Into the Manuscript (3)
That morning, a woman named Lyuba—the dorm matron—came to see Jungjin with a doctor in tow.
Still groggy, he stuck to the story he'd prepared: he remembered nothing except his own name.
The mustached doctor pressed an antique stethoscope against his chest and checked him over from head to toe.
As expected, there was nothing wrong. The doctor merely concluded that the frail boy must have suffered shock after falling into the water.
Good. I was worried they might find something weird and make a fuss, but no such thing. Thank God.
He nearly smiled in relief, but Lyuba, who had introduced herself as the dorm matron, kept talking to him.
A kind-faced middle-aged woman, she looked at Cleio with pity, gently patting his thin back as she asked, again and again, whether he had really fallen into the river by accident during a walk.
By the third time she'd asked the same thing in slightly different words, Jungjin finally caught on.
This feels… like the way they talk to a soldier on suicide watch.
He understood now. Cleio Aser had probably tried to kill himself.
And he had succeeded. Because the person lying here wasn't Cleio anymore—it was Kim Jungjin.
"We tried contacting Baron Aser of Colfos, but there's been no reply."
"I see."
"Don't worry too much, dear. It's the busy season for trade, after all. Your father's the greatest merchant in all of Albion—he must have important matters to attend to. I'm sure he's not neglecting you on purpose, you understand?"
"Of course, ma'am."
Jungjin's drowsiness vanished instantly. That was a crucial bit of information.
The Baron Aser of Colfos—one of the wealthiest men in the nation.
The words engraved themselves in his mind in bold 24-point Gothic type: rich, noble (though minor), not common-born.
Now that's a jackpot.
It seemed Cleio Aser had entered the academy not through talent or birth, but through sheer financial clout.
He fought to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up, but Lyuba misread the expression, her face softening with even more sympathy.
"But your father's secretary did say that your allowance was transferred again this week. Why don't you go check with the bank later?"
So the kid attempted suicide, and all his father did was wire money? Yeah, that tells you everything about the family.
If he'd been the real Cleio Aser, that kind of cold response would've been devastating.
Even a background extra in a story has their own pain and longing, even if it's never written down.
If I disappeared from the real world, nobody would know, nobody would care—just like Cleio here.
A life no better than a forgotten character's—a life in the margins, disconnected from the main story.
Jungjin shook off the melancholy.
Still, better to get money than none. No need to get sentimental again. I'm Cleio now. Cleio Aser. Gotta think positive. Every Korean working-class man's dream is to be a rich family's neglected son.
He pictured it: staring out over a glittering cityscape from a grand mansion, sighing, "Why doesn't Father love me?" as he uncorked an expensive bottle of wine.
Anyway, he really did need to check the balance in that account later.
"Once you've recovered a bit, you may go out. I'll tell your roommate, Nebo, to accompany you tomorrow or the day after. You have five days of medical leave from today until Friday, so rest well. I've also asked the dining hall to send meals up to your room."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"My, Cleio—this is the first time you've actually looked me in the eye while answering. I'm so happy."
As Lyuba left the room, Cleio clicked his tongue inwardly.
Just how gloomy was the real kid, that he couldn't even meet the eyes of someone being this kind to him?
He slept as if making up for ten years of lost rest. Free from rent, loans, and deadlines, sleep came easy—too easy.
When he finally woke up, it was nearly noon.
A page came by to replace his bedding and deliver breakfast, but Cleio had slept straight through it.
Having someone else do such things for him felt strange, but pleasant. After the attendant left, he sat down for a very late breakfast.
It was comfortable.
It was wonderful.
He'd never experienced luxury like this in his entire life.
What kind of school is this? It's better than a hotel.
In his old world, he'd always said, "I'm dying," but every Korean office worker knew what that really meant—I want to stop working and just live easy.
According to the manuscript, there was only one catch to being a student here.
Mandatory military service after graduation.
But that was an easy problem to solve.
Just don't graduate.
Doing well in school is hard. Failing? That's easy.
Polishing off the last grape from the tray, Cleio carried the empty dishes to the hall outside his room, ready to step into his new life.
The dormitory was designed so that two students shared a single entrance, with a hallway dividing two opposing bedrooms.
Each room had a window overlooking the academy grounds, where dense forests stretched far and wide. The shared living room and bathroom were positioned at the corridor's far end, facing the river.
On the door he'd just stepped out of, a brass nameplate read "Cleio Aser."
The one opposite it bore the name "Nebo Yarvi."
So that's the roommate Lyuba mentioned. Sounds like this Nebo kid's supposed to keep an eye on Cleio.
At the moment, though, Nebo was nowhere to be seen—probably off at class.
That suited Jungjin just fine. With no roommate around, he could use the bathroom freely. Humming a tune, he began filling the tub.
At this point, he almost felt grateful toward the author.
This isn't bad at all. Running water, a bathtub… Imagine if I'd been dropped into one of those medieval fantasy settings—with straw beds, no plumbing, and nobles sleeping next to their pigs. That would've been hell.
He soaked in the hot water with a blissful sigh, then roughly toweled himself dry. His hair puffed up and tangled, so he gave up on combing it and just tousled it into shape.
The reflection in the mirror was still alien to him.
A gaunt, underfed boy stared back—cheeks sunken, skin so pale it had a bluish tint even after a bath. His scraggly brown hair looked brittle and faded toward the tips.
The oversized bathrobe swallowed his frame, leaving only his fingertips visible.
His father's supposedly a tycoon, and yet this kid looks half-starved.
When he frowned, the light caught his hazel-green irises, bringing out a dull glint of mossy green. His drooping eyes and long lashes gave him a perpetually tired, timid expression.
No wonder the other kids might've bullied him. Looks like an easy target.
People had told Jungjin before that he looked gloomy—but this was the first time his face itself seemed to invite trouble.
Well, whatever. I'm not planning to stay long anyway.
He'd been told to rest for a week. And a good student, after all, followed instructions—by eating, sleeping, and relaxing as hard as possible.
When he left the bathroom, the wide window of the common room revealed the Tempus River glittering beyond.
Jungjin hesitated instinctively—he'd never liked water—but the breathtaking view drew him closer to the terrace.
Across the river, towering granite castles and sandstone parliament buildings lined the opposite bank, looking like something out of a postcard.
Never been abroad before, and yet here I am, sightseeing.
Eight great bridges spanned the Tempus, connecting east and west. On the broad avenues, trams rattled alongside shared carriages.
The world, he recalled, was roughly comparable to the late 19th century—trams and telegraphs existed, but airplanes and hydrogen bombs did not. A time when kings and prime ministers ruled alongside mages and scientists.
Lost in comparing the manuscript's descriptions with the real scenery, he suddenly felt something long and furry brush against his leg.
The sensation was warm—alive. His skin crawled.
"Ugh—what the hell!"
Crouched by his feet was a massive cat, the size of a mountain lynx.
Sleek, black fur shimmered like silk, except for white patches around its muzzle, paws, and belly—like it had dunked itself in cream.
It glared up at him with glossy, jet-black eyes, meowing indignantly.
"What kind of cat's this big?"
Despite the adorable markings and fluffy whiskers, its expression was somehow… smug. Offensively so.
"Wreeeooow—"
The meowing grew louder, angrier. Startled, Cleio crouched down to meet its gaze.
"What's your problem?"
"Wreeeeeeeowk!!!"
"Right, like I can understand cat—"
The moment he muttered that, the "Promise" on his left hand flared with golden light.
[―The base function of 'Promise' is now active.]
Suddenly, the cat's cries shifted into words.
"Food."
"?!"
"Give food. Why did you eat today, and not me?"
"…Wait, cats talk in this world?!"
The enormous feline, apparently offended by his dumbfounded tone, smacked him across the face with a soft yet shockingly strong paw. His head whipped sideways.
What the—how is it this strong?!
Though the claws were sheathed, the blow from that fluffy white paw packed the force of a hammer.
"How dare you! You dare treat me, the noble spirit-beast, as if I were one of those lowly animals?! There may be countless felines in this world, but I alone possess true intelligence!"