Chapter 23 - Not All Scoundrels Are the Same (2)

When knights and soldiers were drenched in blood and rolling through the mud, what had scholars all been doing?

Those impractical dreamers had merely exchanged useless discourse in the safety of the rear.

They never stepped to the front, and were nothing but wretches with only their mouths alive.

That was the breed known as scholars, as far as I knew.

So when the old scholar came to me and said he would play teacher, I snorted.

Because I had no desire to learn dead knowledge, far removed from reality.

No, I even wondered if there was anything to learn from it at all.

Not everyone who had passed through my hands had been an ignorant swordsman.

Some had built their own schools in both the sword and scholarship.

And over the course of hundreds of years, I had absorbed all of their knowledge.

And among the knowledge I had absorbed was the petty learning scholars boasted of, so there was absolutely no reason for me to volunteer now to study those utterly useless things.

That was what I believed, and that was what I thought.

But I was wrong.

The old scholar was not a dreamer ignorant of reality, nor was he someone who constantly spouted sophistry about clouds in the sky.

His learning was a realistic thing dealing in pure practicality and efficiency.

By the time I realized that fact, I was already hitting it off with the old scholar and chattering away.

"Exactly. That's right! A person must always watch the back of his head! No one ever knows whether what lies under the belly of the man prostrating himself is a blue blade or something else entirely."

"Though the expression is extreme, you are correct. Iron-Blooded Theory of Monarchy also speaks of the need for a monarch to be wary of what lies in his retainers' hearts. It also states that even a favored vassal should not be given too much power."

"Right, right. People, by nature, are bound to crawl up over you if you let them loose too much."

I found myself terribly excited by such worldly language, the sort of thing the scholars I knew would have immediately denounced as vulgar.

Those who had been with me were, at their core, people steeped in praise for humanity.

I warned them over and over of humanity's vicious nature, but they did not listen, and they had to pay a harsh price.

They believed, even while being betrayed as easily as eating meals.

And then forgave them again.

Just thinking about it made my chest feel stifled.

"Iron-Blooded Theory of Monarchy evaluates the relationship between ruler and subject as a kind of contract, or transaction. It says the monarch protects his retainers while receiving a portion of their military and economic power, and the retainers offer loyalty while seeking the monarch's protection and political stability."

"That's right! It's basic that relationships are maintained only when people give and receive something. Isn't it only natural to follow the one who fills your belly?"

To me, the old scholar's practical and rational theory of rule was not merely welcome—it soaked my heart like sweet rain in a drought.

After that, I went back and forth with the old scholar, chattering for quite some time.

"Then, Your Highness. Let us leave it here for today, and continue the rest of the conversation tomorrow."

"Uh. Right. Right. I'll be waiting."

The old scholar smiled gently, bowed his head, and left the room.

STEP, STEP.

As I mulled over the Iron-Blooded Theory of Monarchy the old scholar had spoken of until the slow sound of his footsteps had completely disappeared, I suddenly went blank.

"Huh?"

When I came to my senses, I had already taken on the appearance of having tacitly agreed to the old scholar's lessons.

Before I knew it, while I was still going, huh, huh, I had naturally promised to meet the old scholar again.

Recalling the face of the old scholar who had brazenly left after saying he would see me tomorrow, I realized that I had been had.

That was definitely not what I had intended at first.

"That old man is damn sly."

I could only laugh hollowly.

* * *

After leaving the First Prince's bedchamber, the old scholar went straight to the Queen.

"Sir Nicolo."

As if she had been waiting for him, the Queen looked delighted.

"The rumors about His Highness were half right and half wrong."

The old scholar, Nicolo Marchiadell, skipped the preliminaries and brought up the story the Queen wanted to hear.

"His unrestrained speech and conduct were just as the rumors said. His uncommon intelligence and insight were different from the rumors."

"There is no need to speak so kindly. He is a child dearer to me than anything, but I know that his intelligence consists of nothing but sly tricks used to make trouble for others."

Saying she could well imagine it without being told, the Queen offered words of concern, wondering whether Prince's rough speech might have offended Nicolo Marchiadell.

"It was a most enjoyable time for me as well. It had been so long since I met someone I could converse with that I lost track of the time."

This time, too, the Queen seemed to think the old scholar's words were mere courtesy.

"If Your Majesty dismisses this old man's words as nothing but empty flattery, then I swear here and now that I am never one to call black white."

Nicolo Marchiadell said to that Queen.

"But I know my own child. He is certainly not the sort of child you speak of, Sir."

"If Your Majesty has thought so."

His gaze deepened.

"Then it must be because His Highness made himself appear that way."

The Queen narrowed her eyes.

"Are you saying that child has been hiding his intelligence on his own?"

If that is truly so, why—the Queen asked, and Nicolo Marchiadell shook his head.

"It is said that to know someone's thoughts, one must discuss with him a hundred times, and to know his character, even experiencing him a thousand times is not enough. How could I presume to guess His Highness's mind from a single meeting?"

He continued calmly.

"I merely glimpsed a sliver of His Highness's deep contemplation and insight."

The Queen's eyes widened.

Her face showed that she had not expected him to evaluate her child so generously.

What kind of man was that old scholar?

In his youth, he had been praised as a genius, and in age, revered as a sage.

Because the ideas contained in the book he wrote in his later years, Iron-Blooded Theory of Monarchy, were excessively radical and worldly, his reputation had now not merely fallen to the ground but left him rejected, but that did not mean his clear intellect had gone anywhere.

If such a sage judged her son so, then it surely could not be wrong.

"Thus, I dare ask Your Majesty."

While the Queen was still bewildered, Nicolo Marchiadell opened his mouth with blazing eyes.

"May I impart to His Highness the realization of this old man whom the world calls vulgar and worldly?"

"Why do you lower yourself so? Everyone I know calls you a sage, Sir."

"They must call me the Vulgar Sage. Though age has dimmed my sight, my ears have not gone completely deaf, so I, too, know at least what the world calls me."

The Queen did not deny it.

He was an old scholar who had drawn the anger of noble people by disparaging the sacred relationship between ruler and subject as the transaction of a mere merchant.

It was precisely because he was such a man that she had dared ask him to serve as teacher to her scoundrel son, whom no one else would volunteer to teach.

Just as there was no one who claimed to be Nicolo Marchiadell's disciple, there was, conversely, no one who volunteered to be the prince's teacher.

"If he learns and studies anything at all, his crooked nature may stand upright, so you may do as you wish, Sir."

A scoundrel student whom every teacher in the world avoided, and a teacher whom every student in the world avoided for being vulgar.

Where could there be a more exquisite pairing than this?

"I have found the joy of my old age, so I am simply overwhelmed by the grace Your Majesty has shown me."

In that way, Nicolo Marchiadell formally declared before the Queen that he would become the First Prince's teacher in earnest.

Of course, Prince Adrian himself knew nothing of that fact, and merely fumed that he had been had by a sly old man.

* * *

Even long after the old scholar left, I was feeling utterly bored.

Now that the aftereffects of the Poem of Martial Deeds had not yet fully faded, I absolutely had to avoid forcing myself to train.

The mana that had been depleted also could not be forcibly refilled until it replenished itself.

I simply wandered around the room with nothing to do.

"Ah, I'm bored."

After waking, I had thrown myself into training without rest.

I had spent my days without knowing how time passed, struggling to regain the power I had lost.

Because of that, when I was forced to rest, I simply could not calm my mind.

"More forcefully! Stronger!"

For no reason, I even hounded Adelia, who was doing perfectly well.

"Don't the Royal Knights train?"

I also picked on Karl Ulrich and the Royal Knights, who were properly carrying out their duties.

But even after wandering here and there and wasting time like that, the damn time refused to pass.

In the midst of that, my maternal uncle came.

Over just a few days, my uncle's face had become terribly haggard.

The eyes that had once been full of vitality had gone cloudy and dull, and the hair that had been as lively as a young man's was full of gray.

If someone saw him, they would think my uncle was the one who had been bedridden.

That was how terrible my uncle looked.

I could tell at once.

My uncle had not overcome the Inner Demon I had planted in the slightest.

"... I am sorry."

After a long while, my uncle opened his mouth.

I thought he would suddenly argue about the last spar, but what he actually said was an apology.

It was truly unexpected.

"I broke the promise I made with my own mouth, and because of that, I inflicted a great wound on you. Even if I had ten mouths, I would have nothing to say."

That was not it, though.

The reason I had been forced to recuperate was not my uncle's Aura Blade, but because I had overused the [Poem of Slaying Dragons].

"Hmm."

Suddenly, the Queen's words came to mind.

The story that my uncle had offered himself as guarantor in exchange for lifting my probation, and that because of it, he had ended up owing the King a debt.

My feelings became a little complicated.

I had taken revenge and won the wager as well.

Perhaps because of that, my feelings toward my uncle seemed to have become somewhat more generous.

"Tell me what you want. If you ask for my arm, I will give it, and if you ask for my eye, I will give it."

"What would I even use that for?"

I responded sullenly to his unnecessarily solemn words and examined my uncle.

"Tsk."

As I watched my uncle with his head bowed low, I clicked my tongue without realizing it.

Come on, even if it was in the old days, this was a man who would have been called a Sword Master, yet he was caught by an Inner Demon that was not much of anything.

Certainly, the knights of this era did not possess a high grade of soul compared to their level.

It must be the price they paid for choosing to grow by steadily polishing their techniques instead of breaking through walls as they grew.

If I left him like this, nine times out of ten, he would probably fall into the Inner Demon and suffer for quite a long time.

"Fine. I'm feeling generous."

My uncle did not react to my words.

"First, I will state my wish."

My uncle's expression was quite solemn.

If I told him to hand over his arm, he looked ready to cut it off right here and give it to me.

Of course, I had no interest in my uncle's hairy arm.

"Uncle."

My uncle's gaze turned to me.

"Let me go out for a bit."

"If you mean an outing, your probation has been lifted, so you can do that anytime, can you not?"

I shook my head.

"No. Not that kind of outing."