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My name is Elias Jan Bartek.

While there are slight differences depending on the country, commoners across the continent generally only have first names and no surnames (something like “Jim the Miller”). Those with a certain level of wealth and authority, such as village chiefs or large merchants, are allowed to use surnames if they are registered citizens (e.g., “John Smith the Village Chief” or “Mario Rossi the Moneylender”).

Furthermore, having two names usually indicates a person of knightly or noble status. Those higher in the social hierarchy, such as royalty or imperial family members, adhere to special traditions in naming and seldom use their full names—typically only during official ceremonies or when addressing someone of equal or higher rank. Additionally, there’s something called a Soul Name that the Superempire bestowed, which must remain an absolute secret, adding to the complexity.

As evident from my having a second name, I am technically of noble birth as well.

However, the Bartek family serves as vassals to the Count Tsaretska family in the Cilento Central Kingdom of the Livitium Imperial Kingdom. In the national noble directory, we barely make the cut as baronets, listed under “others” at the very bottom. Despite our noble status, we’re the quintessential poor nobles, likely outdone in wealth by capital-dwelling knights or rural gentry with ancient family lands.

As the third son, I would have normally been cast out with some excuse upon reaching adulthood. But thanks to some tenuous and almost severed connections on my mother’s side, I managed to get admitted to the Livitium Imperial Academy this year.

Essentially, my parents’ last-ditch effort was for me to either network and find a noble patron or pass a civil service exam to become self-sufficient.

I have no complaints about this arrangement. The fact that my parents scraped together the entrance fee—resulting in a six-month period of having a single meal a day at home—was a miracle in itself. I can’t possibly ask for more, it is literally impossible.

That’s why, after enrolling at age fourteen this year, I’ve been engrossed in studying and working to pay for tuition.

Of course, without any financial support from my family, attending the noble classes was a far-off dream. I live in the general dormitory with other common students and work part-time jobs, like copying manuscripts, to make ends meet.

My joining the Student Council Executive Committee was purely for financial reasons.

To be blunt, my roommate in the dormitory was a member of the Saintess Church from the Eunice Theocracy and tried to force me into the student council. Apparently, about a month after enrolling, he got a girlfriend and didn’t want to join the council anymore, so by his suggestion, the burden fell to me instead.

Naturally, I intended to decline, but there were reasons I couldn’t refuse.

Firstly, my family’s estate, the Tsaretska County, is geographically close to the Eunice Theocracy, where the Church’s power is strong. Thus, I couldn’t stand up to the student council backed by the Church due to these entanglements. In the countryside, the church’s authority often outweighs that of the local lord, highlighting the Church’s influence.

Secondly, they offered significant benefits for joining the council, such as reduced tuition fees, job placement assistance upon graduation, and other perks for school life.

In short, I was bound by both carrots and sticks. As a result, I was dragged into the student council executive committee’s organization and ended up doing menial tasks every day.

The Student Council Executive Committee consists of the President (Executive Director), Vice President (Deputy Director), Secretary, Treasurer, and Committee Members. Positions up to Secretary and Treasurer are completely occupied by noble members of the Eunice Theocracy. Someone like me, an outsider, couldn’t directly influence the council’s operations and had to obediently follow orders as a mere errand boy—or so I thought…

♦♢♦

“Oh, Priest—I mean, Cestlavie, are you having lunch here too?”

During the lunch break, I wandered around the courtyard with a humble paper bag containing a sugar-coated bread roll I had bought from the school store. Spotting Cestlavie Lowe, a new member of the student council executive committee, sitting alone on a bench and flipping through a notebook while eating, I couldn’t resist calling out to him.

“…Ah, um, you’re from the student council…”

His face showed recognition but struggled to recall my name.

“Elias. Elias Jan Bartek. We’re in the same group for the upcoming field study,” I added with a wry smile, feeling the need to explain. “Mind if I join you? Eating lunch alone is a bit lonely, even if it’s just the two of us guys.”

He didn’t object, so I took the liberty of sitting next to him and unwrapping my lunch. Seeing my meal, Cestlavie’s expression turned to one of surprise.

“My family is a poor noble household, and I’m the good-for-nothing third son. I have to cut costs to make ends meet,” I explained preemptively, as it was a usual occurrence.

His response was a disinterested “I see.”

He’s a peculiar fellow, I thought. Normally, when other students see someone from a noble family in shabby clothes with a meager meal, they’d either bombard them with curious questions or look at them with a mix of pity and superiority. But Cestlavie genuinely seemed uninterested and only gave a perfunctory nod.

He’s an odd one… No, thinking about it, he’s a mysterious figure in his own right.

He was from the Eunice Theocracy and held the rank of Priest at such a young age, earning him the nickname “prodigy.” However, being from a commoner background, he was just an ordinary member of the student council, like me… Yeah, I really only knew the superficial basics about him.

Given his position and the constant aura of “can’t be bothered” he exuded, even other members of the student council didn’t willingly engage with Cestlavie. I was usually busy, and the higher-ups in the student council didn’t like it when I talked to him, so I had mostly avoided him. But this time, my curiosity slightly outweighed my caution.

“By the way, that looks like quite a delicious meal you’re having. Doesn’t seem like a takeaway from the school cafeteria either.”

Cestlavie was eating a baguette sandwich, stuffed to the brim with lettuce, smoked salmon, ham, cheese, egg salad, pickles, tomatoes, paprika, bacon, and roast chicken. It was a sumptuous dish, and just looking at it made my mouth water. It was a real feast for the eyes.

Despite his shabby appearance and unkempt hair, which made me think he was a fellow poor student, it seemed he wasn’t as hard up for money as he looked.

“Oh, this is from that place called… Leti-something-Café. I got it as a takeaway.”
“Leti…? You mean, Letindüte?!”
“…Yeah, I think that’s it.”
“They have that kind of menu too! I’ve heard great things about it, but it seems expensive and I was worried about the dress code, so I’ve never been there.”
“You don’t need to. Sure, it’s pricier than the school cafeteria, but it’s so good I’d skip two or three meals just to eat there. And I’ve never had any complaints even though I always go dressed like this.”

Cestlavie pulled at his worn-out, old uniform and laughed self-deprecatingly.

Technically, uniforms are formal attire for students, so there shouldn’t be any problem wearing them anywhere. But there are plenty of places that don’t welcome obviously poor people like us. Cestlavie must have had his own experiences of being turned away or treated poorly.

I suddenly felt a strong sense of kinship with him. And contrary to my initial impression that he was unfriendly, he answered all my questions and seemed to be quite considerate and sociable.

“Really? Maybe I’ll give it a try sometime. But do you eat there often?”

I asked, thinking he might be a foodie, but instead of replying, Cestlavie took out a bundle of some kind of paper slips from his pocket and waved it at me.

“I got a set of ten meal coupons from that cafe. A couple of days ago, Jill gave me a bunch more as a thank you for ‘letting me catch the Chairwoman off guard,’ so I’ve been using them without hesitation.”
“Wow, lucky you. —So, who’s this big-hearted-Jill?”¹　
“…Aah, hmm. I think her name is Julia Fortuna or something, she’s the noble who owns the cafe. I tend to call her by her nickname.”

Hearing the unexpected name slip from Cestlavie, I almost choked on my bread roll.