A Student's Duty (3)
The development of the final draft was still in its early stages. Naturally, The Gate of Mnemosyne remained sealed.
She had spent several days drinking herself half to death near it, but there wasn't a single trace of the gate opening.
The Recorded Space was a kind of dungeon — one that could only be accessed through The Gate of Mnemosyne.
Would the author really gift the protagonist a skill that should be a dungeon reward, with no narrative justification whatsoever?
No way.
A writer obsessive enough to revise the same manuscript nine times wouldn't just throw in a random development like that.
"This feels more like a glitch."
The text window that had flashed in Cleio's mind resurfaced.
[―In , certain paragraphs from prior versions are randomly merged.]
"That sacred mark — it's from a later version of the manuscript bleeding into the final one!"
In the manuscript, Arthur had fought countless life-or-death battles.
But if the merged drafts caused a mid-level swordsman Arthur to face an enemy meant for a later stage?
If it wasn't just a sacred mark, but a fatal wound this time?
She couldn't assume luck would always be on his side.
"If the protagonist dies… what happens to this world?"
The manuscript she had tampered with using "Editor Authority" was now so tattered she couldn't rewrite it even if she tried. The pages were so thin they'd tear with a single brush of her pen.
"If even the author can't fix it anymore… wouldn't that be the end?"
Cleio was trapped inside this manuscript now, bound within its lines. There was no sign of a way out. The thought of the world collapsing while she was still stuck in it was unbearable.
"Forget wealth or armies—none of that matters if the world ends. That can't happen."
Arthur, frustrated after getting no response no matter how many times he spoke, grabbed Cleio by the shoulders and shook her.
"You really are something else. Even after coming all the way here, you still won't open your mouth. You got along just fine when I was Leo, didn't you? You hate that I'm Arthur Leognan that much?"
"That's not—"
Arthur extended his right hand to the side. From it, a dark, inky radiance burst forth.
As always, the Promise shimmered gold and revealed new information.
[―Arthur Leognan uses the skill "Foreground Projection."]
[―Time Remaining / Time Limit:
00:00:39 / 00:00:40]
Before she could even blink, the world shifted — the background replaced by a space devoid of shadow or light.
Arthur and Cleio now stood face-to-face at the center of a stage.
Behind Arthur, shattered stone pillars loomed. When Cleio turned, she saw a semicircular amphitheater rising in tiers.
Even after reading about it in the manuscript, matching the text to the real, vivid scene before her took a moment.
"…It really is 'Foreground Projection.' The amphitheater."
Arthur, still clutching Cleio's shoulder with his left hand, studied her profile with cold, unfamiliar eyes.
Having endured more than enough malice and deceit from adults, Arthur had developed a sharp instinct for reading others' expressions — a survival skill honed from living on the edge.
He saw what he was looking for reflected on Cleio's face.
"You know where we are, don't you?"
Cleio snapped out of her daze and hastily shoved his arm away.
"…No, I don't. Let go."
"Don't lie. You clearly know more about this 'Foreground Projection' skill than I do."
"You're misunderstanding."
"Why so defensive? I'm not blaming you. If anything, I should thank you. This skill seems very useful."
Arthur smiled, releasing her shoulders with exaggerated grace.
[―Time Remaining / Time Limit:
00:00:01 / 00:00:40]
[―Skill deactivated due to time limit expiration.]
In an instant, the two were back in the dusty storeroom. Outside, some nameless bird sang peacefully.
Before long, the sacred mark faded from the back of Arthur's hand. He spoke first.
"I was already going crazy just sitting around, trying to 'behave' for the sake of saving one damn life. If my dear brothers pull something again, I might just use that as an excuse to blow everything up."
That part was completely different from the Arthur of the earlier drafts — not the charismatic prince, but a sulky child.
"So he wasn't pretending to be a delinquent to bide his time? Not lying low until he gathered allies?"
"And what makes you think I won't snitch on you? You don't think I'd go running to your brothers?"
"What, tell them, 'Arthur isn't really a lazy idiot — he's plotting something'? That'd make things even more interesting."
He was still smiling, which somehow made it even more terrifying. The killing intent radiating from him didn't belong to a seventeen-year-old.
"I hate being dragged around by anyone's will — no matter who it is. I was young before, stupid even. I played along because I had to survive. But I'm done with that. Even if it ruins me, I'm doing things my way."
"Fine, if that's your choice, I'll support it… just leave me out of it."
"How can I, after what you've done? If you were me, wouldn't you want to know why this mark appeared?"
Cleio pressed a hand to her forehead. So his tone had changed, but his attitude was the same.
In fact, it was a wonder how the Arthur from earlier drafts had managed to hide that temperament at all.
The Promise's Memory, an inseparable bound item, helpfully displayed a nearly identical passage from the manuscript — the one where Arthur declared his rebellion against his brothers' oppression.
"I will never let my will be broken by another. Neither god nor demon shall interfere. I will act solely by my own will."
A protagonist with an unbreakable will was, up close, just a stubborn lunatic who wouldn't listen to reason.
Sometimes, characters — even though born from the author's imagination — acquire lives of their own, stepping beyond the author's control.
"Even if the author tried to reel this brat in, narrative logic wouldn't allow it. You can't just strike him with lightning or flood the world without reason — fiction obeys causality more strictly than reality."
Real history, ironically, was the one filled with absurd, causality-defying events — things that would get a serialized novel torn apart in the comments section for being "unrealistic."
"Ugh, whatever. I'm not a literature major — I studied history. Why a novel, of all things? They should've sent me to Joseon! History's already written, neat and tidy."
"Submissions belong in the right publisher." Maybe she should start a campaign.
"I can't believe I trusted the author just because he listened to me once. My brain must've been fried."
There are no bad dogs in the world — and no good authors either.
Cleio was sinking deeper into escapist thoughts, but Arthur had no intention of letting the person in front of him drift away.
"If you won't tell me," he said, his eyes narrowing, "then I guess I'll just have to stay with you until you do."
"What do you want me to say? I have nothing to tell you!"
What could she possibly say?
You're just a character in a manuscript?
But what if telling him that changed something inside this boy?
What would happen if she disturbed a being so deeply woven into the structure of this world?
One the author himself could no longer control—would the already tattered manuscript even survive that chaos?
Whatever the consequence, Cleio knew she couldn't handle it.
Revising this manuscript was beyond her capabilities.
"It's not that you've got nothing to say," Arthur replied with a sly grin. "You just don't want to say it. That's different. But that's fine—whatever your reason is, I'll figure it out in time."
A mischievous smile spread across his face.
Unpleasantly, the golden text of the Promise shimmered before her eyes.
[―User's narrative interference rate continues to increase.]
"Absolutely not. Screw off, you bastard."
"Why're you calling my mom a dog, huh? We're gonna be seeing each other every day, so maybe don't be so prickly. There's no way we're clearing this storage in two weeks. You'll still be coming here after break."
"Aaaaaagh!"
Cleio clutched her head like someone screaming internally. The more she got tangled up with Arthur, the higher her narrative interference rose—there was no doubt about it now!
"So what if my stats go up? It's just more pressure! This author's the kind who gives you power just to find a way to make you use it!"
At this point, the Promise didn't feel like a blessing—it felt like a leash.
A leash dragging her straight back into the heart of the story every time she tried to run from it.
Cleio glared bitterly down at her left hand.
Late-night studying, morning runs around the campus, and after classes—cleaning the library storeroom with Arthur, who drained her of every ounce of energy.
That guy never seemed to get tired. Every day he'd bombard her with questions about skills, and when that failed, he'd interrogate her about personal details.
If she ignored him, he pestered her. If she answered, he talked even more. It was exhausting.
"At least he doesn't cling to me in class. If I had to see his face all day, my blood pressure would kill me."
A week flew by.
The atmosphere in the Basic Magic Theory classroom was grim as Zebedi announced the quiz results.
"This time, there's no middle ground. The gap between diligent students and the rest is far too wide. Tsk, tsk."
Zebedi's robe fluttered as he began calling out the grades from the bottom.
"Let's start with the blank submissions. Arthur Leognan of Group One, Nebo Yarvi—both of you are required to attend remedial lessons."
Of course. The two tall boys were each pretending not to hear.
"If you neglect magic formulas just because you're swordsmen, you'll regret it! Even if you can't open your circle yet, writing the spell patterns by hand and infusing them with aether lets you use field techniques like [Ignition] and [Drying]. You'll thank me when those save your lives one day."
"Oppression! This is oppression!"
"Shut your mouth, Arthur."
"You wound me, professor."
Arthur, who only ever caused disruptions in class, finished his back-and-forth with Zebedi, and the next scores were read aloud.
Most of the swordsman group got one or two right, while the mage group managed three or four. The questions pulled from the Book of Magic had been brutal.
"Now for the top scorer in the swordsman group—seven correct. Celestes Tempête de Neige."
Cleio, half-asleep from Behemoth's relentless Spartan tutoring sessions, immediately perked up.
"What? Cel? She's in our year?"
Cel, the future heroine who would found Albion's Aerial Assault Corps—one of Arthur's greatest allies in later chapters.
In the previous draft, she hadn't appeared until after graduation. What was going on here?
"Eight correct—Liphy Angelium, Leticia Angelium. And nine for Ishiel Kishion. For some reason, the swordsmen this year seem to grasp magic formulas better than the mages! Had I known, I would've assigned bonus points! Tsk!"
"Liphy and Leticia?!"
Cleio, who had never paid attention to her classmates, frantically scanned the room.
There they were, right in the front row—twin girls with silky, glossy brown hair tied up neatly.
Liphy had an ivy-leaf hairpin on the right side, distinguishing her from Leticia.
Though their scores had no bearing on it, both girls were pouting—apparently frustrated for missing a couple of questions—and were chatting with each other, showing their profiles to the class.
Even from her seat, Cleio could clearly see their features: bright olive-gold eyes, slightly upturned at the corners—adorably so.
Liphy and Leticia were four years younger than Arthur. They shouldn't have even been in this class; they must've been early admissions, or perhaps their ages had been rewritten.
The twin sword-wielding Angelium sisters could fight in perfect sync, striking with the force of four people at once. They too would become key members of Arthur's power later on.
"Together, they're called the Royal Guard. What is this—some kind of nepotistic nightmare? An entire nation's military elite coming from one class at one school, all buddies with the prince?"
She didn't know how far their connections to Arthur had already progressed, but one thing was clear: the final draft was accelerating Arthur's growth.
And that was… ominous.
"Which means the war might be coming sooner, too."
While trying to piece together all the sudden new information, Cleio barely noticed Zebedi calling her name.
"Cleio Asser? Are you not listening?"
"Y-yes?"
"You're the only one who got all ten formulas correct."