One problem at a time.

  Yuka was too clever—too relentless. Despite her tender age, she already understood how the world worked. Whether it came from a bad experience or early conditioning, that girl’s ideals were aimed more at politics than empathy.

  So I decided to focus first on Ronaldo Black Vase, whose cowardly, insecure personality brought him serious trouble in a martial society like ours.

  Ronaldo attended lessons alongside Ingrid and Alda. Yuka—like me—took advanced classes because of her intellect. Gonzalo told me plainly that the boy wasn’t smart: he struggled to distinguish letters and pronounce words out loud.

  His level of intellect wasn’t any different from that of a servant who took one or two lessons a week. Because of that, Ronaldo had to start from scratch with the most basic Spanish and math.

  “That boy has no skills or talents. I’ll have to work harder.” That’s what Gonzalo said when I asked him about the kid.

  In a way, I already knew.

  Self-esteem and individual courage had a lot to do with one’s own abilities. Some people were born with talent; others with a perseverance worthy of admiration. Unfortunately for him, Ronaldo didn’t have any efficient attitude toward studying.

  That shouldn’t have surprised me.

  There were millions of people in the world—not everyone could be a genius or talented like Alda and Yuka were in their respective fields.

  Ronaldo Black Vase was ordinary in a sea of extraordinary people.

  Mother told me his older brothers were powerful warriors—fighters capable of winning tournaments and jousting like true knights. They inherited their mother’s refined features, and only Ronaldo took after the Duke’s bulky build.

  Constant comparison must have crushed his confidence.

  “I think I underestimated his problems.”

  Because of his physique, I didn’t expect him to perform well in the training yard, but I thought Sir Marte would at least be able to guide him. I was deeply disappointed to learn he wouldn’t train with me and Alda.

  According to Mother, Duke Steven brought a private trainer with him to toughen Ronaldo up and turn him into a formidable fighter like his brothers.

  And his schedule didn’t match ours either…

  Damn it. Everything was uphill.

  I decided to hide behind a pillar and watch the training session Ronaldo had—alone—with his weapons master. The man was nothing like Sir Marte.

  He had black hair with gray around the crown, and a dark beard without a single white patch. He wore a brown plated brigandine, iron boots, matching gauntlets, and an open bascinet.

  “I-I’m ready, Sergeant Walrus.”

  “Good. Brat, I hope this change of scenery makes you improve. I’m sick of watching you fail.” He didn’t hesitate. “Back to physical work. Ten laps around this training yard. Now!”

  “Y-Yes…”

  Ronaldo wore a light brown gambeson, dark hose, and black leather shoes—standard training clothes.

  He ran for four minutes without stopping and barely completed a lap. Not impressive, but consistent with his physical condition.

  “Well… we all start the same way. Nobody’s born knowing.”

  That’s what I wanted to think.

  The Sergeant stepped right in front of Ronaldo and shoved him without mercy, knocking him onto his back.

  “Damn it. You haven’t even finished one fucking lap. Why are you stopping?”

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  “I-I’m tired. Let me catch my breath and I’ll keep going.”

  “Catch your breath?” The man’s voice sharpened. “Are you an idiot? We’ve been training together for two years and I’ve seen no improvement. Run! Run, damn it!”

  Ronaldo lowered his face, forced himself back up, and tried to run a few more seconds—only to stop again, spitting saliva tinged with vomit.

  Ugh.

  Okay. This looked bad.

  “Fucking fatass!” The Sergeant yanked him by the hair and hauled him upright. “You’re lucky you’re the Duke’s son, or I’d have beaten you to pulp myself. Why do I waste my time on you? They don’t pay me enough to put up with a weakling like you.”

  “T-Then leave,” Ronaldo snapped. “I-It’s stupid that I have to be a warrior! I’m Duke Steven’s son!”

  “Quit your bullshit. Pick up the wooden sword. I’ll teach you how to hold your guard.”

  “You’re j-just going to hit me,” the boy muttered, bitterness slipping into his voice.

  “I hit you because your guard is trash. Raise the sword!”

  Just like Ronaldo said, Walrus cracked him a few times—shoulder, chest, right knee. He didn’t hit the face for obvious reasons, but the rest of the boy’s body was getting bruised, and he was sweating like a waterfall.

  Ten seconds was all it took for me to reach the conclusion:

  Ronaldo would never be a swordsman.

  His posture was wrong. His natural talent was nonexistent. Maybe if he devoted his entire life to the blade, he could become competent.

  But he didn’t even like fighting.

  He didn’t have passion for battle.

  A lost cause.

  I left without any answer in my mind.

  How do you make a child brave when he doesn’t want to be? His timid attitude might be understandable in a peaceful world, but here it simply didn’t match the values.

  I walked the corridors with thousands of thoughts swirling in my head.

  “Ronaldo has no interest in improving… I’ve seen that attitude before,” I whispered, remembering people from my previous life.

  I never considered myself talented.

  I always had to work my ass off for results. But not everyone had determination like mine. I saw people like me—no special skills, no resources to stand out—who refused to give their full effort, and chose to abandon things that would never pay off for them.

  I didn’t blame them.

  We were all free to live according to our own ideas.

  But there was a difference between civic duty… and personal ideology.

  I felt like a dog chasing its tail. No matter how much I turned the problem over, I found nothing satisfying—only questions, questions, and more questions, slowly driving me insane.

  “I guess I’ll talk to him later. I need to find a way to motivate him.”

  I waited until 7 PM—an hour before dinner, and free of obligations.

  Ronaldo always went to his room and was rarely seen in the hallways or running around with my friends.

  So it wouldn’t be hard to find him.

  “Ronaldo, can I come in?”

  I knocked on his door. He answered immediately.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  I entered without rushing. His room was relatively small compared to mine. A plain bed sat in the center, a dresser in the back, and in the left corner there was a painted canvas. Ronaldo had brushes and a strange paint mixture in a wooden container.

  “Good afternoon. Are you busy?”

  “For you—no.” Ronaldo didn’t look happy to see me, but his manners wouldn’t let him kick me out.

  Bless you, kingly rank.

  “I’ve noticed you’re having problems with your martial skills. Do you want me to help? I could assign you a different tutor.”

  “No, Your Majesty. Those are my father’s orders. I have to learn from Sergeant Walrus—no more, no less. But thank you for the offer.” He looked irritated, like my presence annoyed him. He was only tolerating me because of my position.

  I understood quickly: Ronaldo and I would never be friends.

  But I didn’t need his friendship.

  I needed him to become stronger.

  “What are you drawing? Can I see?”

  “Go ahead.”

  What I saw was incredible.

  Ronaldo had painted a garden of flowers and trees, absurdly detailed. I wasn’t an art expert, and I couldn’t appreciate it to the fullest—but even a novice like me knew those strokes weren’t easy.

  “I see. Ronaldo has talent for painting. There’s no such thing as a person without skills—only people who haven’t found their vocation yet.”

  “Oh… it looks good. How long have you been painting?”

  “Five years. I started when I was little.” Ronaldo set the brush into a small container and sighed, like telling the story was a hassle. “My parents hate this hobby. They say it’s not appropriate for a warrior.”

  “But you didn’t ask to be one,” I said carefully.

  “I didn’t.” His eyes hardened. “I hate weapons and sweating. I also hate letters. Why the hell do I have to do things I don’t like? I’m a duke’s son.”

  “You do have real talent—and love—for your art. That’s good.” I nodded slowly. “But life isn’t only doing what you like. If it were, I’d never touch a statistics book again in my life.”

  I made a face. I truly hated numbers and everything related to economics—especially in a world without capitalist advances.

  “But you could,” the boy replied. “A lot of nobles do. They leave responsibilities to servants, like it should be. This is just my father’s whim. You’re the king—you could do nothing and nobody would think badly of you. It would be normal.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted.

  But I didn’t want to be a failure.

  Or lazy.

  And deep down… he probably didn’t either.

  “I don’t care,” Ronaldo said bluntly. “If it were up to me, I’d leave all responsibilities to my servants and dedicate myself completely to art. Why waste your time on things that are useless?”

  “I see,” I sighed. So I wasn’t going to change his mind with a simple conversation. “Do you really believe that? That everything you don’t like or care about is useless?”

  “Yes. Do you have any more questions?”

  “No,” I replied. “Keep going.”

  I returned to my room and kept thinking the same question, over and over, like a broken recorder:

  How do I give this boy motivation?