The Delinquent and the Illegitimate Student (1)
Cleio and Nebo hired a private carriage and crossed the bridge to the west bank of the Tempus River.
Once they were inside, and Cleio gave him a bit of attention, Nebo began to chatter freely—explaining how to hire a carriage, how to catch a shared one, what to tip the driver, and so on.
"See, you'd never learn these everyday tricks from just reading the manuscript. I'll have to get a sense of how this world actually works if I want my leisurely freeloading life to go smoothly."
Having picked things up quickly, Cleio told the coachman their destination with confidence.
He asked to be taken to the nearest branch of Plata Bank, and a few minutes later, the coach stopped before a small stone building.
Five minutes after that, Henry Fiest, the branch manager of Plata Bank's Royal Circus Branch, was wiping the sweat from his shining bald head.
"What? Aser? The father or the son—who came in?"
His secretary replied calmly, "The son, sir."
"Wasn't he traveling with the Centrum trading fleet right now?"
"The elder son is. This is the younger, sir."
"They had a younger son?"
"Yes, sir. He's here requesting a balance inquiry."
"And he's verified?"
"He's indeed the same Cleio Aser, currently enrolled at the Royal Capital Defense Academy."
"What's the inquiry about?"
"He said he plans to make a withdrawal."
"How much?"
"He was vague about that. The total balance is 400,000 dinars. If he withdraws all of it in cash, we won't have enough on hand at this branch. I could request a transfer from central—"
"Never mind, I'll handle this myself. I want to know why he came here of all places."
Of course, the reason was simple: it was the closest branch to the academy. But Henry couldn't know that.
The Royal Circus branch reception room was luxurious and comfortable, furnished like a gentleman's club from a movie.
Soft leather sofas, polished wooden tables, a crystal decanter of brandy, and a cigar humidor completed the picture.
Sinking deep into the sofa, Cleio savored the comfort.
"I doubt this lounge is meant for seventeen-year-olds, but… would it be weird if I asked for a drink?"
He hadn't been ushered into this room right away. The commotion began when he presented a check at the counter and signed his name.
He hadn't known the value of the currency, so before writing down the amount, he'd asked a few simple questions. That alone had made the teller panic.
"Then they called me inside all nervous—I thought they'd caught me forging the signature!"
But that wasn't the issue.
The account linked to Cleio's name held 400,000 dinars. The bank staff had grown anxious that the young master might try to withdraw everything at once.
While Cleio's mind wandered toward the decanter of brandy, the door opened. The branch manager himself walked in.
Cleio immediately put on his well-practiced corporate smile.
"Good afternoon. Cleio Aser. I really didn't mean to trouble you, sir. Thank you for seeing me personally."
"Not at all! Your family has trusted Plata Bank for generations. I understand you wish to make a withdrawal. May I ask the amount?"
"I only intended to take out some spending money, but things seem to have gotten rather dramatic. Just enough for everyday use will do."
The manager visibly relaxed.
"Then shall we say, about 1,000 dinars?"
"That sounds perfect."
"If 1,000 dinars makes him that relieved, how much is 400,000 worth…? Definitely not small change."
"My staff must have overreacted and wasted your time. My apologies."
"Not at all. Though, since I'm already here… might I trouble you for a glass of brandy?"
"Of course! We keep it precisely for valued clients such as yourself."
The manager cheerfully poured him a generous glass.
"I'll have the cash brought in right away."
"Take your time, please."
The tone didn't suit a boy barely past puberty, but Cleio was too delighted by the brandy to care.
When the golden liquid finally filled his glass, he felt like he owned the world.
The warmth that ran down his throat, the rich aroma filling his nose—bliss.
"This is better than that twenty-five-year Armagnac I had once. Damn."
Back when he worked at the company, visiting authors returning from overseas conferences sometimes brought back liquor as gifts. Listening to the boss's drunken rambling was annoying, but the expensive booze made it worthwhile.
Now, in his thirties, Jeongjin's truest love had been neither women nor books—but alcohol.
And this drink? No boss. No complaints. Free.
"Jackpot."
He slowly drained the glass.
As he savored the lingering taste, the manager returned with an envelope full of neatly stacked banknotes. Cleio accepted it with a bright, satisfied smile.
"Next time, young master, you needn't visit in person. You can summon one of our couriers instead. Thank you for your continued patronage—and please give your father my regards."
"I'll do that. Thank you."
"Usually, only landlords or tycoons get this level of service. Guess I'm getting a taste of the rich life today."
When Cleio walked out into the lobby, Nebo was staring wide-eyed at him, surrounded by bowing staff and deferential adults.
"Whoa… you really are from a big-deal family."
"Hm, I didn't know myself. Anyway, let's go."
Nebo blinked, still stunned, sneaking glances at the manager's gleaming bald head as they passed.
Cleio strolled out casually, while Nebo followed, gawking at everything.
Behind them, Henry Fiest discreetly called over his secretary.
"Find out what Cleio Aser is doing in the capital. The second son's been invisible until now—if he's moving, there's a reason."
"Understood."
"He's still an Aser all right. Scrawny little kid, but he talks like a grizzled old man. No harm in keeping an eye on him."
If Cleio had heard the branch manager's remark—that bit of condescension after buying him a single drink—he would've spat the brandy right back out.
But fortunately for his dignity, it never reached his ears.
If Isiel hasn't come back, that means the magic formula case must've been resolved. See? Playing dumb and pretending to be sick was the right move.
Cleio lay sprawled across his bed, idly munching on snacks.
He'd thought briefly about the so-called Editor Authority and the author's mysterious goal, but since that email, there had been no messages or clues. He had no way to guess what the author really wanted.
"They asked me to 'help revise the manuscript,' but never said what they didn't like about the original—or what changes they wanted. At this point, I'm just being left alone."
Which meant he was free to pursue his own plans.
After the bank visit, he'd spent the entire weekend eating, sleeping, and rolling around lazily.
When bored, he'd pet the cat.
Eventually, he decided to read through the school rulebook written in his student notebook.
The first category: Voluntary Withdrawal.
That required a guardian's consent.
"No chance my father would sign that after donating a fortune to this school. No mention of my mother—so she's probably out of the picture."
The second: Academic Failure and Expulsion.
Two consecutive exam failures led to repeating the year; two repeats or less than two-thirds attendance in a semester led to expulsion.
"Perfect. That's my ticket out."
Then, for the sake of form, he skimmed through a few textbooks—only to realize something shocking.
"Wait… even with the 'Promise,' I can't read faster the first time!"
No matter how many times he tried, the result was the same.
The "Memory" function of the Promise only worked on books he had already read properly once. New material had to be studied the old-fashioned way—by effort.
"Why would I torture myself like that? Yaaawn."
Cleio tossed the textbook aside and flopped back onto the bed.
The cat, sprawled beside him like a furry human, snorted.
"Idiot. So you finally feel like opening a book, do you?"
"Nope. I'm too dumb to study."
"Tsk, tsk. Pathetic. You failed your last exam too. Keep that up and you'll be expelled."
"Exactly what I'm hoping for."
And so Sunday evening faded away.
Finally, Monday came.
Cleio strolled leisurely toward the First-Year Lecture Hall.
Going to class didn't change much.
Apparently, word of his suicide attempt had spread throughout the academy.
Teachers and students alike treated him like a festering wound—something to avoid touching.
Meaning: he could sleep through class in the back row without anyone daring to scold him.
He stretched lazily when the lunch bell rang.
"It's been a while since I napped on a desk. My back aches a bit… maybe I'll stop attending altogether tomorrow."
Regular lessons at the academy only lasted three hours in the morning, Monday through Friday.
Afternoons were for individual research and training—but there was no way he was doing that.
"Time for lunch."
He'd already asked a servant where the dining hall was.
Since he moved slowly, the place was nearly empty by the time he arrived.
"Oh, a three-course meal for lunch?"
At the entrance was a hand-written menu: soup, butter-grilled fish, berries in syrup with cream.
Reading the fine print below, he noticed—astonishingly—that students could also request wine.
"Wait—minors can drink here? No wonder the bank gave me brandy so easily!"
For the first time since arriving in this world, Cleio's half-lidded eyes lit up.
It was the happiest discovery since checking his account balance.
"I was dreading years of forced sobriety, but apparently not!"
Back at that doomed publishing company, there had been exactly one good thing—
Most academic authors were professors, and professors knew their liquor.
Normally, the company entertained the authors, but in a tiny firm running on the boss's personal connections, the situation was reversed: the authors pitied the boss and often sent gifts instead.
The result? A constant stream of expensive bottles.
Even on Jeongjin's miserable salary, he drank well—because the booze was always a "gift" or a "holiday token." Eventually, he'd developed a refined palate.
"This tastes like that Alsace wine Professor Noh used to buy by the case. Low acidity, dry, a bit of minerality… ah, perfect weather, perfect drink."
One glass with the meal, then another.
Despite the previous day's hangover, the good weather kept his head clear.
He'd worried his frail body might lower his alcohol tolerance—but apparently, with a young, clean liver, the drink went down smooth.
Finishing dessert, Cleio even convinced the cafeteria matron to hand him the entire bottle.
It was May.
The summer roses along the low fence outside were budding beautifully, the breeze was cool, he had no obligations, and the wine was excellent.
Sip.
"Now this is living."
Just then, a voice boomed through the empty dining hall, shattering his peaceful moment.
"Hey, ma'am! Don't lie—I know you've got wine left! The first-year cafeteria always has leftovers!"
"Get lost, you brat! That wine's for a single cup with meals, not for you to get drunk and pass out again!"