Cleio Aser, Registered at Seventeen (3)
Arthur's brilliant performance ended there.
Rosa lightly deflected his heavy strike.
The missed attack slammed into the ground, gouging a deep trench into the hardened earth. Arthur, unable to withstand his own force, rolled across the dirt floor.
Without a sound, Rosa's sword came to rest against the back of his neck.
"Waaaah!!!"
"Whoa!!"
"Ooooh!"
The children and instructors watching the sparring match from a distance erupted in cheers.
Rosa, laughing heartily, extended a hand to lift Arthur up.
"Good match, lad."
"It's an honor to have sparred with you, ma'am. My dream is to one day face you when you're going all out."
Arthur's injuries were not serious. The bleeding stopped quickly. Rosa had been gentle—after all, this was just a student duel.
"You may not be able to use [Circle of Advance], but the power in your blade is already close to Aether Level 6. With a little more effort, you'll soon reach the next plateau."
"Thank you!"
"But one thing. You must fix that habit of stepping too early before you launch an attack."
As she brushed the dust from Arthur's clothes, Rosa added more advice. Her tone carried the thoughtful warmth of a seasoned teacher.
"Fearlessness is good—but real combat is not the same as a duel. The one who loses composure will be the first to fall."
"I'll remember that."
While the two of them looked like they were filming a touching sports drama, Cleio watched them vaguely, lost in thought.
The shared skill [Circle of Advance] was the hallmark of a Level 6 or higher swordsman, allowing them to release sword energy from a distance.
'To think his strength is only just below Level 6 despite such monstrous ability… There are over thirty Level 6 swordsmen in Albion alone. Below that, there must be hundreds.'
He began to understand the uneven development of science in this world. The gaps left by science were filled by the power of Aether.
The clocks in the cities along the railway synchronized not by electric signals, but through aetheric conduction.
In battle, rather than improving firearms or explosives, people relied on swordsmen's ranged attacks.
'I can see why battles turned out like that. A Level 8 swordsman is basically a walking tactical nuke.'
Recalling the fierce battle scenes from the latter part of the manuscript, Cleio nodded to himself.
'A tactical nuke's small blast radius is what—about 500 meters? Everything within a kilometer's obliterated. A Level 8 Sword Master's sword aura reaches about a kilometer too, so it's pretty much the same thing. In a world where carriages still exist, that kind of power is insane.'
Lost in thought with his "Perception" turned off, Cleio only noticed Arthur approaching when a pair of mud-stained boots entered his vision.
"Cleio! What are you doing here? Did you watch my fight?"
"Well, kind of."
"So? I've been working hard during break, you know."
"Work that hard twice and you'll become a Sword Master before graduation."
"That's a compliment, right?"
"…Sure. Think of it however you want. I'm heading in."
"Wait up!"
Ignoring Arthur's call, Cleio trudged wearily toward the dorms. Arthur quickly caught up and blocked his path.
"Ugh, what now."
"Come with me somewhere."
"I'm tired. Later."
"No way. If we wait, the ice will melt and the drink won't be the right temperature. You okay with that?"
"…What drink?"
Cleio's previously dull expression snapped to alertness almost by reflex.
Arthur grinned, knowing he'd taken the bait.
Realizing he'd fallen for it, Cleio felt a twinge of embarrassment.
'I'm not Behemoth, for crying out loud.'
"Knew talk of alcohol would wake you up. It's champagne blended from the Muicatel and Glycina varieties—Elderflower aroma, exquisite flavor."
"Wait, is that the one from the birthday celebration?"
"Exactly! The royal ball! 'Riognes'—the entire production goes straight to the royal family. They only serve it at royal events, so unless you're friends with a prince, it's nearly impossible to taste. Well?"
At the king's birthday banquet, he'd only managed a single glass while on reconnaissance duty.
Hearing Arthur's words, the memory of its flavor vividly resurfaced on his tongue.
As he recalled the soft acidity and elegant aroma that brushed the tip of his nose, Cleio's demeanor flipped instantly.
"Let's go. Where is it?"
Fatigue didn't matter anymore.
***
In early September, as late summer faded into early autumn, the forest air was still warm and gentle, holding the remnants of the day's heat.
The tranquil atmosphere around the Gate of Mnemosyne and the barrier stones surrounding the ruins remained unchanged.
'Back then, I didn't even know what this monument was. Who'd have guessed it was a barrier stone sealing the "Gate of Mnemosyne"…'
Even knowing that, it still made for a good backrest.
Settling comfortably against the monument, Cleio gazed in rapture at the liquid in his glass.
Rows of bubbles interlaced and danced, a sight that never grew old.
Sipped in comfort, with easy company, the drink tasted even better.
'If Melchior really wanted to win me over, he'd have sent a crate of this instead of those ridiculous clothes I'll never wear. Always testing people…'
Arthur, after filling his own glass, placed the bottle back into a bucket of ice water.
He'd chilled the champagne in advance for a post-duel toast—an impressively well-prepared drinker.
"It's been a while since we came here, huh? The drinks were good last time too."
"The ending was filthy, though. No one watching this time?"
"I already checked the area—clear today. Actually, last time, I knew someone was around… but I ignored it since they were just another student and didn't mean harm. My mistake."
"Seriously, some people need better hobbies."
"What, you didn't know? The one who wrote that article—it was Fran White. That snarky gray-haired, glasses-wearing repeat student."
"What?!"
"Isiel found out ages ago, but I told her not to say anything. He's not the kind to write something like that just for fun."
"If it wasn't for fun, what then? He's got a grudge against you or something?"
"Why assume it's about me?"
Draining his glass, Cleio waved it in Arthur's direction, silently demanding a refill.
"Because I live a shame-free life. My brother doesn't send assassins after me, and I don't think about killing people I call friends."
"Still holding grudges, huh? Tch. Anyway, the eldest son of Count Werner Nils Hyde-White, laureate poet of the royal dynasty, is apparently hard at work exposing the hypocrisy of his own ruling class."
Cleio, who had been staring at the new pour in his glass, finally lifted his gaze toward the speaker instead.
"Is he… some kind of republican or something?"
"Most likely, yeah. From what I've heard, he's even involved in some underground organization. Melchior's Drawer probably has more concrete evidence collected by now."
Cleio nearly dropped his glass. It was the moment his inner scream burst out.
Damn it! That guy's supposed to be busy working in the mines' lab—what the hell is this sudden subplot?! This novel wasn't even that kind of genre!
Progress and revolution—fine, noble ideals. But what business did they have in a fantasy world full of swordsmen and mages?!
If Arthur hadn't caught the bottom of the glass with lightning reflexes, Cleio would've lost both his composure and that precious drink, which would've driven him mad with regret.
The drink, of course, was blameless.
Cleio just kept drinking what was left. Down, gulp by gulp—it went smoothly.
Eventually Arthur couldn't stand it anymore and tried to stop him.
"Hey, slow down. I'm only having one more glass."
"My stomach's on fire right now, slowing down isn't an option."
He couldn't shake the suspicion that the author—perhaps once a classmate of his and Min-san's—had taken a bad dose of 'Civil Society and Revolution' and decided to cram that nonsense into
Of course, that might itself be evidence that the manuscript was collapsing… but without a way to confirm, the uncertainty was maddening.
"…You know, sometimes you really talk like an old man."
Of course I do, I'm practically your uncle,Cleio thought—but he couldn't exactly say that. So he just gave him a face that said, You got a problem with that?
To Arthur, it was simply the usual "Cleio face."
Each time Cleio emptied his glass, Arthur silently refilled it, and as they drank, the sunset slowly painted the sky.
The two said nothing, just drank.
When the bottle was nearly empty, Arthur quietly broke the silence.
"Has there still been no result from the 'positive review'?"
"..."
There it is. Knew he'd bring that up sooner or later.
The bottle was empty, and Cleio still wanted more. He placed his glass idly atop the barrier stone.
Alright. I can't know who the author really is right now. Fran's the second problem. For now, I'll ally with this guy—and deal with everything else one by one.
"Before we sail in the same boat, I've got a few questions."
"Ask anything. I'll answer honestly."
Arthur leaned forward to face Cleio. The boy who once wore down his blade through endless training had now grown into a young man.
Even beneath the fading light of sunset, Arthur's earnest eyes shone with fierce intensity.
Cleioremembered every line from the manuscript that described the protagonist's eyes:
'A blue flame that never dies, a sea that will never freeze, the will of our era.'
Now he understood. What he'd once thought overwrought was, in truth, accurate—because the boy's eyes really did burn that way.
Arthur was more vivid, more alive than the words that had been written about him.
A cool breeze passed between the two young men.
Night carried a decisive sense of premonition—
that here, history would begin.
Then it happened.
Between the prince and Cleio, a flicker appeared in midair—a message.
[? User's Narrative Involvement has increased.]
No matter how serious Arthur and Cleio became, "the System" didn't care about timing or atmosphere.
Ah.
The solemn mood evaporated instantly—shattered like a popped bubble.
It felt like getting a workplace notification in the middle of a dramatic oath of brotherhood.
Right. A reminder not to get too immersed in the manuscript and to keep things professional. Great timing.
Either way, if he wanted to guide the plot properly, he needed to confirm exactly how much the protagonist already knew.
Cleio continued his questioning with mild disinterest.
"You said before—you didn't know the causes of the other princes' actions, but you knew their outcomes. That all the ominous events happened just as you foresaw, and that the remaining princes would shed blood. Correct?"
"You remembered that word for word… You've got an amazing memory."
"Cut the chatter and answer me. What exactly do you know about the future? And what do you mean by 'shed blood'?"
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, as if making a silent decision, then opened them again and finally began to speak.
"All I have are fragments—scenes. The first and oldest one is of me kneeling in the King's Hall, lifting my head. That 'memory' came to me when I was four."
The King's Hall—where every monarch of Albion was crowned.
And in the manuscript's final chapter, Arthur too kneels there.
To receive the crown.
A vision of the coronation moment, then…
Cleio compared Arthur's words with the manuscript's content. That scene marked the end of Part One—something destined to occur.
"At the time, Father's health hadn't yet declined so badly, so he still appeared in public. On the day he granted titles to lower nobles, I happened to see his crown up close. I was so delighted that I proudly shouted, 'That's mine!'—before I even knew what a coronation was."
"So that's why you were banished from the palace?"
"Yes. A sin born of ignorance. And only after paying a steep price did that little boy realize what it meant—that the child he saw in his vision was waiting for a crown to be placed upon his own head.
A bastard son, the king's third child… saying such things was blasphemy."
Without waiting for Cleio's reply, Arthur continued quietly.
"As a child, I thought all of it meant I was cursed, or mad—seeing hallucinations. At least, until the landslide in Count Kishion's territory.
Even while confined to the count's estate, I was terrified of sleeping in the main villa. I'd bolt awake in the night, crying and clinging to the door, until my mother finally moved us to a small annex instead.
When the landslide of '81 destroyed half the villa, our old bedroom was buried under dirt and stone. If we'd slept there that night, we would've died.
I was eight years old then.
That's when I understood—what I saw in my dreams, those dreadful visions, were moments yet to come."
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