Winter at Galgard Noble Academy was quiet.
Even with the roar of magical explosions in the distance, it was quiet.
Though the school buildings rattled and groaned from the vibrations, it was quiet.
Even as the Academy Director sprinted past, screaming at the top of her lungs, it was quiet.
...
Listen, if I say it was quiet, then it was quiet!
I was one of the instructors at Galgard Noble Academy in the Royal Capital. I had been here for quite some time—a veteran, of sorts. My subject was etiquette.
To be blunt, my classroom was rarely popular. This was a Noble Academy, after all. Most of the students were the children of high-ranking families or their associates. Because of that, they were expected to have mastered the basics of manners long before they ever set foot in these halls.
"What is there left for us to learn about etiquette at this point?" they often asked.
I could understand their perspective, to a degree. However—and this was a big "however"—just because you have mastered the basics doesn't mean you have reached the pinnacle of the art, does it? There was still so much more to learn. Truly. I wanted to tell them that. In fact, I did.
The students usually responded with a shrug and a smile. "Instructor, you worry too much about the tiny details."
...Isn't etiquette entirely about worrying over the tiny details? It isn't just about being nitpicky. Well, fine.
In the Demon Kingdom, where standing was decided by raw strength, people tended to be quite lenient regarding manners. It was a loose, informal society. The general philosophy was simply "try not to make the other person angry." Demon Kingdom etiquette had originally been cobbled together out of sheer necessity when negotiating with the Ancient Devils and the Dragon Race. It was far from perfect.
That was exactly why I believed we should strive for refinement, but you can't force manners onto someone who doesn't want them. The desire to learn was what mattered most.
If a student had that spark, I would welcome them no matter who they were. I remembered one particularly impressive student from about eighty years ago. He was a male Ogre who couldn't speak a word of the common tongue. His parents had distinguished themselves in the war and were granted the rank of Baron, and the poor boy had been forcibly enrolled in the Academy. He came to me in tears, begging me to teach him manners—in the Ogre language, of course.
I was terrified back then. I genuinely thought he might kill me. Ogres have naturally frightening faces to begin with, and the only two phrases he could manage in the common tongue were "Die" and "Drop dead."
It took nearly half a year just to understand what he was trying to communicate, but he was incredibly persistent. I refused to give up, and we both worked ourselves to the bone. By the time I had mastered the Ogre language myself, his etiquette education finally began in earnest. We started his common tongue lessons at the same time.
It was a struggle, but he was brilliant. In just two months, he learned how to give proper greetings. When meeting someone, he would say "Hello," and when leaving, he would say "Goodbye." They weren't Noble Language greetings, of course. Words with such layered, complex meanings were far too advanced for him then. It was just the plain common tongue.
I wanted to teach him so much more, but the war didn't allow for it. His parents eventually called him back to the front lines. Our time together lasted less than a year, but I prayed for his safety every day.
Despite my fears, he thrived. He was so successful that he even earned a nickname: "Hello Ogre." It seemed he had never forgotten his manners, even in the middle of a battle. That made me truly happy. We stayed in touch over the decades; I was invited to his wedding and eventually to his daughter's as well. I suppose his granddaughter’s wedding will be next. The Ogre language I learned from him has served me well ever since.
Oops, this was no time for nostalgia.
I was supposed to be enjoying the leisure of winter break, but I was currently busy preparing for the new curriculum starting in the spring. And please, don't ask why an unpopular instructor needs to prepare so much. The entire Academy system was about to undergo a major shift.
In the past, students were free to choose their own subjects. They would complete assignments to earn a Certificate of Graduation for that class; once they collected three, they graduated. That basic structure remained, but now, "General Common Tongue," "Common Tongue Document Creation," and "Etiquette" had been made mandatory.
While these mandatory classes didn't give out assignments, students earned points just by attending. They now needed a total of thirty points to graduate. The Academy's guideline was roughly one point per attendance, which encouraged students to attend each mandatory class about ten times.
There was a loophole, of course. A student could earn all thirty points by attending just one of those classes thirty times. It was left that way because sometimes a student simply couldn't grasp a specific subject no matter how hard they tried. Consequently, there was a chance that my classroom would remain empty—but there was also a chance it would be flooded with students. Hence, the preparation.
The Academy changed its system to reflect the shifting tides of the Demon Kingdom. For years, the kingdom had prioritized military strength, but things had been relatively peaceful for the last decade or so. Then, quite suddenly, the government issued a declaration of victory.
From now on, the kingdom would focus on internal administration. It was the ambition—or rather, the hope—of the Demon Kingdom that future nobles would be able to hold proper conversations, read and write fluently, and possess at least a baseline level of manners. I heard the civil officials in the Royal Capital put immense pressure on the Demon King to make it happen. As a result, the Academy was forced to evolve.
The school usually didn't bow to external pressure, but I suppose the leadership agreed that this was the best path forward for the kingdom's future. It wasn't a bad change. Still, it meant I was stuck working through the winter. It didn't seem quite fair that the burden fell on so few of us.
A knock sounded at my door, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Instructor, it's dinner time!"
Oh, was it already that late? I felt like it had been noon only moments ago. The Dining Hall usually closed during the winter because there were so few people around. Today was no exception. Usually, that meant we had to fend for ourselves, but recently, a group of volunteers had been gathering to cook for everyone. It was a wonderful gesture.
Of course, it wasn't free. You had to pay for the food, provide ingredients, or contribute labor. I had contributed labor; I had built the tables and chairs.
I was actually quite confident in my woodworking. The students often told me I should open a woodworking class instead of an etiquette one. Woodworking wasn't exactly a "noble" pursuit, so I didn't think it would ever be part of the curriculum, but I enjoyed it. Since I had built enough furniture for about fifty people recently, I was allowed to eat for free until spring. I wasn't about to let that go to waste.
I stepped outside. It was freezing, but the bonfires near the dining area kept the chill at bay as long as the wind didn't pick up. Maybe I should build a proper hut for us to eat in? That would be construction rather than just woodworking, but I was sure I could manage it.
"Instructor! Today's menu is curry, pasta, and sandwiches," a student called out.
They had set up three separate serving stations, each with its own line. The curry looked like the standard recipe, though I heard today’s batch was a bit milder. The pasta sauce was loaded with hearty chunks of meat. Then there were the sandwiches—ingredients tucked between slices of bread. Apparently, some people were trying to call them "burgers" lately, but the name didn't matter to me. What did matter was the filling... it was katsu! Deep-fried meat soaked in a thick, savory black sauce.
Perfect. I'd take two. The student who had guided me chose the sandwiches as well, though they grabbed three for themselves. I hoped they wouldn't regret that; leaving food behind was a sure way to get a scolding.
We sat by one of the fires to eat.
"By the way," I asked, "what was that explosion earlier?"
"That?" the student laughed. "Oh, Kihatroy-san was teasing Ojes-san again. There’s a massive hole in the ground now. The Academy Director was furious. She sent them both into the forest to go hunting as punishment. Tomorrow’s dinner is going to be quite a feast."
I see. So it had been Ojes-san, the Mixed-Generation Dragon.
...Mixed-Generation Dragons were supposed to be legendary, the kind of creature you might see once a century flying in the distance. I suppose that didn't mean much anymore. During the Spring Parade, even God-tier dragons—a race far rarer than Mixed-Generation Dragons—had been lined up in the streets. There were even scores of Ancient Devils, a race thought to have been extinct. Compared to that, I suppose a single Mixed-Generation Dragon wasn't much of a shock.
Once I finished my meal, I decided to call it a day. Designing the dining hut sounded like much more fun than lesson planning. I could get the materials from the students who acted as brokers. As for the labor... even if my classroom was unpopular, I knew I could find a few people to help if I asked.
Wait, if it was for building something rather than studying manners, I might end up with more volunteers than I could handle.
I am the etiquette teacher. I actually wrote a commentary book on the Ogre language. Among the Ogres, there’s a saying: "If you're in trouble, go find that instructor."