Even before class was set to begin, the whispers about Ermes in the classroom showed no sign of stopping.
They called him shameless. A man beneath the dignity of nobility. A base fox who leeches off the Trackia family's influence. And so on.
There was no basis for any of it, but they stated it all as though it were established fact.
As if saying, "It would be inconvenient if it weren't true."
"...I'm sorry, Ermes."
Sara, the girl sitting beside him who had likewise been hearing the rumors, offered her apology.
But then, looking apologetic, she added:
"...I know it's a selfish thing to ask, but... could you please forgive them—no. Forgive *us*?"
"Huh?"
That was what she said.
"...I understand how those people feel, too. The need to find someone to unload all that pent-up frustration on. I was... luckily, protected by someone with real influence, but those people are—"
And just as she was about to continue, the bell rang.
"Quiet down."
Almost simultaneously, the classroom door opened and a male instructor walked in.
This school was indeed an academy of magic, but that didn't mean its curriculum was all magic.
In fact, now that Bloodline Magic had become the dominant discipline, the primary purpose of the institution was no longer studying magic itself, but rather providing noble children with a comprehensive education in other foundational subjects—history, languages, and so on.
The most emphasized subject was arithmetic.
After all, nobles were fundamentally administrators of their territories. One could hire a highly competent accountant, of course, but even then it wouldn't do for the lord himself to be weak with numbers.
It was under this perfectly reasonable principle that the upcoming class concerned arithmetic. But—
"—Now then. We will begin a test."
The man had dull gray hair, a sharp, nervous face, and a pair of thin-framed spectacles as his defining feature. The very opposite of Yurugen in every way—he gave off an impression that was somehow cutting.
According to what Ermes had heard, this was Earl Geist, the instructor responsible for arithmetic for their year.
That single pronouncement of his set the entire class buzzing.
Ermes, his surprise—or rather, puzzlement—subtly evident, turned to Sara beside him.
"A test, you mean an exam? Aren't those normally announced in advance?"
"...Yes, they should be. But—"
"What's the matter? Going to tell me..."
Before Sara could finish, the instructor spoke up, having noticed the commotion.
"—that 'it's unfair to spring a test on us suddenly'? Honestly... this is exactly why you're all failures."
His words and expression carried no attempt whatsoever to conceal the contempt and superiority he felt.
"Listen here. If you had even a shred of the will and eagerness to learn, there should be no problem with taking a test at any time. Yet here you are, panicking over a little surprise examination. How pathetic. You were all probably goofing off throughout the long break, weren't you? This is proof your minds have gone soft. And I intend to hammer you back into shape personally—you should be grateful, if anything."
...He wasn't entirely wrong, if Ermes was being honest.
Reading the room—or perhaps simply satisfied by the silence that had fallen over the classroom—the instructor distributed the test papers.
One reached Ermes, and he looked at it.
"...Wow."
A small sound escaped him involuntarily.
When Ermes had transferred into this academy, he had, of course, thoroughly reviewed the material covered in the first term.
That went without saying—without it, he could never have passed the entrance exam.
Which was precisely why he understood.
This test—
could not be solved
with first-term material
alone.
The questions were exquisitely vicious. They appeared straightforward at first glance, but the moment one thought about them, a barrage of complex, maliciously twisted elements came pouring out—the kind commonly known as "nasty problems."
"You have ten minutes."
To make matters worse, came the announcement of an absurdly merciless time limit.
A faint groan escaped from some of the students who had already grasped the difficulty of the problem. Those who hadn't caught on yet were gasping as they worked through it.
And as the students struggled, the instructor standing at the podium wore a thin, unpleasant smile.
For the students, it was ten minutes of what could only be called hell.
"Time's up. Bring your answers to me immediately."
The instructor's cruel decree. Yet on the students' faces, there was also a trace of relief—at least they wouldn't have to deal with that horrible problem anymore, as they handed in their papers.
—But the real hell was only just beginning.
"Now then. I shall grade each and every one of you personally."
The students paled.
They already knew the difficulty of the problem and how well—or poorly—they had done. And in those ten minutes, they had gotten a thorough sense of the instructor's personality.
Everyone could already predict what was about to be said to them.
And true to those expectations—Earl Geist opened his mouth.
"First, Albert von Yelk. ...This is dreadful. There isn't a single part you've gotten right. What exactly did you come to this academy to learn? Your magic probably isn't much to speak of either, is it? Then you should have at least shown some determination to make up for it elsewhere. This answer is beyond saving."
The addressed student, Albert, lowered his head and bit his lip. His expression said he wanted to retort but couldn't.
"Next, Beatrix von Assman. Yours is equally beyond saving. It's perfectly obvious you just scribbled something down so a blank page wouldn't be embarrassing. This is a zero without even needing to be graded—did you not even consider the person who has to mark it? This is typical of you selfish rural nobles."
Harsh criticism of the answers, presumptuous judgments of their thinking, and the crowning touch—a personal attack on their character.
He inflicted all three on every single student with a kind of perverse thoroughness.
Naturally, what floated across Earl Geist's face was neither sincerity nor a sense of duty—just pure, undisguised pleasure.
"...S-Sir!"
Unable to bear any more of this living nightmare, or perhaps simply feeling she had to speak—Sara, sitting next to Ermes, raised her voice.
"What is it? How rude of you to interrupt me, Baroness Hartmann, you manners-less girl."
"...! Y-Your Honor, but... it's impossible for us, in our current state, to solve this problem!"
She had realized it, as expected. Any student who was diligent enough to have properly understood the first-term material would have to be aware of that much.
And yet, it was Sara who spoke up first. Perhaps that was unexpected from her previous demeanor—several students looked at her with surprise.
"It clearly isn't first-term material. It includes content from the second term, or even beyond—things that aren't even taught at this academy! It's only natural that we can't solve it at the present time—"
Despite everything, she pressed on desperately.
It was undoubtedly a reasonable protest. But Earl Geist—
"—And so what?"
said, with perfect composure.
"...What?"
"My, my. To think you don't even understand something this simple."
As Sara stood there, momentarily dumbfounded, Earl Geist made a show of sighing.
"Listen. It seems none of you realize it, so I'll spell it out once more. ...
You are all failures."
He said it with finality—as though, regardless of his role as an instructor, that settled the matter.
"Isn't that right, members of 'B Class'? The moment you were assigned here, it was already confirmed that you are inferior beings within this school. And yet you have the nerve to say you can't solve first-term material? In fact, shouldn't you be compensating for your deficiencies in magic and family standing by studying ahead during the long break? The lack of ambition is appalling. When I was a student, there were plenty who did just that. It's lamentable."
Words dripping with undisguised malice.
But the students couldn't talk back.
They were failures. They had been sorted into "B Class" precisely because their family standing and magic were inferior.
They had been confronted with that stark reality—and the culture of this country would not permit them to defy it.
"Sara von Hartmann's answer, is it...? Hmph. You solved slightly more than the others, but—all your final answers are incorrect. And yet you carry yourself with such an air of superiority. Just because you've been lauded as having 'Dual Aptitude' and caught the eye of His Highness Aster, does that give you the right to get cocky?"
"...!"
"If you have something to say to me, then at least get a single question completely right. Then I might reconsider. But not a moment before."
Struck with that venomous retort, Sara fell silent, unable to say another word.
Pleased with himself, Earl Geist's expression of enjoyment deepened further as he sighed once more.
"The level and the awareness of this class are both woefully low. I do wish you would put in some effort closer to what I'd like to see. ...Well, I suppose expecting too much of failures is unreasonable."
...And now, even Ermes was starting to understand.
What Sara had been trying to say before class began. The reason behind the way the class treated him.
—They, too, were the oppressed here.
This treatment they were receiving from Earl Geist right now—it was surely not an isolated incident, but an everyday occurrence.
In this kingdom of extreme social hierarchy and magic supremacy, and in this school that mirrored it as a microcosm—
Being mocked by their superiors and serving as tools to bolster someone else's sense of superiority—that was the only reason they existed here.
...He supposed he could understand the desire to find a scapegoat for all that.
Not that he thought doing the same to Ermes, a commoner, was appropriate, and he certainly had no intention of simply accepting it.
"That one's wrong too. Really, how tiresome—you can't grasp the intent behind a question I put this much thought into. Do any of you actually want to learn? ...If even a single person had gotten a perfect score, I might have been willing to acknowledge this class."
Though it was impossible anyway, he said with that implication, and then reached for the next answer sheet.
"Next is... Ermes? No family name, but—ah, right."
And the earl heaved yet another deep sigh.
"Now that you mention it, I'd heard a commoner was transferring into this class mid-term. ...Please spare me. You may all be failures, but this is still, nominally, an institution of noble education. Do you understand the concept of a minimum standard?"
With an expression of bottomless exasperation, he glanced only at the name on Ermes's paper and shook his head.
"I seriously doubt he can even do basic calculations. ...I'd honestly rather not look, but I suppose he is technically a student. Fine. I'll grade it."
And so, his tone making it abundantly clear he was ready to mock, the earl looked over Ermes's answers.
"...............Huh?"
After freezing for a good several seconds, he let out a rather stupid-sounding noise.
...For the record.
Ermes had never attended school. But that did not mean he lacked education.
Quite the contrary, in fact. Because.
He had a certain exceptionally gifted red-haired
tutor.
She was, after all, a former Third Princess. Naturally, as royalty, she had mastered all the foundational knowledge expected of her station, aided by her own sharp intellect. And in the course of teaching Ermes magic, she had transmitted that knowledge to him without reservation.
The reason was simple: it was necessary for wielding magic.
Understanding magic circles required linguistic ability; constructing techniques required arithmetic ability; grasping the background of magic required knowledge of the kingdom's history.
In short—Ermes had already surpassed not just the first-term material of this academy, but had acquired a foundational education rivaling that of royalty.
Therefore.
Based on his own grading, Ermes had most likely gotten every question on that test right.
He was probably correct about that, too. The earl was poring over the answer sheet with bloodshot eyes, muttering "This can't be..." and searching desperately for some flaw—proof enough in itself.
...Well then.
What kind of reaction would Earl Geist—a man who had undoubtedly designed the test knowing full well no one could solve it, who had savored watching the students struggle, and who had relished tearing them apart—have, when confronted with a perfect score he never expected?
Honestly, Ermes wasn't sure he wanted to see it.
But in a way, he was a little curious.
With an expression that defied description, Ermes waited for the response.