Chapter 12: Duel (1) As the name suggests, the purpose of the Paris Central Military School was, of course, to train officers who would one day command the army of the Kingdom of France.
However, France—having gone through wars big and small throughout the 1700s—began to feel there weren't enough officers in its existing ranks, and massively expanded both admissions requirements and enrollment capacity.
Naturally, those newly added slots weren't exclusively the property of nobles.
Among the cadets admitted into the new positions, there were certainly ordinary commoners, as well as children of low-ranking noble families that weren't even really treated as nobles.
Even so, the atmosphere at the Central Military School still ran thoroughly on noble lines.
More precisely,
"Paris-born central nobles."
They were the main force that drove the cadets' social climate.
They ostracized noble cadets from the provinces and commoner cadets, formed cliques among themselves, and ran the school.
The perpetrators had a center to rally around: "Paris" and "central nobility."
But those on the receiving end had no such center.
Not hometown, not status—nothing matched.
So today as well, thirty to forty percent of cadets were sure to be ostracized, helplessly, by the sixty percent—without being able to band together.
That's how it should have been.
"…That guy's insane."
Mathieu, from Dijon, couldn't continue speaking at what he saw.
Guillaume de Toulon.
A little kid who hadn't even received his uniform yet had hurled profanity straight at those arrogant Paris bastards—something Mathieu couldn't understand.
"I should never get involved with someone like that."
Mathieu said it while shaking his head.
Getting tangled up with a lunatic like that was an absolute no.
In any case, that guy would soon leave the school, unable to withstand the pressure from the Paris crowd. It was obvious as day.
So Mathieu stopped paying attention to the little brat.
But why was it?
Instead of sobbing and going home, the brat stayed in Paris.
And then—
"Rank 1, Napoleon Bonaparte… Rank 2, Guillaume de Toulon…"
It started with test scores.
At some point, the brat had become buddies with some short little guy in a similar situation, and started crushing the Paris crowd.
"Hey, Mathieu! You hear that? That guy Guillaume in second place—he's at a failing level in horsemanship, but he's still second!"
"What? No—how do you take second when you failed a subject?"
"I heard his other subjects are either perfect scores or he missed, like, one. Otherwise how would he get that ranking?"
"Huh… That's really insane…"
Even hearing his classmates talk, Mathieu didn't particularly care.
He'd seen too many "smart guys" get wrecked for all kinds of reasons.
Getting wrecked from lack of social experience. Getting wrecked by politicking from people who envied them. Things like that.
And especially, that brat was from the provinces.
He'd soon get driven home by the harassment of jealous Paris bastards.
So Mathieu stopped paying attention to the smart little brat.
This time, surely, the brat would go home crying.
But then—
"…Hey, what the hell is this?"
"Dunno, they call it 'easy meal' or something. It's good when you just need to cover lunch fast."
"No, no—who made this?"
"Guillaume de Toulon. You know. The bastard who cursed out the Paris guys to their faces."
"Huh… This… this guy's completely fucking insane, isn't he?"
Whatever the smart little brat had been plotting during break, he'd opened some shop called "People of Isaac" or something and was selling that "easy meal" like crazy.
And now they said he'd opened a second branch in Biancourt outside Paris—just how much money was he raking in?
"…Impressive."
Mathieu admitted it without meaning to.
That guy wasn't ordinary.
"Ugh, itchy."
My ear's been itching a lot lately. Is someone talking about me or something?
Come to think of it, it does feel like more people have been whispering while looking at the back of my head.
Obviously they're talking shit about me again—there's no way those guys are following me or thinking I'm impressive.
"…Come to think of it, break has gone on quite a while."
I blurted it out without meaning to, looking at the snow falling outside the window.
February 13.
It had already been nearly two months since break started.
In that time, my business had grown day by day, to the point where I'd even built a second branch.
"Ah, it's peaceful. I'm very satisfied."
I said it while lying on the bed and rolling around. Damn, I want to keep rolling around like this.
Bang bang!
"Mr. Guillaume? Is this Mr. Guillaume's residence?"
Ah, I want to keep rolling around. Still, for some reason today, I hauled my heavy body up and opened the door.
"I'm Guillaume. What is it?"
"A letter for Mr. Guillaume. That's all."
A letter? Did I even have anyone who'd send me a letter?
I spoke with my father last week. And I exchanged letters with Bishop Serge a few days ago, too.
Don't tell me it's a love letter from some beautiful woman who fell for my looks?
No chance.
"What the fuck is this?"
Hugo de La.
No. Why is this bastard—why is he sending me a letter?
Did he get jealous seeing me doing well, and now he's trying to poison me by smearing cyanide on the paper?
How very Paris—arrogant, central-noble scum. Aaaaaaand what a logical conclusion?
I pulled two pens out of my pencil case, held them like chopsticks, and carefully lifted the letter to read it.
"Holy shit… what the hell is this…"
The contents were really simple. So simple I could summarize it in three lines.
—Hey you fucking bastard, you've been getting cocky lately?
—Stop getting cocky and live with your head down.
—If you don't like that, come settle it in a duel tomorrow at 3 p.m. in the school square.
This… is a duel challenge, isn't it?
Fuck. I'm screwed.
"So, Hugo. Why are you calling that brat out all of a sudden?"
One of his friends standing beside him spoke.
"Why else. I hated that brat from the start."
"But it looks like that bastard ran off."
3:09 p.m.
More than ten minutes had passed beyond the promised time, and that annoying little brat still wasn't in sight.
"Tsk. He acted so damn cocky I thought he had some backbone. What a joke."
Truth was, he already knew.
That brat might be making noise lately, but aside from that dwarf bastard with the Italian accent he hung around with, he had no one he could call out.
But Hugo?
This place—Paris—was Hugo's home ground, where he'd been born and raised. Naturally, among his childhood friends, there were plenty who were cadets at the school with him.
Even if it was "just a duel," could a fourteen-year-old really come trotting out alone when there were bigger, older guys—two years older, give or take—standing here?
Everything was going exactly as Hugo intended.
That brat wouldn't be able to show up anyway, and then Hugo could slap him with the humiliating brand of "unauthorized absence from an honorable duel between nobles" and completely destroy his reputation at the school.
Two birds, one stone.
Even now, Hugo could still hear the words the brat had spat the day they first met.
—Eat among yourselves, you fucking bastards.
The eldest son of the noble House of de La—this Lord Hugo de La—had graciously extended mercy and offered to include him in the group that would "carry France's future," and the little shit didn't just refuse—he shoved profanity right into his face?
This was why provincial trash didn't work.
After living among lowly farmers and fishermen, he'd clearly forgotten how a noble is supposed to carry himself. A truly insolent, crude piece of garbage.
"Hmph. Looks like he got scared and isn't coming. Figures—provincial trash is always like that.
All right, everyone, let's go ba—"
"Hugo! Hey, isn't that the brat walking over there?"
Hugo turned his gaze to where his friend pointed.
Guillaume de Toulon.
That annoying, insolent, crude little brat was walking toward them.
"Huh… so he really came."
Hugo said.
So what. Nothing changes.
What could one brat possibly do? Hugo stepped toward the brat.
"…What did you just say?"
"I'm saying—we'll duel, but in a way that fits our school."
"…And this 'fitting way' is a snowball fight?"
What the hell is this guy saying?
Instead of an honorable sword duel like refined officer cadets, he wants to duel by throwing snow like little kids?
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Now, now—out of my mind? That's too harsh."
But the brat was calm, as if he'd expected the reaction. What the hell is he thinking?
"What school do we attend?"
"Paris Central Military School."
"Right. Then we're all going to become officers who lead armies later, aren't we?"
"That's right."
A textbook argument. Nothing to pick at.
"We are valuable personnel who will one day lead the army of the Kingdom of France and bring endless glory to His Majesty the King. Then is it truly honorable to harm each other's bodies with swords? We who receive education under His Majesty's grace as vast as the sea—aiming blades at cadets who will become our future comrades… Hoo. What aaaaa very dangerous thought."
The moment he invoked "His Majesty the King," me included, the others flinched.
A king who wielded absolute royal authority bestowed by God, reigning above all.
To justify his argument by invoking His Majesty—if you argue back, it'll look like you're opposing His Majesty.
"…Tsk. Fine. I'll admit a sword duel could be harmful to His Majesty."
Hugo added,
"But why is the substitute for swords a snowball fight of all things?"
"We become officers later. Correct?"
"Yes."
"Then there's no better way than a snowball fight to determine an officer's qualities."
"Why the hell would that be?"
"Each side brings thirty men, and we fight a mock battle with snow. Get hit in the eye once, you're dead. When you die, you don't run—you walk back and touch the flag at your base to revive. Victory goes to the side that pulls the flag at the enemy base. What do you think? Leadership required of officers, strategy and tactics too—we can test all of it, can't we?"
"…Hmph."
Hugo was thinking.
The brat's proposal felt reasonable, but pride-wise, he didn't want to do what the brat suggested.
Wasn't there something he could pick at?
"Then… what if someone who got hit in the eye insists they didn't get hit?"
"Aren't we all honorable officer cadets? If you do that, you can't call it honorable. I trust all cadets' pride."
Tch. If he kept trying to nitpick, he'd just get dragged around by this bastard's slick tongue.
"…Fine. When?"
"One week from now, same time, same place."
"Fine. I'll see you then."
Hugo said, turning and leaving.
Hah. Yeah. Nothing changes. How is that bastard going to gather thirty cadets?
Right. The outcome was already decided.
Hugo—who lived day in and day out alongside countless cadets—versus that provincial brat who knew, at best, one or two people. The difference in mobilization power was already enormous.
No matter how much the brat flailed around, if he managed to gather even ten people on the day, that'd be a lot.
In Hugo's head, he could already see the brat's face, red and seething, after losing the duel and having his pride crushed.
"Whew. For now, I lived."
Jesus Christ.
I seriously thought I was going to get stabbed to death here. Look at those eyes on him.
A sixteen-year-old brat glaring like that at a thirty-seven-year-old man? If I had a baton, I'd have split his skull in half.
"Still… thirty people… how the hell do I gather that?"
I didn't think that part through.
It's cold today. Ha…
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