“Huff… huff…”
For a moment, Dellev thought he’d blacked out. The world spun, his vision trembled—but then a firm hand seized his shoulder and steadied him back into reality.
“Student Dellev Kundel,” said Ziel calmly. “Go get some water.”
“Th-thank you.”
He barely managed to straighten up, his legs still trembling like reeds in the wind. The strength had drained from every inch of his body—but strangely, it felt… good.
When was the last time I ran like this?
He raised the flask to his lips. Gulp after gulp slid down his throat, each mouthful so sweet and cold it made him dizzy. The sting of losing to Celia vanished in an instant, replaced by the light, heady thrill of freedom.
Across the field, Celia herself finally collapsed, though not before Ziel darted forward and caught her by the arm.
“Student Celia Rihardt. Go get some water. Two hundred and twenty-six laps.”
“Th-thank you, sir…” she panted, cheeks burning scarlet.
“Your ears are red again,” Ziel observed mildly.
“T-that’s because—”
Whether from embarrassment or something else entirely, Celia gave up trying to explain.
“I looked it up in a medical text once,” Ziel continued in that same unruffled tone. “Apparently it can happen after overeating—or drinking.”
Celia scowled and pulled free, marching off to the water barrel before she said something she’d regret. The water hit her tongue like lightning—sweet, sharp, alive. For the first time in years, she felt utterly weightless.
She had trained in swordsmanship her whole life as a Rihardt, just as Dellev had trained as a Kundel. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this. Before awakening their mana, such exertion was impossible; after awakening it, such exhaustion was unnecessary. The two of them weren’t the only ones thinking the same thing—every student in the yard stared at the sky with identical disbelief.
Of course, none had yet guessed Ziel’s true purpose.
A body trained without mana will, once imbued with it, grow all the stronger.
Even the most talented assassins could not maintain mana for days on end. They spent weeks—sometimes months—lying in wait for their mark, surviving only on endurance. For that, they trained their bodies the old-fashioned way: strength without sorcery.
Ziel’s lesson was the same—an assassin’s regimen disguised as a physical-education class. He was forging bodies that could bear power, not simply wield it.
The students were far too exhausted to protest anyway. They sprawled across the field like discarded cloaks, breathless and limp.
I want to take a leave of absence…
If only I’d enrolled a year later…
Such were the thoughts echoing through the Sword School’s newest recruits—everyone except two.
Dellev.
And Celia.
***
“Now,” Ziel announced, “I will read out each student’s record. Yurio Harmattan—twenty laps. Next…”
No one even had the energy to gasp. Without so much as a notebook, Ziel recited every name and number flawlessly from memory.
“…and finally, Celia Rihardt—two hundred and twenty-six laps.”
Celia smiled faintly. The pride of the Rihardt family had been defended well enough.
“Dellev and Celia… they’re insane.”
“Talent. Pure talent.”
The murmurs died when Ziel’s voice carried again over the field.
“Today we measured your basic stamina. You should now understand where each of you stands.”
From Yurio’s twenty laps to Celia and Dellev’s ten-times-that, the gulf between them yawned wide.
“Our goal for the year is simple,” Ziel went on. “Those who ran fewer than fifty laps will increase their record fourfold.”
“F-fourfold?” Yurio squeaked.
“Your stamina is insufficient. I hear that from the second year onward, the curriculum shifts toward live combat.”
“But—”
“The purpose of these general courses,” Ziel cut him off, “is to prepare your bodies for the true work ahead.”
He dismissed further complaints with a flick of his hand.
“Next: those below a hundred laps—triple it.”
Silence.
“Below two hundred—double it.”
The stronger the student, the smaller the multiplier; Ziel was balancing the field, not breaking it. Even assassin training, ruthless as it was, demanded parity. The weak were brought up, the strong tempered further.
It was harsh, but logical.
All about matching the pace, he mused. Push too far, and even talent snaps.
Still, the goals were ambitious.
Wait, I did over hundred laps… am I doomed?
I’m dead. I’m actually dead.
Their teacher seemed unconcerned.
“And finally—those who ran more than two hundred laps.”
Two names only.
Dellev Kundel.
Celia Rihardt.
Double? Maybe less?
Or is he going to make them triple it?
Ziel smiled faintly, confounding every guess.
“You two will train by a different method.”
“Excuse me?” they chorused, almost in unison.
“A separate class,” he said simply.
“What kind of class?” Celia’s eyes brightened.
Dellev tried to look indifferent but couldn’t quite hide his interest.
In assassin training, those far beyond the rest are separated and honed alone.
Forcing them to keep pace with ordinary students would only dull their edge.
And Ziel had no intention of letting that happen.
Ziel was exactly that sort of man.
Because of him, while everyone else ran until their lungs burned, Ziel taught them the finer points of assassination at the same time.
“Soon enough I will show you,” he said, brisk as ever. “For now—run. Together.”
“Yes! We’re looking forward to it!”
“Understood.”
Then Ziel turned his attention back to the students.
“That is all. From now on, every week in this class you will raise your records. Remember also the posture and breathing corrections you heard today. How you run and how you breathe will change your times.”
He added, simply and without fanfare, “By the time this course ends, you will feel your stamina altered—both in training and in your everyday life.”
At that, the students stared at him as if bewitched.
Those who had run the longest looked at him with something like worship.
They had been brought to the edge of collapse and then, the moment the running stopped, had tasted a liberation they had not known since awakening their mana.
In truth, many of the veteran warriors of the Valdrein Empire had long complained that young fighters were not what they used to be.
War had ended and peace had held for over a hundred years.
Sword School was no longer the forge of steel and endurance it had once been.
It had become a diploma factory.
A rite of passage.
A credential to join an order, a ticket for royal employment.
Each year, the graduates’ skills slipped a little further from what the old masters remembered.
Ziel, of course, knew none of this history.
His plan was simple.
“This course follows the basics,” he said. “As I said—no mana use allowed.”
Basic, by the book.
He was doing exactly what the syllabus demanded.
He taught this way because he meant to stay at Edelvine Academy for a long time and forge a life there.
If fortune permitted, he would become a professor.
And perhaps, a little bait might help.
When Ziel had first trained as an assassin, his instructors had dangled rewards. Looking back, those promises had been the very thing that made him train until he nearly broke.
The students here were no different.
“From now on,” he went on, “at each class I will award the student who shows the greatest improvement—”
Heads perked up.
Some imagined a day off.
Some fancied a waiver for next week’s running.
A few silently hoped for something that would spare them the worst of Ziel’s drills.
“—a praise card,” Ziel finished.
The excitement died as quickly as it had bloomed.
“Er…what is that?” Karen raised her hand timidly.
“You’ll know when you receive one,” Ziel answered, perfectly calm.
***
After class, Ziel cleared six bowls in the staff canteen.
It had been a satisfying meal.
I could eat this forever, he thought as he swallowed another spoonful.
Gone were the days of choking down tasteless lumps of nutrition.
He knew the students would like it too.
Food always tasted best after hard work.
How much better would it be when one was starving?
As he imagined the students’ delighted faces, a familiar figure appeared nearby.
“Professor Elcanto Paredes.”
“Ah—Ziel?”
Professor Elcanto looked visibly flustered.
“Good day.”
“Yes. Um—are you leaving after your class?”
“I finished and then came to eat. It was good.”
“I see.”
Elcanto’s lips moved as if he had something to say, then he coughed and changed tack.
“Hmph. Ahem. Very well. If you need anything—speak to me.”
Ziel noted the shift in tone and frowned inwardly.
Until very recently, Elcanto had been the sort to storm out of the canteen as if prepared to tear the roof down.
What a posture change—almost assassin-like.
Perhaps he was simply careful because of who watched.
Whatever the reason, this was no one to underestimate.
“Then I will be going.”
“Ahem. Yes. Do—do go.”
“Is there something you wanted to say?”
“No. Ahem. Go on.”
Ziel walked off, and Elcanto watched him until he was out of sight, then let out a small, baffled sigh.
“Why bother asking? He wouldn’t answer properly anyway.”
Who was backing that man, to leave him so untroubled?
Elcanto had just heard that Ziel had put the entire class through hell in the second elective—yet no one had dropped out.
He scratched his chin and worried.
Should I try to get closer to him?
While Elcanto pondered, Ziel strolled across the green, feeling the hum of campus life—the new-term buzz, the tentative excitement of freshmen.
He did not know the particulars of every club or banner, but he felt the general flutter of anticipation in the air.
“Buy a skewer—one sel each! Three for two sel!”
“Today only—join the arts club! Freshmen, come sign up!”
Booths and banners sprouted up like mushrooms.
Looks delicious, Ziel thought as he counted the coins in his pocket.
One sel remained from his meal.
“I can only buy one,” he admitted to himself, and headed toward the skewer stall.
But then he noticed a booth beside it.
“Game today! Knock the target down and double your prize! Fail, and you still get a snack!”
A club booth.
The sign read: Sword Appreciation Society.
“Sword Appreciation Society?” Ziel muttered, and a student beside him explained.
“We love anything to do with blades! Greatswords, daggers, stilettoes—everything! Swords are marvelous!”
“Is that so?”
“Of course! Are you a freshman?” the student asked eagerly.
“No. I’m an instructor.”
“Oh—an instructor? Do we have instructors at Sword School?”
“I’m new here.”
Ziel asked about the game.
“You throw this to hit the targets,” the student said. “Anyone can play, even non-students. It’s one sel a round. If you knock down the farthest target, you win two sel.”
The rules were delightfully simple.
You tossed a small throwing knife and tried to topple targets at varying distances; the far one paid double.
Two sel for the prize—then I could double my skewer.
Ziel’s practical mind clicked into place.
And since it involved throwing—a small, manageable skill—how hard could it be?
Cliche Novel 