Estiang-style negotiation for a society debut.
Estiang-style negotiation for a society debut. It wasn't like heading off to war as some general, but in the original story, when the heroine did it, the atmosphere had been intensely dramatic.
'Sis, is being a debutante really that big a deal?'
'Of course it is.'
'Isn't it just wandering around, saying hello, "nice to meet you, I'm so-and-so"? Hmm, really? Doesn't seem worth gritting your teeth over.'
'If war broke out with North Korea, would you just stroll out without picking up a gun?'
'Ah.'
'If you go in all soft and squishy like you said, you'll get eaten alive. Nobles basically treat everyone with this underlying disdain and condescension as their default.'
At first, he'd dismissed the idea of a society debut as no big deal. His sister had quickly set him straight, though.
Come to think of it, even just recalling his own freshman year in college made it all too believable. History department—more girls than guys, but they stuck to their cliques. Within a month of starting school, they'd start sidelining one or two, then splinter off like some massive kremlin faction. Watching it unfold firsthand had left him thinking, girls are ruthless, before moving on.
Figure noble ladies' society was roughly the same, and it all clicked.
'Anyway, the fact that I reincarnated into a romance fantasy—not some Seven Kingdoms epic—hasn't changed.'
Sure, he'd ended up in a romance novel world but ditched the romance for full-on development waifu territory. Still didn't alter the core: this was a rofan.
What was rofan, anyway? A genre that skimped on worldbuilding, logic, and consistency. Instead, it poured everything into finely polished characters, emotional arcs, and the stories weaving between them. Like polishing a single sword stroke ten thousand times.
And in those character stories, the debutante ball was the crowning event.
"...This should do it. Not that I like it, but at least the urgent fire's out."
"Mm."
Roena showing up with her own makeup kit, eyes blazing, wasn't all that strange. His capable adjutant seemed dead set against any backtalk about her lord debuting in society. So he'd just let her do her thing.
He glanced in the mirror but couldn't spot much difference.
"Lady Roena, you've done well. Shall we head out now?"
"Yes, Your Grace. This should suffice for now. At minimum, no one will have grounds to gossip. Your Grace already has such fair, fine skin that a light touch of makeup..."
Roena froze.
Then she bowed her head, murmuring softly.
"...My apologies, Your Grace. I got carried away for a moment."
"Nothing to apologize for. Let's go, then."
He chuckled and patted her shoulder. She was his adjutant, after all—overzealous loyalty could lead to smearing some powder on her lord's face. In a rofan, pre-debut, this was the kind of thing you'd laugh off.
He stepped out of the guest chamber the emperor had provided and headed down the hall toward the grand ballroom. The imperial palace corridors, adorned with lavish mosaic murals, echoed with bows from everyone he passed.
"That's him..."
"Grand Duke Berg? First time seeing him in person."
Courtiers, nobles here for the Founding Festival—everyone, without exception. It really drove home that while he wasn't at the absolute pinnacle of power in this country, he was damn close.
Ignoring everyone else, eyes fixed ahead, he strode ramrod straight. Soon, he reached the grand ballroom doors. The moment he entered, the herald bellowed.
"The empire's youngest Sword Master, the young lion of the north, His Grace Estiang Berg, Grand Duke of Berg, enters!"
Two cringeworthy titles slapped upfront for public humiliation play. The instant his foot hit the red carpet, every gaze in the ballroom locked onto him.
Hundreds of eyes raining down? Less pressure than his troops' sparkling stares.
"The young lion of the north has finally arrived."
"You see that newspaper ad too?"
"Got my blood pumping. If I didn't have a family to tend and were a bit younger, I'd have volunteered for the north myself."
"Young or not, a lion's a lion. He knows exactly how to win hearts."
They thought they were whispering, but a Sword Master's superhuman hearing caught it all. Curiosity and wariness swirled from every corner.
He looked up. His eyes met the emperor's on the dais. The man looked months older than days ago, forcing a smile anyone could see through.
Just because he'd run that newspaper ad and scooped up fresh asses? Sulking solo like that.
Tsk tsk.
He returned a polite smile, followed the usher to his assigned seat, and sat.
'Events like this probably waste a ton of time on pointless rituals.'
Propping his chin, he mused. He'd come to this festival for pay, courtesy of the emperor. No plans for ha-ha-ho-ho chit-chat.
To nobles, socializing was business. London's gentlemen didn't form clubs for fun.
This kind was all about building networks, swapping intel, sealing deals.
'Wonder when the Geltner fellow will show.'
He side-eyed the room. Needed to spot the Geltner family head first.
He'd told them to come quietly during the banquet, but he had no clue what the guy looked like. Minor snag, but they'd sent a man ahead—no-show unlikely.
Beyond Geltner, the original story's leads were all here too. Heroine, male leads, villains like Helena.
'Problem is, aside from Helena—who sought me out—no clue what anyone looks like.'
Anyway, no need to meddle in the original plot now. It boiled down to love lines. Political ripples from those? Interesting. But his lane was different.
No squishy romance for him—just national strength and military might. Northern style, so maybe Gustavus Adolphus reforms over Prussian? Fitting, both northern lions.
Whatever. Spot the leads if chance arose.
Priority: negotiate with Geltner head.
As he sketched mental blueprints, the emperor on the dais spoke up. Voice-amplifying magic boomed through the hall.
"People of the empire, and my loyal vassals who answered my call to gather here. Today, we commemorate the sacred day when His Late Majesty laid the empire's foundations."
All eyes turned to him.
"It is you, devoted in your stations, who have sustained the empire for centuries, achieving this radiant prosperity. Take pride in that. Nay, you must take pride."
Textbook opening speech for a banquet. Like a principal's Monday assembly pep talk. Kids these days might not get the reference without morning roll calls.
"Behold especially Grand Duke Berg, guarding the empire's peace from the frozen eastern wastes, braving the icy northern winds."
Eh? Me?
Why me all of a sudden?
Nobles' gazes swiveled to him. The emperor gazed down with saintly benevolence.
"Because you and your soldiers guard the Great Wall without rest, day or night, we can revel in peace here today. I take this moment to commend the generations of Berg Grand Dukes' devotion."
"......"
If the emperor wanted to needle him, this was masterful. Just because he'd stirred things up near the palace with that interview? This payback.
Damn old coot.
He kept a straight face, of course. Rose, bowed with insincere thanks.
"Goddess, bless us. Let the empire's glory shine eternal. Now, raise your glasses to boundless prosperity! This is my first—and last—command as your emperor at this banquet."
"For the empire!"
"For His Imperial Majesty!"
Nobles chorused, lifting glasses.
'Like my gift?'
As cheers rang, the emperor smirked at him—mouthing the words.
"......"
Gift my ass. Pure political rhetoric.
Few here offered the emperor blind loyalty. Vassal-lord bonds were business contracts.
He'd just flexed on them: Berg and emperor aligned, like always. Don't get ideas. This debutante Berg's no different.
Roughly that vibe—a warning.
Sly fox of an old man. Call it even?
Whatever. He clicked his tongue softly.
With the brief opening done, the banquet kicked off proper. Nobles rose, mingling to build ties.
No one here just for food and drink. Pure business hours now.
And for him too—time to get down to brass tacks.
"Haha, greetings, Your Grace. We have an appointment, but might I borrow a moment of your precious time?"
Nobles paired off for chats or deals amid the bustle. The man approaching him fit right in: neat mustache, lean build, tall middle-aged frame.
Only one with prior arrangements.
"You're the Geltner head?"
"Yes, forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. Oto Geltner."
He offered a handshake first. Oto bowed obsequiously deep before taking it.
Acting like he'd hand over liver and gall now, but merchants were merchants.
Top-tier merchant noble—one of the empire's big three families. Built generational wealth, wedged into high society.
Short breath, then he straightened and headed for the terrace.
"Straight to business. Name the items you want exclusive contracts on. Details after I hear 'em."
"Haha, as bold as they say. First, our desired exclusives: Berg's fine mana stones, and the foodstuffs imported to the grand duchy—"
"Ah, foodstuffs excluded, of course. Talk food monopoly rights, and it won't end well for you. Let's nail that down upfront."
"......Pardon?"
Pardon what? Was he nuts? Hand over food staples like that?
Time to clue Oto in: mess around, lose a hand.
Don't bid on staples. What, you think it's thorium ingots?