The Duty of a Student (1)
By the time he returned to the dormitory, it was already evening.
He didn't even feel like eating; he washed up right away and shut himself in his bedroom.
Behemoth was grooming his fur beside a bowl with a few bird bones left. It looked like Nebo had given him food and water.
"Did you get beaten up properly by Zebedi? Tonight's dinner wasn't half bad, but… eating mushroom-stuffed quail without a proper wine—how pitiful this great cat's life has become."
'It might've been better to just be a real cat. Even being possessed into a book, being human sucks.'
Cleio plopped down beside the cat and hugged his warm, soft body tightly.
After kneading the belly fat to his heart's content, his mood eased a little—but Behemoth hissed and bolted out the window.
'Haa…'
For the first time since coming to this world, Cleio couldn't sleep. Too many things had happened in just half a day.
'Let's organize this.'
He sat at the desk he had never used before and took out a notebook and a fountain pen.
This place is inside the manuscript. The manuscript is being written in real time.
This is the final draft, the ninth revision after eight rewrites.
2-2. Because the same manuscript paper was scraped and overwritten multiple times, the original text is unstable. If the 'editor authority' is misused even slightly, the erased contents mix back in.
2-3. Currently, it's impossible to tell what and how the contents have been mixed.
'Right. There's no way that "editor authority" could be something stable. I just got lucky the first time. If it messes up like this every time a skill fails—how can I even use it? The backlash even hits me.'
He sighed, looking down at the faintly glowing stigmata on the back of his hand.
Arthur seemed to have been hurt too, but he hadn't been able to check, and that bothered him.
Stephen King once said: Writing is human work, but editing is divine.
He realized now how wrong that was. Having lived through it, he understood it all too well—in a story, the god is the author.
'I was too careless. Though, it's not like I had time to think things through.'
Before meeting Arthur, he hadn't found any big differences between the manuscript he had read and the "final draft." The characters and plot progression were almost the same.
He had thought that if he became a minor, insignificant character in the story, he could live unaffected by the great historical events unfolding around the protagonist.
Choosing the safest path was only natural, wasn't it?
'Someone like Arthur might become a war hero, but I'd rather enjoy small happinesses—booze and naps behind the lines.'
But the author wouldn't have handed such wealth and such strong ether sensitivity to a nobody for no reason.
'Just what intention did the author have when creating the "final draft's Cleio"? What are you thinking, dear author?'
Of course, no answer came.
Indeed—when has a god ever replied to a mortal directly?
Cleio sighed and wrote another line below his notes.
The author cannot resolve the issues occurring within the manuscript. So far, only approval or denial of "unique skill" activation seems possible.
Then he drew a line and added more points:
"□□□□'s Palimpsest"
"□□□'s Promise"
After the "editor authority" failed, those names had flashed through his mind. But just like "Promise," "Palimpsest" also lacked its full modifier—blank boxes instead.
□□□□ and □□□.
A ring that could link dimensions.
The original manuscript that "writes this world."
Both were related to the author—and neither seemed like an item that belonged inside this story.
The clue to the author's identity was likely hidden behind those missing names.
'Because my narrative involvement is low, the Promise's functions aren't fully unlocked… meaning I'm not entangled deeply enough in the story to see their full names?'
Still, digging deeper into the narrative to uncover the author's identity felt far too dangerous.
Truthfully, he didn't even want to know.
Knowing wouldn't help him anyway.
'No matter how things go, Arthur's destined to become king in the end, right?'
Even if defying the author's will was impossible, he couldn't just sit by while being dragged into the plot.
He'd never once agreed to help revise this damned manuscript.
If the provincial governor doesn't want to, there's nothing you can do. You can lead the cow to water, but you can't make it drink.
'Arthur and I barely know each other. He might be suspicious of me, but I'm not his friend, comrade, or sworn knight. As long as I avoid those three roles, I won't end up in one of those hellish "protagonist hardship routes."'
Cleio made up his mind firmly. He would never get entangled with Arthur.
His past life had been nothing but suffering. Being told to live this extra life "earnestly" was too cruel.
He didn't want to throw away the comfortable life of a useless rich family's youngest son he'd lucked into.
'Though ironically, to preserve that, I still have to work hard again… sigh.'
He drew another line and wrote his immediate tasks at the bottom of the notebook.
Avoid conscription at all costs.
Lift the withdrawal restriction on my account.
'Those two can be solved by studying. Then next—'
Once the account restriction is lifted, withdraw all funds.
Drop out of school. If I avoid capture for two months, I'll be automatically expelled.
Addendum: Secure another source of funds besides father's allowance.
At first, he had been clueless about this world's ways, but living with sensible Nebo had helped him understand a few things—like how to rent a room or how travel permits worked.
In a world without CCTV, hiding as a healthy young man wasn't that hard.
'I'll make a more detailed plan to secure extra funds later.'
Feeling satisfied with his decent plan, Cleio finally drifted to sleep near dawn.
It was a terrible plan.
Cleio lay sprawled on the floor, silently screaming.
After just a few practice swings with the training sword like the other students, his arms were trembling and blisters had formed on his palms.
He had known the basic stances from the textbook.
Thinking, "Even the girls can do it," he'd gritted his teeth and followed the class, but eventually collapsed.
'This body is absolute trash…'
The Basics of Swordsmanship textbook was theoretical—he hadn't realized there would be a practical test.
He hadn't even known that swordsmanship and magic-track students shared classes in the first year and only split in the second.
Snickers and whispers pierced the back of his head. He was too embarrassed to lift his face.
The professor approached the fallen Cleio.
"Now, what are you all staring at? Groups One and Two, keep practicing the connecting movements and the third cutting form I showed you last week. Assistant, help Group Two."
Professor Rosa Fehite of Basic Swordsmanship was an advanced swordswoman with an ether level of 8—a Sword Master.
Having retired from her post as captain of the Royal Capital Guard Knights, she'd spent many years as an instructor and was known to be gentle with students.
The problem was that Cleio's physical stamina couldn't even withstand her basic-level guidance.
"Good grief, Cleio, before taking Swordsmanship Basics, you'll need to build up your basic fitness first. Starting tomorrow, run two laps around the school every morning."
Tall as Professor Zebedi and seemingly stronger, Rosa lifted Cleio up with ease.
Wearing a white shirt and black trousers under light armor and boots, she still had a solid, muscular frame—if you didn't look at her face, you'd never guess she was an old woman.
Rosa, examining Cleio's blistered, reddened palms with her single remaining eye, spoke solemnly.
"It's commendable that you've finally found the motivation to attend class, but… it's impossible for you to properly handle a sword this semester."
"What about the final evaluation, then…?"
Patting the much smaller Cleio gently on the head, Rosa gave him a sympathetic look. Though her left eye was covered by an eyepatch, her expressive face made her feelings clear.
Cleio somehow seemed to awaken the maternal pity of older women.
"The practical test for Basic Swordsmanship is graded separately — Group One for swordsmanship-track students, Group Two for magic-track students."
Even to Cleio's untrained eyes, Group One — which included Isiel and Nebo — moved in a completely different league.
"I'll give you a different practical assignment. If you can complete four laps around this training ground in under five minutes by the time of finals, you'll earn thirty points. Then score at least ten points on the written test, and you won't fail the course."
"Thank you…"
"I can see your bones and muscles are sound. If you keep running two laps around the school every morning, as I said, this task shouldn't be too difficult."
Cleio nodded gloomily.
Eyeballing it, the parade ground's circumference was roughly 250 meters. Four laps made a kilometer. For a swordsmanship class, giving points for running a kilometer was quite lenient.
He spent the rest of the class sitting on a bench, sipping the water the assistant had brought him.
Even with the professor's generosity, Cleio's grimace didn't fade.
The Basic Swordsmanship course gave 80 points for practical exams and 20 for written tests. Even if he ran that kilometer and aced the paper, he could only reach fifty points total.
'There are four basic subjects — Swordsmanship, Magic, History, and Classics. Four hundred points in total. If total scores are tied, they're ranked together.'
He had spent the weekend reading through all the written-subject textbooks once. After summarizing the contents, he'd felt reassured — the material was unfamiliar but not hard to grasp.
But now that he was guaranteed to score lowest in Swordsmanship, he'd have to change strategies.
He'd already bragged to "Father."
He couldn't just do average in the other three subjects — he had to do exceptionally well.
'I need some kind of breakthrough study method.'
"Great Sage of Learning, Master Cat, I humbly beg for your guidance and wisdom."
"Hmph, this grand feline no longer dances to your tongue's tune. I may know this academy's curriculum from the past century, but I have no intention of offering free service."
At least Cleio had come to the right address.
A cat that had lived at the academy for a hundred years surely knew more than even the dean.
Behemoth always acted proud — but he really did have reason to be.
The problem was that he was still sulking over the incident where Cleio drank his sacred Bishop's Tower wine without sharing.
Cleio didn't hesitate long.
He called for a hired carriage and hurried into town.
At the largest liquor store, he mentioned Aser's name, and the owner instantly became friendly — but said that the 1875 Bishop's Tower vintage was impossible to get. The oldest in stock was from 1879. Cleio bought it anyway.
Before that, he had stopped by the bank again, just in case — but the withdrawal freeze was still in place.
He had only 1,000 dinars left in cash.
After buying the wine, two-thirds of that was gone in an instant.
Cleio rustled the paper bag holding the bottle with a heavy heart.
'I've gone mad. Six hundred dinars for one bottle… No. Skimping now will cost me more later.'
The napping Behemoth sprang up the moment Cleio pulled out the wine bottle, darting around the room like he'd grown wings.
Wyeooowoooomm?
Cleio popped the cork and poured about a third of the bottle into a water dish. The cat pounced eagerly.
"Ahh, not as fine as the 1875, but… the 1879 is still splendid. That was a hot summer, you see. This bouquet, ooooh…"
As time passed, the red wine began to breathe, releasing its full aroma. For that exorbitant price, it was definitely quality liquor.
The room filled with the scent of blackberries and roses.
When Cleio asked if he could have a sip too, Behemoth refused flatly.
Each time the cat drank, Cleio refilled the dish and served like a sommelier.
The more the bottle emptied, the deeper the golden gleam grew in Behemoth's eyes. His fur shimmered as if polished.
'This cat's a total alcoholic…'
At last, the bottle was empty.
Clutching it between his front paws and licking at the neck, the cat finally looked up at Cleio.
"Well then, now this master feels ready to teach. But what's gotten into you, wanting to study all of a sudden?"
Cleio explained what had happened with "Father." He made sure to emphasize that if his account remained frozen, he wouldn't be able to buy any more wine.
Behemoth, savoring the aftertaste of his drink, fluffed up his fur in outrage.
"Unacceptable! Absolutely not!"
"But if I manage to place within the top twenty, I'll buy you that Bishop's Tower 1875 vintage you keep singing about — once I get my savings back."
"…Let's begin immediately. What's tomorrow's class?"
"Basic Magic."
The cat, more motivated than Cleio himself, leapt onto the desk.
"This great feline shall make your grades soar beyond all others. Prepare yourself!"