* * *
Although Ranshel’s education showed little progress, Zavad’s knightly training brought slow but undeniably steady results.
First, it was the scratches that appeared on his body.
“At least they won’t scar. That’s a relief.”
Next came the calluses on his once smooth, delicate hands.
“Goodness, you’re really pushing yourself. Let me apply some ointment.”
Then came the flesh that filled out his lean frame, muscle layered over already sturdy bones like bricks stacking upon stone.
“Your sleeves are short now. We’ll need to get you new clothes.”
His gaze slowly shifted upward as Zavad’s height began to overtake his own.
Seasons changed like the turning of a wheel, terms passed, and the school year advanced.
Ranshel had grown old enough to be called an adult, while Zavad was still technically younger.
Then, on the first day of their final term, Ranshel finally questioned the change.
“Young Master.”
“What?”
“Did you put insoles in your shoes?”
“…Are you the only one getting different lessons than everyone else? Why does it feel like you’re the only one regressing?”
Zavad looked down at Ranshel, clearly baffled. Ranshel looked up at him, eyes wide.
‘…When did he get this tall?’
Even though they saw each other every day, Ranshel hadn’t truly noticed—until now.
Suddenly, Zavad had grown taller than him.
That boy who had once been so small and scrawny—where had he gone?
Ranshel reached out and brought his hand up to Zavad’s head.
“You’ve… really overdone it.”
“And you’re still short.”
“…I’m not that short, you know. In fact, I’m actually a bit taller than most of my classmates.”
“Sure, you must feel great towering over a bunch of dwarves.”
Ranshel pouted in protest.
In contrast, a faint smile briefly curved Zavad’s lips before disappearing.
Zavad lightly took Ranshel’s wrist, which had lingered near his head, and led him over to the table.
Ranshel allowed himself to be seated by him.
“Enough chatting. Open your book.”
“…Young Master, aren’t you hungry?”
“Not at all.”
“No, I mean, your height…”
Ranshel quickly shut his mouth.
It was a reflexive response—like an auto-reply—but it no longer applied.
It wasn’t Zavad’s fault.
The blame lay with this unfair world.
How could a boy who constantly skipped meals grow like a sprout in spring?
If there were a god in this world, shouldn’t they have closed his growth plates out of principle?
‘That way he’d at least eat his meals!’
Ranshel fumed at his master, who insisted on skipping breakfast and diving into study first thing in the morning.
It wasn’t that he hated studying.
He simply wanted to fulfill his duties as a concerned, responsible servant.
“You’re just sitting there like a lump. Why don’t you pay me a salary instead?”
“…Do you have a taste for flea livers or something?”
Ranshel stayed still, but the book in front of him flipped open on its own, guided by Zavad’s well-shaped fingers.
They tapped the edge of the page and withdrew.
“Focus. We need to finish before the training hall opens.”
“Young Master, most nobles are still buried under their blankets at this hour. Can’t you live a little and take it easy? Stop being so painfully diligent.”
“Is that something a servant should say?”
“This servant is on strike this morning. Please come back this afternoon.”
Ranshel flopped face-down onto the table.
He hadn’t always been such a poor student.
In the beginning, he’d been filled with determination and eager to learn. It was something he deemed necessary for the future.
Every morning, Ranshel had been learning how to read from Zavad.
Not because he suddenly dreamed of moving beyond a lowly servant’s status to become a loyal attendant to the young master.
That was never even a possibility.
His real goal was to read the prayer book left behind by Charlotte.
Up until now, whenever reading was required, Zavad or Petro would handle it—but this time, he couldn’t rely on anyone else.
Who knew what was hidden between those stubbornly stuck pages?
The first person he thought of was Petro.
But Petro was still staying at a villa owned by the Pomel family, and Ranshel couldn’t exactly ask him to make daily trips to the school just to tutor him.
The next candidate was Danie.
Although they were in different divisions, at least he was still on the same seminary grounds, making him far more accessible than Petro.
But learning to read required free time.
Ranshel demanded that Zavad allow him study breaks.
Given how demanding Zavad was—wanting a servant constantly by his side—this was the only viable solution.
Zavad accepted the request.
But with a condition.
—I’ll be your teacher. The lessons will happen… at dawn, before the training hall opens.
Of course, that wasn’t what Ranshel wanted.
What kind of cheeky servant gets tutored by his master?
And at dawn, no less?
—If you don’t like it, forget it. I’m not making extra time for you. Go learn it from someone else in the middle of the night or something.
…As much as he wanted to refuse, there was no other option.
Ranshel had no choice but to become the lunatic who received private lessons from his own master.
Unfortunately, his master was… not a great teacher.
As people often say, being smart doesn’t mean you can teach well.
Zavad was exactly that case.
On the first day, he brought a 500-page book of psalms.
It was a high-level collection of verse nobles used at recitals to show off their refinement—filled with ornate expressions and archaic vocabulary.
Unable to read a single word, Ranshel listened to Zavad’s recitation and tried to memorize the characters as best he could.
But after a week of this, his motivation completely collapsed.
Zavad sighed deeply when he saw Ranshel’s slumped shoulders and began bringing thinner books.
But even those were too advanced for Ranshel.
As time went on, the books got shorter and the long-winded verses that took up entire pages were reduced to single lines.
Only then did some of the letters start to stick.
But his wounded pride was slower to heal.
Especially after overhearing Zavad mutter, “Is this guy even human?”
Today’s strike was part of that healing process.
Ranshel, still sprawled on the table, dozed off a little.
It was still early dawn, the sun barely risen.
Trying to decipher a book full of unfamiliar letters at this hour was a cruel task.
He had complained more than once about how hard it was, but it didn’t work.
He was just scolded—“You think this is hard?”
It was unfair, but he had no recourse.
Zavad didn’t understand Ranshel’s struggle.
After tutoring his servant, he would immediately head to the training hall for more brutal solo practice.
Oh, how unfair this world was.
Couldn’t the system spare some stamina for assassins, too?
Or at least not assign them as attendants to knights.
“Ranshel. Are you asleep?”
“……”
“You don’t even know how to read. How can you sleep?”
Yes. It’s coming down well.
Ranshel answered inwardly as he dozed lightly.
His mind was hazy with sleep, but suddenly, a tickling sensation brushed the back of his hand.
At first, he thought a feather might’ve landed there, but he soon realized—it was the faint touch of someone’s fingertips.
It was too soft, too fleeting to be a proper wake-up call.
Calloused fingers—hardened from gripping a sword—glided gently over his hand with barely any weight at all.
‘…A flower?’
No—it was writing.
Words, briefly written on the back of his hand as though it were paper, only to disappear soon after.
There were still so many words he didn’t know, and even focusing as hard as he could, he could only make out a few.
‘Flower… sunlight? Moon… lake…’
Frowning in concentration, Ranshel finally gave in to his curiosity and lifted his head.
As soon as he did, Zavad, as if he’d been waiting, pointed at the open book in front of them.
What had he written just now?
* * *
