23.
Saint Henige Academy was a prestigious school established under the patronage of the Marquis of Henige in the eastern reaches of the Nesman Empire.
Apart from a handful of commoners admitted as scholarship students or through noble sponsorship, nearly all of its pupils were sons and daughters of the nobility.
From ages nine to twelve,
students were placed into grades by age, though the system allowed both repetition and advancement.
As a result, not every child’s grade aligned neatly with their years.
“Hey, are you studying even during lunch break?”
At the sound of a voice, a boy with black hair and striking ash-grey eyes lifted his head.
With his reddish-brown hair and eyes, leaning in far too close.
Right before him was Richard Wulverny.
…Pretending to be close again.
Suppressing his true feelings, Ian offered a polite smile.
“To keep up with the lessons, of course I have to study hard.
You know I advanced a grade early.”
Ian was ten.
Richard, eleven.
Only a year apart, but because Ian had advanced a grade early, they shared the same class.
“Well, I guess if you were lucky enough to skip a grade, it’d be embarrassing to fall behind.”
Ian smirked inwardly.
Unlike him—who had entered at the top of the entrance exams and held first place on every test—Richard sat stubbornly in the middle of the rankings.
And yet here he was, attributing Ian’s advancement to luck.
How laughable.
“Richard, I really need to study.
Unless it’s something important, could we talk later?”
“Come on, you can’t just study all the time.
Isn’t it boring?
Why don’t we go out and play?
We’ve still got some lunch break left.”
“Well…”
“Or we could hit the school shop.”
Richard slung an arm around his shoulders as he spoke.
Ian fell silent for a moment.
Why is he acting so chummy these days?
Normally, Richard seemed desperate to pick a fight with him.
At ten years old, Ian was already half a hand taller than his peers, with neat features and an especially charming smile.
As heir to the Duke of Bayern and the vast fortune left by his late parents,
coupled with his top grades and kind demeanor—
he had captured the admiration of even the upperclassmen from the moment he entered the academy.
By contrast, Richard carried the title of eldest grandson of the Marquis of Wulverny, yet his filthy temper and arrogance had earned him the reputation of a troublemaker at school.
He was even smaller in stature than Ian.
Perhaps that was why—jealousy and inferiority gnawed at him.
The boy who had spent every day picking fights was suddenly acting friendly.
That could only mean he had some ulterior motive.
Maybe it was worth humoring him for a while, just to find out what it was.
What a bother…
As Ian hesitated, Richard asked casually,
“Hey, about the Duke of Bayern—he’s not coming to this year’s school festival either, is he?”
The Duke of Bayern.
The moment Richard spoke that name, Ian’s nerves sharpened like drawn steel.
“Why do you ask about my uncle?”
But the smile never left his lips.
He could already sense that whatever Richard said next would reveal why he’d been playing the friendly act.
“Oh, I just wondered.
He always sends that white-haired steward in his place.”
“Well, if he’s busy, he can’t come.
If he’s free, he will.
You know as well as I do how much work my uncle has.”
“Busy or not, shouldn’t a guardian take a little more interest in you?”
Ian gave a small, derisive laugh.
So this was the reason Richard had drawn close to him lately.
At last, the pieces fit.
“Right, right.”
“You said you can’t go home during the break and are going to your maternal grandparents’ place.
Sounds like you’re being neglected, doesn’t it…?”
“Yeah—so?”
When Ian tilted his head, Richard got straight to the point.
“Then change your guardian.”
“Richard, how am I supposed to change what the court decided?”
“If the Duke of Bayern ignores you and leaves you to fend for yourself, the grown-ups will step in and help.
So change him.
It’d be better for you, honestly.”
“Hm.
If I were to change, to whom?”
“There’s that relative of yours… what was he to you—great-uncle?
Anyway, you know.
The eldest son of Count of Athelott.”
“I see.”
Count of Athelott.
“My dear, you mustn’t trust that Ash.
He wanted your family’s fortune so badly he killed your father.
Come stay with your great-uncle.”
From one side, trying to be kind.
“…We’ll butter him up until he becomes guardian, then funnel the estate to our side.
What would the brat even know?”
A thief aiming to swallow Ian’s inheritance whole.
So that’s why he’s been acting so friendly—because of Count Athelott.
Having figured out who the culprit was, Ian’s interest promptly cooled.
“I’ll think about it.”
Of course—only think.
Because he hated the Count of Athelott, and the only adult he truly trusted was his uncle.
***
Bayern Ducal Estate, Reception Room.
A man in his early sixties,
Viscount Courtney dabbed his clammy palms against his knees as he watched the Duke of Bayern sip his tea with refined composure.
Several minutes had already passed.
After the brief exchange of pleasantries, the duke had said nothing further, letting silence stretch.
That the young duke’s calm expression alone could weigh so heavily upon him was proof enough—he had a guilty conscience.
Surely nothing has gone wrong…?
Twice a year, countless nobles contributed to the empire’s grand charitable events.
The greater portion of donations came from high-ranking houses, while the rest was provided by middling lords like himself.
Everyone knew the unspoken rule-the more one gave, the brighter the spotlight from the imperial family.
So he had mixed in his old, unwanted grain with fresh stock and sent it along.
No… impossible.
Nothing has ever come of it in years.
There’s no reason it should now…
If not, there would be no reason for the duke’s summons.
No reason he should endure this humiliating two-hour wait in the reception room.
Forcing down the rising dread, he tried to steady himself.
But in the end, the silence was unbearable.
He broke it first.
“Y-Your Grace, may I ask why you’ve summoned me…?”
Clink.
Ash, who had been savoring the silence, set down his teacup and spoke at last.
“You know very well why.”
“I—I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t imagine what you might mean…”
Viscount Courtney forced a servile smile, his words awkward.
Ash’s ash-grey eyes glimmered with scorn.
He had given the man a chance to confess of his own accord.
But the viscount’s stubborn refusal to face the worst, his desperate denial—it was almost laughable.
“Secretary.”
At Ash’s gesture, Hoshi stepped forward from where he had been standing behind and gently handed a document to the viscount.
“Th-this is…?”
As Courtney took the papers, his broad, calloused hands began to tremble.
The papers proved the very situation he had dreaded.
The supplies he had sent had left the warehouse in shambles.
“Y-Your Grace, this is impossible.
A baseless accusation!
I’d have to be mad to ever…!”
He had grown careless, relying on the fact that nothing had ever gone wrong before.
How he now regretted ignoring his aide’s advice—that perhaps, this time, he should focus on quality over quantity, even if it meant being pushed a little lower on the donors’ list.
“We expected you might say that.”
As soon as Viscount Courtney denied the charge, Hoshi gave a sweet smile and produced yet another bundle of papers.
First sheet, second sheet, and thrid sheet…
With each page that fell like autumn leaves onto the table, the viscount’s complexion turned a shade paler.
“Th-th-this… how did you…?”
The documents laid bare every corruption the Courtney family had so carefully hidden.
If exposed, he would face confiscation of his wealth, a demotion to baron, perhaps even a sentence of forced labor.
“So then—if you weren’t mad, why commit such deeds?”
The young duke’s languid voice cut into his mind, bleached white with panic.
With preparations this thorough, there was no escape.
Resigned, Viscount Courtney asked,
“Your Grace… what is it you want from me?”
“Evidence and a sworn statement,” Ash said evenly, “proving that my wife’s great-uncle interfered in the guardianship trial two years ago.”
“That…!”
“Bring me that, and this matter will be buried.
Your family’s crimes will remain unseen.”
Doubt flickered in the viscount’s eyes.
All of this, overlooked… for just that?
His second son’s future, or the survival of his house—
there was no real question which weighed more.
In a world where primogeniture was law, the sacrifice of a younger son was almost expected.
If it meant preserving the family, then so be it—even if it destroyed the career of a grown, independent barrister.