A total of 72. After collecting all the magical items, Fernan stepped forward.
A massive cavern revealed itself, and at its center stood a small altar.
["Is that…?"
Aint's gaze was fixed unwaveringly on one spot.
It was an instinctive pull.]
[At the end of the altar was a sword. A rough longsword that gave off no particular aura—yet, strangely, it drew the eye. The heart, the soul, was drawn to it.
Aint slowly approached the sword.]
Unlike Aint, Fernan felt no such pull on his soul.
And there was no sword either.
That was only natural. Aint must have already taken it.
Though the sword was gone, there was a mark on the altar that made it clear a sword had once been embedded there.
[Aint grasped the sword. In that moment, a brilliant radiance saved the entire cavern from darkness.]
[When Aint opened his eyes after briefly shutting them, the place was no longer an altar, nor a cavern.
"...Where is this?"
It was a remote alley near the Imperial Academy.]
"…So it's true."
There were traces of magic left behind. Faint enough to soon vanish, but their very existence mattered—just like the indentation in the altar where a sword had clearly been, and the fact that Aint was no longer here.
Fernan had no choice but to acknowledge it.
"Goddamn it."
The Prophecy Book was real after all.
"So that means…"
The Demon Legion would return and trample the continent…
"And in the process of the fallen imperial family reviving, I'll clash with them and be ruined. Father will excommunicate me to save the family, and I'll lose my reputation, honor, power, and wealth…"
Fernan laughed. Ha… what a joke.
"…What a fucking future."
His eyes bloodshot, Fernan ground his teeth.
"…Who the hell gave you permission to take my money from me?"
Money is everything in this world. With money, you can do anything.
A future where he lost that—such a future must not and could not exist.
He…
"I'll never accept a future like that."
He would make sure of it.
Back at his quarters, Fernan, now fully convinced that the Prophecy Book was real, began to organize his thoughts.
Of all the contents resting dormant in his mind, three memories from the prophecy stood out the most vividly.
And the key figure connecting all three—
The protagonist of this world, as acknowledged by the Prophecy Book.
The one who brings Fernan to ruin.
The hero who saves the world from demons.
"Aint Armian."
A first-year student, newly admitted this year to the knight program at the Imperial Academy.
Currently a descendant of the now-declined former imperial family.
An aspiring knight whose top priority is to become a Royal Knight.
He ultimately achieves that dream and rises to become Emperor through a combination of fortune and relentless effort.
"A blue-chip stock."
According to the prophecy, Aint was undeniably on the rise. Investing in him and sticking close to reap the rewards—that was the hallmark of a true merchant.
If only their personalities weren't polar opposites… if only Aint wasn't destined to destroy Fernan—he might've already run up to him, wagging his tail like a dog.
He'd left a good first impression by giving Aint a top-tier potion. But what if he kept investing, only for it to backfire later?
That would be like digging his own grave. An unforgivable act of foolishness.
"What's the dilemma?"
Just then, his attendant entered and asked.
"Hyde."
"Yes?"
"There's a merchant group that always thrives if you invest in them. What would you do?"
"I would definitely invest."
"But what if the merchant's personality doesn't mesh with mine?"
"Is that even a dilemma? Money can buy compatibility."
"…You're right. That was a pointless worry."
Fernan's eyes widened. It was a surprisingly simple matter. Money can do anything. Clashing personalities were a minor issue in the face of overwhelming wealth.
He had only hesitated in the face of something as grand as demons and the end of the world, but the core principle remained the same.
Invest, bear the risk, and reap massive returns.
"I need to meet him. Right now."
"Pardon?"
"Hesitating and missing the investment window is the height of foolishness."
Not even waiting for his attendant's response, Fernan grabbed his coat and rushed outside.
"…Um, a guest has arrived."
A guest summoned by the young master himself, no less.
The attendant shook his head.
"I guess I'll be the one cleaning up the mess again."
Sighing deeply, he followed outside.
The newly accepted students who passed the entrance exam were immediately assigned to dormitories based on their rankings.
"Phew."
Aint as well.
He lay down on the bed. While the soft mattress couldn't compare to the ones back home, it was still quite decent.
Although he had passed the entrance exam, he hadn't ranked high enough to be placed in the prestigious Ravidus Hall reserved for top students, nor the second-best Bless Hall. Instead, he was placed in De Base Hall. But Aint wasn't bothered by that.
There had been a small problem along the way, but he overcame it, and more importantly, he had achieved the first goal he came to the Academy for.
His gaze shifted to the sword lying beside him.
Once the sword of Sir Gardener Alpenfarsen, the first Royal Knight of the Empire—now, it would become Aint Armian's treasured sword.
A gift arranged by the First Emperor himself—a treasure meant to guide him to greater heights.
— De Base Hall?
Even with Gardener Alpenfarsen's ego housed in the sword.
— A descendant of Armian staying not in Bless Hall, but in De Base Hall at the Armian Academy?
— Unthinkable!
— If the late emperor knew, he'd rise from his grave and twist the necks of demons!
"…Why are demons suddenly being brought up?"
— Because something like this could only happen through the schemes of demons!
What is this? A roundabout insult?
"…Can't be helped. I'm weak, after all."
— Unbelievable. That a descendant of Armian is this weak…
"If you want to assign blame, it's also the First Emperor's fault for creating a system where anyone could become Emperor."
Well, actually, that was the whole problem.
The Empire was upheld by seven Prince-Electors. Their possession of the Golden Decree meant they had the right to elect the Emperor.
When an emperor died, a new election was held. Anyone who secured a majority of votes from the Electors could become Emperor.
"If only he had passed down just the throne… Why did he have to donate most of Armian's territory to the Empire…"
It would've been one thing to just lose the throne, but the First Emperor offered up most of Armian's lands to the Empire.
Of course, while the throne remained in Armian's hands, it posed no problem.
But the moment they lost the crown, most of Armian's holdings were ceded to the new royal family.
In that process, Armian had to struggle to survive—and as a result, even part of the secret swordsmanship passed down from the founding generation was lost.
Thus began the fall.
"That's why, honestly, while I respect the First Emperor, I also resent him. If not for that decision, Armian wouldn't have fallen this far."
— How dare you!
— The idea of losing the throne itself is absurd!
— To think such incompetents bear the name Armian!
"Not everyone can be as great as the First Emperor."
Aint gave a bitter smile. No one wants to lose their throne.
The imperial authority over a patchwork of kingdoms was inherently weak, and the fact it lasted nearly a thousand years was practically a miracle.
— …Fine. Thankfully, you have talent. I'll help you in every way I can to reclaim that glory.
— Maybe the late emperor foresaw this and left me behind as your guide.
"Thank you."
It was a welcome offer. After all, Aint had enrolled in the Academy, enduring shame and hardship, because of Gardener Alpenfarsen.
At that moment—
Knock knock—
"Aint Armian. Are you there?"
"Who is it?"
"I'm your senior."
"…Excuse me?"
— Expecting anyone?
No one. Since the Armian family lost the throne, they had shut their doors and focused inward. Aint had no noble acquaintances.
Yet someone came, claiming to be his senior.
'No way…'
Aint cautiously opened the door. Just as he suspected, a familiar man stood there.
A perfectly dressed noble, radiating natural dignity.
"Senior Fernan?"
"It's been a while. Or… maybe not?"
Fernan shrugged.
"Busy?"
"No, I don't have anything to do at the moment…"
"In that case, I'd like a bit of your time. It's too public here. I know a quiet place I'd prefer to go."
"...Ah. Right now?"
"Yes."
"…Five minutes. Please give me just five minutes to get ready."
"Of course."
Fernan pulled out a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it over.
"I'll go on ahead. Meet me here."
"Y-Yes!"
Fernan disappeared. Aint closed the door and let out a deep breath.
"What is this? He said investment—don't tell me he's here to collect on the potion already?"
"Or… did he see me go into the dungeon?"
"No, that can't be. There was no one around… But would I be able to find Fernan if he was seriously trying to hide from me?"
Dozens of thoughts scrambled through his head, throwing his mind into chaos.
— What is it.
— Why are you panicking over that guy?
"He's a pretty important figure within the Academy."
— But he's just a student, isn't he?
"Yes, but consider his status. His full name is Fernan Pellenberg. He's the eldest son of House Pellenberg."
— Pellenberg? That nouveau riche family?
"…Excuse me?"
Aint tilted his head in confusion at the sudden insult.
Their first meeting had happened so suddenly that they hadn't had time to properly observe each other.
Now that he could take a good look, his impression wasn't bad. Though he appeared ordinary and mild, there was a sharp gleam in his eyes, and here and there, traces of ambition could be seen.
"He's an ambitious one. If he's also got talent and the right environment, he could go far."
It wasn't a certainty. But Fernan's instincts were telling him so.
One of the most important virtues of a merchant was the ability to read people, and in that, Fernan had confidence.
Even if it hadn't been for the prophecy book, he would've given Aint Armian high marks.
However, he wouldn't have been able to be openly friendly. A close relationship with the former royal family would inevitably lead to conflict with the current one.
"Senior."
Perhaps because he had steeled himself, Aint's eyes were less shaky now.
"Sit down."
"Yes."
A private room in a teahouse located in the academy's downtown district. Managed by the Pellenberg family, the teahouse was excellent at maintaining confidentiality in its private rooms—making it the perfect place for this kind of conversation.
"What will you have to drink?"
"Anything is fine."
"Two coffees, please."
"Yes, sir."
A short while later, the server brought the coffee and left. They were now in complete privacy.
Nervous, Aint swallowed dryly. Fernan's gaze drifted to Aint's waist.
"You brought your sword."
"Ah… It's just that I feel more at ease when I have it on me… I never had any intention of harming you, Senior Fernan."
"I understand. Most knights don't part from their swords."
Fernan nodded.
"So that's the sword. The one said to house the ego of the first Royal Knight, Sir Gardner Alpenparsen."
It looked relatively old and unimpressive, raising some doubts. But back when they first met in front of the dungeon, he had been wearing a different sword—so this one was likely the real thing.
The prophecy book had also described its appearance as somewhat worn.
"The prophecy book was right, after all."
Despite having verified it multiple times, Fernan checked and rechecked again. It was a compulsive habit of merchants.
Of course, a bigger reason was that he didn't want to believe in a future where he would fall into ruin.
"Are your wounds okay?"
"Yes. Thanks to you… If it was a top-grade potion, I'll gather the money and repay you as soon as I can."
"No need. Didn't I say it was an investment?"
"…Yes."
"Anyway, have you eaten?"
Fernan, having read Aint's expression, refrained from bringing up sponsorship.
People like him didn't succumb easily to temptation—unless they were driven to utter desperation, or offered an irresistible proposal.
Fernan had neither of those things at the moment. A hasty offer might only offend Aint's pride as an Armian and turn him into an enemy.
"Not yet…"
"In that case…"
The conversation that followed was nothing more than idle small talk. After quite some time, Fernan got up to leave.
"Well then, let's meet again. Ah, and don't act like you know me in public—people might be watching."
"Yes."
Left alone, Aint tilted his head in puzzlement.
"What was that all about?"
Did he seriously just come for a chat?
– He was just trying to get a read on you.
"A read?"
– To figure out what kind of person you are.
– That's how nouveau riche types operate. Before doing anything, they always assess the person first.
"So he was checking whether I'm useful or not?"
– Exactly.
– What a pitiful world we live in.
– To think someone would dare to pull this kind of stunt on an Armian.
"…But it's not necessarily a bad thing, is it?"
If he had brought up direct sponsorship as an extension of the potion investment, it certainly would've felt like an insult to his house.
People would've looked at Fernan with scorn. But he had stayed within proper bounds. If all he wanted was to build a rapport, there was no reason to refuse.
"Because the money of the Pellenberg family is not something you can ignore."
— A good thought.
— If it's money, nouveau riche bastards have the most. Land one of them as your backer, and you're set. The late emperor used to say that too.
Gardner let out a hearty laugh.
"Hmm…"
Most of the conversation with Aint had been idle small talk. But it's often in the mundane that a person's true nature reveals itself.
And with the prophecy book in hand, Fernan had gotten a fairly accurate grasp of Aint Armian.
His will was firm, and he placed great importance on his family's honor. He had a strong sense of pride and a clear desire to restore the house's former glory—an ambition steeped in nobility.
"Making a hasty move would only provoke hostility. Better to get close gradually, like water seeping into stone."
Fernan had decided on a direction regarding Aint. Their personalities didn't quite mesh, so forging too direct a relationship didn't seem wise.
Keeping a proper distance, maintaining a proper level of rapport, and extracting just the right amount of benefit—that was the best course of action.
At least, that was the conclusion for now.
"Well then…"
"Milord, you've returned?"
"What is it?"
"Where have you been?"
"I had someone to meet, briefly."
"That someone wasn't Ruina Berchef, was it?"
"Ruina Berchef? Why bring her up all of a sudden?"
Ruina Berchef was a peer of his, and the runner-up of the Knight Faculty.
And her family was deeply in debt to his.
"You asked to meet her today."
"I did?"
"Yes, milord."
"…Right, I did."
The Pellenberg family had lent money to the Berchef family in hopes of gaining access to their secret swordsmanship.
He vaguely remembered setting up the meeting to apply pressure—now that she and her house were starting to feel the squeeze of debt.
"…Was that today?"
"Yes. I was going to inform you that she was waiting, but you suddenly went out."
"…Where is Ruina now?"
"She waited for three hours, thinking you'd return soon, then left. She probably suspects you did it on purpose—to intimidate her."
"…If she's in debt, she should be able to endure at least that much—"
Then, a splitting headache struck, and all at once, fragments of memory from the prophecy book surged into his mind.
[It's certain. Her talent is enough to rise to the rank of Royal Knight.]
Declared by the soul dwelling in the sword—none other than the great First Royal Knight, Sir Gardner Alpenparsen.
[There seems to be some kind of heart demon…]
If only the shackles binding her could be broken, she would spread her wings and soar.
These fragments came to him because they were related to Aint Armian.
'A Royal Knight?'
One of the ten strongest knights on the continent, officially recognized by the Emperor?
[Her flowing brown hair and aquamarine eyes were only part of her allure.]
[Her sword was noble, beautiful, pure, and alive.]
[Aint was completely captivated by her sword dance in the moonlight.]
[He wanted to free her from the shackles—namely, the Pellenberg family.]
She was even Aint Armian's first love, and the first reason why Aint and Fernan's relationship would fall apart?
"…Goddamn it."
Fernan realized it immediately.
'Why is something this important only coming to me now…!'
He had buttoned the first button all wrong.