Isaac returned to his dorm. The corridor of Golden Repose was empty—presumably because the vast majority of those that resided in it were nobles who needed to prepare for the upcoming banquet.
In silence, he changed into a formal suit that fits the dress code of the event. Left the dorm to abide by the meeting details with Evangeline Velvet.
He wasn't focused as he walked. His face was flat, and no one who walked by him knew what he was thinking.
Henrick's death won't leave his head.
How did the situation develop to that extent? What could have done to change such an outcome?
He was fighting with Henrick. Henrick's death was, at least partially, his responsibility.
He had an advantage of owning the SSS-rank skill that no one knew of. It was an advantage unlike any other, and he still let the enemy slip by.
Isaac grimaced.
It felt bizarre. To some extent, it was terrifying even.
The person whom he talked with—even if it were only to be five or six days at best—died. And now, he was walking for the banquet, which was the way the nobles celebrated the foundation of Aetherion Kingdom.
It was as if no one cared about the casualties that arose at the Hearthstone.
Walking, Isaac glanced at the royal castle that was visible afar.
The royal family seems to have concluded that the banquet—while even more demoralizing to commoners by giving them an impression that the nobles are partying while the war worsens—is contrastingly moralizing to nobles. Being able to maintain the custom to relay the message that the "kingdom still stands strong" was another plus.
Nobles usually have skills of higher ranks than commoners. Commoners with higher skill ranks have been invited to the banquet as a noble's partner. He, who was now a commoner as well, was invited to the banquet because of the feats he produced.
The kingdom was actively segregating those who mattered from those who didn't.
With this thought in his mind, Isaac stopped his feet.
"You are late." In front of him, Evangeline Velvet spoke in an exquisitely designed dress, seated on her wheelchair—even the wheelchair appeared to be designed by the hands of an artist who understood the aestheticism. On her wrist was a watch, and it showed that the time was past what they promised.
Isaac didn't reply. It wasn't her beauty, her mildly angered visage, or the fact that he was a tad late that took his attention. Rather, it was that his thought reached a bottleneck.
So what?
So what if the royal family was selective? So what if the war was against the kingdom and the commoners were suffering?
Was he a saint? Was he someone who was morally driven? Sure, he helped the boy named Axen, but it was something that he acted out of self-satisfaction.
"Excuse me?" Seeing that Isaac didn't respond, Evangeline raised her eyebrow, "are you listening?"
"Yes." Waking up from the trance, he replied, realizing that he has been standing, lost in his thought once more. "My apologies for my tardiness. Now, shall we?" He held his hand out at her—which was a common courtesy among partners—half-heartedly, although he tried to look earnest.
Evangeline gazed at him coldly, her lips closed. "How rude." Then, ignoring his hand, she proceeded to roll her wheels, moving past him and toward the banquet location.
Isaac watched her go for a moment, before lowering his hand and moving his feet as well, at a couple steps behind her.
Raising his head, he checked a clock that was visible by sight.
He wasn't late. Her watch didn't seem to be in a sync; probably getting faulty.
What am I doing? He couldn't help but think, try my hardest? Look at how pointless all this is, Isaac. If only you learned to yield to Silas Fulgur and lost the duel, none of this would've happened.
Then,
"Your perseverance is your greatest strength. I believe in you."
The past voice of his mother swept across his senses once again.
Mother, and he couldn't help but think, am I truly persevering? Or, am I just being foolish?
He couldn't tell. He was alone, and he had to figure everything out by himself. The assassination attempts will continue. The sabotage attempts will continue. He wanted someone to tell what he should do, how he can get out of this situation.
However, there would be no answer. The encouragement from the past… couldn't feel hollower.
…
The banquet hall, which opened during the evening, appeared emptier than it was initially expected, as if some people who were supposed to participate weren't able to make it.
Yes, the tables were occupied and the formal attire was still present. However, the hall had been built for the full weight of the Kingdom's noble hierarchy, and what it had received instead were mostly the nobles currently enrolled in Academy as students, their partners, and a handful of lower noble families whose proximity to the capital and distance from the eastern frontline had made attendance possible, and the specific absence of everyone else.
Cassiopeia Terra, seated near the hall's eastern wall with a dress instead of her usual notebook, observed the hall with a glass of wine available next to her.
"Won't you look at that, Cassiopeia, isn't the scene quite empty?" Beside her, her partner was saying something about the hall's architectural details with the specific enthusiasm of someone who had prepared conversation topics in advance and was deploying them in order.
Cassiopeia paused her observation to look at her partner. Then, she tilted her head, "I apologize, but what was your name again?"
"Oh, you seem to have forgotten. It's fine, trivial at best. It's Edran Sollis, Cassiopeia." Without catching her lack of interest in their conversation, her partner—named Edran—spoke. Before she said any further, he added on, "and you specifically told me to call you Cassiopeia over Ms. Terra."
"Yes. That, I do remember." She nodded. "Sollis…" She squinted her eyes as if trying to recall the surname. "Ah, a lesser noble."
"Yes. My father works in the royal castle. His name is—"
"Oh, but I did not ask the name of your father. What does that have to do with you?"
"Well, he is my father. Capable, wise. Everyone knows him, and I am his son." Edran confidently responded. Cassiopeia decided to ignore him.
Whose doing may this be, I wonder? A member of Pillar House was pitted with someone at the status of a lesser noble. Now, Cassiopeia wasn't the one to care about the politics or the title of heir of House Terra. Therefore, she didn't bother with the house's decision in arranging a partnership for her for this specific banquet. However, the fact that her partner was a lesser noble… was a bit too blatant. It was a sign to the public that she wasn't an important member in the house. Donaston, most likely.
Frankly speaking, she couldn't be bothered. Without easing her partner's nervousness by her side, she continued to observe the hall.
The house heads were at the royal castle. Emergency session was ordered by the king before dawn, which was most probably about the explosion incident from the western quarter. The Pillar house patriarchs, the high noble family heads, the institutional figures who gave the banquet its political weight in ordinary years—all of them were in a different room tonight, discussing about the future of the kingdom while the banquet continued as if it did.
Then, this banquet is no different from another academy event. She thought, only for the privileged.
The atmosphere was heavier than the last year for sure. Under the formal attire, the arranged tables, and the staff moving between them, there was a quiet register underneath, of the crater found in the western quarter and the citizens' cries for their losses.
"—and the ceiling's vaulted construction is reportedly from the early second century, which makes it one of the few surviving examples of—"
"Mm," Cassiopeia said without an ounce of interest.
Edran, have been trying very hard to make a favorable impression since they arrived at the gate, interpreted this as encouragement and continued.
She, on the other hand, looked at the table arrangements.
Silas was at the far end with the specific expression of someone who found the entire event a wate of time but still attended because attendance was mandatory. Vane was beside him at his every day calm self, and their partners were beside them as well—and said partners seemed to be high nobles. Lyra was at the royal family's table, partner-less by institutional requirement, with the composed attention of someone performing her role at its established parameters.
She looked around some more. Found that there was no Isaac.
Well, I suppose it's normal. To be specific, he wasn't late. Rather, others were earlier—which itself was a custom that Cassiopeia couldn't understand.
"Cassiopeia."
Then, a voice other than Edran's called her. She turned. Raised an eyebrow, "Lysander?"
"L-Lysander Terra of House Terra!" Edran quickly stood up, forcing a bright smile to hide his nervousness. "It is pleased to meet you! I am Edran Sollis of House Sollis, and am Cassiopeia's partner—"
"Yes, yes, I know." Waving Edran off with a visible annoyance, Lysander Terra looked at Cassiopeia with a jovial gleam in his eyes.
Happy? Cassiopeia almost frowned in confusion, in this time? When many people died from an explosion? Is he psychotic?
Lysander Terra stood at the edge of her peripheral space with the specific bearing of someone who had been waiting for a moment to approach and had found it. He was her oldest brother—thirty-one, in age. His formal attire had the quality of someone who had dressed for an occasion he found genuinely worth dressing for.
"You look well," he said.
"You look pleased," she said.
Lysander smiled, before he quickly attempted to suppress it but with no avail. As an extensive measure, he decided to take a deep breath to adjust his expression to a more solemn one before he talked, "the circumstances are difficult," he said. "The explosion last night. The casualties. The house heads gathered at the castle while we maintain the festival's conclusion." He looked at the room with the appropriate gravity. "Father sends his regards. He and the others are occupied."
"And Donaston?" Cassiopeia asked.
"He's been confined to his room since the festival began. Of course, he will soon arrive, however, given how this banquet is required to participate if able," he said with the flat delivery of someone stating a fact. "If you're wondering why I ended up smiling even though I shouldn't have, let me just say that father is... reassessing certain arrangements. The succession question has become more open than it was a month ago."
He said it as flatly as he could, but the satisfaction was there—it was the specific quality of someone who had been patient for a long time and was watching patience produce its result.
Cassiopeia looked at him for a moment. Then at the room.
"Well then," she said, "congratulations."
Lysander nodded, "it looks like my words don't reach you as a big deal. In the future, your opinions will change once you get more involved in family matters."
"Is that so?"
Lysander read her response, shrugged in a way someone would when dealing with one's youngest sibling. "Well then, enjoy the evening—" he paused, "—despite everything."
He moved on.
Cassiopeia looked at the space he had occupied. Succession. Donaston messed up, but from what? She remembered to put this detail on her notebook later in the night.
"So, where were we? Oh yes, the stonework in the lower columns is particularly notable for its—"
"Edran," she said.
"Yes?"
"I'm not the fan of stonework."
A brief silence. "Oh," he then said. "Right."
They sat in a more comfortable quiet. Cassiopeia continued her observation.
This time, she noticed Marlene before Marlene noticed her.
Near the hall's northern edge, close enough to a pillar to have the specific geometry of someone who had chosen a position that minimized their visibility from the room's center. Marlene—of House Raven, high noble, D-rank: [Chilling Hand —was at the hall's northern edge, sitting in silence to earn as little attention as she could.
Her partner, who appeared to be the lesser noble her family had arranged, was making polite conversation with someone nearby. Marlene was present at the conversation's edge without being in it.
Cassiopeia stood up.
"Cassiopeia?" Edran asked.
"I will return." Leaving her partner, Cassiopeia walked toward Marlene.
Marlene noticed her approach at ten meters and her posture adjusted—the specific shift of someone who had been managing invisibility and had just been found by someone they were glad to be found by.
"Cassiopeia," she said, seemingly relieved by the appearance of her powerful friend.
"You look like you're trying to become part of the wall," Cassiopeia said.
Marlene's expression did something that wasn't quite a smile. "It's working," she said. "Mostly."
Marlene's partner then stood up, "Cassiopeia Terra of House Terra, it is an honor to meet you. I am—"
"Yes, yes, good to meet you. Now, if you will excuse us." Cassiopeia interrupted, and it made Marlene's partner sit back down in silence.
Cassiopeia looked at the room from Marlene's position. The specific view from the northern edge—who could see this spot from the center, which tables had sight lines here, and which of the evening's social orbits had reason to drift in this direction.
D-rank in a high noble house was its own specific inadequacy. It was commonly seen as a case of incapability by nobles, who tend to acquire skills with greater ranks. In an ordinary year, Marlene would be the lowest visible point in the room's social hierarchy.
However, there was someone named Isaac Nameless.
Call her a coward, but she was thankful that Isaac acquired F-rank: [Condensation]. She was receiving a better treatment than she initially expected.
"Is he coming?" Marlene asked quietly.
"I expect so," Cassiopeia said.
Marlene nodded, as her shoulders sagged in relief. Said nothing further about it. The specific quality of someone who understood the geometry without requiring it explained.
Just then, the hall's ambient noise shifted. Heads turned in the direction of the entrance. It was the specific social adjustment of people who had noted an arrival.
"And speaking of the devil."
Cassiopeia turned.
Isaac Nameless had entered the banquet.
Beside him, in a wheelchair, was a young woman with blonde wavy hair and emerald eyes whose house name Cassiopeia recognized immediately as on a very dire situation—Velvet, eastern territory, declining.
Isaac was walking with a slight limp in each step. He was not looking at the room. He was looking at the table arrangements with the flat assessment of someone who had arrived with a purpose and was locating its parameters.
"So he came," Marlene said quietly, from the pillar. She leaned into her chair, her body relaxing.
"Yes," Cassiopeia said.
Cassiopeia looked around the room. She saw how many nobles were revealing amusement as they stared at Isaac and Evangeline, as if they were looking at jesters in anticipation.
Cassiopeia watched them cross the room, toward an empty table by a corner.
However, they weren't able to reach their destination.
"Oops?"
A glass of wine was poured onto Evangeline's dress, directly.
"I let it fall by accident. My bad?"
The hall breathed as the entertainment which they were anticipating for arrived.
"At least it fell on where it was supposed to fall. What a relief? The carpet is still dry."
Isaac looked at Evangeline, whose face was pale as she stared down at the carpet. Her dress was stained in red. She was visibly shivering.
He looked up. He found the face of a noble, smirking at them. It was the expression of someone who knew his superiority status-wise and was expecting the two to yield.
To Isaac, the image of this noble overlapped with that of Henrick.
Even in days like this, where many died and the threat of war could be felt more vividly than ever, there existed a noble as senseless as this.
Or perhaps, Isaac gazed at the noble coldly, he is part of the renegade.
For a moment, he simply stared. The noble, as if amused by his antics, shrugged, "what? I apologized, didn't I?"
Evangeline couldn't dare to look up. It was as if her nightmare has come true.
Then, Isaac did what no one could have expected—even those who have gotten familiar with him.
His hand reached the soaked region on Evangeline's dress. As Evangeline looked up with teary, wondering what he was trying to do, the trace of wine disappeared from her dress.
It was a complete and skillful evaporation that Isaac performed.
"…What?" Even the noble seemed taken back. What he was witnessing wasn't [Condensation] that he knew and experienced before.
Isaac wasn't done yet.
The evaporated wine, in the form of a mist, was guided by Isaac's adequate manipulation of pressure, back onto the glass of wine that the noble held. Then, it returned to its original form—now closer to water than wine, but still the same liquid nonetheless.
Those spectating the scene reacted in mix of awe and confusion. It was as if they watched an entertaining street performance—just as how the spectators did back when Isaac was under the assignment in the Free Ground.
"…Hah," the noble snorted, "you are a born jester—"
Then, Isaac proceeded to kick—ignoring the dull ache that flared upon the shift of his weight—right at the noble's hand that held onto the glass, which caused said glass to smash right onto the noble's face.
The glass broke into shards. Wine, mixed with blood from the scratches that those shards caused, splattered and soaked the man's suit completely.
"Oops," Isaac said, in a blank expression that held no emotion, as he lowered his leg. "My leg seemed to have identified you as a piece of shit. Sorry on my leg's behalf."
The hall fell silent.