Chapter 61 - St. Jansk University and the Chamber of Secrets (4)

Esidisi gazed blankly up at the sky. A blue summer sky. Students laughed together on campus, delighted by who knew what. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, and bad kids like you...

"No, that's not it."

She struggled to straighten out her tangled thoughts. What mattered right now wasn't how beautiful the day was.

It was Uncle Ivan!

She had spent the entire weekend agonizing. Mostly over what on earth she was supposed to do about him.

After letting everyone everywhere hear he was dead and getting himself officially buried in the national cemetery, what?

Ta-da! I was alive all along! (And I grew a beard.)

An astonishing event that doubled the shock and tripled how pissed off she was. Every time Esidisi thought of him, her head seemed to spin.

His manner had become brusque, his expression sinister.

His new hobby: stalking female students.

"He needs... He needs straightening out."

Someone needed to care for that poor old man living alone. (He was thirty-four.)

To shave him, feed him warm meals, and stay firmly by his side so he wouldn't go chasing after other women...

And surely that duty fell to her, the woman who had known him longer than anyone else in this world. Really, what other woman would understand and care for a man like that? It was common sense.

She had to do it. There was no one else.

Her resolve firm, Esidisi began writing a letter.

[Dad,

How are you? I'm doing well, fortunately. Prizhenkaya is a nice place. The buildings are tall, there are lots of people, and the streets are full of shops.

Lots of people here love music. Oh, not the kind you sing when you're drunk. String instruments, not drums. The kind of music that sounds warm and lovely, that you play together with lots of other people.

How are my younger siblings? They're doing well, aren't they? They ought to be. Unlike me, they always liked fighting.]

Esidisi hesitated, then squeezed her eyes shut and let her hand race unchecked.

[By the way, it's nothing important, but I'm thinking about trying this marriage thing.

I've met... I'm planning to meet... a good... formerly good... man.

Don't worry. And if you've been looking into any other matches, please cancel them.

I'll leave it at that.

-Esidisi.]

Good. That took care of parental permission. (It did not.)

Esidisi nodded in satisfaction and rose. Once again, a dagger rested in her hand.

"Now where has Uncle gone?"

Over the past few days, Ivan had been suspiciously difficult to spot. It hadn't been long since he was stalking her so ardently, yet he seemed to have found another target already.

"Ahaha."

Naturally, that nasty habit needed correcting as quickly as possible. She was already worried about how he would ever manage in life.

The biggest obstacle in dealing with Ivan's philandering—though their relationship made the term inapplicable—was, sadly, the girl who used to be her closest friend... Isabelle.

Ivan seemed very fond of Isabelle, too, since he was personally teaching her to use weapons. And Isabelle seemed to look up to him.

No, "look up to" wasn't quite right.

Having grown up at court and mastered its politics and intrigue, Esidisi could tell. Nothing about Isabelle's feelings escaped her keen eyes.

Pretending otherwise, pretending she was simply easygoing, the girl was subtly "flirting" with Uncle Ivan. Unforgivable. How dare she covet a man with a family? (He did not have one.)

In Droan, that sort of vice deserved an introduction to the homeland's traditional games. For reference, Droan's traditional games included hanging from poles, burning, sinking, and the blood eagle.

Their former friendship meant she couldn't go quite that far, but the girl still needed a sharp lesson.

How dare she try anything with that scrawny, dried-up little child's body?

Besides, uncivilized Thilles might have a debauched, lewd culture that proudly indulged in public "romance" under the guise of chivalry, but Droan did not.

Droan, a morally advanced nation, prized fidelity, chastity, and pure love between men and women. (Meaning they castrated unfaithful men and executed their lovers.)

"I'm going to be busy..."

She had to teach Ivan fidelity and common sense, and teach Isabelle and all the other women swarming around him about Droan's family culture. She was a very busy person indeed.

* * *

GRIND.

A wooden practice sword resting on her shoulder, Isabelle glared at a corner of the campus.

Following Ivan had allowed her to confirm that he had entered the president's office. And with just a slight turn of her gaze, there stood a figure beneath a roadside tree outside the main building that housed the office.

Hands folded demurely, smiling warmly as she watched the entrance. That loathsome... girl who used to be her friend.

"Traitor."

Isabelle murmured quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. Biting down hard on the tip of her thumbnail, she glared at that preposterous barbarian.

All the girl knew how to do was thrust that stupidly cumbersome body at him.

'He's a thoroughly trained soldier.'

That was obvious after exchanging just three sentences with him. He loved efficiency.

And naturally, Esidisi's body was inefficiency incarnate. The only person more inefficient than her was the Saint, whom Isabelle had seen from a distance.

All that unnecessary fat symbolized her sloth. And Isabelle was confident she wouldn't lose to a lazy, dim-witted woman like that.

The coward might be copying her methods to secure a place at his side, but—ha. As if.

No imitation could beat the original.

Besides, a relationship between a man and a woman was proven by the time and memories they shared. Did he even remember Esidisi's name? (He did.)

"Heh... Hehehe."

Isabelle straightened with a confident laugh.

Yes, this was a fight she couldn't lose. It wasn't even a fight to begin with. Did an adult striking a child count as a contest? No. This was merely discipline.

"At the court of Thilles, this is just basic politics."

The savage, uncivilized court of Droan made its decisions based solely on the authority and charisma of one man, the Great King. Not so in Thilles.

Thilles was a cultural powerhouse that had built its civilization upon a rigorous judicial system and ethical principles. It possessed a government both complex and beautiful, utterly unlike a simple political system run by one absolute ruler.

Thus, as a representative of that cultural powerhouse, Isabelle decided to teach the barbarian's daughter some "culture."

"Oh!"

Ivan strode out of the main building. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, though surely he wasn't thinking anything at all. The sight of that blank face drew an involuntary chuckle from her.

She ran toward him, waving her hand wildly.

"Mister!!"

* * *

He needed to take a mage along.

Ivan was a reasonable man, so he had no intention of actually tackling an "underground academy dungeon protected by an ancient spell" entirely on his own.

He was a man of many talents, but unfortunately, he had never learned magic. Not simple spells for lighting and extinguishing fires—he meant spells that qualified as actual "magic."

He was a wartime agent trained in the field. Magic, however, was an academic discipline. It required precise formulas, incantations, rituals, reagents, and all sorts of other complicated knowledge.

'Where can I find a mage?'

Ivan walked on, troubled. He didn't know what this ancient spell was, but one thing was certain: it was powerful enough to make a Dwarven artifact disappear in an instant.

He couldn't dismantle a spell like that with his bare hands. He needed a mage, particularly one skilled at "analysis."

Veolgrin was the most reliable mage of that sort, but Ivan had neither the means nor the desire to summon him.

The head of the Magic Department might qualify... But that would compromise the covert nature of the mission. The moment he enlisted an elf's assistance, information would leak to the Kallion archipelago.

"Mister!!"

"Hm?"

Ivan looked up at the sudden voice. Isabelle was running toward him with a wooden sword in hand and a bright smile.

Then something odd caught his eye. Frowning, he caught her wrist as she approached.

"Ah?!"

"Don't move."

Holding her right wrist in one hand, Ivan reached inside his clothes and took out a bandage. There was no need for pointless torture, so he didn't use a healing potion.

With practiced hands, he wrapped the bandage around Isabelle's thumbnail. Bandages in this uncivilized, premodern era were merely small strips of cotton smeared with ointment, but they served much the same purpose as modern ones.

And he was an orphanage director. Since small children had a suspicious fondness for high places, he had more than enough experience bandaging their scrapes.

"You've picked up a bad habit."

"Ah... Um... Yes..."

Isabelle averted her dizzy gaze. Her whole face had turned so red it looked ready to burst.

At this distance, a superhuman's hearing could detect another person's heartbeat. Ivan frowned as he assessed her complexion and pulse.

"Do you have an arrhythmia? Cardiovascular conditions can cause serious problems if left untreated. Go see the Saint."

"Y-Yes?! What... What is this..."

Isabelle's expression instantly turned frosty, and she pulled her hand away. Even so, she began grinning to herself, idly stroking her bandaged thumb.

Had she... never seen a bandage before?

Ivan lamented it. Apparently, the court of Thilles tended to shelter its children too much.

Then again, she even had a personal priest. When would she ever have used a bandage on a mere scratch? A single healing spell from a priest could instantly mend wounds far deeper than that.

"Oh, right, mister. There was something I wanted to tell you."

"Hm?"

Isabelle stared suspiciously at a spot far behind him. After casting a glance that way, her eyes glinting with sly malice, she spoke to Ivan.

"I like your beard, mister."

"...?"

Hear that, Eshi?

This was Thilles-style "politics." Nothing like what you barbarians practiced.

When competing for someone's heart, telling them what they wanted to hear was "common sense."

But taking a different position from your rival at the same time gave you the "advantage."

Just stand there and watch with that look of utter devastation.

Chuckling, Isabelle took a step closer to Ivan.

"So do I."

"Pardon...?"

"Is that all?"

"What? Oh, no. Wait. Um, hmm... Have you had lunch? I happen to know this really amazing restaurant..."

"I've eaten."

Ivan was an efficient man, so he ate nutrition bars for almost every meal.

The nutrition bar was the masterpiece of his life. This uncivilized, premodern fantasy world had no field of study called "nutrition."

With no concept of essential nutrients, people visited priests for the physical ailments caused by dietary imbalances. Astonishingly, a priest's "healing" could perform the miracle of temporarily alleviating even those imbalances.

But Ivan, born a poor tenant farmer, couldn't afford such luxuries. And so he had thrown himself desperately into developing these "nutrition bars."

Even on battlefields with unreliable supply lines, these bars had played a major role in keeping his combat performance consistent.

'Though nobody in the Hero's Party ever ate them with me...'

Uncivilized premodern people, the lot of them.

Those bastards had slandered his nutrition bars with vicious insults like "worse than pig swill." They had rejected this marvelous food of the future: a grain-based source of carbohydrates, studded generously with semi-dried fruit—mostly wild raspberries—and bound together with lard! A miracle product boasting perfect nutritional balance and low production costs, no less.

It was even a secret technique beyond this civilization's reach that the former king himself had praised... Whenever Ivan thought of this, he realized anew just how remarkable the former king had been.

"Uh... Uhh... You've... eaten? It's ten o'clock. You've already had lunch?"

"Mm."

Eating at set times was a luxury on a mission. Instead, Ivan would break dry rations and nutrition bars into pieces, replenishing his nutrients in several installments.

It was a habit ingrained over many years. By now, practically his daily routine.

"Then d-dinner? Uh, uh, when do you eat...?"

"I'm busy this evening."

He needed to find a mage immediately and investigate the entrance to the underground ruins.

"Then tomorrow... What about lunch tomorrow...?"

"I'll probably be busy."

Assuming he found the entrance that evening and went straight in, he would likely be occupied for at least a day or two.

"The weekend! What about the weekend?!"

"Busy."

On weekends, he had to catch up on all the orphanage work that piled up while he guarded the Hero's Party's children full-time during the week.

The orphanage wasn't an unmanned business that ran itself. He had to secure a week's worth of ingredients for the children's meals, mend all the clothes they would have damaged yet again during the week, review their education, and listen to their troubles.

It was practically his only hobby. Time that gave him peace of mind. That was why he ran the orphanage.

It wasn't out of genuine concern and care for the plight of war orphans. He did it only for his own satisfaction.

That made it hypocrisy. Ivan knew he was a hypocrite. It was nothing more than self-consolation, an attempt to ease the weight of the blood on his hands.

"Hic... Sniff..."

Isabelle suddenly burst into tears and ran off somewhere.

Hmm.

Puberty in this other world was difficult to fathom.

Ivan slowly shook his head and walked on.

Where could he find a mage...