Sol-Regis Academy Main Gate. Morning – New Student Admission Season.
Sol-Regis Academy was a magnificent complex of white marble buildings and blue-roofed towers. It was the intellectual and military heart of the kingdom. This was where future leaders were minted.
Hundreds of luxurious carriages queued to drop off noble children.
"Remember your roles," whispered Sir Rianor, who escorted them to the gate (acting as the guardian, looking like a successful young dad).
"Roland, you enter the Senior Wing. Department of Diplomacy. Don't be too smart, or the professors will get insecure. Just be the popular student."
"Roger, Boss," Roland adjusted the tie of his new uniform (a dark blue blazer with the Academy crest). "I'll be Prom King in a week."
"Rhea, you enter the War College. Knight Department. Don't kill the instructor. Just make him cry."
"We'll see," Rhea replied flatly. She wore the academy's combat uniform (a tight black leather tunic) which made her look incredibly badass.
They parted ways at the corridor intersection.
Roland's Written Exam (Senior Wing).
Exam Hall – Department of Politics & Diplomacy.
Roland sat on a wooden chair, holding a quill. Around him, other noble children were busy flipping through thick books, cold sweat dripping down their faces.
The exam proctor, Professor Hargo (a fierce, bald old man), distributed the questions.
"You have 2 hours. Essay question. No cheating!"
Roland read the question in front of him.
Question: A vassal territory rebels due to high taxes. The King sends troops to quell the rebellion, but the cost of war will drain the state treasury. What is the best solution according to Noble Etiquette?
Roland held back a laugh. Too easy.
The standard answer in this world's textbooks would definitely be: "Crush the rebels for the King's honor, then raise taxes again to recoup war costs."
Archaic, Roland thought.
Roland began to write. Not the standard answer. He wrote an answer à la Modern Political Science Student.
Roland's Answer:
Physical warfare is expensive and inefficient. Solution: Economic Warfare.
The King must send fake "Humanitarian Aid" to win the hearts of the people, separating them from the rebel leaders.
Implement a trade embargo on the rebel leaders, but provide subsidies to the farmers.
Result: The people will overthrow the rebel leaders themselves due to hunger and worship the King as a savior. Cost: 10% of the cost of physical war.
Roland finished in 15 minutes. He put down his quill and raised his hand.
"Done, Prof."
Professor Hargo glared. "15 minutes? Are you underestimating my exam, Boy?"
Hargo snatched Roland's paper, ready to tear it up. But his eyes glued to the first line.
His eyebrows rose. Sweat dripped.
He read until the end.
"This..." Hargo looked at Roland with a look of horror mixed with awe. "This is incredibly cunning. Very... Machiavellian."
"Effective, Professor," Roland smiled sweetly. "A wise King does not need to draw a sword to kill a fly. Just use poisoned honey."
Hargo swallowed hard. He marked a big A+ on the paper.
"What is your name?"
"Roland Sudrath. Remember that name, Prof."
Rhea's Practical Exam (War College).
Sword Training Arena.
The atmosphere here was far more brutal. It was filled with young lieutenants, apprentice knights, and noble thugs wanting a promotion.
The instructor was Sir Draven. A muscular man with a thick mustache, notorious for being sexist. He looked at the line of participants with disdain.
"Listen up!" Draven shouted. "In the War College, we don't need cowards! We need Knights!"
His eyes stopped on Rhea. The only woman in the line.
"Hey, Miss," Draven called out. "Are you lost? Sewing class is in the next building."
The other participants laughed mockingly.
Rhea didn't laugh. She stepped into the center of the arena.
"I'm registering for the Advanced Knight Exam. What's the test?"
Draven snorted. He threw a blunt wooden sword at Rhea.
"The test is simple. Touch my body with that sword just once within 1 minute. If you can, you pass. If not, go home and wash dishes."
Draven didn't even pick up his sword. He just stood with his arms crossed, arrogant.
"Start!"
Rhea weighed the wooden sword. Light. Shoddy. Unbalanced.
"One minute is too long," Rhea muttered.
Rhea dropped the wooden sword to the ground.
Thud.
Everyone was confused. "Is she giving up?"
No.
Rhea dashed forward with bare hands.
Dash.
Draven was shocked. "Huh?"
Before he realized it, Rhea was already inside his guard.
Rhea stomped hard on Draven's foot, then swept his supporting leg.
THUD.
Draven fell flat on his back.
Before he could get up, Rhea was straddling his chest, and... Rhea's index finger was pressed against Draven's Adam's apple (throat).
Rhea's sharp nail pressed slightly.
"Touch," Rhea whispered coldly. "One touch. Lethal."
Total silence.
One second.
Rhea defeated the Head Instructor without a weapon in one second.
Rhea stood up, dusting off her knees.
"You have too many openings, Sir. If this were a real battlefield, you'd be dead before you could insult me."
Draven got up, his face beet red from embarrassment. But he couldn't argue. He had lost completely.
"Pass..." Draven growled. "Go to the Elite Class. Now get out of my face!"
Rhea picked up her bag and walked away, leaving dozens of muscular men staring at her in fear.
Secret Meeting.
Academy Cafeteria – VIP Corner.
That afternoon, they gathered.
Rianor sat with Elara (who was disguised as a student too, to avoid suspicion).
Roland arrived carrying a lunch tray, followed by Rhea.
"How was it?" Rianor asked while eating a sandwich.
"Easy," Roland answered. "The politics professor was shocked by my answer. Looks like I'll get access to the Forbidden Library soon."
"I'm in the Elite Class," Rhea reported while drinking iced tea. "The instructor is weak. But I got interesting info from the locker room."
Rhea leaned in.
"Turns out, Grand Chancellor Morvath's son goes to school here too. In the War College. His name is Valerian Morvath."
"Valerian?" Rianor frowned.
"Yes. He's the Student Council President and Captain of the Academy Dueling Team. Rumor says he's a sword genius. And guess what?" Rhea smirked. "He holds the Master Key to the Weapons Tower."
Rianor smiled. "Target locked."
"Roland, your job is to find Valerian's social weaknesses. Does he have a scandal? A secret girlfriend? Or weird hobbies?"
"Rhea, your job is to provoke him physically. Make him accept a duel challenge. The wager: The Tower Key."
"Elara, prep the Telegraph device. We install it next week."
Suddenly, a commotion occurred at the canteen door.
A group of elite students in golden robes entered. The leader was a handsome young man with silver hair and a super arrogant gaze.
All students stepped aside to make way for him.
"That's him," Elara whispered. "Valerian Morvath. Prince of the Academy."
Valerian walked past their table. He paused for a moment, glancing at Rhea (because Rhea was the only one not bowing).
Valerian smiled disdainfully, then continued walking.
"What a snob," Roland muttered. "I want to sell him face wash so he becomes self-aware."
"Patience," Rianor said. "We play it smart. Don't cause trouble yet... at least until the device is installed."