Strictly speaking, nobility had nothing to do with the admission criterion, since it was based on mana quantity. But when I heard about the lives of commoners from Flora, I realized that was really just a sophism. In practice, the authorities never measured the mana of commoner children, so they were never enrolled. Flora herself had only gotten her mana measured because she’d been adopted by a noble couple. Had she remained a commoner, she would very likely have slipped under the radar.
A terrible waste, if you ask me.
Commoners with large quantities of mana were incredibly rare, so this probably had to do with testing efficiency. Still, I thought there was a glaring contradiction between the lax testing policy and the fact that enrollment in the academy was compulsory for those who met the conditions.
Playing the otome game in my previous life had made the existence of the Magic Academy feel almost natural to me. I’d initially believed that its main raison d’être was to encourage the students to socialize and fall in love. However, my knowledge of both of my worlds’ histories gave me a wide perspective few could enjoy, and I’d come to see things in a different light recently.
The Magic Academy had been founded at the very beginning of the empire, and it’d already existed in the days of Pyotr the Great. At first, it hadn’t even been a school, and the class system had still been in its infancy. In its earliest stage, the Magic Academy had simply been a place where the children of the people who’d recently become Pyotr’s vassals had come to cohabitate and learn.
Essentially, what Pyotr had done was gather the heirs of his vassals in one place. When I thought of it that way, a bell finally rang in my history buff brain.
After emerging as the supreme victor of the troubled Sengoku period, the first Tokugawa shogun had implemented a key policy: The wives and children of every feudal lord had been required to reside in Edo, his capital. In other words, he’d made them his hostages.
In France, the dazzling Palace of Versailles had been constructed like a large town. It had housed not only the royal family but also many nobles. As I remembered reading in a classic shojo manga, living in Versailles had been a mark of status. However, the true reason behind the nobles’ presence there had stemmed from King Louis XIV’s fears. Having lived through a revolt of the nobility—the Fronde, or something like that—he’d wanted to keep a close eye on them and had thus forced them to move to Versailles.
As was often the case, the actions of those in power had been driven by heavy ulterior motives.
It was easy to imagine the idea of an academy where the emperor might keep the children of his potential rivals hostage blooming in the turbulent days of the empire’s founding. The academy was co-ed because the daughters were hostages too, and the reason it had felt so out of place to me was that girls had held no value whatsoever as hostages in the medieval Europe of my previous world. Although, to be fair, it hadn’t just been girls. Children, aside from the heir, had generally held very little value for nobles.
This way of thinking was also common in many places and eras in this world, as shown by the status of women in the ancient Astran society. But the key difference between this world and my previous one was the existence of mana. As long as they had strong mana, women could compete with men. In times of war, women with strong mana were just as valuable as hostages as men were.
Come to think of it, the first empress, Lyudmila, had been known as a better military commander on the field than Pyotr. According to some of the books I’d read, she’d also been a force to be reckoned with in her private life, so it stood to reason that Pyotr had decided to keep women in check too.
Wait a minute. That’s where the “giant mixer” theory comes back!
If all the girls with powerful mana were in the academy, all the best catches would be there! If the boys didn’t come, they’d miss out on the opportunity to find brides with powerful mana to strengthen their bloodlines—and eventually, their houses would fall behind! Maybe Pyotr had decided to gather the women simply to make sure the men showed up too.
Well, I was just guessing here. Maybe he’d made that call because a school full of boys would be rowdy and filthy. Who knew? The beginnings of great civilizations were sometimes more casual than one would assume.
Anyway, my initial point was that the way the admission rules were worded—as though the only important criterion was mana quantity—had been a clever trick.
To feudal lords, powerful mana users were precious. I had no doubt they hadn’t wanted to hand them over. However, pretending not to have any meant publicly admitting you had no talented individual in your family or among your vassals. Everyone would look down on you, leaving you with no choice but to send your mana users to the academy.
I imagined that many had been less opposed to sending children who weren’t their heirs. But in an era that’d directly followed times of war, remnants of chaos must have remained. What if the child you’d sent created strong connections with the emperor and returned to steal your heir’s spot?
Maybe there are such precedents. What a mess it must have been, with people overthrowing one another left and right!
Now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure Pyotr had given a push to the people under his influence so they’d rise as lords.
There are so many layers to this!
My history-buff blood was boiling, and I was starting to come up with tons of theories. Some of them were probably just wishful thinking on my part, though.
Calling the noble scions sent to the academy “hostages” sounded scary, but according to the documents that remained, Pyotr the Great had doted on the young men and women he’d summoned to the capital. He’d made sure they were taught scholarly subjects and martial arts, and encouraged them to socialize and form friendships. There was even a huge painting depicting happy students spending time with Pyotr the Great and Lyudmila in the auditorium. Apparently, Pyotr had just liked children very much. He’d raised his own children among the so-called hostages and taught them all the same way.
My general impression of Pyotr the Great was that he’d been a cheerful man. He’d liked being around others and was the sort who’d naturally found himself at the center of every room. He’d faced plenty of difficulties along the way, but the support he’d so effortlessly commanded had been what helped him reach the very top.
One of his younger brothers—and my ancestor—the first Duke Sergei, had often complained about all the work his older brother dumped on his shoulders. But whenever he saw him, he forgot it all and always agreed to do whatever Pyotr asked of him.
You were so easy, Sergei.
On the other hand, Pyotr the Great hadn’t been a simpleminded man. He’d been capable of calculations and coolheaded decisions. Underneath that, though, he’d always been a man capable of deep affection—or at least, that was my image of him.
By bringing the children of his vassals somewhere he could influence them, he’d ensured the nobility wouldn’t betray him, all while raising the next generation to be useful and trustworthy to the crown. At the same time, he’d ensured that the next generation of vassals would be less likely to wage war against one another as adults because of the strong bonds they’d formed during their teenage years.
I didn’t think Pyotr had ever seen them as the children of his enemies. Instead, he’d seen them as his younger brothers and sisters, even though fostering a sense of loyalty in them had also been a strategy to avoid them defying him or his heir.
Come to think of it, Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa shogun, had also spent most of his childhood as a hostage to Imagawa Yoshimoto. Imagawa had also looked after him properly and had educated him as the future lord of a fief. He’d even taught him falconry. During the Sengoku period, hostages had often been treated this way—educated by guardians who took responsibility for them.
The original form of the academy reminded me of that. The young men and women who’d been summoned by Pyotr and raised by him had become his foster children in a way. They were the children of the empire.
Even now, most of the important people in the empire were alumni of the Magic Academy. Though they belonged to different generations, they could bond over the dormitory they’d slept in, or the bronze statue where people usually met up, and so on. Thanks to the academy, the key men and women of the empire had something in common.
Compared to the situation in other countries, there was less confrontation and hostility between the nobles of the empire. The Magic Academy, which had stood for four centuries now, was certainly one of the reasons behind that.
The starting point of the festival also lay with the children Pyotr had gathered. According to the records, it had begun with the children showing one another the customs, music, and plays from their respective regions.
I wonder if it was a way of alleviating their homesickness. Either way, after four hundred years, that initial intention had long been lost to history. It was just a fun event for the students to enjoy nowadays. And I still think that’s great!
I was glad there was an event where students could enjoy themselves and make memories in peace. However, as the villainess, I still had to be mindful of the doom flags. I couldn’t just mess around without a second thought.
I’d promised my brother I wouldn’t overdo it, so I was hoping our class would soon decide on singing as a choir. That way, I could hide myself among all the other students and be as inconspicuous as possible.
Ah, I miss my high school festival. I’m so looking forward to this one!
Or so I’d hoped. How naive I’d been.
Just after our class finally decided on what to do for the festival, I ran into Alexei walking through the corridors in between classes.
“Brother!”
With a cry, I dashed toward him, then clung to him in tears.