Forgetting all dignity, Oden—who had been knocking back drink after drink—suddenly went rigid.
He set his cup down without a word, his gaze turning serious as he studied me.
I made a point of not looking away, meeting his eyes with the faintest of smiles.
"A disciple? I suppose I really am getting old. Or was the drink that strong tonight?"
"You didn't mishear, and you're not drunk. I did ask whether you had any thought of taking on a disciple."
"Hah."
He swirled his cup, his expression full of things he clearly wanted to say.
He almost looked like he was trying to calculate exactly how much he'd had to drink.
Was it really that shocking?
A small question crossed my mind, but I didn't stop there—I pressed on with the proposal.
"Hasn't Lord Craig ever thought, even once, that he'd like to take in a bright disciple?"
"I have, as it happens. Around twenty years ago, give or take."
"Then I don't see why my proposal should sound so strange to you."
"Your proposal isn't strange at all. What's strange is that it's coming from you, of all people."
"What do you mean by that?"
When I voiced my confusion, Oden poured himself another cup, drained it in one go, and answered.
"I never imagined a man who I thought would spend his whole life staring at books with hollow eyes would have any interest in swordsmanship."
"...I'm sorry?"
"Hm?"
Ah. Did this man think I was asking to become his disciple myself?
"I think there's been some misunderstanding. It's not me who wants to be taken on as your disciple."
"Not you?"
"To begin with, I'm hopeless with a sword—so much so that even within House Argent, I'm known as something of a black sheep."
"I assumed you'd simply taken up learning later in life."
"Hardly."
To begin with, this body of mine can barely handle magic as it is.
If I tried to learn swordsmanship on top of that, I'd end up like the lyrics of some old song I once heard—twenty-four hours a day simply wouldn't be enough.
"What I'd like you to consider is my niece."
"Your niece?"
"Yes. Lyriette Argent. A very sweet, very pretty niece of mine."
"That's even harder to believe. Since when did you take an interest in other people's affairs?"
"I find that difficult to deny myself."
At the very least, "Baal Argent" was hardly the type of man who fit that image.
Far from taking an interest in acquaintances, he'd barely spared a thought for his own family.
Nothing outside of magic held his interest—nothing he wanted to know, nothing he cared to learn.
Since my memories from my time as Yoo Shin-woo had already returned, none of this felt strange to me. But from Oden's perspective—having watched "me" all this time—it was reasonable enough to wonder if I'd had one drink too many.
"Perhaps I've simply developed some belated affection for my family."
"Hah, what a fine excuse. So you want to show this girl to me?"
"Yes. Of course, I'm not asking for an answer right now. I'd simply be grateful if, whenever it's convenient, you'd meet her once and consider it."
"That's a rather steep price for a round of drinks."
Oden gave a wry smile, as if only now realizing he'd been on the receiving end of a bribe.
"I heard that when His Majesty the Emperor asked you to tutor the Crown Prince, you turned him down without so much as a glance."
"I did."
"But conversely, if there were someone truly worth teaching—even a commoner—you'd take them on regardless, wouldn't you?"
"And you're saying your niece has that kind of talent?"
"I can't say for certain, but I believe the possibility is high."
Lyriette hadn't yet awakened her Sword's Yearning.
Even though, in the original story, Craig had said such a line about her, I couldn't be entirely sure of it now.
But even a one-percent chance was worth the gamble.
And if this fell through, I still had my final card to play.
The only problem was, I had no idea how long it would take to play that final card.
No—it might not even be possible to play it until Lyriette entered the Academy.
Which was exactly why I'd chosen the fastest, most certain path available.
"Interesting. But judging by the name, this is a girl."
"That's correct."
"Doesn't your family have a son as well?"
"Yes. Abel. Two years her senior."
"Why not recommend him instead?"
The reason was simple, of course.
Setting aside the fact that I wanted to give Lyriette a boost, Abel simply wasn't worth mentioning.
In the original story too, Abel had once crossed paths with Oden Craig.
Sixteen, or maybe seventeen at the time.
It had probably happened during a visit to the Imperial Palace.
Being the sort of boy who took pride in calling himself a swordsman, and given that his name had already begun to spread among the nobility by then, he'd boldly rushed up to Oden, declared himself a fellow swordsman, and made a great show of admiration.
Well—"admiration" being a generous word for empty flattery.
The real punchline came after, in Oden's reaction.
'He acted like he didn't even realize the boy was a swordsman at all.'
To be precise, Oden had merely tilted his head, looked Abel over, muttered "A swordsman, you say?" and walked right past him.
The look on Abel's face in that moment had been an absolute masterpiece.
It was, without a doubt, the single most satisfying scene I'd ever read in The Beloved Young Lady.
But I could hardly reveal that truth here, so I chose to steer the conversation smoothly elsewhere.
"I may not be a swordsman myself, but I do believe I have an eye for talent."
"Oho. So you're saying the girl's talent outshines the boy's?"
"That's right."
"Interesting. How old is she now?"
"Ten."
"Perfect. Just the right age to start holding a sword."
Was ten really the right age to start holding a sword?
I decided it was simply a value of this fantasy world and let it be.
"Very well. If nothing else, for the sake of your face and this drink, I'll make time to see her once."
"Thank you very much."
"But if I do end up taking this girl as my disciple, am I to tell her it was because of your suggestion?"
"Hardly. Would Lord Craig really take on a disciple just because a man like me put in a word?"
"That's true enough. But wouldn't it look better for you, in the girl's eyes, if she knew?"
Oden asked this with a faint, teasing smile playing at his lips.
He wasn't wrong.
But there was no need for that.
As long as I kept spending time with Lyriette, the bond between us would grow deep enough on its own.
Besides, this proposal wasn't about scoring points with Lyriette.
It was only meant to help her build confidence in herself.
If Lyriette did end up becoming Oden's disciple, it would become the chance she needed to finally fill in the sense of fulfillment and self-worth she'd been missing all this time.
But if it came out that I had quietly pulled strings behind the scenes?
It might earn me points with Lyriette, but it would do nothing but undermine the very self-esteem I was trying to help her build.
She would end up thinking it was thanks to me, not because of her own talent.
That was a result I had no use for.
"It's fine. I'm grateful enough that you've agreed to consider this proposal. Now, how about another drink?"
"I'll manage on my own. Go take care of your teacher instead."
"If you insist..."
Though he'd phrased it lightly, it was clear he already understood that my business with him—my little flattery campaign—was finished, and he was dismissing me.
Still, he didn't seem displeased.
Relieved by that, I made my way over to my teacher, whose face had already turned bright red.
Having already polished off an entire bottle of that strong liquor by himself, my teacher looked at me with a hazy, unfocused gaze, and then—
Thump!
"You clever little disciple, you! Come sit right here beside your teacher! I'm in a good mood, so I'll pour you a drink for once!"
He suddenly threw an arm around my shoulders, hauled me down into the seat beside him, and began pouring.
"Pfft. Yes, Master."
So what Oden had said earlier hadn't been entirely a lie after all.
Realizing that, a quiet warmth settled over me.
In the end, a teacher was a teacher, and a disciple was a disciple, it seemed.
That night, I drank far more than I meant to, and had to stumble off to sleep.
***
One week later.
An unexpected bolt of lightning struck the peaceful House Argent.
Well, "lightning" in name only—everyone who heard the news was practically in a festive mood.
"Mother, is it really true!? The Sword Saint is coming!?"
A boy bounced up from his seat, eyes brimming with excitement, a wooden sword strapped to his waist.
Abel Argent.
The twelve-year-old heir apparent of House Argent.
Ever the sly little schemer who could put on the perfect wide-eyed innocent act in front of anyone besides Lyriette and the servants, he played the part of an excited boy his age flawlessly upon hearing the joyful news.
That news, of course, was that Oden Craig would be paying them a visit.
Watching Abel bounce around, Cassdia stroked his head fondly and nodded with satisfaction.
"It's absolutely true. Your uncle, Young Master Baal, sent a letter saying he would personally escort the Sword Saint here himself."
In truth, even as she said it, Cassdia felt a faint sense of unease.
Since when had Baal ever paid this much attention to Abel?
To begin with, the man had never shown much interest in other people's affairs, let alone his own family's.
'Perhaps he's finally developed some family affection, belatedly.'
Given that he'd recently visited the main house and looked after Lyriette, it wasn't entirely implausible.
No—if anything, that thought made everything fall neatly into place.
"Then does that mean I'll become the Sword Saint's disciple?"
"It's too early to say for certain. But this mother believes our wonderful Abel is more than capable of making it happen."
"Right!? I mean, who else but me could possibly become the Sword Saint's disciple!"
Abel was brimming with confidence.
Born the eldest son of House Argent, a family renowned for its swordsmanship, he had received rigorous training from a young age.
He was only twelve, but he had never once lost a mock duel against children his own age.
Even the instructor who occasionally visited the estate to teach swordsmanship had praised him more than once.
'That idiot Lyriette had better not leave her room!'
Already savoring the feeling of having been chosen as the Sword Saint's disciple, Abel steeled his resolve.
If his little sister—who couldn't even match half his talent—dared show up holding a sword in front of the Sword Saint, it might well be an assault on the man's eyes.
"Mother! I'll just go check on Lyriette real quick!"
With that excuse, he intended to head straight to his pathetic sister's room and warn her, in no uncertain terms, to stay locked inside and not so much as poke her head out.
"My lady. Young Master Baal and the Sword Saint have arrived."
"Already? That was fast."
"Gah!"
Before he could even slip away, Gilbert arrived at the room with the news, forcing Abel to abandon his plan.
But it was fine.
His gloomy little sister spent all her time cooped up in her room anyway.
Unless someone specifically called her out, there was no way she'd show her face today.
Especially after he'd properly put her in her place during their sparring match just yesterday, using it as an excuse.
"Mother, let's go, quickly!"
"Don't pull so hard, Abel. You mustn't be so unruly in front of the Sword Saint either, you know."
"Don't worry about that!"
So impatient he even tugged at the hem of Cassdia's dress, Abel hurried them both toward the drawing room.
Knock, knock.
"It's Abel Argent! I heard our guests had arrived, so I've come to greet them—may I enter?"
- Come in.
Having arrived first and dutifully announced himself with proper etiquette, he stepped inside the moment his uncle—familiar yet somehow foreign—granted permission.
"It's an honor to meet you. I'm Abel Argent. I stand before the illustrious Sword Saint."
He bent forward in a sharp, respectful ninety-degree bow.
Seated on the right side of the sofa, an old blond man with a large scar across his face offered a calm smile.
"Quite the spirited little one, aren't you? Do you know who this old man is?"
"Yes! As a swordsman myself, I've long admired the Sword Saint!"
In truth, "admiration" was too generous a word for what Abel felt.
If anything, it was closer to envy and jealousy.
To him, the Sword Saint was nothing more than an obstacle he would one day surpass.
Only twelve years old, and yet Abel was already convinced he would become the greatest swordsman in the world.
Even his desire to become the Sword Saint's disciple was, in the end, nothing but a means to defeat him faster.
Still, on the surface, his answer sounded innocent enough—like the pure enthusiasm of a boy his age.
But Oden merely glanced sideways at the wooden sword Abel wore proudly at his hip, and said,
"...You're a swordsman? Ah, forgive me for not noticing."
As if the wooden sword at his waist hadn't even registered as a sword at all.
There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in the words—only genuine, heartfelt apology.
Thud.
And just like that, all of Abel's swelling excitement plunged straight into the abyss.