Sol-Regis Academy Main Gate. Morning – New Student Enrollment Season.
Sol-Regis Academy loomed against the morning horizon, a sprawling complex of ivory marble that caught the sun's glare, standing in stark contrast to its sapphire-blue domed towers. This place was more than a mere school; it was the kingdom's intellectual and military heart, the crucible where future leaders were forged.
Rows of opulent carriages lined the driveway, depositing noble children draped in their finest silks. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with the dust of the road, creating an atmosphere that was both hectic and prestigious.
"Remember your roles," Rianor whispered. He stood near the carriage door, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that gave him the air of a highly successful young guardian. He adjusted his spectacles.
"Roland, you're heading to the Senior Wing, Department of Diplomacy. Don't overplay your hand early on; we don't want the faculty feeling threatened by your intellect just yet. Just focus on being the most popular student in the room," Rianor said, looking at his brother.
"Please, leave it to me," Roland replied, straightening the silk tie of his new uniform—a deep navy blazer embroidered with the Academy's silver crest. "I'll be the center of attention in less than a week."
"Rhea, you're in the War College, Knight Track. Try not to kill the instructor. Just make him regret his entire existence," Rianor turned to his sister.
"We'll see," Rhea answered tersely. She wore the academy's combat uniform—a form-fitting black leather tunic that highlighted her athletic build. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, accentuating her sharp, determined jawline. She looked formidable.
They parted at the intersection of the cold stone corridors, each stepping toward their own destiny.
Roland's Written Exam – Hall of Politics and Diplomacy.
Roland sat upright in a heavy teak chair, his fingers gripping a quill freshly dipped in ink. Around him, dozens of noble scions looked deathly pale. The sound of scratching quills and heavy sighs filled the silent room. Some wiped cold sweat from their brows with silk handkerchiefs.
Professor Hargo, a balding man with a coiled white mustache and a perpetual scowl, paced the front of the hall. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his leather boots against the stone floor set a tense pace.
"You have two hours. This is an essay exam. Remember, anyone caught cheating will be tossed out of these gates faster than a stray dog!"
Roland stared at the paper before him. His eyes scanned the prompt.
Prompt:A vassal territory erupts in rebellion due to excessive tax burdens. The King decides to send a massive army to crush the revolt, but the military campaign will drastically deplete the national treasury. According to Noble Ethics, what is the optimal solution?
Roland suppressed a smirk. Child's play, he thought. He knew the standard answer found in this world's ancient textbooks: "Crush the rebels for the King's honor, then raise taxes again to replenish the war chest."
Archaic. Incredibly inefficient.
Roland began to write. He didn't use medieval knightly logic; he used the logic of a modern political science student hungry for efficiency.
Roland's Answer:
Physical confrontation is a waste of resources. The solution lies in Economic and Information Warfare.
The King should send pseudo-"Humanitarian Aid" to win the hearts of the commoners, effectively decoupling the masses from the rebel leaders.
Apply a total trade embargo on the rebel leadership while providing grain subsidies to the local farmers.
Result: The people will overthrow their own leaders out of hunger while hailing the King as a merciful savior. Cost: Less than 10% of the estimated military budget.
Roland finished his essay in fifteen minutes. He set his quill down with a soft clack and raised his hand.
"I've finished, Professor."
Professor Hargo glared, his aged eyes narrowing. "Fifteen minutes? Are you mocking my exam, boy?"
Hargo stomped over, snatching the paper as if he intended to tear it up in front of everyone. However, he froze the moment his eyes hit the first few lines. The furrows in his brow deepened. Beads of sweat appeared on the Professor's temple.
He read to the very last word in a stifling silence.
"This..." Hargo looked at Roland with a mix of horror and a strange sort of awe. "This is incredibly devious. Utterly... manipulative."
"Efficient is the word I'd use, Professor," Roland smiled sweetly—a polite, yet deeply knowing grin. "A wise King doesn't need to draw his sword to kill a fly. He simply uses poisoned honey."
Hargo swallowed hard. Gulp. He grabbed his red stamp and pressed a large A+ onto the paper.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Roland Sudrath. Remember it, Professor."
Rhea's Practical Exam – Knight's Training Arena.
The atmosphere in the arena was much hotter and more brutal. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and swirling dust. Here gathered young lieutenants, apprentice knights, and brawny noble sons eager to prove their brawn.
The instructor was Sir Draven, a man whose muscles bulged beneath his plate armor and whose thick mustache twitched whenever he spoke. He surveyed the line of candidates with blatant disdain.
"Listen up!" Draven roared, his voice gravelly. "In the War College, we have no use for cowards! We need true knights!"
His eyes landed on Rhea. She was the lone woman among the rows of hulking men.
"Hey, little lady," Draven mocked. "You lost? Sewing and etiquette classes are in the next building over."
Laughter erupted from the other candidates. Rhea didn't laugh. She stepped into the center of the arena with an intimidating stillness.
"I'm registered for the Advanced Knight's Exam. What's the test?"
Draven snorted. He grabbed a blunt wooden practice sword from a rack and tossed it at her. Rhea caught it without looking.
"The test is simple. Touch me with the tip of that sword just once within one minute. If you succeed, you pass. If not, go home and help your mother wash the dishes."
Draven didn't even bother to draw his own weapon. He just stood there with his arms crossed, a smug look on his face.
"Begin!"
Rhea weighed the wooden sword. Light. Poorly balanced. Trash, she thought.
"A minute is far too long," Rhea murmured.
Suddenly, she dropped the wooden sword to the ground. Thud.
The entire arena went silent. "Did she give up before even starting?" someone whispered.
No. Rhea blurred forward with bare hands. Dash!
Draven's eyes widened. "What?!"
Before the man could react, Rhea had breached his guard. With precise micro-movements, she stomped hard on Draven's foot and used her hip to sweep his lead leg.
THUD!
Draven slammed onto his back, dust billowing around him. Before he could process what had happened, Rhea was pinned over his chest. Her index finger was pressed firmly against his jugular.
Rhea's slightly sharp nail dug into the instructor's neck.
"Touch," Rhea whispered coldly. "A lethal... touch."
A total silence gripped the arena. Rhea had defeated the Head Instructor without a weapon in less than a second. She stood back up, brushing a bit of dust from the knee of her uniform.
"You have too many openings, Sir. If this were a real battlefield, you'd be dead before you could finish insulting me."
Draven scrambled up, his face a violent shade of crimson from shame. Yet, he couldn't deny the reality before him. "Pass!" Draven gritted out. "Report to the Elite Class immediately! And get out of my sight!"
Academy Cafeteria – VIP Corner.
That afternoon, they gathered in a quiet corner of the cafeteria. Rianor sat with Elara, who was disguised in a student's robe to avoid suspicion. Roland arrived with a tray of food, followed by a still-fresh-looking Rhea.
"How's the progress?" Rianor asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.
"Easy," Roland replied. "The politics lecturer was breaking into a sweat just reading my answer. I think I'll get access to the Forbidden Library faster than expected."
"I'm already in the Elite Class," Rhea reported, sipping her iced tea. "The instructor is weak, but I overheard some interesting talk in the locker rooms."
Rhea leaned forward, her voice dropping. "It turns out the son of Grand Chancellor Morvath also studies here. At the War College. His name is Valerian Morvath."
"Valerian?" Rianor furrowed his brow.
"Yeah. He's the Student Council President and the Captain of the Academy Duel Team. They say he's the number one sword genius of his generation. And guess what?" Rhea smirked. "He's the one holding the primary keys to the Armory Tower."
Rianor offered a satisfied smile. "Target locked."
"Roland, your job is to find Valerian's social weaknesses. Find out if he has any scandals, secret lovers, or embarrassing hobbies. Rhea, your job is to provoke him physically. Get him to accept a duel. The stakes: the Tower keys."
Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the cafeteria entrance. A group of elite students in gold-trimmed robes strode in with arrogant steps. Their leader was a handsome young man with silver hair and an aura of supreme condescension.
"That's him," Elara whispered, lowering her face slightly. "Valerian Morvath. The Prince of the Academy."
Valerian walked past their table. He paused for a heartbeat, glancing at Rhea simply because she was the only one who didn't look away as he passed. Valerian offered a tiny, dismissive smirk, then continued on his way.
"Tch, arrogant prick," Roland muttered. "I should sell him some face wash so he can look at his own reflection and realize he's a clown."
"Patience," Rianor said calmly. "We'll play this with style. Don't make any unnecessary noise... at least until that telegraph is installed."