Will It Make Money?
Upon arriving in Halim, Bernel paced the corridor with his carefully organized documents in hand.
It was the path leading to the lodgings.
He knew perfectly well where his room was; he had not lost his way.
Even so, he wandered that stretch of hallway as if waiting for something.
"Bernel."
A weighty voice.
Then a gleaming head of hair appeared through the foliage.
It was the same hair that had once earned him the moniker "Solar Mage" for the way it made so many people smile.
The old memory might have drawn a smile from Bernel, yet he could not manage one.
"Ah—good day to you, Chancellor! It's been since the Academy."
"Yes. It's been a while."
"I heard you granted me the main slot. I'm grateful for the kindness—"
"What's that?"
Chancellor Bernard cut him off, eyeing the documents clutched in Bernel's hands.
"These are the materials I'll present at the briefing. I've polished them as best I could, but it still doesn't come easily, so I was hoping you might review them once, Chancellor."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"…Give them here."
Chancellor Bernard began skimming the presentation at speed.
His grave expression left Bernel's mouth bone-dry.
At last the man smiled.
Was that good news?
"Pathetic."
No.
What left his lips was closer to a sneer.
"Bernel Marquis, I cannot help but be disappointed in you."
"W-what do you mean, sir?"
Bernel kept his tone polite as he asked.
"Efficiency of a mere twelve percent—what do you intend to do with that?"
"I'm raising the efficiency step by step."
"And you plan to stand up at the presentation, claim there's real potential, and simply take the ridicule? Are you determined to drag the name of Regent Valdrova through the mud after he at least placed his trust in you?"
Bernel stared blankly at the chancellor's face.
This was no mere application of existing work; it was original creation.
Twelve percent alone was already a stunning result.
Chancellor Bernard pressed on.
"Is there anyone who even understands the formula you uncovered? Looking at this, it's a complete mess. You obtained the formula, yes, but the pace at which you're improving efficiency is far too slow. If I grasped it, I would have pushed the numbers far higher by now. Do you know why I can say that with such confidence?"
"…"
"Because your vision is too narrow, Bernel. Fixate on one thing and you see nothing else. You're so locked on that single percent that you never notice the path to ten."
Bernard shoved the presentation back against Bernel's chest.
"I'm disappointed. Thoroughly disappointed. The days when you dreamed wild dreams were better. Right now you are chaos itself."
Bernard turned his back and walked away.
Bernel could say nothing; he could only stare at the floor.
For a long while he remained rooted to the spot.
Ferda had watched every moment of it.
From the instant Bernard humiliated Bernel and crushed his spirit until the man finally left.
And he thought,
Have I misjudged Chancellor Bernard all this time?
Bernard had arranged a place for Bernel.
Giving him the main slot, no less—something scholars regarded as a great honor.
Ferda had assumed the gesture sprang from goodwill.
It had not.
Bernard was a petty man who refused to acknowledge Bernel.
The higher the perch, the more painful the fall.
Did that mean Bernard meant to destroy Bernel?
If so…
What am I supposed to do here?
"Ah, Regent! Fancy meeting you here."
The cheerful voice snapped him back to himself.
The man who had worn the face of a third-rate villain while Ferda watched in secret now wore a courteous, good-natured expression.
"As it happens, a merchant named Stefan Pascal came to me asking how we plan to handle the main event—"
"Do you truly believe he is a fool?"
"Pardon? What do you mean by that?"
When Ferda cut him off with the question, Bernard looked genuinely puzzled.
Ferda answered bluntly.
"I overheard a conversation I wasn't meant to hear."
At Ferda's words Bernard finally understood and flushed.
"Well now… you've seen a side of me I would rather not have shown."
Yes—an ugly face indeed.
Ferda intended to make certain the man understood exactly what happened when human duplicity was exposed.
"However it may have looked, I never meant Bernel any real harm."
Ferda found himself speechless.
"What do you mean?"
"You see… Bernel Marquis was the prodigy our senior scholars once pinned their hopes on. He took first place throughout his Academy years; we all agreed that brilliant mind would overturn the century."
Everyone knew the ending of that praise had not been kind.
Bernard sighed.
"But the moment he brought us the content for the conference presentation, we were all thrown into confusion. It was packed with absurdities. We tried to dissuade him, tried to steer him toward something more promising, yet he wouldn't listen. Do you know what becomes of nine out of ten such people? They are seized by their ideals and go mad."
"Yet he was not mad."
"No. He succeeded."
"And you still think you can persuade me?"
Had Bernel been chasing only empty ideals, Ferda would have understood.
He might even have approached the young man with the same cold scorn.
But Bernel had succeeded.
Results that should have taken years more had appeared in mere months, and efficiency was still climbing.
"That is precisely why I do this."
"Knowing he was right, you still refuse to acknowledge him—and that is the work of the head of the academic world?"
"With people like Bernel, one must."
"What kind of people are they?"
"The ones who present innovations we ordinary folk deny and never even imagined. Such people must never be allowed to settle at the limits of a mediocrity like me. They must not research merely to convince someone else; they must follow what they themselves believe."
Ferda understood.
Bernard was a genius.
Yet Bernel was a genius among geniuses.
Therefore Bernard's own standard, when applied to Bernel, was no different from an ordinary man's.
"Bernel will do everything he can to prove himself with sheer ability just to spite me. If he made something that absurd succeed, he must now push further. He will prepare to land a blow on me."
This was a lash for Bernel's own good—
an operation to drag out the competitive fire buried in his heart.
"And if he strays down a wrong path?"
Exactly as I once did.
Ferda swallowed the words.
"Bernel never chooses the coward's road. He always insists on a frontal contest. He, too, is a scholar advancing toward absolute truth."
Bernard offered a short bow.
"Still, if you ever come to believe he has gone astray, please tell him that I am in fact a petty, narrow-minded man who cannot even admit it to his face. With that, I'll go prepare."
Bernard walked past Ferda, and Ferda let him go.
Whether he thrashed the man like a rat or scolded him, what would he gain?
I'm curious as well.
At the same time he wondered what sort of man Bernel truly was, as Bernard saw him.
Would he collapse under the weight of not being acknowledged, or would he, as Bernard predicted, be reborn?
Feigning complete ignorance, Ferda went to Bernel's room.
The shock had not yet faded; the door was not properly shut, so he could simply walk in.
Bernel sat at the lodging table.
His shoulders shook; his breathing was ragged.
"Yeah, damn it… that efficiency… I just have to drag it up myself, right?"
Tears fell in thick drops, yet neither his hands nor his mind stopped.
He was already correcting every point Bernard had criticized.
"Realistic? Fine. I'll push it to twenty percent before the end of next month. Just wait. Every last bastard who laughed at me… I'll make every single one of them acknowledge me. Damn it…"
Clear, burning vengeance rang in every word.
He was using it as fuel to keep his mind racing.
Revenge was like that.
It made one forget fatigue
and granted the focus to pour everything into a single goal.
If there's one difference between him and me…
It was that he had, just as Bernard foresaw, chosen the right path.
So Ferda quietly closed the door and stepped back outside.
"Tear that thing off. Compared to how it looked when we first set it up, it's garbage. Handle that piece carefully!"
Stefan directed the workmen while consulting the interior blueprints.
"Boss, we brought the goods. Where should we display them?"
"Good work. Hang that one on the wall over there! There's a hook, right?"
"Yes."
"Double-check that the hook is solid. It's important merchandise! My neck could roll for this!"
The "merchandise" consisted of sample Magic Stones and the weapons that used them.
Just in case, he had also prepared design sketches of future plans to demonstrate a clear vision.
A long pipe as the main body, festooned with complex wiring and glass vials—they called the thing a Magic Engineering Rifle.
And that's supposed to be a weapon?
The researchers claimed its performance was excellent, yet he had never once seen it demonstrated.
Would the thing even fire?
"My goodness, Brother? Meeting you here."
A familiar voice slid into Stefan's ear.
An unexpected face… or rather, one he should have expected.
With every merchant in attendance, there was no chance the Pascal family would stay away.
He knew that, yet Tilda's presence always managed to feel as awkward as any genuine surprise.
Stefan found her thoroughly unpleasant.
"You came alone?"
"Of course not. I brought my fiancé. He's right over there—Henri?"
A man approached with a sunny smile.
He was a plump middle-aged fellow in his mid-thirties.
Henri Dandolo,
heir to one of the empire's largest trading houses, the Dandolo Guild.
"Tilda, my love. I brought the cocktail you wanted."
The stout man in his thirties grinned as he offered the glass.
The relatively petite, slender beauty with black hair stared at the drink.
She pouted and made her eyes go moist.
"This is a Cherry Bomb."
"Uh… yes?"
"I wanted a Blue Sapphire…"
Tilda swayed her shoulders and blinked at him.
Seeing that, Henri Dandolo gave an awkward laugh and nodded.
"Ah, sorry. I'll fetch a new one!"
"Thank you. You're the only one for me."
"Brother-in-law! Greetings later!"
"O-oh. Sure…"
Tilda smiled.
Pleased by that smile, he hurried off again for another cocktail.
Stefan watched the whole performance and scowled.
"Why leave the servants and work your fiancé like a dog?"
"Why do you think? Because I can't stand the sight of him."
Tilda smiled thinly.
In front of others she poured on the pretense; with Stefan she never bothered.
That meant she considered him beneath her notice.
"Does he know how ugly you are inside?"
"Hardly. A man who hasn't even managed to get my underwear off—where would he get that kind of insight?"
"He'd be thrilled if I told him about this conversation."
"If you've got the guts, go ahead and try."
It was always like this.
She acted as though she sat above every man and tried to steer them all.
She had been that way since childhood.
If someone displeased her, she dug a pit and purged them, or left them with deep scars.
At first it had been almost cute; as her mind matured she grew steadily more calculating.
Stefan was afraid of that Tilda.
He had seen the monster behind the smiling face, yet he still could not grasp exactly what kind of monster it was.
"So this is the Far East merchandise Brother is sponsoring?"
She covered her mouth with a fan and looked up at the Magic Engineering Rifle.
"Yes."
"How adorable. Bringing something like that."
Hmm.
She pretended to study it carefully while exhaling, then whipped her head away.
"To my eye it looks closer to a work of art."
A question of whether it was actually usable.
"Of course it can be used."
"How does it work?"
"That is—well, you pull this here and then somehow… it just works on its own."
The more his words trailed off, the deeper Tilda's smile spread.
"You've never even seen it fire, have you?"
"…"
"Well, it is an exhibition. Even unfinished pieces just hang there and no one knows the difference. Or wait."
She rested a finger on her chin with an innocent expression.
"Come to think of it, aren't there briefings as well?"
A look that said she already knew everything.
She had information on the Magic Stones; of course she would know about the main briefing too.
"Why bring something you've never once fired? If it explodes halfway through, won't you just be humiliated?"
"Probably."
"It's perfect for display, but… hmm. Whether it will actually make money is another question. Just as Father said, the East looks rather useless…"
A crescent-moon smile curved her lips.
That expression.
That was the face that had crushed him again and again while he still lived under the Pascal roof.
"Don't worry, little sister."
But today was different.
Stefan carried a confidence he had never shown before.
"While you're clinging to some man's thigh, I'm holding onto my patron's shoulder."
It was a rather crude provocation.
Yet the effect was excellent.
Tilda glared venomously.
A face that said, How dare the likes of Stefan talk back to me?—and hands that trembled with rage.
Normally Stefan would have been cowed; not now.
He was sponsoring the most reliable patron imaginable.
Still… damn, she is scary.
Remembering how she used to hit him without the slightest hesitation in their childhood made cold sweat break out on its own.
"Would you step aside?"
A voice from behind her.
The face that had been twisted into something fierce smoothed over instantly as she turned.
Tall stature, gray hair, blue eyes.
A man in a black uniform trimmed with red.
Young, yet radiating an aura far beyond his years.
So this is Ferda Valdrova.
A cold expression and a complicated face that perfectly suited the moniker of ruthless killer he had earned by slaying Tessalos Wolcher.
More than enough to seize Tilda's interest.
She smiled sweetly and offered an elegant greeting.
"Good day, Regent Valdrova. I am Tilda Pascal, and I—"
"I have no interest in who you are. Step aside."
"Y-yes?"
He cut her greeting short.
The rudeness grated, yet Tilda could not even feel anger inside herself.
Those blue eyes looking at her were so icy they seemed ready to freeze the blood in her veins.
"You don't understand plain speech. I told you to get out of my sight."