Chapter 1

I was born into the ruling class, but I never once felt fortunate. That was because I was the ruler’s second son. My older brother—already ten years old—was the heir, and what’s more, I was the child of a concubine. When I was three, my mother died from complications after giving birth to my little sister, and my father died of illness when I was ten. Because of that, for the past several years, I had lived thoroughly in the shadow of my half brother. He was the legitimate ruler of the domain, and I was treated as one of his vassals. I was granted only half of a small village; on top of that, I was forced to fight in wars with neighboring domains even though I was not yet a full-fledged adult. But my days of misfortune were about to end. “You’re in an awfully good mood, Lord Alsrod,” my attendant, Laviala, remarked as she helped me get dressed. Formal wear couldn’t be put on by oneself alone because of the buttons on the back. “I guess it’s easy to tell, huh?” “Of course. I’ve been by your side for seventeen years!” Laviala was one of my few vassals, though she was really like a childhood friend. A descendant of elves, she consequently had pointed ears and beautiful golden hair. As the daughter of my wet nurse, who suckled and raised me, Laviala was also my milk sister. Plus, she and I were the same age, making her basically like family. If anything, the fact that Laviala was my milk sister at all was hard proof of my low social status. Elves were not regarded very highly in this land; I was therefore given to an elvish nurse to cement the superiority of my brother, our father’s legitimate son. Needless to say, I’d never distance myself from Laviala over such a thing, though. “Today, I’ll join the world of adults. It’s finally time for my profession-bestowal ceremony.” In this country, when a person came of age, they went to the temple and learned their calling in what was called a profession-bestowal ceremony. By listening to the voices of the gods, the priest could discern what job that person was best suited to. Of course, that didn’t mean they’d be able to support themselves their whole life in that profession. In most cases, all it meant was that they were a bit better at it than the average person. In other words, if a farmer’s son was told, “Your profession is Fighter,” it just meant he was somewhat physically strong; he was almost certainly not going to be able to become a soldier and make a living off it. Now, it was said that your abilities improved depending on your profession, so the Fighter job might be of use if the man was called to war, but that was about it. A ruler couldn’t possibly quit being a ruler just because he was told Fighter suited him better, so he’d probably just try to have an active role in battle. For that reason, the profession bestowed at one’s ceremony was often referred to as the “apposite profession,” separate from one’s actual occupation. However, in rare instances, you might be given an extraordinarily powerful profession that would end up altering your life profoundly. One example was Spellsword, a profession for heroes exceptionally skilled in both magic and swordsmanship. It was said that all those who’d established dynasties in the past had been Spellswords. If I could join their ranks and make my mark, even my asshole brother would have to recognize my talent. The central royal family, as troubled as they were, might come to demand my direct services as my fame grew. I could finally be something more than just the second son of a minor lord, with virtually no rights and doomed to risk my life in endless wars! There were also professions like Sage or Monk, which might give me the opportunity to leave here and go to the capital city for study. And a skilled Sage or Monk could serve using magic, so there was a good chance my brother would let me go. So how could I not be excited? “I’m gonna be a Spellsword, no matter what.” To that end, I’d devoted myself to reading books on magic and working on my swordplay. Everything I did was part of my effort to close in on becoming a Spellsword. I figured if the gods could recognize our predispositions, surely someone’s profession would be something they were already good at. The possibility was strong, at least. “Personally, I’d like to see you become a Sage and join a research institute, since the Kingdom of Therwil is in the middle of the Hundred Years’ Rebellion,” said Laviala. “…All right, you’re all done getting dressed!” She smiled cheerfully as she came back around to face me. “It’d be great if we could avoid fighting, but we’d otherwise get wiped out by the surrounding lords.” The royal family of Therwil, a kingdom with a three-hundred-year-long history, had seen its power weaken, prompting the various lords of the realm to begin seizing land from one another and falling into a state of civil war—commonly known as the Hundred Years’ Rebellion. It was also the reason why our people had to leave for battle all the time. “Whether we fight or we hope for peace, we can’t go wrong by being powerful.” “Yes, I am well aware of your sagacity, my lord… I pray there is glory waiting in your future,” Laviala replied, joining her hands as I gently stroked her head. “Thanks. I want to become the sort of man who can share his glory with you, if at all possible.” And so I made my way with Laviala toward a temple in the domain. “Ah, the viscount’s brother, Lord Alsrod. This way, please.” Since it was a lord’s job to financially support the temples in his domain, the priests treated me pretty well. The old priest took me in front of one deity’s statue.