[6] An Opportunity More Precious Than Life (2)
Vincent grabbed Shirone's shoulder and shouted.
"Shirone! Why did you allow it? This is dangerous! No—it's my responsibility! I'm the one who's ignorant! So I'm refusing!"
"It's fine, Father. We just have to make sure nothing leaks."
"This isn't that simple. How can there be secrecy in human affairs? No matter how I think about it, it's madness! I'll take responsibility and refuse!"
Shirone smiled and slowly shook his head. He really had good parents.
"Thank you, Father."
Vincent's face went blank. This was the first time Shirone had called him "Father." More astonishing was that Shirone was in tears.
"Shi—Shirone…."
Shirone spread his arms wide, then, smiling as if overflowing with joy, said,
"Father has given me the greatest gift in the world."
"Ugh!"
Vincent forgot all pride and burst into tears. Had he ever seen his son cry? Had he ever seen him so full of joy?
"Don't worry, Shirone! Whatever happens, your old man will protect you! Don't you worry—study hard! I'll definitely protect you!"
"Dad, I'll do my best."
"Yes, my boy! My treasure!"
Vincent hugged Shirone and kissed his cheek. Olina, the mother, wiped happy tears at the touching father-and-son embrace.
One week later.
The ordinary stewards of the Ozent family came to fetch Shirone. They said cataloging ten thousand volumes would take well over two years, but Shirone, who had lived modestly, had little more than a single backpack.
Temuran promised twenty gold a month on the condition of taking Shirone. The family's monthly living cost was four gold, so it was an enormous sum.
Would the house be a bit more luxurious when he returned? Shirone knew his parents wouldn't change much, but he chased away his disappointment by forcing himself to imagine happier things.
The contract took effect the moment he boarded the carriage.
The stewards processed the paperwork with clockwork efficiency, and a flustered Vincent had to send Shirone off without a proper farewell.
Shirone, waiting in the carriage, was calm. He hid it from his parents—now it was more important to keep a cool head than to indulge his feelings.
When he closed his eyes and entered the Spirit Zone, he sensed his parents waiting to depart, wiping their tears, through his synesthesia. Shirone moved his thoughts as if to soothe them.
Warm sympathy seeped into Vincent and Olina. It wasn't magic, but it was clear Shirone's wholeheartedness had reached them.
When the carriage jolted, Shirone popped out of the Spirit Zone, but his eyes remained closed.
Entering the Ozent family was a double-edged sword—both the chance of a lifetime and a potential catastrophe.
Could he survive two years among people with such power?
Surrendering himself to an uncertain future, Shirone slipped back into the Spirit Zone.
* * *
The Ozent family was a famed martial house that had produced state-certified, level-3 swordsmen of general-class rank. The head of the family, Ozent Bishof, was himself a state-certified level-4 swordsman who had served as the military commander of Kreas City.
When Shirone arrived at the Ozent estate, he was overwhelmed by the vast grounds beyond the main gate.
A massive road ran straight through the estate. Cutting past the imposing mansion and through an arch, it continued out the back and stretched beyond sight.
'So this is the great avenue I've heard about.'
The grand avenue that sliced the grounds in two was a symbol of the Ozent house's bold temperament.
A steward in his early twenties sneered at Shirone.
"Hehe, scared? No need to freak out yet. The family members are real monsters."
"Watch your tongue. Want your neck come off?"
An older steward warned him. There had been no real malice, so he stopped taunting Shirone and led him through the main gate.
The avenue wasn't for the stewards. Shirone skirted the mansion along a garden path beside the road.
The stewards lived in a circular, four-story building. Upstairs in the offices, Vice-steward Temuran was at work.
"You've come? I'll explain the job, so follow me."
"Yes, I'll do my best."
Without even greeting him, Temuran headed for the library.
The iron doors groaned open and revealed a space filled with books. There were books on the second floor, the third floor, the fourth—everywhere.
Breathing in the smell of old paper, Shirone clenched his fist. This was worth risking his life for.
"We're moving these books to the New Library. Your job is to classify them. I'll hand over a list every week—find and gather those books. Work is from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. After that is your free time. You can't go outside, and you mustn't enter the mansion without special orders. The steward rules will be explained by the ordinary stewards. Understood?"
"Yes. When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. Today, unpack and rest. In the meantime, learn the steward rules."
From the next day, Shirone reported to the library. Once he started the work, he realized why this had to be done by one person.
The document Temuran gave him listed hundreds of titles, and classification often came down to judgment.
For example, a book titled "The History of Swordsmanship" could be classified as history or as a swordsmanship manual—ambiguous either way.
Temuran had set a basic system, but splitting ten thousand volumes required many subjective decisions.
Shirone decided to set priorities. History was broad while swordsmanship was specialized, so he classified "history of swordsmanship" as a swordsmanship book. It took him two weeks just to set rules like that.
Even this work proved useful.
In building the classification system he realized that all knowledge was connected. Music and mathematics, chemistry and the mind, art and science—none were truly separate.
Once the system was in place, the work took on momentum. Meeting the target amounts on time, he could finally turn his attention to study.
Knowledge was the greatest divider between nobles and commoners. The knowledge he could gain here would help him enormously someday.
Shirone decided to use his time efficiently. Ten thousand books lay before him. Even with two years, reading every volume was impossible.
'Where should I start? Do I just read whatever I come across?'
An idea struck him and he slapped his knee. Since all knowledge was connected, diving deep into one discipline would let him later supplement other areas.
"Which field should I dig into?"
His lips curved as he thought it over.
"Study history."
If human life is history, knowledge advances along that line. Mastering history first was like erecting the backbone of a living thing.
Shirone drew the horizontal line of history in his mind. Within that line, arranged in time, would be religion, science, magic, myth, literature, art, politics, war, economy—everything humanity knew.
"With history, I can always reinforce other knowledge later. No—I can combine things much faster. History is the backbone of knowledge."
The Great Library held roughly 850 history volumes. Shirone made a vow: he would read all 850 history books in two years. He would build the backbone of his knowledge.
From that day, Shirone didn't return to his quarters after work but stayed to read.
He skipped roll call under the pretext of overtime, but no one bothered the temporary worker Shirone except Temuran.
Reading history was honestly grueling. Having lived sixteen years in the mountains, he had no familiarity with continents, names, or events woven through those books.
He thought about memorizing whole books, then shook his head. Memorization records things in the head, but understanding records them in the heart. Even one line understood before moving on was the royal road to building knowledge.
Still, understanding history was backbreaking work.
It wasn't enough to list events; he had to trace why they happened and how they would influence future events.
His efficiency plummeted and after a week he hadn't finished a single book. He began sleeping often in the library and frequently collapsed from exhaustion.
At four in the morning.
The iron doors opened and Temuran entered, lamp leading the way. Shirone hadn't noticed, but Temuran came at that hour every day to watch him.
Temuran inspected a book Shirone had dropped. It wasn't difficult, yet the book hadn't changed for half a month.
Temuran snorted. If Shirone had been devouring practical manuals like a madman, he would have banned him from entering outside working hours.
But seeing this, it was all empty show. Just because he could read a bit, he fancied lofty dreams—what a fool.
"Of course. What can someone of low birth possibly achieve?"
Temuran turned away relieved. Success required both luck and intellect; he thought Shirone—full of grand dreams but lacking the brains—was already done for.
* * *
Three months had passed since the library work began.
As classification became routine, his time management loosened, and he learned various things through the stewards.
The most shocking was that nobles didn't much care whether books leaked or not.
Family secrets were passed down directly, and nobles, with so many matters to attend to, didn't care if a few books disappeared.
That didn't make Shirone any less at risk. A noble's generosity rested on the rigid loyalty of common folk. The stewards could become ruthlessly strict to prevent a single mistake.
Shirone felt how far apart the two classes' mindsets were—the trivial to nobles could be a life-or-death matter for commoners.
When the sun hung high, the library doors suddenly slammed open and an unfamiliar boy's voice shattered the silence.
"Phew, damn old geezer. What's wrong with taking a day off?"
Shirone blinked at the uninvited guest.
It was the youngest son of the head, Ozent Rian. True to the blood of a fighting house, his face was rugged and masculine, and though the same age as Shirone, he was a head taller.
A loud shout came from outside the library.
"Rian! You dare try to run? If we catch you, it's a hundred laps around the garden!"
"Ugh! Damn it!"
Rian, unable to stay still, dashed between the bookshelves and spotted Shirone. Without giving him a moment to react, he ran over and shook him.
"Hey! Don't tell anyone I was here, got it?"
No sooner had he spoken than he tried to hide under the shelf. At that moment the door opened and an old man's rebuke shook the library.
"Rian! I know you're hiding here!"
The white-haired old man was broad-shouldered and huge in stature. His beard reached his chest, and he walked toward Shirone with a fierce glare.
"You! The blue-haired, peanut-sized runt snuck in here, didn't he?"
Shirone tried to think who the man meant. He knew of a blue-haired youth, but if that one was "peanut-sized," what on earth did the old man see when he looked at Shirone?
"By his clothes, it looks like the youngest son. Excuse me, but who are you?"
Shirone tried to buy time by invoking the family's authority. But the battle-hardened veteran who'd commanded fields for decades saw through him at once.
"I'm his swordsmanship instructor! A master who can clobber that runt—so stop your nonsense and speak quickly, unless you want to get your face rearranged."
Shirone swallowed. For someone hungry to learn, a master was like heaven. Especially someone teaching by order of the head—house-servant tricks wouldn't work on such a man.
"Oh, I see. The young master is hiding over there under the shelf."
"Are you crazy? You want to die?"
Rian scowled and crawled out. Then, seeing the swordsmanship instructor before him, he trembled like a leaf.
"Master, this is a misunderstanding!"
"Gah!"
The swordsmanship instructor grabbed Rian by the collar and flung him to the floor.
As Rian's body arced and crashed down, Shirone closed one eye. Rian lay sprawled, limbs trembling.
"Come with me, you brat. Whether you train or not, you need to straighten out your mind first."
Dragged by the ankle, Rian tilted his head toward Shirone and mumbled something.
No sound came out, but Shirone heard his words as clearly as if they'd been spoken.
You're dead.