Chapter 20

Chapter : 20

In the romance fantasy genre, whenever music came up, whenever an instrument appeared, I always thought the instrument in question had to be the piano.

Did it not simply suit the genre that well? Or was I the only one who thought so?

Perhaps that was only because, following in my sister’s footsteps, I had enjoyed reading Pride and Prejudice well enough. Whatever the reason, though, that was my taste.

I had always assumed that among instruments in romance fantasy, the piano must be the undisputed favorite.

At a glance alone, was it not grand and imposing?

And yet, contrary to my expectations, even after reading several works influenced by my sister, the piano was treated rather poorly.

String instruments like the violin were far more dominant, and the piano was reduced to competing with brass instruments.

Unable to understand this absurd state of affairs, I confronted my sister about it, and she answered that the problem was simply that the piano felt too approachable.

Approachable?

The piano?

At first I could not understand.

For one thing, it was enormous. And incredibly expensive.

How could that possibly count as approachable?

What she meant by approachable was accessibility.

Back when we were little, in the lower grades of elementary school, was there any child in the neighborhood who had not gone to a piano academy at least once? Everyone had heard, at least once, that they looked like they would be good at piano because their fingers were long.

That was why the violin held the advantage. Fewer people learned it, so it seemed more refined.

My sister, who had even made it to Czerny 40 back in the day, had resented that and wanted to use the piano in a dazzling, stylish way, but she lacked the knowledge she needed. She could play it well enough, but when it came to the sort of knowledge one could actually put into writing, she had little to draw on.

So instead, she focused on the scene itself.

If a cool person played the piano, then the scene would be cool. That was the extent of her logic.

“Ghk.”

Thinking back on that scene, I was reminded of something strangely similar from my own military days.

I do not know whether every unit had one, but the dining hall in my battalion had a piano.

Once, a soldier from the maintenance unit played it while still wearing his grease-stained coveralls and helmet, and the battalion commander had been deeply impressed.

Those filthy maintenance coveralls and the piano were worlds apart, and perhaps he had found something ironic in that contrast.

As a result, after work hours he assembled the entire battalion, praised that maintenance soldier, and ordered that the battalion hold a musical performance every month. The order came down through the morale officer, and each company was required to send at least two soldiers to take part.

In short, the greater the dissonance between the piano and the person playing it, the more lingering an impression it left on those watching.

So, in order to make full use of that effect, I had chosen the pianist.

It was Agares.

And because it was Agares, the piece was by Rachmaninoff.

Why Rachmaninoff of all people?

Was Rachmaninoff not too recent? No, never mind that—was it not bizarre enough for modern culture to suddenly appear in a fantasy setting?

Even though romance fantasy often ignored historical period when it suited it, I had still warned my sister that this would surely provoke criticism from readers. She went with Rachmaninoff anyway.

When I asked why, her reasoning was this:

First, Rachmaninoff was Russian.

Second, Rachmaninoff was nearly two meters tall.

Third, there was a pervasive melancholy in Rachmaninoff’s music.

When she argued that those three points suited Agares, the quintessential Grand Duke of the North, I had no choice but to bow my head. She was right. It fit perfectly.

Then again, when had my sister ever once listened to what I said?

“Rachmaninoff.”

I spoke just as Agares finished playing.

It was in the small chapel attached to the Academy’s Divinity Department.

It was not used for actual worship, but rather for trainee priests to practice holding services. Though smaller, it was otherwise the same as any ordinary church, which meant the accompaniment instrument used for hymns was there as well.

In the Original Work, when Bishot said that line, Agares had brightened at once.

In <Cinderella Rhapsody>, by way of a convenient setting, Rachmaninoff died just before composing a certain concerto, so his name never became famous. Bishot recognized the piece anyway, which piqued Agares’s curiosity.

“So you know it?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Can you play anything by him?”

Ah. Well.

As though expecting something already, Agares had lifted himself from the piano bench and moved aside to make room.

Bishot, according to the setting, was good at the piano, so she played well. She performed another piece by Rachmaninoff beautifully and used it to build rapport with Agares.

Hmm.

“I have never learned the piano.”

“It does not have to be a difficult piece.”

Judging by the mood, I had the distinct impression that if I did not play something, he would not let the matter go.

So I sat down and pressed the keys.

Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink.

What I played was Chopsticks.

Or perhaps it was not Chopsticks anymore.

To begin with, I abandoned the accompaniment. Then I ignored the rhythm. Using only the index fingers of my left and right hands, I clumsily pecked out the notes. That went on for about forty seconds.

After finishing, I glanced at Agares to gauge his reaction, and his face had gone thoroughly sour.

“Why?”

Sensing he was about to start a fight, I spoke first.

Agares answered,

“Are you mocking me?”

“Me? How could that possibly be!”

“Hah. Unbelievable.”

---

Even while I was busy wrangling the male leads from the Original Work, the Academy continued to function in its own way.

It had now been about a month since I entered the Academy.

Which meant it was time to choose the elective classes I was required to take.

The reason students were allowed to choose their electives a full month after enrollment was because the Academy wanted to make it possible for them to take classes alongside the people they had grown close to in that time.

No matter how much the Academy proclaimed itself a place of learning, it was still a place where nobles gathered, and personal connections could not be ignored.

I too had to choose elective courses, and I wrestled over what to take.

There was nothing I actually wanted to study.

And besides, even when one did not do something because one truly wanted to, once one had started, one still wanted to do at least reasonably well.

I could not be the only one who lived that way.

Was that not how everyone was? Whatever the matter might be, there was always something uncomfortable about being the sort of person whose rank had to be counted from the bottom.

My studies at the Academy?

To be honest, they were not really my concern. It was not as though doing well here would affect my life after graduation. I could already live well enough just by doing nothing, and it was not like I needed to get a job.

So in theory, scraping by with a D should have been perfectly fine.

And yet, even so, I found myself looking for the easiest class I could exploit.

This semester I needed six more elective credits.

So what course could I take where I would get good grades without having to spend extra time or effort?

It was difficult.

Even though this was a fictional world, perhaps because it had turned real, it seemed to have undergone some kind of balance patch, and nothing that looked truly effortless stood out.

Except for one.

Introduction to Giant Beast Hunting.

When I looked through the textbook used for the class, every giant beast in it was familiar.

My sister loved writing, but she hated building settings. Perhaps because of that, the settings in all her stories tended to resemble one another, and that influence had reached this place too.

“This is it. This one really will be easy.”

I ran my thumb over the cover of the textbook.

The Theory and Practice of Giant Beast Hunting.

After reading the long title and turning the cover, I was met by an overwhelming thickness of paper.

Beside blurred photographs with terrible image quality, or illustrations that looked as though they had been drawn from a witness’s description, text was packed tightly without a single bit of blank space.

I could already picture the sort of material the exams would use. They would probably choose a few beasts from here and build the test around them.

Even I did not know every setting my sister ever wrote, but this was fine.

Because the monsters in here all resembled creatures I had seen before.

My sister and I had once played a certain game about hunting giant monsters.

It was a game with an absurdly long playtime, but it was so immersive that we lost track of day and night while playing it. At the time, I had thought I was shoveling my hours straight into the trash, but who would have imagined it would prove useful like this?

When I opened the textbook, every single beast was clearly modeled after monsters from that game.

I turned the pages one by one just in case there was anything unfamiliar, then let out a small laugh.

Argizan.

It had taken me a full fifty hours to kill that bastard.

Even my sister, who used to insist she would rather die than play a ranged damage dealer, failed for forty hours before finally picking up a bow, running around far away, and shooting it to death.

It had been fun back then.

That was the end of the courses where I could pick up credits without effort.

So I registered for that class, and a few days later, I entered the lecture hall.

Since it was a class about hunting monsters, many students from combat-related departments had enrolled.

Ian had not, but about a third of the class came from the Magic Department, and Leo, like me, was from the Swordsmanship Department.

The only truly unexpected student was Agares from the Divinity Department.

He had shown up alone to attend a class that had absolutely nothing to do with his department.

He sat in the very front row of the lecture hall with his textbook open and his writing tools arranged before him, ready for class.

It looked profoundly strange.

Was he originally that kind of character? Since when did he pretend to be a model student?

Scratching my head, I sat down beside the only face I knew in the room, Leo.

“It is nice to see you. Funny that we ended up in the same class.”

“Indeed.”

Leo replied in a voice a full tone higher than usual.

“Still, I must admit that it is a little unexpected that Lord Raphael would take this course. As for me, after graduation I might end up working as a mercenary, or perhaps enlisting somewhere on the frontier, so I enrolled for practical reasons. But Lord Raphael is different, is he not?”

If I answered honestly here, it would sound like I was boasting, so I kept my mouth shut and considered what to say.

As I hesitated in silence, Leo spoke again.

“You are not of a status that requires it, and your swordsmanship is too great for you to have any reason to go running about the frontier.”

“If someone is skilled, do they stay in the center?”

“Yes, usually.”

“Why is that? Usually the places where strength is actually needed are in the provinces. Especially the North.”

“That is true, but it is dangerous there. And the living conditions are poor. So everyone wants to go to the center and stay there, which is why the ones sent to the provinces are people with lower status or lesser skill.”

“And among them, the ones who get filtered out are the ones sent north?”

“Yes.”

Ah, had I spoken too loudly?

I had asked the question quietly, so no one else would hear, but Agares turned around and glared at me.

Well now. Sharp ears.

To show that I meant no disrespect, I bowed my head slightly toward him. Agares gave a snort and turned back around.

“Ah, um. Isn’t that rather wrong?”

“It does seem that way.”

“I’ve heard that the Grand Duke of the North eats human flesh instead of food, and drinks human blood instead of water.”

Leo’s voice was tiny—no louder than the whine of a mosquito near one’s ear while sleeping—and yet Agares whipped around and glared at me.

Why?

This time it wasn’t me, it was Leo. He ought to glare at him instead. So absurd that I glared right back, but Agares merely pulled a water bottle from his bag and took a sip.

What exactly was I supposed to do with that?