The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 1108

Chapter 1108: Keep Up

Well, normally they wouldn’t.

Unfortunately, he would.

Because even in death, the threat of a licensure exam would continue haunting the allegedly deceased blonde in the form of regular reminders from his terrifyingly diligent good brother.

Yes.

The same brother who somehow managed to appear out of nowhere to ask whether he’d practiced already.

The same brother who could emerge from behind a tree, a doorway, or what Ollie strongly suspected was a bush one time, only to gently inquire about his progress as though he weren’t seconds away from suffering cardiac arrest.

To be fair, even while the poor unofficial mechanic’s heart was still in pieces after receiving what felt suspiciously like a draft notice disguised as an insider tip, Ollie was aware that Luca only ever meant well.

Just as always.

And considering how busy his brother already was, the fact that he’d taken time out of his schedule to worry about the blonde’s suddenly bleak future was honestly something he should be grateful for.

Which was why, if there was something Ollie ought to be doing aside from ensuring his continued survival, it was probably reassuring his saint of a brother that he wasn’t actually too upset about being implicated.

"...???"

Yes.

Exactly that.

The current concern was actually being upset from being implicated.

"..."

"..."

Now, this might sound like a rather strange concern when he’d originally spent several hours contemplating biological decomposition after learning about the prospective schedule...

But for the concern to suddenly shift into that somewhere, somehow?

Just how did that happen?

More importantly, implicated in what?

Well...

Apparently in political manipulation.

Specifically, political manipulation disguised as a petty yet monumentally destructive feud between interstellar master mechanics and their respective counterparts.

A feud that somehow transformed Oliver Mylor and his future Official Mechanic License into the hottest political tool currently available.

"..."

Ridiculous, right?

The truly horrifying part was that somehow it sounded rather logical.

And it all started when the various delegations that had visited Solara finally returned home.

Back to their domains.

Back to the unfortunate people who hadn’t been invited or chosen to go.

And naturally, the moment they arrived, they began talking.

About everything.

As in everything.

The food.

The facilities.

The scenery.

The people.

The products.

The guilds.

The mechas.

Of course, the people back home had probably already watched everything through the streams and were well aware of what was being discussed.

Even so, this was different.

Because no matter how many times someone replayed a recording, it simply couldn’t compare to hearing the stories from people who had actually been there to witness everything firsthand.

If they could have replayed the sights, smells, sounds, and sensations of their visit directly into someone else’s brain, they would’ve done so without hesitation.

Not only because it served as excellent bragging material.

But because they genuinely had too much to say. All pent up and ready to launch after spending the entire trip maintaining proper decorum while representing their respective domains.

There were standards to uphold.

Images to maintain.

Appearances to preserve.

Now that they were finally home?

All restraint immediately died.

"You can’t possibly imagine what we experienced over there!"

"Look at this!"

"Do you know how close I came to death just to get this?!"

"Ah! And everyone, please admire our newest family heirloom!"

"What heirloom?"

"The apron."

"..."

"The what?"

"The apron!"

A proud Orc in question immediately puffed out his chest.

"Even if the rest of the universe wanted one, what can they do when only a select few families like ours can claim ownership of the earliest customized kitchen aprons?"

"..."

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