I'm the third son of a viscount's family, but I have a claim to the throne. - Episode 10

“Haaaah!”

The voice of Zarlbalta, the younger son of the Kesbart Dukedom, rang out dramatically as he swung his sword in a grand arc.

“Wow! That was an incredible strike, Lord Zarlbalta!”

His sycophantic companion fumbled his own sword, letting it fall, and immediately resorted to flattery.

Even at 13, this boy already possessed a mastery of groveling—a truly grim testament to the harsh realities of this world. What’s worse, his target wasn’t even a prince but merely the second son of a duke—a notable step down in rank.

What kind of twisted logic drove someone to fawn over such a middling figure? Even if Zarlbalta might eventually inherit some lesser title, surely it wasn’t worth this level of servitude.

From what I observed, the boy who dropped his sword seemed to have better footwork and balance than Zarlbalta. Yet he chose to deliberately lose to someone of lesser skill. Perhaps he was merely avoiding unnecessary trouble by not outshining a noble with influence.

Still, it was sad to see genuine ability stifled by political games. If this pattern persisted, the future of the Belguis Kingdom looked grim indeed.

Turning my attention away from Zarlbalta’s empty theatrics, I scanned the rest of the participants. Most students had formed small groups, either practicing basic swordplay or chatting idly.

One boy, however, stood out. In a corner of the training field, he was engaged in an intense solo exercise.

Suspended within a triangular frame were six large logs, each carved to resemble wolf heads. The logs swung unpredictably, mimicking a chaotic attack. The boy skillfully dodged and countered, landing precise strikes on the “neck” of each log as it swung toward him.

The apparatus was clearly designed to simulate a multi-opponent battle—something essential for real-world combat against packs of monsters. Wolves might not usually attack humans unless provoked, but magical wolf beasts would charge at humans on sight, often in packs.

This training device was ingenious. It provided a safe way to practice fighting multiple opponents, avoiding the risk of injuries or fatalities from real monsters.

I decided to approach.

“Impressive work,” I said as the boy wiped his sweat and stepped out of the frame.

“Thanks,” he replied, extending a hand. “Samrada Helbert, third son of the Margrave of Helbert.”

I shook his hand. “Delicbald Calverburg, third son of the Viscount of Calverburg. I’d be glad to get along with a fellow third son.”

We were going to spend the next five years at the academy together; building connections seemed wise.

“Are you sure you want to associate with someone like me?” Samrada asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I might have a claim to the royal bloodline,” I replied, shrugging, “but if it ever comes to me inheriting the throne, it means the kingdom is on the brink of collapse. I’m as good as a commoner in waiting.

Besides, Calverburg might be a viscounty, but it’s a backwater compared to the Helbert March. I should be the one humbly asking for your friendship.”

Samrada raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my self-deprecation.

Helbert was a border territory, a buffer zone against foreign threats. Its proximity to monster-infested forests and trade routes made it both dangerous and prosperous—a stark contrast to the quiet, undeveloped lands of Calverburg.

The fact that Samrada—a margrave’s son—was treated as a “country bumpkin” here spoke volumes about the arrogance of the Kesbart family and their ilk.

Samrada smirked. “Considering the chaos caused by the recent succession war, I’d say the chances of you or your brothers ascending the throne are about the same as me inheriting my father’s title.

After all, someone broke the unwritten rule of not spilling royal bl00d during disputes. Now the royal family’s shadow grows darker, and the repercussions will ripple for years.”

His pointed words held a bitter truth. My father’s survival during the succession conflict was a deliberate choice, protecting both the royal bloodline and the kingdom’s fragile balance.

The queen, however, had shattered that balance by targeting the weakest of her rivals—my cousin, the late Third Prince. Her actions jeopardized not only the kingdom’s stability but also her sons’ futures.

“Well, in that case,” I said, grinning, “why not let two inconsequential third sons forge a friendship? Call me Delic.”

Samrada seemed taken aback but soon returned my smile. “Fair enough. You can call me Sam.”

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a few students watching us. Most, however, remained fixated on Zarlbalta’s flashy but ineffectual swordplay.

I gestured toward the training frame. “This setup is incredible. Why isn’t anyone else using it?”

“It’s too challenging for most,” Sam explained. “You can adjust the difficulty by reducing the number of logs, but most noble heirs see fighting in packs as beneath them.

They prefer to flaunt elegant, one-on-one duels, even though real combat often involves chaos and multiple enemies.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. Duels are outlawed, and even royal tournaments are rare. The only real battles nobles fight are against monsters, bandits, or enemy armies. Those are rarely one-on-one affairs.”

Sam snorted. “Exactly. But idiots like Zarlbalta think fighting for the kingdom is beneath them. They’d rather prance around, pretending to be great warriors.”

I smirked. “Honestly, that’s why I skipped all classes except Combat Basics. I’d rather avoid being dragged into petty squabbles with spoiled brats.”

Sam chuckled. “Wise move. The Kesbart family’s eldest son is apparently competent, but the second son… Well, let’s just say he’s the queen’s failed project. She’s made him insufferable.”

“At least the heir seems capable,” I replied. “That’s a relief. The last thing the kingdom needs is a worthless duke-in-waiting.”

We both laughed, sharing a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the competitive world of nobles.

With Sam as an ally, the next five years at the academy suddenly seemed a little less daunting.