Chapter 59 - St. Jansk University and the Chamber of Secrets (2)

For the week following that day, Ivan was able to return to his peaceful life as a gardener.

Excluding, of course, the occasional moment when his eyes met Esidisi's and she charged at him with a blade. She was turning into a monster that attacked on sight.

An unwelcome development for a civilized man who did not initiate hostilities.

In any case, the calamity that had struck Prizhenkaya was resolved within a week.

Given both its scale and its repercussions, there should have been no possible way to wrap everything up in a week. Fortunately, Prizhenkaya had a capable intelligence agency. (Domestic intelligence was its priority.)

Dmitry wanted to boast about the beautiful conclusion he and his subordinates had brought about. He would have loved to tell everyone in town that he was a founding father of the new order, but his current circumstances did not permit it.

THWACK!

“Guuuurgh?!”

“Your form slipped. Again.”

“Shurr... I, uh...”

“Again.”

He was currently standing on his head, his forehead pressed against the floor.

A glance around revealed the peculiar juniors surrounding him, all willingly standing on their heads as they gazed at Ivan with sparkling eyes.

Spineless creatures without a shred of pride... Lamenting the lax mental fortitude of today's young intelligence agents, Dmitry corrected his posture.

After all, the man before him was the only human outside the Hero's Party with a confirmed personal kill of one of the Seven Dragon Generals.

So it wasn't fear. It was, well.

Respect?

Respect. Yes. He was a venerable veteran who had been a force to reckon with even in the Extermination Unit, Counterintelligence Command's predecessor, at the height of the war.

Yes, respect. Certainly not fear. No, why would he be afraid? He and his senior held the same rank, didn't they? Lieutenant colonel. Besides, Dmitry was still young. Just wait until he got promoted.

'Ah, Lieutenant Colonel Petrovich. There you are.'

'What? Ah, my apologies. Fewer stripes on your insignia seem to make your voice weaker. I couldn't quite hear you. Could you speak up a little more smartly? Ahem. Your colonel requires water, Lieutenant Colonel! Hahahaha! Now, now. Discharged or not, once a soldier, always a soldier...'

'Ah, wait. Words, sir. Sir, let's use our words. Ah.'

'Sorry. No, I said I'm sorry. I'm apologizing. No, disrespectful? When was I disrespectful?'

'Ah, that's a potion. No, put that down...'

“... Urgh.”

Having taken a beating in his own imagination, Dmitry quietly closed his eyes.

Yes. It was respect.

* * *

Only after thoroughly tightening Counterintelligence Command's discipline could Ivan accept their lengthy explanation.

The planted explosives—well, fair enough.

The Guards Division preparing a rebellion...? That must have been difficult to stop. Commendable that they'd detected it in advance.

Dwarves underground...? What the hell was that about...?

Destroying the communications network of the Crown Prince's Faction in the House of Nobles, detaining the current king, seizing the national treasury and royal treasure vault. Oh, impressive.

After roughly coming to terms with everything Prizhenkaya had endured on the same day, and listening to a desperate explanation—“We were trying not to lay a finger on your jurisdiction, sir, hahaha. I suppose we hadn't quite built enough, er, rapport with the field agents. Ahahaha.”—he nodded.

He understood perfectly well that Counterintelligence Command had been busy.

But wasn't Counterintelligence Command supposed to be busy?

Sometimes, the people of this uncivilized, premodern era had a tendency not to regard the obvious as obvious.

To put it rather harshly, it felt like watching someone praise a knife for being sharp, or a pen for producing ink.

Was he supposed to sympathize with Counterintelligence Command neglecting key protection targets because it had been busy conducting intelligence operations?

Things weren't like that in my day. I served as the Hero's Party's scout while infiltrating enemy positions, stealing intelligence, and sabotaging key assets. (This was true.)

Why couldn't young people these days manage even that? It was deeply lamentable.

And so Ivan devoted his entire weekend to toughening up Counterintelligence Command's mindset.

The agents were happy to receive personal mentoring from the founder of their workplace.

Ivan was happy that Prizhenkaya's intelligence agents had become a more elite force.

Dmitry was sad that he had come to work unpaid on the weekend and been forced into training that wasn't on the half-year training schedule.

* * *

Once the lengthy ordeal was over, Dmitry sat on the sofa, bracing his trembling legs with his hands, and barely managed to speak.

“So, sir. Are you going to the university tomorrow?”

“I have to.”

“Well, um. Ah... Her Highness told me not to say anything yet, so I really can't tell you. But, um. Soon... royal favor...? Royal favor. Yes, you'll be receiving royal favor.”

“Royal favor?”

“Yes. And knowing Her Highness, soon probably means tomorrow... Dress smartly for work tomorrow. Trim your beard a little too, if possible.”

“I'm hardly in a position to receive a royal gift in public.”

“Well, yes, that goes for all of us. But I have a feeling this might be a very private commendation, rather than a public one. You know? The intimate sort, between a man and a woman.”

Ivan snorted at this nonsense, which wasn't worth a moment's consideration, and stood.

He was not an adolescent boy. As a rational adult, he could deduce the Princess's position.

She might have just fully consolidated her political position, but she had ultimately been obliged to decline the throne. There had been insufficient justification to depose a perfectly functional king.

The Crown Prince's abduction and the terrorist attacks in the capital were not the king's fault. (So it had been publicly declared.) The moment anyone condemned the king's incompetence, the entire capital guard establishment, starting with Counterintelligence Command, would be purged.

However powerful the House of Nobles had become, it could not allow that. The military establishment, including the capital's Guards Division, was naturally the high nobility's own backyard.

Therefore, the king was not incompetent. A few incompetent, treacherous ministers had merely blinded him to the truth. With that conclusion established, succeeding to the throne would instead invite condemnation.

In other words, the Princess could not officially bestow any sort of “royal favor” on Counterintelligence Command or Ivan himself. No country publicly rewarded its secret agents in the first place.

Still, unreliable as Dmitry was, he wasn't the sort to joke about matters concerning the Princess.

Ivan returned to the orphanage deep in thought.

His eyes happened to fall on the peeling paint of the orphanage wall. It looked like this despite the substantial capital he invested in beautifying the premises every six months. (The orphans had been walking along the wall.)

If she was going to give him something, money would be nice.

Nodding, Ivan headed to the director's office.

* * *

As he had reflected once before, if there was one universal rule of the academy genre, it was this:

The academy's headmaster—or president—was the strongest person in the setting.

Indeed. Why a post meant for a seasoned administrator was instead occupied by a genius mage (with a child's appearance) or a master of a bygone generation restored to youth (with a child's appearance), he couldn't say. But that was usually how it went.

Come to think of it, DumbXedore had been the strongest in Europe too, which was why he'd successfully held off Britain's Heavenly Demon (whose life's ambition was to attack a combined primary and secondary educational facility). Considering what had become of HogXarts after DumbXedore's death, the rule was highly reliable.

If asked to name the strongest person in this era, several powerhouses from the previous generation might enter the discussion. But they were sensible people, with neither reason nor time to serve as a university president.

Meanwhile, if asked to name the “strongest person in Prizhenkaya,” there happened to be someone who had “headed the civil administration,” to whom “the military, treasury, judiciary, and legislature all submitted,” who “now held no official position and was thus ready to accept an honorary post,” and who “happened to be of marriageable age.”

What did it matter whether her martial prowess was the greatest? Uncivilized as this premodern era might be, even on Earth, people who held power through personal fighting ability alone had vanished with the end of antiquity.

Naturally, “strongest” meant the person who wielded “the greatest political power.”

Indeed.

The strongest person in Prizhenkaya.

After sending the (former) president—who had come to work on Monday morning without a care in the world—safely home (Krasilof did not pay severance), Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilof ordered a complete renovation of the president's office.

“Ah, ebony over there.”

“Yes, Your Maj—no, forgive me! Your Highness!!”

“No need for such formality. I'm here as president, am I not?”

“Yes, Madam President!!”

Astonishingly, the conversion of the president's office into the eastern palace office was completed before noon. In Prizhenkaya, they burned through people rather than time. Unlike time, incidentally, people were a resource that could be reproduced whenever needed.

Seated in the now reasonably habitable president's office—meaning it was only about half as extravagant as the eastern palace—Elizaveta finally nodded to her guard officer.

“Now bring ‘him’ here.”

“Your royal command shall be obeyed, Your Majesty.”

“Ahem.”

“Yes, Madam President.”

Not daring even to think that she ought to have left the Royal Guard at the royal palace if she wanted to be treated as a president, the guard officer bowed with an odd expression and left the office.

Elizaveta stretched and looked out the window.

On this bright summer day, the campus was filled with lively students, as though the recent chaos had nothing to do with them.

How enviable.

Elizaveta had never attended school. In this world, which lacked the concept of a standardized curriculum, most higher education took place at home.

She had spent half her childhood at court and the other half on the battlefield. Her education had focused on military science, politics, and the principles of rulership, along with aristocratic and court etiquette.

In other words, she'd never had the experience of laughing so carefree and roaming about with little groups of friends her own age. There wasn't even much of an age gap between her and those students. (She counted anyone less than ten years apart in age as a peer. By that standard, Ivan was also her peer.)

“Hmm...”

The official announcement of her appointment as president of St. Jansk University would have reached the House of Nobles by now. Those old men would be positively frantic.

St. Jansk University was internationally prestigious. Accordingly, the nobles did everything they could to enroll their children there—not merely out of educational zeal, but as a means of cultivating international social connections.

Looked at the other way around, that meant this:

If she took complete control of the university, most of Prizhenkaya's nobles would effectively have left hostages in her hands.

Elizaveta smiled coldly. It was a smile truly befitting the ruler of a shogunate, a sovereign who controlled the kingdom's darkness.

A capable ruler secured dozens of advantages through a single policy. The university presidency was more than just a threat aimed at the House of Nobles.

No, that was merely a secondary objective. She had plenty of other ways to intimidate the House of Nobles.

Thus, her true tactical objective was...

“Madam President. I've brought him.”

“Bid him enter.”

Wearing an odd expression that most certainly did not question why she wanted to be called president if she was going to speak like that, the guard officer opened the office door and appeared.

Behind him entered a man in freshly laundered work clothes, a soft, dry towel draped around his neck.

“There you are.”

“... Yes.”

“Sit down. We have much to discuss.”

The man looked for a moment at Elizaveta occupying the president's office, then surveyed the room, which bore no resemblance to the office he remembered. Finally, he glanced at the ceiling and muttered.

So much for getting any money.

But that was hardly proper behavior in the presence of royal blood, so the sensible, courteous man promptly sat on the sofa.