The Sprout and the Master

“Why stay at a hotel when you could stay at our home? There is no doubt they provide excellent service, but a place that caters to the masses will inevitably have its shortcomings, don’t you think?”

Elliot let out a hollow laugh—the kind he used when he wasn’t particularly pleased but felt forced to be polite. He leaned in and whispered to me, “That lady is the owner of this hotel.”

The Berinon estate was located in the heart of Robenus, a district where the land was so expensive they might as well have built the buildings out of gold coins. It was one of the few residential areas in the center. While her concern about us staying in an unfamiliar place was kind, it wasn’t welcome. Elliot was ready to enjoy the flamboyant side of Robenus, and I had work to do.

When Elliot declined firmly but politely, citing that he had come with a group, she pivoted and invited us to a meal instead.

Refusing that as well felt like a step too far. Seeing the Viscountess beam with joy upon our acceptance made me crack a smile, too. Well, it wasn’t a total loss. As a widow who ruled the social circles of Robenus, she was a busy woman; she perfectly fit Elliot’s goal of establishing new connections.

Once the Viscountess left, promising to contact the hotel to set a date, Elliot shivered in disgust.

“You two seemed close, why do you dislike her so much?”

“The Viscountess is fine. She’s a bit out of touch with reality, but she’s capable enough to protect what she owns.”

Elliot’s criteria for judging people were simple, yet remarkably pragmatic for a thirteen-year-old—the age of a middle schooler back home. He looked at whether they had the talent to seize opportunities, whether they put in the effort, and ultimately, whether they were useful. Most of the kids we met in salons were, by his standards, ‘useless idiots who rely on their family names to act big,’ with the Second Prince being the prime example. Honestly, few people ever met his bar. Excluding Erkel and me—since we weren’t actually children—only someone like Lucia remained.

Considering the harsh standards of the future head of the Dylan house, his rating of Lady Berinon meant she was an exceptionally good businesswoman.

“The problem is the brat from that house. Kyle Berinon. There’s one about our age.”

“Did he shake you down for money or something?”

“Nothing like that, but my gut feeling is just f**king bad. You know the type. The kind where you just know they’re rotten from the first impression.”

I nodded and silently added Kyle Berinon to my mental blacklist. While judging people on gut feeling alone isn’t a great habit, Elliot’s instincts were quite reliable. In fact, I relied heavily on first impressions myself. It’s the law of the “bad vibe”: if someone feels off to me, they’re usually off to everyone else, too.

The salon culture in Robenus was highly developed.

While capital nobles tended to send their children to the Academy, people here formed groups from a young age and hired private tutors. It was similar to how the Princes’ playmates attended lectures together, but in Robenus, these groups often merged or formed new circles among allied families.

Since there was no set curriculum and things were done on an ad-hoc basis, it was great for individual progress but lacked institutional momentum. If the Academy was a school, this felt like a mix between a private academy and group tutoring.

Money gravitated toward star tutors, and students flocked to popular subjects—the most dreamed-of being swordsmanship. I was stunned as I looked at the kids gathered at the Robenus Central Knight Headquarters. Boys in their early-to-mid teens all had swords at their waists, whispering among themselves as they watched the knights from the capital.

The capital knights, led by Leo, looked flustered by the unexpected audience, but the Robenus knights greeted them with nonchalance.

“Is this a daycare?”

Elliot sneered in a low voice. We weren’t exactly in a position to talk, being there as the younger brother of the Vice Commander and his friend, but he was right. This was a scene you’d never see in the capital. I visited the training grounds occasionally, but only to meet Leo as he was clocking out. Except for grand festivals approved by the Emperor, civilians never sat around watching drills.

“These are my nephews and their friends. They are learning the sword to become knights, and I invited them because I heard Sir Edwill would be assisting with sparring today. Seeing a master’s blade is a great education in itself.”

A knight who introduced himself as Jec Blodgett stepped forward. Blodgett was a young man with bright red hair and pale green eyes that contrasted with his tan skin. Seeing a kid with the exact same red hair among the crowd, I figured that must be the nephew.

Despite his amicable face, his actions weren’t particularly polite. I heard Leo had informed them about us beforehand, but they were only now formally acknowledging it. Fortunately, the disciplined knights kept their complaints to themselves, but their expressions were sour.

Leo, standing at the very front, replied dryly.

“That’s news to me. If I had known, I would have prepared some circus tricks.”

It was a perfect, biting sarcasm. As the atmosphere grew cold, Sir Blodgett laughed loudly.

“My apologies. It seems I’ve offended you.”

“I’m not particularly offended, but I fear for your dignity, Sir.”

The implication was clear: You’re about to get wrecked by me in front of your nephew.

“I see. Such confidence is expected from a member of the four knight orders that guard the Imperial Family.”

We fight real enemies near the borders, while the Imperial Knights just play dress-up to guard the royals. If that’s what he meant, was I overthinking it?

The tension thickened around Leo, who was sneering with an indifferent face, and Sir Blodgett, who was needling him with a “nice guy” smile. When even the stoic knights began clashing their pride, the infection spread to the kids instantly.

The young Blodgett, who had a slick face just like his uncle, looked at Elliot and me and let out a mocking snort.

“I think that bastard just laughed at us.”

“It’s not ‘think,’ he definitely did.”

Young Blodgett was the tallest of the group—either he was older or just a fast grower. Judging by the way his sword belt sagged from the weight, he was likely carrying a real blade. It wasn’t hard to guess why he was mocking us.

A good family, a decent face, and clearly the leader of his pack—he likely had talent and knew it.

On the other hand, Elliot only did as much exercise as needed for basic health and was currently in a lanky growth spurt. As for me, regardless of my stamina, my body just didn’t pack on muscle. A quick glance showed we were outclassed in size; it was natural for a bully to laugh.

Elliot muttered without looking at me.

“I’m counting on you to handle my share.”

“What do you mean, counting on me?”

“Look at his eyes. They’re burning. He’s dying for an excuse to start something.”

He was right. The boy looked ready to throw down a gauntlet and demand a duel at any second. They were laughing while looking our way, and though I couldn’t hear them, I doubted they were saying anything nice.

Then, the young Blodgett spoke loud enough for us to hear.

“I expected too much after hearing it was the Vice Commander and his brother. Seeing such scrawny weaklings claiming to hold a sword… the level must be…”

I was already worried enough about my height since I wasn’t putting on weight or muscle. I frowned and grabbed Elliot’s arm. There was nothing to gain from being near kids like that. It’s best to avoid stepping in sh*t to keep your own shoes clean.

However, Elliot seemed to have a different idea. His face went blank as he stared at every individual strand of Blodgett’s red hair, then he let out a sharp laugh.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been this pissed.”

I rolled my eyes at him, seeing him grit his teeth as his competitive streak flared up. Why are you the one getting heated here?

“Can you beat that guy?”

I looked at Blodgett as Elliot pointed. He was about Elliot’s height but much bulkier—far more intimidating. After meticulously scanning his stance, his hands, and the condition of his sword, I whispered back.

“Well… I could probably handle at least one of them.”

“Really?”

I was, after all, the direct disciple of Edward Spellman. If I couldn’t handle one brat, it would disgrace my master. Of course, I wasn’t 100% sure. I’d never sparred with anyone but Spellman, so it was hard to gauge my actual skill level. The only time I’d crossed blades with others was that street fight during the festival—but that was a chaotic brawl against multiple opponents, hardly a fair measure of skill.

“Even so, I have no intention of fighting. I want to stay quiet.”

“Quiet is good.”

He said it, but his face looked like he was about to make sure things were anything but quiet.