[V8C10] Uncut Hair

The Key of Knowledge Sophocles, currently held in Isaac’s fingers, responded in a voice that exuded displeasure.

“Who is this nobody? I, for one, have no intention of conversing with anyone other than Claudia.”

“So you still refuse to acknowledge Cyril as your master?”

“Why should I have to recognize some boy who is not even a direct descendant of the Lineage of Knowledge? He isn’t even worth consideration.”

Isaac chuckled at the condescending attitude of the haughty Key of Knowledge, not out of amusement, but to belittle the ring.

“Oh, that’s strange. Ancient artifacts don’t even have the ability to identify individuals of a specific bloodline, so how would you know that?”

Hearing this, Monica involuntarily gasped.

“Eh? Is that true?”

“It is. I’ve thoroughly investigated the matter. This is why the ‘Black Chalice’ you created holds value, and was such a threat to Duke Crockford.”

While ancient artifacts may show favoritism toward a particular bloodline, they do not actually have the ability to identify individuals belonging to that bloodline. Anyone can wield an artifact, as long as the artifact itself acknowledges them.

“Ancient artifacts can be used by anyone, making them little more than sentient tools. The personality part is just a bonus.”

“You insolent brat! You dare to mock me!?”

“Yeah.”

“…!”

The speechless Sophocles was met with a sardonic smile from Isaac. The icy disdain in that handsome face chilled Monica to the core.

Isaac grasped the ring with his left hand and used a fingernail of his right to tap the gemstone part.

“Do you know what useless tools are called? …Junk.”

“Wha…!? Y-You…!?”

“A mere tool dares to speak freely? Know your place, Key of Knowledge Sophocles.”

When playing the role of prince, Isaac was adept at manipulating others. A slight change in tone or facial expression was all it took to send a shiver down someone’s spine. Apparently, the same held true when dealing with ancient artifacts.

Shifting away from his cold tone, Isaac propped his chin on his hand, and began murmuring to himself in amusement.

“Shame is the most effective way of breaking someone’s pride. Now, how shall I humiliate you? …Ah, how about baking you into a pie? Those who find the ring in their slice will be king for the day.”

Sophocles let out a horrified scream, and Monica shared the sentiment.

Isaac shifted his gaze from Sophocles to Monica and grinned mischievously.

“Dudley-kun might accidentally swallow the whole ring if he takes a big bite. Nero, on the other hand, might end up crushing it.”

Despite being his master, the flustered Monica could do little as her disciple continued with a smirk.

At this point, Sophocles realized he had chosen the wrong man to make enemies with, and decided to give a proper response.

“I am the will that has guarded the Forbidden Archives for generations. That is clearly worthy of respect, no…?”

“Cyril tried to show you respect.”

“H-Hmph! I care not about that frail and effeminate man…”

“Insulting people based on their appearance is not commendable. Especially considering how Cyril is already self-conscious about his resemblance to his father.”

Isaac’s response left Monica wide-eyed.

(Cyril-sama is conscious of his appearance?)

Monica had never seen Cyril showing concern about his appearance. If anything, he seemed more concerned about his lack of muscles, as well as his condition of mana hyperabsorption.

Although Monica was not well-versed in the aesthetics of the nobility, she found it difficult to imagine Cyril’s appearance would be a problem. If anything, it should be the opposite. His sharp facial features, deep blue eyes, and lustrous silver hair were not commonly seen in commoners.

(Can I ask for more details?)

This did not seem to be a subject she should broach out of idle curiosity. Nevertheless, Monica wanted to know more about Cyril.

“…Does Cyril-sama not like his own appearance?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than a simple dislike… In fact, I would say it’s a more deeper-seated issue than Cyril himself might realize.”

Something not even Cyril himself realizes? So perhaps this was an unconscious concern?

As Monica wondered about the meaning of this, Isaac continued his explanation.

“Whenever someone makes a remark about Cyril’s appearance, be it praise or criticism, he often frowns or simply goes frozen stiff. It’s as if he’s unsure of how to react, struggling to determine the correct response.”

Isaac lowered his gaze and began fiddling with the Key of Knowledge using his fingertips. Perhaps he was choosing his next words carefully.

“Monica, how much do you know about Cyril’s biological father?”

“Um, just a bit… He didn’t have a noble title, right?”

Monica knew that Cyril was not born a noble, which led to his conflicts with Elliott, a man who adhered to a strict class-based ideology. But that was the extent of her knowledge.

Isaac explained in a slightly lowered tone.

“Apparently, Cyril’s father often bragged about his noble blood. He even disciplined Cyril into behaving like a noble at all times.”

Even Monica, someone who knew little of social norms, could understand how challenging it would be to live that way as a commoner.

And indeed, that was the case. Isaac continued with a wry smile.

“As a result, Cyril’s father ended up completely isolated, having no friends in the entire city. His father escaped by drowning himself in booze and turned into ‘human scum’, Cyril’s words… He started beating his wife until he eventually collapsed, then Cyril’s mother was left struggling with a son who resembled his father.”

“So then… Cyril-sama hates his father?”

“Does it seem that way to you?”

Monica thought over it before shaking her head.

Given Cyril’s earnest nature, it wasn’t hard to imagine his response. There was no way he could tolerate his father’s escape into alcohol and domestic violence.

However, if Cyril truly hated his father, he would have abandoned his father’s teachings, discarding his noble roots and adopting the mannerisms of a commoner.

“If Cyril really hated his father’s obsession with nobility… I think, um, he wouldn’t have agreed to be adopted by a noble.”

Isaac nodded and turned to look into the distance.

“True. Anger and hatred are similar, yet different. Cyril gets angry rather often, but he can’t bring himself to truly hate anyone.”

Surely, Cyril harbored much anger towards his father and his despicable actions. And yet, he could not bring himself to hate him, nor did he discard his father’s teachings.

“If Cyril had just allowed the hatred to consume him, then the rest would be simple. But he didn’t. Despite his rage, he still holds a certain amount of respect for his father. And since he resembles his father so much, Cyril can’t decide whether to be happy or angry when someone comments on his appearance. Or at least, that’s how I see it.”

Isaac’s tone somehow sounded both sympathetic and envious.

Monica raised her head to see Isaac holding onto the ring with a dark smile.

“I know how easy it is to act out of hatred. Those consumed by their hatred can become as ruthless as necessary, dirtying their hands without a second thought. That’s why Cyril’s refusal to take the easier path impressed me so much.”

“Ike.”

Monica spoke the name of her disciple in a firm tone.

Isaac had lost his former master and greatest friend, Prince Felix. As a result, he came to hate himself for his powerlessness. That was what drove him to “kill” himself and live as Felix instead.

“Um, I won’t say what you did is right… but I don’t think you chose the easier path.”

Caught off guard by Monica’s words, Isaac blinked a few times before ruffling his bangs and chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“It’s not good to spoil your disciple so much. But thank you, Master.”

Saying so, Isaac flicked Sophocles out of his hand and into the air. The jet-black ring flipped through the air, rotating like a coin.

“Gyaaaah!?”

The ring continued screaming until it was caught in Isaac’s hand.

“Anyway, it’s getting rather late. Have you changed your mind yet, Sophocles?”

“H-Hmph! I refuse to yield to threats!”

“You’ve already acknowledged Cyril, right? Years ago… back when Marquis Highown adopted him.”

Judging by the “Ugh!” grunt from the ring, Isaac seemed to be speaking the truth.

Monica widened her eyes and stared at the ring.

“I-Is that so?”

“As I see it, this incident is the result of your exaggerated complaints, which you seem to have a hard time retracting. I’m offering you a lifeline, Sophocles. It would be wise to come up with a compromise by tomorrow morning.

Isaac moved to return the ring to its box, before remembering something and pausing.

“Oh right, one last thing before I go to bed…”

Isaac put on a smile and peered right into Sophocles’s gemstone.

“Would you kindly retract the insult you made toward my master?”

“And who would that be?”

“This is her.”

Isaac held the ring up in front of Monica.

Not knowing how she was supposed to react, Monica simply nodded awkwardly.

“Um, yes… I am Ike’s mashter.”

“…”

Sophocles went completely silent at the sight of Monica biting her tongue. Meanwhile, Isaac beamed a radiant smile at the pitch-black ring.

“You say my master got a score of 15? That had better be out of 10, right? …How about you give me an answer before I consider throwing you into a pie again, Sophocles?”

“T-The highest I am willing to go is… 30 points!”

“I’m suddenly in the mood for a late-night snack. Monica, meat pie or cream pie, which one would you prefer?”

“I-Ike, Ike, I think that’s enough…”

＊　＊　＊

The guest room prepared for Cyril was small but neatly cleaned. Rather than the scent of dust or mold, the refreshing fragrance of herbs filled the air.

Cyril placed down his luggage and sat on the bed, allowing Thule and Pikeh, who had been riding his shoulders, to hop down onto his knees.

While Cyril often told the weasels to walk on their own, the risk of someone accidentally crushing them underfoot was frightening, so he had recently given up on that idea.

The two sat quietly on his knees, as if waiting to be petted. Even so, Cyril thought it was best to ask for permission regardless.

“May I pet you?”

“Sure.”

“Go ahead.”

Stroking their fluffy fur allowed Cyril to regain a bit of calm.

Cyril contemplated lighting the candles, but ultimately decided against it. In order to meet the wishes of ‘His Highness’, it would be best to sleep as soon as possible.

Thule and Pikeh remained silent instead of engaging in their usual chatter, likely their way of being considerate.

(It hasn’t been this quiet in a long time.)

Cyril gazed down at his right hand, which no longer bore the ring.

The Ascard Library was currently undergoing renovations, with some library services temporarily suspended. Entry into the Forbidden Archives was included, allowing Cyril to borrow the Key of Knowledge for about a month.

However, that’s not to say this was a strict time limit. Cyril’s foster father had said nothing about persuading Sophocles. Even if Cyril failed to persuade the ring in a month, Marquis Highown would never scold him for it.

It was Cyril himself who had stubbornly decided that he would use this month to persuade Sophocles. He had told himself that if he couldn’t do this, he wouldn’t be worthy of becoming the next Marquis Highown.

Cyril had come to Sazandol wearing the ring to have Monica examine the magical formula of the ancient artifact——but this was only an excuse, as the main problem was his own pride.

(His Highness probably saw through that.)

Whenever Cyril’s pride caused him to reach a point of no return, Isaac had always subtly intervened to pull Cyril back. He understood Cyril’s stubborn nature.

Cyril gradually grew sleepy as he stroked Thule and Pikeh, eventually collapsing onto the bed. Then, Thule approached Cyril’s head and playfully pulled at his hair tie.

“Should I untie your hair?”

“…Mm.”

Cyril mumbled an ambiguous response, seemingly too drowsy to untie his own hair. Pikeh took it upon herself to pull the tie off, causing the nape of Cyril’s neck to feel a bit lighter.

“It’ll get messy if you sleep with it tied.”

“…Mm.”

Cyrul mumbled in another response as he crawled under the covers.

Meanwhile, Pikeh placed the hair tie near Cyril’s pillow while voicing a doubt.

“Why do humans grow their hair long? It’s just a hassle.”

“Come to think of it, the human I copied also had long hair. Cyril, do you have a specific reason?”

“…Father told me to grow it out…”

When Cyril was young, his father had said: “This hair color is proof of our noble lineage.” Thus, Cyril obediently grew out his hair just like his father.

His father constantly said the same thing like a mantra: “The blood of nobles flows through my veins, and yours as well. We must behave with a dignity befitting that lineage.” Thus, Cyril mimicked his father’s dignified tone and mannerisms.

Cyril sometimes watched other children playing popular games with envy. When his father noticed this, he grimaced and said: “You are my son, so you mustn’t engage in such vulgar play.” Thus, Cyril averted his eyes from the joyous children and immersed himself in study.

When his father succumbed to alcohol and began abusing his mother, Cyril felt disgusted and rebelled against his father for the first time. And yet, he couldn’t change his ways.

Perhaps he still held respect for his father somewhere in his heart, or maybe he was simply too afraid to change himself. It might have been both.

Cyril always had a vague realization that his father’s values were out of sync with the rest of the world, causing friction due to those biases.

Cyril also knew that his mother grew anxious every time she saw traces of his father reflected in his appearance and behavior.

To solve this, he could simply cut his hair and start behaving like any other child. But for some reason, Cyril couldn’t bring himself to abandon what his father had taught him.

When his father died, Cyril didn’t know if he should feel relieved, happy, sad, or some combination of emotions. The only thing he could be certain about was the need to comfort his crying mother.

Rather than facing his own feelings towards his father, thinking about the future was much easier.

(Maybe I should have cut my hair back then.)

But in the end, the long hair that he had failed to cut seemed to be an answer in itself. Cyril didn’t like being told that he resembled his father, and yet, he continued to grow his hair by making excuses like he would feel awkward with it being too short.

Cyril felt something soft brushing against his cheek: Thule’s tail.

“You really love your daddy, huh?”

(I hate him. That detestable man. Always hitting Mother, shouting obscenities, and causing trouble for everyone. I loathe him with every fiber of my being.)

But every time Cyril told himself this, he felt a tightening in his chest. Why did it have to be this way? Why did he have to hate his dad?

And so, with drowsiness as an excuse, Cyril murmured his true feelings.

“…Mm.”

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