The Marquis stroked his chin and asked,
"What kind of man is Aint Armean?"
"He is someone who can become a true ox-slaying blade."
"To be recognized in value by a merchant… that is the highest praise."
"Go to the annex. Katrina has been waiting eagerly to see you."
"How is the Countess?"
"What she sees in someone trying to gnaw away at the pillars of her house, I'll never know…"
"Raising a new pillar and sharing it isn't gnawing away—it's called fair profit distribution."
The Marquis waved his hand dismissively, as if he had no desire to hear more, effectively dismissing him.
"Ah, but before you go."
His gaze sharpened.
"I have yet to receive payment for deploying my knights. And I still haven't heard how you came by this information."
"That is a family secret. I cannot say."
In truth, it was his personal secret, not his family's.
"But you can guess. These monsters aren't naturally occurring. They are summoned by the Accursed Breed. And such summonings require sacrifices."
So then, my lord—
"Do you know where the surviving desert tribes are?"
Thud—
As the door closed behind him, Fernan realized he had forgotten something.
'Ah. I completely forgot about the mines.'
Well, perhaps it didn't matter.
In any case, he couldn't propose mine development in the middle of such circumstances. He hadn't even devised a suitable proposal yet that might tempt the Marquis.
There was still time.
At least no one would seize the mines from under him.
Just then, a man came up the stairs, and their eyes met.
"Fernan?"
"Rudger."
"The Marquis does enjoy playing these little games."
A curious look passed between them.
'So, immediately after me, Rudger gets a private audience.'
And not only that—the Marquis had deliberately engineered it so they would cross paths.
'What was it recently… some dispute between Altriorc and Swabian?'
Yes, there had been some minor friction. This was simply a display.
And in doing so, the Marquis was using Fernan as a piece in his posturing.
'Hmph.'
Still, such things could be overlooked, both in view of their past dealings and their future ties.
Small though they were, these minor slights accumulated into large debts. Better to let them pile up, then cash them in all at once.
"Let's go, my lord."
"Yes."
Passing Rudger, Fernan followed Rapelle to another door.
"Come in."
Even before Fernan knocked, a voice called from inside.
Entering, he saw a woman sitting with her legs crossed, gazing out the window.
Her hair was a long black cascade down to her waist, her skin faintly bronzed by sunlight, and her eyes shone sapphire-blue.
This was Katrina Altriorc, mistress of the house.
"Welcome. Coffee? Or tea?"
"You'll be serving it yourself?"
"Count yourself honored. Even the exalted prince-electors don't drink tea I brew myself."
"It's an honor."
Fernan sat across from her.
"You don't look well. I heard you encountered the Accursed Breed."
"It wasn't so bad. They're not as formidable as expected."
"Truly?"
"Truly."
The coffee she served him was exquisite.
"The aroma is lovely."
"It's from you, you know. Don't you remember?"
"You still haven't finished it?"
"You know me. I prefer wine over coffee."
"That's why I brought this. Orbis '55, one of Pridien's finest vintages."
Fernan pulled the bottle from his subspace.
The Countess accepted it, then asked:
"I hear you've grown distant from Swabian lately."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because the Marquis granted you audience before Rudger."
A small detail, yet among nobles, prestige and rank were strictly observed.
Even though the prince-electors had the power to choose an emperor, and wielded nearly imperial might, the emperor was still the emperor.
By rights, the Marquis should have seen Rudger first, not Fernan.
"You're right."
The Countess nodded calmly.
"After winning the throne three times in a row, they've grown unbearably arrogant."
It wasn't about seeking the throne, but about not wanting to play lackey.
"Their talk of solidifying the crown grows tiresome to the ears."
The imperial throne was not inherited by blood, but decided through the votes of the prince-electors.
Inevitably, this structure strengthened the power of the nobility.
"So don't pretend not to know. I answered only because I felt I had used you."
Within the Countess's gentle words lurked a sharp warning. Fernan, unfazed, drew an ornate box from his subspace.
"A gift for you, my lady."
"Oh my, what need is there for such things between us?"
Her words said one thing, but her hands moved like a hawk seizing prey, snatching up the box swiftly.
Click—inside lay a set of elegant glass bottles.
"And this is?"
"New cosmetics, just released by Flos."
Flos was a luxury brand operated by the Golden Turtle Trading Company.
"This one brightens and clears the skin. This perfume enhances one's natural scent by blending with body fragrance."
"And this?"
"A shampoo, softening and giving luster to the hair."
"And this?"
"The very product you have long desired, my lady."
"Truly?"
The Countess's eyes sparkled. She immediately opened the lid, poured a drop into her palm, and rubbed it in.
Yet, no dramatic change appeared. Her hand still bore calluses and scars.
"There's no difference at all."
"You know well, my lady—cosmetics don't work in one or two uses. I can't promise perfection, but by the time you finish that bottle, I'm certain you'll see a marked improvement."
"I'll trust you."
With a pleased expression, the Countess closed the box.
"How is Emond?"
"Well. My elder brother has established his standing as a professor."
"As expected—whose son is he, after all?"
"And how is Alcmeon?"
"He's at Phalancia."
Phalancia—one of the seven fortresses of the Barrier. And the very front line.
"Then he must be being ground hard."
"In youth, one must be tempered through hardship."
"Next year, Alcmeon will be entering the Academy, won't he?"
"That's not certain. He may fail the tests if his talent isn't enough."
"That can't be."
Alcmeon, widely praised as the most gifted among the Marquis's children?
True, he wasn't without issues, but failing outright was unthinkable.
"I believe he'll do well."
"As his senior, I hope you'll guide him."
"Yes, my lady."
Their conversation flowed easily.
It is often said: the Academy is the cradle of the Empire.
And it was true. Not all could attend, but most of those with talent did.
Altriorc had many excellent knights, and naturally many were Academy graduates.
Even after leaving, their ties to the Academy remained strong.
"Nice to meet you all. I am Crepin, instructor of the Altriorc Knight School's cadets."
Grad entered the annex with a knight named Crepin.
"I brought Sir Crepin for the sake of sparring. You know the purpose of this dispatch is to gain more experience."
He glanced around at the attentive students and continued.
"It has long been tradition to exchange bouts with knights or mages of the lands we visit. It's not mandatory, so only those who wish to may join."
The Academy was the Empire's finest educational institution, but not the only one.
Particularly, the knight schools of Altriorc and Verchev were said to rival the Academy itself in knightly training.
— You should join without hesitation.
— Knights of Verchev and Altriorc always live up to their names. Verchev a bit more so.
— More sparring experience can only benefit you, never harm you.
Aint's thoughts were much the same as Gardener's.
After the battle with Andromalius, he had keenly felt his own shortcomings and hungered for more real combat.
It was why he had wanted this assignment to Altriorc in the first place. Even without Fernan's words, he would have come.
"I volunteer."
But before Aint could finish, someone else raised their hand first.
Luina.
"Oh, if the champion of the jousting tournament will spar with them, the cadets will be thrilled."
"I want to as well."
"Me too."
Aint, Almon, Alia, and Berian followed suit, raising their hands.
The sparring was set, and they were led to the training grounds.
Since a fortress always housed troops, its grounds were vast. The dueling ring was just a small section of it.
The arrival of the Academy students drew the attention of knights and soldiers at their drills.
"Cadets, assemble!"
Crepin's call gathered a hundred cadets to the ring.
"Thanks to the Academy, we have volunteers for sparring. Any takers?"
Without hesitation, every single cadet raised their hand.
"Good. Who will step up first?"
"I am Alberi Fesley of Class One."
A man in his mid-twenties stepped forward.
The Altriorc Knight School had no grades. Classes ran from One to Four, divided solely by ability.
"And who from the Academy?"
Before Grad could ask further, Alberi pointed at Luina.
"I would like to spar with Lady Luina Verchev, champion of the jousting tournament."
"Oh? Bold. Luina, your answer?"
"If challenged, I have no reason to refuse."
Luina stepped forward.
"You will fight with dulled iron blades."
The Academy's magical barrier artifacts were too costly to be spent on a simple sparring match outside its walls.
"Why did you choose me?"
"As you are the Academy's top knight for winning the joust, I am the top of Altriorc Knight School. I believe our school is in no way inferior to yours."
"I see."
Luina nodded calmly.
"But did you know? My surname is Verchev."
"I do. That's part of why I chose you."
"No aura. Begin!"
Clang!
Their sparring blades met with a spray of sparks.
But after just one clash, the outcome was clear.
"…Kuh!"
Alberi staggered back a step, only for Luina to instantly close the gap.
She was a seasoned knight.
And a seasoned knight was a wolf—once they caught a weakness, they never let go.
Clang! Clang!
Her sword danced, lines cutting off every angle, every path of defense.
One step became two. Two became three.
All Alberi could do was block desperately, dodge barely, endure somehow.
Claang!
It didn't take long before Alberi's sword was sent flying from his hands into the air.
"Huff… huff…!"
Sweat drenched his body, in stark contrast to Luina's calm, unchanged expression.
She placed her blade at his neck.
"It's over."
It is often said:
People always love to rank and compare.
Among the strong, who is strongest?
The Royal Knight and the Archmage had satisfied that curiosity somewhat. Though now, people wondered—which of them was stronger?
Among the prince-electors, which house was greatest?
All pointed to Armean—until the throne shifted a hundred years ago, reigniting debate.
Altriorc and Verchev. Verchev and Altriorc.
Every house trained knights, but not all knights were the same. Just as not all electors were equal.
Which of the two knightly houses that had once stood at the First Emperor's side was stronger? It was always hotly debated.
So it was.
Altriorc was always measured against Verchev.
And Luina had grown up hearing it endlessly.
Though a monster wave had devastated their lands.
Though they had sold their Golden Bull rights, leaving them shadows of their former glory.
Still—
"Next."
—Verchev must never cower before Altriorc.
They must never lose.
If you fight, you must win.
That is what it means to be—
"Is there no next? Seems Altriorc is full of cowards."
—Verchev.
Luina's eyes blazed with determination.
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