The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL]

The room stilled.

Every single person turned to look at Prince Elior.

At this point, several innocent and hardworking guild members silently wished they had prepared the way Ollie had, complete with snacks and beverages, because simply listening to this unfolding disaster felt like a full-day excursion. Even Noah found it interesting after a long day of work.

People can say whatever, but it was no wonder others were so interested in hearing gossip between nobles. Where else would he be able to listen to something like this when earlier they had been concerned about the fate of humanity and Jax’s cabbages?

”The conscription?” asked Luca, who didn’t quite understand the connection between who was really talking to Princess Kira and the Imperial conscription.

”Yes,” Elior answered as calmly as possible.

He glanced briefly at Xavier before continuing.

”His Imperial Highness would probably understand this part. It’s often possible to predict when such an edict will be issued. And that was the case for House Kyros.”

Increasing the number of troops rightfully eligible for service couldn’t happen overnight. It required preparation. They quite literally needed people they could train so they’d have manpower to deploy. Resources had to be allocated. Notices had to be quietly drafted.

As a house heavily involved in frontline deployments, even while maintaining seclusion, House Kyros could read the signs long before the official announcement.

They knew it was coming.

”A conscription would’ve been disastrous for the real heir,” Elior continued. ”Because everything we’d done to justify homeschooling the Young Lord would’ve been rendered useless.”

Several people inhaled sharply.

Because that was true.

Worse, Luca Kyros wasn’t expected to attend just any institution.

He was expected to attend the Royal Military Academy.

Of all places.

At that point, the situation had been catastrophically absurd.

They had an actual heir who was in no condition to attend school.

They had a terminally ill prince whose primary qualifications included looking good in expensive clothes while wearing another person’s face.

And they had a keyboard warrior aide who, most definitely, couldn’t stand in as Luca because he was just too brawny to match any of the photos already circulating.

So they needed a delicate beauty who could charm his way around people.

In person.

Every day.

”The problem,” Elior admitted, rubbing his face, ”was my sheer inability to woo even my own shadow.”

A few snorts escaped before anyone could stop them.

”Physically attending school as a known player would’ve been impossible for someone so awkward he needed practice.” Elior was most definitely referring to himself as he confessed to his dark history.

”So yes, I had to practice. And that was how I ended up on a different platform where I definitely couldn’t use Luca’s profile.”

It had been a disaster at first.

Prince Elior, who was already perpetually exhausted from his illness, genuinely couldn’t understand why responding to something as simple as ”hi” required so much thought. He would stare at greetings for minutes at a time, wondering whether replying too quickly seemed desperate, whether replying too late seemed arrogant, and whether ”hello” sounded too formal while ”hey” sounded too casual. By the time he settled on something, the moment had often passed.

It was ridiculous. He wondered why Rahil was adamant that he learn all of that, saying it should be easy if he just thought of it as royal etiquette.

One day, just as he was about to give up on the entire exercise and label it fruitless practice, someone abruptly called him ill-mannered.

Ill-mannered.

He still remembered how he shot up from the couch, suddenly triggered by an accusation that had come completely out of nowhere. He hadn’t insulted anyone. He hadn’t mocked anyone. At best, today, he had simply failed to respond fast enough.

Apparently, that was a crime. But why would he even be judged as such when that was clearly the first time he was interacting with this person?

For once, the man who struggled to compose basic replies found himself drafting a proper response to someone he had never even spoken to before. He was annoyed, if only because that day he had actually tried not to offend anyone with curt answers.

But before he could send what he had typed, the other party sent another message.

He read it once.

Then again.

Then slowly erased everything he had written.

Because the complaint wasn’t about his manners at all. It was about the profile image.

Specifically, the inappropriate use of a historical ceremonial club to fend off a modern giant throwing club.

Prince Elior had stared at the screen in disbelief. What followed was an entire essay dissecting weapon history, ceremonial significance, and why the pairing was offensively inaccurate. He hadn’t even selected the image with thought. It had been a random background grabbed from Star Net. And yet the stranger’s outrage was so passionate that Elior himself began to feel wronged on behalf of the ceremonial club.

It was the most random and objectively useless conversation he had engaged in for a very long time.

And when he finally looked up from his terminal, he realized hours had passed.

Hours during which he had not thought about his failing body.

Hours during which he had not counted down an invisible clock.

He had simply responded.

That was when it occurred to him that perhaps speaking to strangers wasn’t such a terrible thing.

Except that the conversation didn’t remain random.

The prince who had insisted he would only log in briefly each day for practice began lingering longer, claiming he was merely studying communication patterns. In truth, he was learning. He learned which cleaning technique was appropriate for her favorite weapons. He learned which books were best to use as references. He learned about the purpose of those initially idiotic virtual flowers.

The man had learned to flirt.

It was just that, by the time he chose to showcase his own body instead of someone else’s when asked for photos, it became obvious he wouldn’t be able to send those unsettling emojis with noses to anyone else.

And that, strangely enough, felt right.

Days that once passed without color began carrying anticipation. He found himself waiting for notifications. Waiting for replies. Even more surprising was the realization that he genuinely felt better as the days went by.

It was likely psychological. A change in mindset. But it didn’t matter.

For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to imagine a future.

An actual future.

One he quietly promised he would have with her.

And just as they had begun speaking about those vague but hopeful plans, Rahil entered the room looking as though he had swallowed ice.

”They’re really conscripting,” Rahil said, voice tight. ”We have to go to Planet Nova.”