The Delinquent and the Fraudulent Student (4)
Arthur had long grown used to pain — a natural consequence of learning the sword under a harsh master and growing up rolling through the mud with soldiers at the Kision viscountcy's barracks.
But what stripped away the prince's old disguise wasn't the sting of a wound.
Clutching his bleeding hand, Arthur thought grimly:
The world just shook.
It was more than a feeling — it was a conviction.
The corridor, the sunset, the carpet he stood upon — though identical to moments before — were not the same.
It was a sensation he knew too well, the kind of unsettling foresight that once branded the young Arthur as a cursed child.
That sense of dissonance, when the future felt like the past, when the world twisted and bent without warning — no one had ever understood it.
They had only ever called him "the boy born under a curse."
But this time, the anomaly wasn't his alone to witness.
Cleio was trembling, unable to even stop the blood running down his face. His greenish eyes, frozen midair, had dilated in pure shock.
That boy had clearly experienced the same phenomenon — or perhaps worse, the distortion itself seemed to have originated from Cleio Aser.
Creeeak—! Slam!
Before Arthur could speak or demand an explanation, the dean's office doors flew open with a thunderous crash.
The force of it rattled the entire corridor.
"Arthur Leogunan! Cleio Aser! You two get called in here and start fighting?!"
Out strode a tall, white-browed old man with a robe flaring behind his long limbs. His voice could have shaken the walls of a cathedral.
"Ha! You two could coordinate perfectly fine when sneaking off to steal liquor, but now it's all each other's fault, is it?"
The old man strode between them, clearly assuming they'd come to blows.
Arthur was the first to recover, swiftly pulling on his usual easygoing grin.
"Sir, you know how it is — boys fight, and it just makes us closer, right?"
"That's your excuse? Bleeding all over the floor while you're at it? Did you use your weapons?!"
"No, sir! Just caught it on a cuff button, see?"
"Good grief, Arthur! Ever since you enrolled, I haven't had a single peaceful night's sleep!"
"Didn't realize I was always on your mind, sir. I'm touched."
"You—!!!"
Despite the smirk on his face, the blood soaking through Arthur's bandaged hand grew darker.
"What a mess. We'll deal with your nonsense first and talk later."
With a flick of his wrist, a circle of light spread outward from the old man, expanding until it enclosed both boys.
For Cleio, it was his first time witnessing another's circle — a mage's magic field.
"[Let the leakage of life be stilled.]"
As the dean chanted, intricate letters and sigils filled the golden circle beneath them. The completed pattern rose into the air, bathing them in gentle warmth.
The boys' bleeding stopped at once. Zebedi lowered his hand, dispersing the field.
"We weren't fighting, sir. Right, Cleio?"
"Uh… yes, that's right."
Arthur was clearly trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Cleio — still sitting on the floor — couldn't find his voice.
Too much had happened in mere minutes.
His brain was beyond its capacity to process it all.
That was… a magic formula?!
He'd seen plenty of strange things since arriving here, but seeing real magic at work still left him reeling.
Arthur, on the other hand, reacted as though it were nothing new.
"Sir, your healing magic is amazing every time I see it!"
Waving his arms dramatically, Arthur shoved his hands into his pockets with his usual cheek. Zebedi clicked his tongue.
"Arthur, you seem fine enough. Cleio, are you all right? Not badly hurt?"
"N-no, sir. Just startled, that's all…."
Zebedi pulled a handkerchief from his robe sleeve and handed it to him. Watching Cleio fumble to wipe his face, the dean sighed and helped him to his feet with a large, wrinkled hand.
"Good grief. A frail boy like you causing all this trouble—what were you thinking?"
The two disheveled students stood side by side, enduring a twenty-minute sermon that fired off like a machine gun.
Unauthorized outings, skipping class, breaking into the professors' dormitory, stealing school property — their offenses were not few.
In Cleio's case, the dean added a special charge of insolence for having postponed meetings under the excuse of being "ill."
"You two aren't missing a single class from now until break. Skip once, and you'll be staying on campus through vacation."
"Sir, please, have mercy. For my handsome face, if nothing else?"
"You brat, what's so great about that face?! The punishment stands — two weeks of library reorganization duty. Starting next Tuesday, right after class. Slack off once and I'll reset the count from day one, understood?"
"…Yes, sir."
"Well, if it's an order from you, sir, I guess I'll study and clean. What choice do I have?"
Arthur's grin vanished the instant the punishment sank in, and he bolted down the hall.
Cleio, body and mind utterly drained, couldn't keep up with the long-legged prince.
When he turned to bow, shoulders sagging, Zebedi's voice softened slightly.
"Cleio Aser, you have another matter to attend to."
"Huh? What is it?"
"Your father is waiting in the reception room. Not the way you came — take the left corridor to the last door."
"What? Why now…?"
"There's been… quite a few incidents lately, hasn't there?"
Cleio's face twisted in dismay.
Don't tell me the 'guest' the dean had earlier was Gideon Aser. Perfect. Just perfect.
···
Baron Gideon Aser had never appeared in the previous draft of the manuscript.
If anything, he'd only ever been vaguely alluded to — perhaps as the anonymous benefactor who had funded Arthur's war campaign during the civil conflict. Beyond that, Cleio remembered nothing.
Well, it's not like a father would kill his own son… right?
Cleio shuffled wearily down the hall and opened the door to the reception room.
He regretted that decision within five seconds.
Slaaap—!
He didn't even get a chance to exchange greetings.
The moment he stepped in, an unfamiliar "father" struck him across the face, sending him tumbling to the floor once more.
He was too light to withstand the blow from an adult man; he flew more than he fell. At least that made it hurt less.
What the hell— I've never even been hit by my real dad…
Then again, he'd never even met his real dad.
This is straight out of a soap opera.
More bewildered than hurt, Cleio found himself laughing faintly.
He dusted off his clothes — though they were already soaked in blood and grime, the effort was pointless.
"I trust you've been well, Father."
"Well? You think you have the right to ask me that?"
Facing him at last, Gideon Aser looked… surprisingly like him.
So he wasn't some illegitimate affair child after all.
Neatly combed brown hair, hazel eyes, a lean face with high cheekbones — the resemblance was undeniable.
Genetically similar or not, why does he look like a movie star while I look malnourished?
Baron Gideon Aser stood tall, his expression frozen into something painfully cold.
One might have expected even a hint of sympathy for the ragged, beaten-up boy before him — but he didn't even tell Cleio to sit.
"The tailoring for that uniform you've so thoroughly ruined cost two thousand dinars. The buttons are engraved with your initials, the fabric is a linen–wool blend, and the tie is silk."
Cleio blinked, suddenly becoming aware of what he was wearing.
Sure enough, when he turned one of the sleeve buttons, he saw tiny letters engraved there — K.A.
So that's why this fit perfectly even though the body it belongs to is a twig.
"The entrance donation was seven hundred and eighty thousand dinars, plus an additional twenty thousand in welfare funds. Tuition is fifty thousand dinars per semester — I've prepaid for four. That's another two hundred thousand. Every single day you spend here, Cleio Aser, is worth its weight in gold."
The sheer weight of those numbers snapped Cleio's posture straight.
The part of him that had once been Korean wanted to rise up and shake him by the shoulders.
Right, sir. When you put it like that, I see you're actually quite merciful for stopping at one slap. My apologies, Father, I misunderstood you.
"Cleio Aser. I'll ask again — you've been well?"
"Well… 'well' might not be the best word for it."
"You speak as if it's someone else's problem. I hear you jumped into the river at night."
"…That was truly an accident. The path was dark during my walk…."
Cleio almost felt embarrassed remembering how people had claimed Gideon didn't even look at his son.
Ten million won's worth of donation money, and he still calls this a school accident? I can't exactly tell him I did it because life felt meaningless.
"It was your mother's dream to see you admitted to this academy. Telma said, even if it cost her life to bear you, she would not regret it. I wonder what she would think now, if she could see you."
Cleio's quick tongue failed him for once.
No one had ever mentioned the mother before.
The mother for whose sake the original Cleio had forced himself to stay, even when the struggle had been unbearable.
So that was the story, then.
Madam Telma Aser, rest assured — your son has indeed been admitted to this fine school. May you rest in peace knowing that box has been ticked.
When Cleio's posture grew a little more formal, Gideon finally sat and motioned for his son to do the same.
The man looked to be in his early fifties, and though his demeanor was composed, his eyes held a storm of conflicting emotion — love and pride tangled with disappointment and anger.
"You still don't understand, so let me make this clear. Not everyone born into the world becomes human. To be treated as one, you must possess at least one of three things: status, wealth, or talent."
Ah, yes, Father. Can't argue with that. Harsh but accurate.
"I was born in the slums of the Oriens District with none of the three. I earned my station and fortune through my own hands — so that you, my son, would never endure the scorn and pain that I did."
Nothing in Gideon's polished voice, attire, or bearing hinted at such a background.
"Moreover, you were gifted with talent. Aether sensitivity — rare even in its weakest form. With effort, it could bring you great success. I've filled your accounts generously so you could purchase mana stones or magical instruments, but you've shown no interest in developing your potential."
Wait— he's actually scolding me for not spending his money?
Cleio couldn't help the weary, half-sardonic smile that crept up his face.
"Therefore, I've frozen your accounts. After the final exams, I'll decide whether to release them — depending on your results."
"…That's rather sudden, isn't it?"
Cleio felt as if his entire nation had been taken from him. Forget being ripped from his home world — losing access to his forty thousand dinars hit harder.
Who does that?! Isn't there a banking law here? Can parents just do that to minors? Damn it, I should've withdrawn it all earlier—
"Sudden? I believe I've given you more than enough time."
"Effort doesn't always guarantee success, Father. Academia doesn't work that way."
"True enough. But if you truly cannot achieve anything here—"
Cleio, busy scheming ways to unlock his account, nearly missed the next line.
"…Pardon? Could you repeat that?"
"I said, if you cannot continue at this academy, I'll enlist you as a soldier. Seventeen is plenty old enough to serve."
He's insane.
The words nearly burst out of him; he bit his tongue hard to hold them back.
The sting helped him think clearly again.
Cleio had been planning to get expelled precisely to avoid mandatory service.
To force him to choose between the army in five years or the army tomorrow — in a country that was bound for war — was nothing short of cruel.
Graduates served as officers, but at seventeen, with this frail body? He'd be sent straight to the trenches.
And Gideon Aser was clearly not the kind of man to make empty threats.
He'd find a way to make it happen. I have to avoid that.
Cleio straightened, his tone turning serious for the first time.
"What rank do you expect me to achieve?"
"You speak as if you can deliver on any goal I name. The River Tempus must indeed have some divine blessing — my second son looks me in the eye for the first time in seventeen years."
His tenor voice was rich, but the chill in it was unmistakable.
"Am I to believe you'll behave differently from now on?"
"Well, Father, I don't think I've changed all that much. I'm not sure what you've been expecting from me."
Something flickered in Gideon's eyes — a hint of surprise, even grudging interest — but Cleio was too busy strategizing to notice.
"Place within the top thirty. Don't disappoint me again."
"So if I rank in the top thirty, you'll unfreeze my account. What about top twenty — what happens then?"
For the first time, the corners of Gideon's mouth twitched, almost forming something human.
"If you impress me that much, I'll double the funds in your account when I unfreeze it. Provided you can manage it."
Perhaps he could.
Cleio still had his overflowing aether sensitivity — and his unbeatable cheat code, Memory.
"I won't disappoint you, Father."