Boyhood (3)

A campsite near the cliffs.

A band of mercenaries lay prostrate before a single woman. At their heads rested a corpse.

"This is all there was?"

"Yes."

"And the one who ran?"

"...Forgive us."

Silence.

The woman strolled slowly between the mercenaries.

"You can't even track him? You're useless."

"Forgive us."

"Then kill yourselves."

"What?"

The mercenaries jerked their heads up on pure reflex.

"Oh dear. Not quite ready to die yet, I see."

"That..."

She stroked the chain of her necklace. The pale pink of her hair deepened, shade by shade.

"I like strong men. But only one man gets to claim a woman, doesn't he?"

"That's right."

"There are too many of you. You understand what I'm saying, don't you?"

The woman smiled.

In that moment the smile was so pure, so radiantly beautiful, it had no business belonging to the words she had just spoken.

"From this moment, kill one another."

Bloodshot eyes. The mercenaries turned on each other without mercy. When at last only one man remained, riddled with wounds, she spoke again.

"You're the strongest. Congratulations."

"Then... have I been chosen?"

"Far too soon for that."

Serifina beckoned the mercenary closer. Her hand almost brushed his body—almost, but never quite crossed that final line.

"Keep proving your loyalty and I'll think about it. In return, you have to keep getting stronger. You know what happens if you become useless, right?"

The mercenary answered like a man under a spell.

"...Yes."

"Good. I have things to think about, so keep your mouth shut."

The campsite reeked of blood. Standing among the corpses, the woman murmured to herself.

"Strange."

"Why did I let him slip away?"

"Strange."

"Why does it hurt?"

Inside a luxurious carriage, Serifina muttered the same words.

A maid reacted at once.

"Hurt? Are you dizzy, milady? Or is your chest tight?"

"Who?"

"You, milady."

"I'm not hurt."

Serifina stuck out her lower lip.

"Elise, do you want me to be hurt?"

"Of course not. You've been speaking with the spirit for so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠long—I was only worried you might be short on mana."

"Does low mana hurt?"

Startled, Serifina checked the diary.

No matter how carefully she read, nothing about pain.

I'm not hurting, so I'm amazing!

While Serifina sank deeper into her delightful misunderstanding, the Duchess's eyes turned murderous. Elise bowed her head in defeat.

The two women whispered so softly Serifina could not hear.

"Who was in charge of our baby's education?"

"Someone who completed the research track at the Academy..."

"Fire them."

"At once."

Their secret conference finished, the Duchess stroked Serifina's hair.

"Then who is hurting, darling? Is it Edwin, the one riding with Sir Sero?"

Edwin had not been allowed into the carriage. Even though he was a child, a male who was not family riding with noblewomen alone would have violated etiquette. At the same time, they could hardly make him walk with the ordinary soldiers. Sir Sero had volunteered to take the boy onto his own horse—partly from guilt over having doubted him, partly from gratitude that Edwin had taken his side before the Duchess.

Having finished reading, Serifina declared with absolute confidence:

"Edwin isn't amazing like me, so his butt hurts. But mine doesn't!"

To prove her superiority she bounced once in place. When she sat back down, the plush cushions cradled her rear with perfect softness.

"True enough. Looking at his seat, this is clearly his first time on a horse. His backside must be screaming."

"But Edwin isn't the only one who hurts."

"...Then who else is hurting?"

"My big brother!"

Serifina had not spent the entire ride simply playing. Of course she had watched Edwin on horseback, coaxed affection from her mother, and accepted snacks from Elise while stealing peeks at the diary—but she had also engaged in a profound, high-level philosophical struggle.

Namely: the meaning of the word crazy.

Young Serifina did not know many difficult words, yet with a child's uncanny instinct she grasped the context. "Crazy" was a bad word. And her brother was the... sixth... best person in the entire world.

Mom, Dad, Elise, Edwin, cake...

Since he ranked sixth, he could not possibly be a bad person.

Therefore her brother must be sick somewhere!

She had successfully interpreted the spirit language. Serifina was certain she was extremely, extraordinarily clever.

The Duchess and Elise, however, had gone rigid.

"The young master is unwell?"

"The spirit told you that? Leonhardt is truly ill?"

Both women looked grave. Of course they did. The same spirit who had once warned them of the Duchess's death had just dropped another bombshell. Dark thoughts of incurable disease swirled through their minds—until the completely oblivious Serifina answered with perfect calm.

"Yep. Big brother is crazy. This is a secret, but 'crazy' actually means 'sick'! I translated the spirit language myself!"

She tilted her chin up, clearly waiting for praise. Her eyes, fixed on the Duchess, sparkled with expectation.

The Duchess, who normally indulged every one of her daughter's charms, failed her completely this time. Strength left her body and she sank into the seat.

"...I see. The moment we return, we will summon a priest for a full examination."

"Mhm mhm. If big brother gets better, it's all thanks to me. He has to buy me ten whole cakes out of gratitude!"

"Of course. Sweetheart, cover your ears for a moment?"

"Why?"

"I'll tidy your hair, milady."

Elise pretended to arrange Serifina's hair and casually sealed both ears.

The Duchess spoke to the carriage wall.

"Spirit. I am truly grateful you prevented my death... but please do not teach Serifina vulgar language..."

The Erhardt Duchy—the most prestigious house in the Empire.

A family that had once stood beside the founding emperor, a lineage that produced capable heads generation after generation. Its power and wealth stood at the absolute pinnacle. Vast grain territories, merchant guilds under its name, and the beating heart of it all: the ducal office that handled every critical affair.

A boy of only twelve sat at the desk, processing documents with machine-like precision.

Southern agricultural report.

Calculation of supplies for frontline troops, composition of the escort force, and the optimal marching route.

Mine yields versus the blacksmiths' weapon production capacity.

War-driven inflation of strategic materials, sale of surplus through the house merchants, and allocation quotas for friendly nobles.

With the Empire currently at war with a neighboring kingdom, the competence of the one holding the rear was vital. Leonhardt von Erhardt processed the paperwork without pause. No matter how thorny the problem, his deliberation was brief, his decisions absolute, unshaken by even a hair's breadth of doubt.

When the mountain of documents that had once matched his own height had been reduced by half, his hand stopped.

"Butler."

The elderly butler waiting beside the desk answered at once.

"Yes."

"These figures are wrong. Either the clerks made a mistake, or someone with more guts than brains is skimming. Investigate."

The butler immediately descended to the lower floor—the administrative hall where secretaries who worked twenty-five hours out of every twenty-four were crammed together. Seeing the butler, the chief secretary asked wearily,

"Caught another one?"

"The mine report this time."

The chief secretary sighed.

"Even secretaries who ranked top or near-top at the Academy keep missing errors that the young master spots instantly. He truly is... a man of House Erhardt."

"Even that understates it. Compared to past heads of the house, he still stands out."

"True. The boy memorizes every single number."

At those words the surrounding secretaries bowed their heads. Last month's mine output. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The same month the previous year. Manpower distribution, welfare, the effect of miner expertise on yield—every minute detail lived in Leonhardt's memory, and the logical inferences he drew from those numbers bordered on monstrous.

"We will re-examine everything..."

"Do so."

When the butler returned upstairs, nearly the entire stack of documents that had sat on the left of the desk had migrated to the right. Dozens of secretaries' reports had been almost completely approved.

The young master is truly remarkable.

The butler was privately marveling when Leonhardt let out a heavy sigh.

"Has another problem arisen?"

"Yes. And this one threatens the very safety of the duchy."

"!!!"

The butler tensed.

"What has happened?"

"I haven't seen Serifina for far too long."

"..."

The butler swallowed the sigh ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that threatened to erupt. Young Master Leonhardt was perfect in nearly every respect... except that he doted on his little sister to an extreme degree. Excessively so.

"Already five days, twelve hours, and thirty-seven minutes have passed..."

Please do not use that monstrous memory of yours for such things...

"It's making me restless."

"Perhaps the young lady has caused another... incident?"

"Butler."

Leonhardt's eyes blazed.

"Serifina does not cause incidents. Every single one is merely adorable charm."

"..."

While the butler remained silent, a knight burst into the office.

"Young Master! Emergency!"

"Is it Serifina?"

"Yes."

This time it was Leonhardt who lost his voice.

"What sort of emergency? Has something happened to the safety of Her Grace and the young lady?"

"Ah... well..."

Reading the room, the knight squeezed his eyes shut.

"Her Grace the Duchess has declared that the Young Master is suffering from a grave illness..."

"What?"

Leonhardt's eyes flew wide.

"I am perfectly fine. I, Leonhardt von Erhardt, will neither fall ill nor collapse until Father returns from the battlefield."

"According to what I heard, Young Lady Serifina stated that her brother is sick..."

Leonhardt shot to his feet, chair scraping back.

"Where are you going, Young Master?"

"To the priest. For a full medical examination."