"Help me! I don't want to die in a place like this!
Raising his voice, spitting saliva, and shaking his shoulders, the old man's pleas for mercy continued.
The only sound echoing through the now-silent great hall was that old man's wretched screaming, and it plunged the atmosphere of the assembly into an ever-deepening gloom.
Most of the knights and civil officials regarded the old man with undisguised disgust in their eyes, and many among the賢人会's sages, who were probably close to his age, wore expressions of having seen something truly unpleasant.
Those who saw any deeper meaning beyond the old man's screaming and begging for his life had to be acknowledged as a minority within this assembly.
"What's the matter with you?! Do you think you've survived all this time on your own?! Or did living a slightly better life make you forget about everything I've done for you—tell me, which is it?!"
The old man pressed on relentlessly, shoving the ugliness of human nature in everyone's face. While no one else cared to address his attitude, Reinhard kept his gaze fixed on the profile of the girl he considered his master.
It was a transformation so drastic it could be called an entirely different person. He hadn't known the old man long enough to gauge his true feelings, but it wasn't hard to imagine that the girl was experiencing considerable turmoil.
Having half-guessed at the true intent behind the old man's words, Reinhard judged that he needed to make a move to break the deadlock, and took a step forward— "Don't move, Reinhard. You'd best not do anything foolish."
—a girl's voice caught him before he could act, making him hesitate.
A blunder. Reinhard raised his head and saw the red-haired youth—rather, the girl who had thrown her voice at him—wearing a smirk of pure arrogance.
Drawing a fan from within her own chest and pressing it to her lips, Priscilla fixed Reinhard with a gaze lit by a sadistic gleam, tilting her head in a manner that was at once lovely and wanton.
"That won't do, Reinhard. A knight of your caliber losing his composure. With an attitude like that, you'd look like you were trying to silence that old fossil before he could say anything inconvenient."
Shrugging her shoulders with a show of mock fear as she spoke, Priscilla's words left Reinhard gnashing his teeth inwardly, lamenting his own mistake.
He didn't know what effect the old man calling himself Romun—
With a single remark from Priscilla, the meaning and interpretation of the old man's words and actions shifted for everyone present in the hall. And even if Reinhard tried to move now to refute the content, he would inevitably be judged through the preconceived lens of "attempting to conceal inconvenient facts."
In one sentence, Priscilla had completely reshaped the stage to her advantage.
Without knowing the backgrounds of the people confronting each other, she had seen through their relationships from the most trivial exchanges and redirected the situation to her liking.
Left unable to act rashly, Reinhard stood rooted in place. Before him, Priscilla nodded with satisfaction, then snapped her fan shut with a crisp sound and pointed its tip at the old man.
"Go on, then—continue begging for your life. Wretchedly, pathetically, absurdly—dance like a madman until the very end and entertain me. I permit it. I will not stop you. Go all out, old fossil. Whether or not I grant your pathetic rambling will depend entirely on your performance."
"Insufferable little brat, putting on airs… Felt, you're not like that, are you? You've always been kind, ever since you were little. You wouldn't abandon me, would you? We've always gotten along so well, haven't we?"
The old man spat in response to Priscilla's imperious tone, then pressed on with an obsequious smile, clinging to the mercy of a girl he had known for years.
Everyone around shuddered at the old man's reckless disregard for how badly he had offended Priscilla, but Priscilla herself merely looked on with amusement, a smile playing at her lips as she watched the continuation of his pathetic plea for mercy.
As they watched how this exchange would play out, the people around them seemed to regain their senses and began murmuring to one another their thoughts—in other words, their impressions of the old man's miserable begging.
"Did you see that pathetic display?"
"His fawning expression is even worse. It makes you lose all sympathy. 'A thief grown bold'—that's exactly what this is."
"Even if Lady Felt were to shelter him, a full pardon would be out of the question."
The knights voiced their contempt for the old man's wretched attitude of begging for leniency after committing crimes.
"So the slums are full of people like him… Lady Felt grew up there?"
"Even if the story about her being a surviving blood relative were true, could someone who lived in such a place truly fulfill the duties of a king?"
"Perhaps we should reconsider after all. Or else, following the Dragon Inscription, we should treat her as a nominal candidate, simply to round out the numbers."
The civil officials began voicing doubts about Felt's qualifications, suggesting she had a deep connection to such an old man.
Gradually the whispers grew louder, spreading throughout the hall as a rising murmur.
Surveying those reactions, Reinhard bit his lip as his inner concerns became reality. He had anticipated this outcome.
And yet he had let the old man's screaming go unchecked and had fallen squarely into Priscilla's trap. The result was that he had been unable to stop things, and both parties—now aligned in their interests—had gotten their way.
Cursing his own inadequacy, Reinhard gazed at Felt, who remained silent.
The girl kept her head lowered, still maintaining her silence. What was she thinking?
"————!"
"————!!"
"————!"
While the person at the center of it all kept her mouth shut, the voices of the bystanders continued to swell without restraint.
Unable to endure this spiraling deterioration, Marcos finally judged that someone needed to intervene and drew a deep breath. But— "Every last one of you needs to shut the hell up!!"
It was not Marcos's famous rebuke—the one that sent chills down the spines of his subordinates.
It was a shrill, foul-mouthed shout from a young girl, utterly unbearable to listen to.
Stunned silence came first, and then the entire hall fell quiet.
Seizing on that, the girl stepped forward to the center with heavy breathing, looked around at every face, and said: "When someone's keeping their mouth shut, you chirpy little birds just can't help but flap your beaks. A bunch of grown men gathered together being all weepy and womanly—what a bunch of spineless losers."
"Lady Felt, that remark is a bit much, even for you…"
"Shut your mouth, edging knight. You got schooled by a pregnant woman, so don't you dare talk down to me. Actually, don't talk to me at all—I hate your guts."
Reinhard attempted to admonish her unladylike speech, but Felt's response was merciless and utterly without a shred of elegance.
Still, an order was an order, and Reinhard bowed deeply before withdrawing. Watching this, Felt flicked the hem of her yellow dress and cracked her neck roughly.
"You brainiacs whispering to each other over there—those are exactly the kind of people I can't stand. You pay money to get an education, pay money to buy your positions, and then stand there looking all high and mighty. Well, if that's the case, then act the part. You've got pale, sickly faces like you haven't even had a proper meal."
She swept her gaze over the civil officials and cut them down with that assessment. Then her head turned the other way, and a ripple of unease ran through the knights standing at attention.
"And you guys in your fancy uniforms—what the hell are you so scared of a little girl for? Don't give me that 'we're not scared, we're just being cautious' excuse. I'm not buying it. Don't you think it's pathetic?"
Snorting derisively at the knights, Felt walked until she reached her destination: directly in front of the old man who had been putting on his wretched display. The massive old man and the diminutive girl faced each other—only with the old man on his knees did they reach roughly average height difference.
The girl placed both hands on her hips and looked once more over the crowd she had just mocked.
"And now, look at this old man's face. He's got a bloody nose from being punched, plus a ton of marks from botched shaving. Mirrors are pretty rare, and decent sharp blades aren't easy to come by. Yet here he is, smiling up at me so obsequiously—put simply, it's creepy."
"You're going a bit far there, aren't you…"
The old man's mutter came in a deflated tone, all the fight gone from his voice. But he quickly shook his head as if rallying himself, and resumed plastering on that obsequious smile.
Watching this, Felt sighed heavily and tilted her head.
"And on top of that, there was that whole begging-for-his-life act. Honestly, hearing it just made my shoulders slump. It was pathetic, pathetic, and painful to watch. …Hey, Old Man Rom."
At the call, the old man raised his head. The girl's crimson eyes, meeting his own, held a deep sadness.
"People from the slums are, well, hopelessly pathetic. It's no surprise that when people look down on you, you live a卑鄙 life—and everyone there, including me, had rotten guts. It really was a terrible place."
She delivered that scathing assessment including herself, then took a breath and said, "But."
"Sure, it was a dumping ground for bottom-of-the-barrel good-for-nothings. But you know, we never lost our dignity as human beings. No matter how low people looked at us, we never went so far as to literally grovel in the dirt."
"Felt…"
"Right now, if I could show Old Man Rom his own face in a mirror, I would. So pathetic, so wretched, smiling so fawningly and wagging his tail just to stay alive—that's not what I call living."
The old man murmured the girl's name like a sigh, and she shook her head as she answered.
That response drew a solemn nod from Crusch, who had been standing quietly among the candidates. The ideals Crusch spoke of resonated with what Felt had just said.
"If you're going to beg me for your life, you're going about it the wrong way. I'm not going to help you by giving up my right to leave a place I don't want to be."
With her hands on her hips, Felt delivered this verdict flatly.
It meant abandoning someone she knew well. If the old man's words were true, it meant cutting ties with someone she had spent her childhood with.
"…Lady Felt."
Before the knight among knights—the red-haired youth—it was tantamount to declaring withdrawal from the Royal Selection.
Her words sent a bitter pang through Reinhard's heart.
He had anticipated this. Looking at the old man's behavior, he had been able to predict how a girl with that much pride would react.
And on that point, Priscilla and the old man—no, that old man alone—had successfully exploited him.
The abandoned old man's shoulders sagged, and he hung his head in apparent defeat.
But Reinhard did not miss the faint, weak smile at the corner of the old man's mouth. It was not born of the kind of collapse that comes from regret or despair—it was the look of someone who had accomplished something. A sense of fulfillment.
Risking his life, the old man had gambled on one gamble. And he had carried it off beautifully, achieving the goal he had set out for himself. It was an act worthy of admiration.
It was necessary to expose the old man's scheme now and set Felt's course straight. But Reinhard could not do that.
—Because of who he was. That very nature bound his actions.
Seeing the old man hunched over and Felt standing tall, Marcos seemed to grasp that the matter had reached its conclusion. He tugged on the old man's handcuffs, let the chains clatter, and bowed toward the hall.
"I apologize for causing this disturbance. We will remove this man immediately—"
"Oh, right—so anyway, I was kinda waiting for someone to jump to conclusions."
Felt's voice cut off Marcos mid-apology as he was about to withdraw.
For once, Marcos closed his mouth with a slightly flustered expression. Felt enjoyed the change in his usually stony face with a satisfied smirk, then turned to face the room as a small figure amid the crowd.
"So here's the deal: Commander, take those off. Those handcuffs are way too big for Old Man Rom's skinny wrists—it's painful just looking at them."
"I've told you many times already, but I must refuse. I have no reason to obey your orders…"
"You're gonna say there's no reason because I have no intention of participating in this Royal Selection thing, right? Well, that makes this easy."
Cutting off Marcos's attempt to refuse again, Felt lightly tapped her own chest. Then she twisted her lips into a wide, predatory grin that showed off her sharp double canines.
"I'll do it. The Royal Selection. All I've gotta do is aim to be the king, right?"
"————!!"
That declaration, delivered with a grin, sent a violent tremor through the entire hall.
The bombshell remark struck first with shock, but what lingered in each person's heart after that shock receded was something different for each.
Some received it with solemn gravity. Some smiled with lewd amusement. Some pressed their fingers to their temples as if warding off a headache. Some tensened their cheeks, trying to keep their expressions neutral.
And in the hearts of many, there swirled a distaste for the girl who had so casually uttered what was clearly a matter of the utmost importance—or perhaps anger at having the kingdom's greatest affair treated so lightly.
Leaving those varied reactions aside, the person who showed the biggest response was, of course, the old man who had taken her declaration head-on.
"What—what are you saying, Felt?! I—I've accepted it! What you said earlier was right. You can't live without pride. My behavior earlier was the lowest of the low. Even if you abandon me, I accept that—"
"Save the melodrama, you dirty old man. You've lived this long and you still don't know you've got zero talent for stage acting? Give up on your career change and just settle for being a petty villain."
"That's absurd! …Besides, you've always been the type who doesn't do things you don't want to do! It's only natural that you'd abandon someone who's shown such a shameful display! You shouldn't have to endure something you hate just to…"
"Exactly—you really do understand me, Old Man Rom. That's right. I'm the type who doesn't do things she doesn't want to do. But you know what? I actually understand you too."
The old man, who moments ago had been pleading for his life, now clung to the opposite position with desperate tenacity. Felt pointed at him, then turned that finger toward her own face.
"We've known each other so long, I can tell… Old Man Rom, when you're about to lie, the blood vessels on the tip of your nose start popping out like crazy."
"Wh-what?! That's not a lie—!?"
At Felt's observation, the old man recoiled in shock and frantically raised his still-handcuffed arm to rub his nose. Watching this, Felt snorted.
"Yep. It's a lie. So now I've caught you in a dumb lie—what are you gonna do about it?"
"——Ah."
Old Man Rom stood blank-faced, having fallen squarely into her leading question.
Felt didn't know what the old man thought about having been snagged by such a low-level trick, but she shrugged both shoulders and shook her head with a "good grief."
"So take off Old Man Rom's handcuffs. Everything up to now was just the ramblings of a senile old man, start to finish."
"I can't possibly accept such a justification—"
"That old man is my family. So take them off. Now."
When Marcos tried to refuse once more, Felt spoke with all emotion drained from her voice.
Hearing those words, Marcos furrowed his brow for just an instant, but quickly smoothed that trace of agitation from his expression.
"As you command."
With the courtesy due to a superior, he removed his hands from Old Man Rom's handcuffs. Then he turned around and asked a knight stationed near the entrance for the key.
But Felt held up her hand to stop him.
"There's no time. — Reinhard!"
"Here."
The instant that sharp voice rang out, Reinhard's tall figure ascended the stage.
The girl didn't so much as glance at the red-haired youth who now stood beside her. She simply crossed her arms and lifted her chin.
"Do it."
That was all she ordered.
"Yes, my master—"
And to that briefest of commands in the world, the knight responded with all the weight of his heart.
The arm raised before his master formed a blade at its apex, cleaving the air as it descended.
Slash—the metal manacles binding both of the old man's hands were severed as cleanly as paper before Reinhard's hand-blade.
The cuffs fell away as if melted, and a sharp, ringing sound echoed through the hall.
Against the backdrop of that sound, the girl looked up at the tall figure with an expression that might have been called annoyed.
"Is this all going exactly as you planned, too?"
"Not at all. It is the guidance of fate, nothing more."
The answer Reinhard gave, hand pressed to his chest, was met with a disgusted "Hah!" from the girl.
"Fate again. Are you fate's slave or something?"
"No. — I am the servant of what is right."
Even to such sarcasm, the young man answered earnestly and head-on. At this, Felt closed one eye, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.
"But that job of yours is being retired as of now. From now on, you're my servant."
"Yes. At my master's command."
"Brace yourself—I'm gonna work you to the bone."
"Yes. All as my master desires."
"Boring… guy…"
Felt sighed at the way he seemed prepared to agree to absolutely everything.
While the two of them carried on this exchange, Old Man Rom still hadn't recovered from his shock. He shook his freed arms, his bloodstained cheeks twisted in anguish.
"Why, Felt? …I—I was trying to…"
"I more or less get why you did what you did, Old Man Rom. What your aim was, all that talk about being pathetic on purpose. — You couldn't stand me standing in this place, couldn't stand it one bit. You were trying to push me away from behind, weren't you?"
Felt raised a hand in a half-apology toward the old man, who hung his head limply. Rom looked up at her, his lips trembling.
"If you understood that much, then why…"
"Told you myself, didn't I? I'm the type who doesn't do things she doesn't want to do."
She answered the old man's unspoken question with a sheepish grin.
"You really think I'm gonna abandon my family and slink back to the slums with my tail between my legs? I'm not capable of something even worse than what outsiders do."
"————"
Hearing that, the old man's expression shifted from anguish to something else entirely.
He turned his back to the girl, pressed his face into his arm to hide his expression.
"My—my fatal flaw was…"
"It was blindingly obvious, old man."
Perhaps guessing at the emotion behind that outburst, Reinhard called out to the old man, who looked up at the ceiling and spoke in a hoarse voice, filled with regret yet unable to suppress an overwhelming sense of emotion.
"I raised her too well—!"
※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ ※ As the old man's ambiguous cry—whether a lament or a celebration of his own parenting philosophy—rang out, the sage representative standing at the podium, Miklotov, stroked his beard and narrowed his eyes.
"Was this situation according to your expectations, Commander?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to presume. I am a knight, after all—one who follows the path, not one who forges it."
Marcos answered with characteristic humility. Miklotov nodded, then turned to the three standing in the center—no, to the two who had stepped forward: master and servant.
"Then, Lady Felt and Knight Reinhard—may I take it that you both intend to participate in the Royal Selection?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Yes. At my master's command."
Felt, who showed no signs of abandoning her imperious attitude, and Reinhard, who followed her lead. The magnanimous sage made no comment on the contrast, simply nodding quietly.
"Very well. There has been some commotion, but I believe we can consider all candidates assembled. If there is anything else you wish to say, Lady Felt…"
He intended to give Felt the opportunity to make a speech, just as he had for the other candidates.
Felt furrowed her brow for a moment as if considering, then held up one finger and said, "Just one thing." She stepped forward into the direct line of sight of everyone present.
"—I hate nobles."
With a bright smile, she spread her arms wide toward the sage council and declared.
"—I hate knights."
Maintaining that same smile, she pointed her other hand at the Knight Order.
"—I hate the kingdom."
Still spreading both arms, she wove words into her beaming smile with poison hidden within.
"—I hate everything in this room. The people, the ground beneath your feet—every last thing. So I'm going to break it all."
Tilting her head as if to say "What do you think?", Felt grinned at them cheerfully.
For an instant, the words blew past the emotions of those who had completely forgotten to think.
"W-what are you saying—!?"
"Breaking the kingdom at the very venue where the king is to be chosen!?"
"What do you make of all the time we've devoted to this?!"
"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about—you can't open your mouths without putting on that 'we' crown, can you? Pride, history—what a joke."
Before the audience roaring with indignation, Felt cut them off in a single breath. Then she pinched the hem of her yellow dress.
"In this flimsy outfit, expensive clothes, expensive jewels dripping off me—all because you've got your eyes glazed over with bloodlines and history. That's why every last one of you can't see how rotten and decrepit your own footing is."
So, she continued, turning her gaze up to Miklotov at the podium.
"When I become the king, I'm gonna break it all. For all you blind fools who can't see the ground crumbling beneath your feet, I'll knock you off your perch and maybe let in some fresh air."
The sheer brightness on her face as she said this left the hall in stunned silence.
Receiving her unprecedented outburst, Miklotov remained expressionless and nodded with calm dignity. Then he turned his attention to the knight standing beside her.
"Your master is quite a fierce one. Having heard those words, what do you think?"
"—Indeed. Lady Felt's words, I regret to say, are still the stuff of dreams for now."
With that, Reinhard shifted the very foundation of his master's declaration. Felt shot him a suspicious look, but he met it with a cool expression.
"However, the day will come when Lady Felt's words reach the hearts of all. — To bring that day about, to support her in all things—that is my duty, and how I understand my role."
"But you yourself would also be among those Lady Felt intends to destroy, would you not?"
"After the destruction, she will no doubt oversee the rebuilding as well. To be by her side at that time would be my greatest fulfillment."
With a deep bow, Reinhard spoke without wavering before Miklotov. Felt ruffled her golden hair roughly as she watched this display from the knight.
"So in the end, are you on my side or against me? Which is it?"
"Your side. — Yours alone."
"…Fine, then. I'll work you hard."
And thus, the last master and servant of the Royal Selection were born.
And then— "Now then, I believe we have heard from all five candidates. Allow me once more to address the sages gathered here."
With solemn gravity, Miklotov spoke in a deep voice.
A natural tension and silence descended upon the hall. As the assembly held its breath awaiting the next words, Miklotov opened his narrow eyes slightly wider.
"I hereby declare the start of this Royal Selection, with the five individuals before us as candidates. I seek the endorsement of my fellow sages."
"—I endorse this declaration, by the authority of the Sage Council."
"As do I."
"I, too, lend my endorsement."
The sages responded to Miklotov's proposal with their nods. Once he had received them all, Miklotov rose from his seat.
Stepping forward, he took his place beside the empty throne.
"—And now, I shall put forth the conditions of the Royal Selection!"
Crusch's first knight, the "Blue" Felix Argyle.
"The candidates shall be: Crusch Karsten,
The "Blood-Soaked Bride," Priscilla Barielle.
The one-armed otherworlder, the mercenary Al.
"The deadline shall be one month prior to the ceremony held three years hence for confirming the covenant with the Dragon—the Divine Dragon Ceremony—making it this day!"
The young merchant lord from a foreign land, Anastasia Hoshin.
Anastasia's first knight, the "Finest Knight,"
"The selection shall be decided before the Divine Dragon
The (alleged?) surviving bloodline of the lost king, Felt.
Felt's first knight, the "Sword Saint,"
"Each candidate shall demonstrate to the people and subjects of the kingdom her own royal path toward maintaining the realm!"
The silver-haired half-elf, Emilia.
And the self-proclaimed knight, absent from this gathering,
"These shall be the minimum terms, and with this I declare the Royal Selection officially begun—!"
Miklotov's voice boomed through the hall, and the entire chamber was engulfed in a tremendous heat.
There was no sound. But every heart within could barely contain its own silent scream.
Feeling the aftershocks of that fervor behind him, Miklotov straightened his stooped back and opened his mouth wide.
"—Let the Royal Selection commence!!"