Chapter: 425
“And his spirit,” Lloyd continued, his voice relentless. “To reach the Transcend stage requires immense talent, yes. But also immense resources. Rare herbs, alchemical supplements, specialized training grounds, potent energy sources to aid cultivation. The cost is… incalculable, but let us, for the sake of argument, place a conservative value of another ten thousand Gold on the resources required to push a gifted spirit to its absolute peak.”
He wrote ‘10,000+ GC - Spirit Cultivation’.
He then stepped back from the board, gesturing to the column of figures. “So, to field one single, Transcended knight, we are looking at a minimum initial investment of over twenty-one thousand Gold Coins. And that does not even account for the ongoing costs of maintenance, of food, of housing, of a lifetime of retaining such a powerful, valuable asset.”
He then moved to the other side of the board. He wrote ‘1000 LONGBOWMEN’.
“Now, let us consider our army,” he said. He looked at the students. “A simple longbow, crafted from yew wood, functional but unadorned. What is the cost?”
A student in the front row, a merchant’s daughter with a keen eye for numbers, answered hesitantly. “Perhaps… two Silver Coins per bow, my lord? If purchased in bulk?”
“Let us be generous and say three,” Lloyd replied, writing it down. “A quiver of sixty arrows, with steel heads?”
“Another two Silver,” the girl replied, more confidently now.
“And a simple leather jerkin and helmet for protection?”
“Perhaps five Silver for the set.”
Lloyd did the math on the board. “So, to equip one soldier, our total cost is ten Silver Coins. To equip one thousand soldiers… our total cost is ten thousand Silver Coins. Or,” he paused, underlining the final figure, “one hundred Gold Coins.”
He stepped back, gesturing to the two sides of the slate board. On one side, a single knight, costing over twenty-one thousand Gold. On the other, an entire army, costing one hundred. The visual, economic disparity was stark, undeniable.
“Now,” Lloyd said, his voice dropping, drawing them in. “Our single knight is indeed a force of nature. But he can only be in one place at one time. He can only fight one battle. Our army of one thousand longbowmen… they can hold a ten-mile front. They can garrison a dozen castles. They can suppress a rebellion across an entire province.”
He turned back to the board. “The knight requires a lifetime of specialized food, housing, and care. Our army requires simple rations and a dry barracks. The knight, if he falls in battle, represents the catastrophic loss of an irreplaceable asset worth a king’s ransom. If one of our longbowmen falls… he is replaced by the next farmer’s son, for the cost of another ten Silver Coins.”
He looked at his students, who were now staring at the slate board, their earlier certainty completely gone, replaced by a dawning, uncomfortable comprehension. He was not talking about power in the way they understood it. He was talking about something else entirely.
“This,” Lloyd declared, tapping the board with his charcoal, his voice ringing with a new, strange, and utterly revolutionary, authority, “is the first and most important lesson you will learn in this classroom. It is the lesson that your other tutors, in their focus on individual prowess and heroic deeds, have forgotten to teach you. It is the Economics of Power.”
He swept his gaze across their stunned, captivated faces. He even, for a fraction of a second, allowed his gaze to touch the back of the room, to meet the wide, bewildered eyes of Airin, who was staring at him, her fear momentarily forgotten, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated fascination.
“True strength,” Lloyd concluded, his voice a quiet, powerful hum that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the Academy, “is not just about the power of a single sword, or a single spell, or a single spirit. It is about the logistics that bring that sword to the battlefield. It is about the financial foundation that allows a mage to conduct their research. It is about the efficient, sustainable, and ruthlessly managed, allocation of resources. Raw ability is a component. But the engine that drives all power, the true measure of a house’s, or a kingdom’s, strength… is its economy.”
He set the charcoal down with a soft, final click. “Welcome to Special Category Class. Your lesson for today is this: forget everything you think you know about power. We are here to learn how it is truly built. And,” he added, a faint, almost predatory smile touching his lips, “how it is truly broken. Now, let’s discuss the supply chain logistics of arrow fletching…”
Chapter: 426
The room was silent. Not the silence of boredom, but the stunned, buzzing silence of minds that have just been forcibly, irrevocably, expanded. The first lesson had been delivered. And the revolution had begun.
The bell tower of the Academy chimed, its deep, resonant tones marking the end of the class period. The sound seemed to break the spell that had fallen over the Special Category classroom. The students, who had been sitting in a state of rapt, almost stunned, concentration, began to stir, shaking their heads as if waking from a strange, compelling dream.
Lloyd’s first lesson had been a masterpiece of intellectual disruption. He had taken their entire, hero-centric, power-focused worldview and turned it on its head. He had spoken not of glory, but of grain shipments. Not of epic duels, but of equipment depreciation. He had made them see the world not as a stage for individual prowess, but as a vast, complex, and brutally unforgiving, logistical equation.
They began to gather their things, their conversations muted, filled with the new, strange vocabulary he had introduced.
“Inventory turnover…” Borin Ironhand was muttering to Pip, the gnome. “If we applied that principle to the Royal Armory’s steel reserves… the reduction in waste from rust and poor storage would be…”
“And the supply chain for alchemical reagents!” Nira of Silverwood was saying to another student, her eyes shining with a new, pragmatic light. “If we could better predict seasonal demand, we could avoid the price-gouging from the merchant guilds during the winter months…”
They were not just learning; they were thinking. Applying his concepts to their own worlds, their own areas of expertise. It was working. Better than he could have ever hoped.
Even Airin, the ghost at the back of the room, seemed to have been momentarily distracted from her fear of him. He had seen her, during the lesson, begin to tentatively take notes, her brow furrowed in concentration, her earlier terror replaced by a look of intense, almost desperate, focus, as if she were a starving person being offered not just a meal, but the recipe for an entire feast.
Lloyd offered a small, satisfied smile in return. He began to gather his own sparse notes from the lectern, feeling a sense of accomplishment that was clean, sharp, and deeply, profoundly, satisfying. He had done it. He had survived the first day. He had not only controlled his own emotional turmoil, but had successfully captured the attention, and perhaps even the respect, of his strange, brilliant, and deeply skeptical, class.
He was just turning to leave, a sense of weary relief washing over him, when two figures appeared in the open doorway, their presence instantly changing the atmosphere in the room, bringing a new, colder, and distinctly more intimidating, kind of authority with them.
It was Princess Isabella.
She stood framed in the doorway, a figure of fierce, regal perfection. She was not in her courtly gowns today, but in the stark, practical, and impeccably tailored, uniform of a senior officer-cadet of the Academy. The deep blue tunic, cinched with a wide leather belt, accentuated her athletic, warrior’s build. Polished riding boots rose to her knees, and a slender, silver-hilted practice sword hung at her side. Her golden-blonde hair was once again wrestled into a tight, practical braid, and her icy-blue eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room with an air of proprietary command. She was not a visitor here. She was a power. And this, her entire demeanor screamed, was her territory.
Standing a respectful half-step behind her, as always, was her silent, formidable shadow, Captain Eva. Clad in her gleaming Lion Guard armor, her face an impassive mask, she was a quiet, unwavering testament to the Princess’s authority.
The few remaining students in the classroom, including Borin and Pip, who had been lingering to argue about the friction coefficient of a hypothetical ballista winch, froze instantly. They snapped to attention, their hands flying to their chests in the formal, respectful salute of the Academy.
“Your Highness!” they chorused, their voices a mixture of surprise and profound, almost fearful, reverence.
Isabella acknowledged them with a curt, almost imperceptible, nod of her head, a gesture of a commander accepting the salute of her troops. Her gaze, however, swept right past them, cold and dismissive, and settled, with a laser-like, almost hostile, intensity, directly on Lloyd.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Professor Ferrum,” she said, her voice a cool, clipped, and utterly, chillingly, polite melody. The way she said the title ‘Professor’ made it sound less like a term of respect and more like a subtle, condescending insult. “I trust your first lesson was… adequate.”
Chapter: 427
Lloyd felt a familiar, cold knot tighten in his stomach. He had known this was coming. He had prepared for it. But the sheer, unapologetic force of her disdain, the icy contempt radiating from her, was even more potent up close.
He schooled his features into a mask of polite, professional neutrality, offering a shallow, respectful bow. “Your Highness,” he greeted, his own voice calm, level. “A pleasure to see you. I was not aware you would be gracing us with your presence today.”
“I am the President of the Student Council,” she replied, her tone sharp, as if explaining something to a particularly slow child. “It is my duty to oversee all aspects of student life and academic integrity at this Academy. That includes,” her icy-blue eyes narrowed fractionally, “personally auditing the progress of any new, and particularly… unconventional… educational initiatives sanctioned by the Crown.”
The message was clear. I am here to watch you. I am here to judge you. And I am waiting for you to fail.
She then completely dismissed him, turning her attention to the last, terrified figure still hovering near the back of the classroom. Airin.
“Scholar Airin,” the Princess commanded, her voice, while still firm, losing some of its icy contempt, softening into a tone of stern, almost proprietary, concern. “A word, if you please.”
Airin, who had been trying to shrink into the very stonework of the wall since the Princess’s arrival, flinched as if struck. She looked up, her face pale, her eyes wide with a familiar, terrified awe. She looked from the imposing, regal figure of her patroness to the calm, unreadable face of the professor who looked like her dead… friend. She was trapped between two overwhelming, and deeply confusing, forces.
“Y-yes, Your Highness,” she stammered, dropping into a deep, trembling curtsy.
Isabella beckoned her forward with a sharp, almost impatient, gesture. “Come here, sister.”
Trembling, her gaze fixed on the floor, Airin scurried forward, stopping a respectful, almost fearful, distance from the Princess.
Isabella looked down at her, her expression a complex mixture of regal responsibility and a kind of fierce, protective frustration. “I trust your first day has been… acceptable?” she asked, her gaze flickering for a fraction of a second towards Lloyd, a silent, pointed accusation in the glance. “You have not been subjected to any… undue distress? Or any… inappropriate behavior?”
The implication was a poisoned dart, aimed directly, and very publicly, at Lloyd.
Airin stared at the floor, her mind a whirlwind of confusion. Inappropriate behavior? Undue distress? She thought of the market, of the lord’s strange, terrifying, weeping breakdown. Was that what the Princess meant? She thought of today’s class, of the same lord’s calm, brilliant, and utterly baffling, lecture. She didn’t know what to say. The truth was too strange, too complicated, to possibly explain.
“N-no, Your Highness,” she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. “The lesson was… it was very… interesting.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed, clearly not the answer she had been expecting. She studied Airin for a moment longer, her gaze sharp, probing. “See that you apply yourself, Scholar,” she said finally, her voice a stern, final command. “You are here on my authority. You represent the potential of this scholarship. Do not disappoint me.” She paused, then added, her voice dropping, a clear, unmistakable warning. “And if you experience any difficulties, any… unwelcome attentions… from anyone at this Academy, regardless of their station… you are to report it to me. Directly. Immediately. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Airin whispered, nodding vigorously, still not daring to look up.
“Good,” Isabella said, a note of finality in her tone. She dismissed Airin with a flick of her hand, then turned her full, undivided, and distinctly hostile, attention back to Lloyd.
The unscheduled audit was over. The conversation with her sponsored student was concluded. And now, the true purpose of her visit was about to begin. The declaration of war.
---
Chapter: 428
The last of the other students, Borin and Pip, had finally, reluctantly, shuffled out of the classroom, their curiosity about the unfolding drama warring with their ingrained fear of royal displeasure. They left a vacuum of silence in their wake, a heavy, charged quiet that was filled only by the low, distant hum of the Academy grounds and the almost palpable tension between the three figures remaining in the room. Lloyd stood by his lectern, a mask of calm, professional neutrality firmly in place. Princess Isabella stood near the center of the room, a pillar of icy, regal authority, her arms crossed, her pale blue eyes fixed on him with a look of undisguised, aristocratic disdain. Captain Eva, her silent shadow, remained by the door, a statue of steel and unwavering loyalty.
Isabella let the silence stretch for a long, deliberate moment, a classic power play, a way of establishing dominance, of making him wait, of reinforcing the vast, unbridgeable chasm of status between them. She was a Princess of the blood, a warrior of renown, the President of the Student Council. He was, in her eyes, a disgraced former student, a social embarrassment, and a man of questionable character who had been inexplicably, and unsuitably, elevated to a position he did not deserve.
Lloyd, however, did not fidget. He did not look away. He simply met her cold gaze with a quiet, steady one of his own, his eighty years of experience granting him a patience, a stillness, that she could not possibly comprehend. He had faced down men with guns, with bombs, with armies. A haughty, angry princess, however formidable, did not intimidate him. Annoy him, yes. Complicate his life, certainly. But intimidate him? No.
His unwavering calm, his refusal to be cowed by her silent, regal pressure, seemed to irritate her further. A faint, almost imperceptible, tightening of her jaw was the only outward sign. Finally, she spoke, her voice not loud, but carrying a chilling, precise clarity that was as sharp and cold as a shard of glacier ice.
“So,” she began, her tone a masterpiece of condescending politeness, “Professor Ferrum.” She savored the title, making it sound like an insult. “A remarkable, and I must say, deeply… perplexing… appointment. One must wonder at the King’s reasoning.”
“His Majesty works in ways that are, I am sure, far beyond the comprehension of mere subjects like myself, Your Highness,” Lloyd replied, his own voice perfectly level, a subtle, respectful echo of her own formal tone. He was not going to give her the satisfaction of a defensive or emotional response. He would meet her ice with his own brand of calm, unshakeable stone.
Isabella’s lips thinned. His refusal to be drawn, his calm deflection, clearly irked her. She abandoned the pretense of polite inquiry and moved to a more direct attack, her words still veiled in courtly language, but their intent as sharp and pointed as a stiletto.
“Indeed,” she said, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. “The King’s wisdom is absolute. Which is why it is our duty, as his loyal subjects, and particularly as leaders within this Academy, to ensure that his… more unconventional… initiatives are not undermined. To ensure that the… integrity… of this institution is maintained.”
She stopped a few paces from him, her icy-blue eyes narrowing. “Which brings me to the matter of Scholar Airin.”
Lloyd kept his expression perfectly neutral, though he thought inwardly, the princess already knew this issue. Here it comes.
“She is a commoner, Professor,” Isabella stated, her voice dripping with a kind of protective, aristocratic noblesse oblige. “A girl of immense talent, yes, but also of immense vulnerability. She is unaccustomed to our world, to its pressures, to its… protocols. She is a delicate, rare flower, transplanted into a garden of ancient, powerful oaks. It is my personal, and official, duty to ensure that she is not… trampled.”
Her gaze was a physical blow, a direct, pointed accusation. “It has come to my attention,” she continued, her voice becoming even colder, “that she was recently the subject of a rather… distressing… public incident. An incident involving a nobleman behaving with a shocking lack of emotional control and… propriety. An incident that caused her significant fear and public humiliation.”
She didn’t need to say his name. The accusation was as clear as the enchanted glass in the King’s study.
“Such behavior, Professor Ferrum,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, “is unbecoming of any nobleman. But for a member of the faculty of this Academy, a man tasked with the guidance and protection of our students, to be the source of such distress… it is more than just unseemly. It is unacceptable.”
