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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Practical Exam (1)
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City of Hundred Towers.
It was the most famous nickname for Phileon Academy.
True to its name, the grounds featured a hundred large and small towers—or rather, 103 in total.
"Our house was a doghouse."
Ronan muttered in disbelief. He'd been too preoccupied to take it all in when heading to see Baren, but this place was absurdly vast.
Marya said,
Asel was nowhere to be seen. The Martial Arts Department and Magic Department exams were held in different locations.
"I still remember my first time here. Pretty big, huh?"
"Damn, this isn't just big. You could raise three dragons here."
This educational facility, larger than most territories, was a city within a city. Encircled by its own walls, the grounds contained lakes, rivers, forests, mountains, and every amenity needed for students over their five-year stay.
Ronan was certain there'd be red-light districts or pleasure quarters tucked away in some shadowy corner—respectable establishments that stopped short of full service, given the clientele. Pointing at the massive castle in the center, he said,
"That's where the exam is?"
"Yeah, that's right. Gallerion Main Hall."
The largest structure in Phileon, Gallerion Castle served as the main building. Not only aesthetically impressive, it was also a solid fortress from a military standpoint. The Martial Arts Department's practical exam was held there.
"By the way..."
"What?"
"You're dressed so flashy. What's with the getup?"
Ronan raised an eyebrow. Marya was wearing an outfit he'd never seen before.
It was an incredibly refined and elegant uniform, one that made her look every bit the noble lady.
"It's a once-a-year exam. Gotta put in some effort. You don't like it? Cutie said I looked pretty."
"Ignore that wimp. He'd call you elegant even if you scooped soup with your bare hands."
"Hmph. So what do you think?"
Two short swords hung from her waist—likely her usual ones. But the scabbards were different, ornate metal sheaths engraved with intricate patterns. Ronan fell silent for a moment before speaking.
"Well... it doesn't look bad."
"Hehe, knew it?"
Marya beamed, playfully slapping Ronan's arm. Her laughter was so boisterous that it drew stares from those around them.
A few seconds later, her face drained of color as she clamped a hand over her mouth.
"Hah!"
"Bug fly into your mouth?"
"Hey, watch it yourself. I forgot for a second. Do you know how many nobles are here right now?"
"Nobles?"
Marya explained that the academy was swarming with royalty and nobility from across the continent.
Their faces were all pinched—the result of Phileon's rule barring outsiders and carriages, except for examinees.
Covering her mouth again, Marya giggled.
"Must be driving them crazy. They wanna pick fights every time they bump shoulders, but they can't tell which kingdom's noble they're dealing with."
"So what? Can't laugh around nobles?"
"Not that, but these could be our merchant group's top customers someday. Can't come off like a commoner."
"What's wrong with being a commoner?"
Marya looked up, meeting Ronan's eyes. She couldn't tell if he was genuinely clueless or slyly mocking her. Her lips twitched before she spoke.
"...There are plenty of good nobles, sure. But plenty treat commoners like cockroaches. That's why merchants chasing growth obsess over appearances and titles. One wrong move, and the deal's dead."
The Karabel Merchant Group's main revenue came from noble dealings. Territories with vast assets meant big payouts if things went smoothly.
But sealing those deals with arrogant nobles required starting from a place of deference.
"I'm getting a title no matter what. Graduate Phileon, rack up merits, become a noble—so my dad never has to bow again."
Marya's voice trembled faintly. It wasn't hard to imagine what she'd witnessed trailing Duon Karabel. She'd seen every humiliation imaginable.
Ronan crossed his arms behind his head.
"I get it. But I'm not playing nice."
"Hey! Did you hear a word I said? Just for today, be careful?"
"If anyone asks, say I'm an ill-mannered servant."
Ronan snickered crudely. Luckily, no nobles picked a fight.
They traversed the street of fine paving stones and entered the main castle. After a brief identity check, they headed straight to the exam hall.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The waiting room was a narrow, elongated space like a converted hallway.
Ten chairs lined up along the long wall. Opposite the entrance stood a grand door etched with ornate patterns—the gateway to the exam hall.
Ten examinees sat there. One left, another entered, keeping the number constant.
Seated in a row, they mentally rehearsed their prepared techniques.
Then the door opened, and a clear voice rang out.
"Next, please~"
"Yes! Hayerne Viscountcy's second son, Bilkerian Odlanbi de Hayerne! I'll do my best!"
"No need for names or affiliations~"
Practical exams lasted three minutes short, five long. The boy at the front rattled off something like a full military title and marched in confidently.
Magic obscured the view inside; the door shut automatically behind him. Ronan whistled.
"Damn, that's a long name. A spell?"
"Shh...! Close your legs too...!"
"They stick us in this boring spot, least they could do is let us chat. Hey, right?"
"Y-Yes... Huh?!"
Ronan elbowed the boy to his left. Marya sighed softly. She'd foolishly hoped he'd show some decorum here.
Ignoring him, she mentally rehearsed her technique.
"It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. It's fine..."
Then she noticed the boy right next to her. About her age, with an air of nobility. She tapped his shoulder.
"Um... try not to tense up too much."
"Eek! Y-Yes? Sorry, milady! Was I too loud?"
He was wound so tight, a pinprick might pop him. Clearly a first-time examinee.
Memories of last year surfaced, and Marya smiled warmly.
"Too tense, and even easy moves fall apart. First time applying?"
"No, last time. Ha... I really wanna get in, but no talent—keep failing."
Surprisingly older than her. "Last" meant turning fifteen this year, ineligible next. She smiled encouragingly.
"Hehe, you'll nail it this time. Chin up."
"Th-Thank you. You're so kind. I'm Derian Marshol de Mirodin, third son of the Mirodin Barony!"
"Call me Sen."
She used her middle name. When Marya offered a handshake, Derian grabbed her hand with both of his, shaking vigorously.
Ronan, watching him treat her like royalty, made a retching sound. Urk.
"Showcasing your house's swordsmanship?"
"Yes. This time... memorized it perfectly."
"Looking forward to it. Nice sword—made in Duruan Forge?"
"Ah! You can tell... impressive eye..."
They chatted on. Marya praised Derian; thrilled, he complimented her beauty and grace.
Damn, born merchant, Ronan thought.
Marya with nobles was a different person. Hard to believe she was the girl who'd once bashed his head with a chair.
Ronan feigned boredom with yawns and lip-smacks, but his ears stayed tuned. Annoying, yet oddly addictive—like belly button lint.
Suppressing nausea from eavesdropping, Derian's turn came up. Marya flashed a bright smile.
"Your turn next, young master Derian. Good luck."
"Lady Sen..."
Derian sniffled, moved. He still clutched her hand.
Her silver tongue bordered on sorcery. Ronan itched to smack her head and yell, "Stop, witch!"
Derian said,
"An honor, Lady Sen. If I may, your full name? If I visit your lands someday, I'll repay this kindness."
Marya's face stiffened. Derian mistook her for a noble daughter. Ronan perked up, intrigued.
What would she choose?
Fake a noble name, or trust his values and reveal the truth?
Marya chose truth.
"No title. Just Sen, please."
"Pardon?"
Confusion crossed Derian's face.
"You mean... you're... a commoner...?"
His tone was like confirming a death in the family. His grip loosened.
Marya bit her lower lip briefly, then forced a polite smile.
"Yes."
"...Ha."
His hand dropped fully. Derian slapped Marya's cheek. Slap! The sound silenced the room.
Ronan, hands in pockets, stood.
"Hey."
"Stay put."
Marya whispered. Glancing back, she mouthed, It's fine.
Ronan sat after a moment's thought, eyes locked on Derian.
Derian seemed transformed. No trace of his earlier admiration—just contempt gleaming from narrowed eyes.
"Filthy..."
Standing, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, emblazoned with his house crest. He wiped his hand meticulously, as if cleaning filth.
"Now even lowly commoners dare compete."
"Sorry if I offended, young master Derian."
Despite the slap, Marya didn't resist. Hands demurely on her knees, head bowed.
Ronan frowned. Hadn't it been less than an hour since she vowed no more bowing for her father?
"Sen, was it? Remember this humiliation. You'll pay."
The gamble failed. Derian was one of those nobles who despised commoners, as she'd warned.
Only then did Ronan understand her use of "Sen." Her real name might've harmed the merchant group.
Finished, he tossed the handkerchief like soiled trash.
It fluttered down onto Marya's head. Straightening his collar, Derian spat,
"Stay out of my sight, you filthy commoner wench. Even if you pass, live like you're dead."
"Noted."
Marya left the handkerchief. Meeting Ronan's eyes, she forced another smile.
Then the exam door opened, and the attendant called,
"Next, please~"
"Tch. Wish I could wipe that foul mouth too..."
Derian turned. Ronan, who'd been glaring, gripped his sword hilt.