the guard returned his papers.
"Vice Warden of the prison, eh? This way."
"Thank you."
A flag rose from the evergreen outpost, and the massive iron gate—big enough to shrug off a mountain giant's charge—glided open silently, defying its bulk. A testament to imperial magic engineering.
Wondering at the runes and tech involved, Suhwa spotted someone emerging between the gates.
"Vice Warden Suhwa Romanov? Welcome to Utopia."
A bearded elder, whiter than the piled snow, greeted him past the gate.
Utopia. The empire's end for unspeakable criminals—nobles and elites, precisely. Their grave, their cradle of oblivion.
Suhwa stepped toward its maw.
'The warden? Photo didn't quite match... Guess remote postings age you.'
"Pleased to meet you. Suhwa Romanov, assigned to Utopia."
"Delighted. I'm Ilka Pavola, resident of Block B, Room 304."
"I see... Pardon?"
'Wait—Block B, 304? No way...'
Spotting Suhwa's change, the elder boomed a laugh, his chin-beard shaking like clouds.
"Yes, exactly what you're thinking. I'm a prisoner of Utopia."