◆ Breaking Free from a Life Adrift
In this world, a knightly noble house—a “House of Knightly Rank”—stood as a bridge between the nobility and the common folk.
Their bodies bore inherent magical power, yet they also possessed “techniques”—martial skills honed through discipline. They were neither fully noble nor entirely common. In the beginning, they had been warriors among the people, those without magic but with the strength to fight. Over time, through marriage alliances between lower-ranked nobles and skilled warriors, their lineage blended, forming a distinct class.
In terms more familiar to another world, they were akin to regional warlords—rulers of the frontier lands, unrefined yet honorable, standing firm in their devotion to their homeland. They lacked the grandeur of high nobility, yet through sheer will and martial prowess, they defended their lands with blood and steel.
From a historical perspective, one might liken them to landed samurai—a warrior class born from the necessity of battle, tied not to vast estates but to the duty of protection.
Initially, their power lay in military strength. Then, as settlements grew, their influence extended into economic governance. They naturally assumed the role of mediators, balancing the demands of the few who held power against the many who held none.
―――― A tool for the state—to enforce its will upon the common folk.
Thus, a House of Knightly Rank was born. Unlike Baronial Houses, who were considered true nobles, the rank of knightly nobility was granted at the discretion of the lord who ruled over a given domain. They were hereditary knights, but they held no land. Instead, they were permitted to raise their own soldiers, to fortify and defend the places they called home.
Much like merchant families, they engaged in trade to sustain themselves. Their households managed financial affairs, while their warriors trained and maintained arms to fend off external threats.
These men were given titles by the ruling nobles, yet they held no lands of their own. They were warriors bound not to a vast domain, but to a single place—their home and people.
To the nobility of the central kingdom, they were barely considered true aristocrats at all.
At the very bottom of the noble hierarchy, there existed another title—the Baronet.
The Baronet Houses were anomalies, born from political necessities. A baronet’s rank was limited to one generation—a temporary nobility, nothing more. Their children were stripped of noble status, doomed to return to common life.
In truth, they were little more than tools for the higher nobility.
They served as tax collectors, performed dirty work, and in times of war, they stood as human shields before the magic-wielding knights. Their rank held no prestige, their lives often ending in loneliness, for few took wives.
The knightly houses, on the other hand, were different.
They were deeply rooted in their lands, witnessing the struggles of the common folk firsthand. Though positioned at the fringes of nobility, they possessed a fierce love for their homeland and an unshakable warrior’s pride.
Yet even among these low-ranking noble families, social divisions remained stark.
To the nobility of the capital, the knightly houses were no different from commoners.
As the third son of such a house, my position in life was clear.
From a practical standpoint, I was little more than a commoner.
And yet, by the strict hierarchy of this world, I was also a ruler, albeit at the very bottom of the ladder.
No matter how insignificant my station, I was still a part of the ruling class.
Thus, my education differed greatly from that of the common folk.
Unlike my elder brothers, I was not raised solely as a warrior. Under my mother’s instruction, I was taught arithmetic, law, and courtly manners—all meant to support the family’s business affairs.
As a son of a knightly house, it was not the path I had expected. Yet I did not complain. Perhaps my mother foresaw that such knowledge would serve me better in the future than skill at arms ever could.
My two elder brothers were exceptional men.
Alongside the sons of wealthy merchants and minor lords, they were trained to govern. They studied the ways of rulership, learning to interpret and execute the will of higher nobility. They were raised not just as warriors, but as commanders—leaders who could impose the law upon the land.
They wielded both sword and strategy, mastering the art of battle as well as diplomatic discretion.
Even more, they were trained to read between the lines of a lord’s decree—to translate absolute commands into something the common folk could understand and obey.
A knightly noble was not merely a warrior. He was an administrator. A steward of the people.
Thus, these houses could never be entrusted to outsiders. Their **education, their duty, their very way of thinking—**these things had to be passed through blood.
It was a hereditary burden, not merely a title.
I respected my brothers greatly. They knew their duty, and they worked tirelessly to fulfill it.
As for me…
I lacked the passion they possessed.
Perhaps it was the remnants of my past life, but I found myself indifferent to my own future.
I studied only because I knew knowledge was necessary.
I understood—far more than most—the weight of ignorance.
But passion? Drive? A will to carve out a future?
No.
That fire had been extinguished in me long ago.
By the time I reached ten years of age, I was regarded as… ordinary.
Neither gifted nor lacking.
My body was strong, but not exceptional.
I had no remarkable talent for the sword.
To all, I was simply another boy.
My family cared for me, but as the third son, I was not a priority.
I did not lack for affection. But my family was burdened—life in the frontier was relentless.
Endless matters demanded my father’s attention. My brothers were already being prepared for their roles.
Thus, there was little time left for me.
I understood this.
And so, I never complained.
Then came my tenth birthday.
That day, everything changed.
In the kingdom, all children upon reaching the age of ten were required to visit the church.
There, they underwent a ritual to determine their magical power and their “technique.”
That morning, there was no grand celebration. No feast, no gifts.
My family was far too busy for such things.
The day began, as always, with a simple greeting.
“Good morning.”
And so, without ceremony, I left the manor, informing the house steward of my destination.
He barely acknowledged it.
To him, it was an ordinary event.
Perhaps he did not even realize what day it was.
“That’s just how things are,” I thought to myself.
With no escort, I walked alone to the church—
To learn my fate.