Throwing daggers had once been one of the traditional games of the Valdrein Empire. Nowadays, of course, it was a relic—more often talked about than practiced—but long ago, nobles and commoners alike had taken delight in the sport. Even now, a few students clung to the old pastime, turning it into a friendly competition between classes.
‘It’s harder than it looks,’ thought Draco, the booth manager and vice president of the Sword Appreciation Society. He grinned slyly to himself, pleased at the sight of another likely victim. When there’s money on the line, people always fall into one of two types: those who know when to stop, and those who can’t stand to lose what they’ve already put in. And judging by the man’s face, Draco knew exactly which kind he was dealing with.
He handed over three slim daggers, their edges gleaming faintly in the sunlight.
“One round, three throws,” he explained.
“And if I hit all three?” asked the newcomer.
“That’ll earn you six sel.”
One sel per round. In theory, three perfect throws would yield six times the stake. In practice, most people didn’t even win back their first sel. The target stood nearly thirty meters away—no small feat, considering it was barely the size of a man’s hand.
“Just hit one of the outer boards and you’ll get one and a half riom, even if you miss the bull’s-eye. There’s a small prize, too,” Draco said brightly.
“What sort of prize?”
“See that blue booth over there? You can trade it for a little trinket.”
A cheap one, naturally.
He wasn’t running a scam, not really. The bets were small, a single sel at most. To students at the prestigious Sword School—mostly nobles—that was pocket change.
Still, Draco’s grin lingered. “Three throws, then.”
The man, who had introduced himself as Ziel, took the daggers and stepped to the throwing line. The target was a square of wood with a red circle painted at its center, half its width in diameter.
“This is the distance?”
“That’s right. You don’t even need to hit the red—just strike and topple it!” Draco said, unable to suppress a laugh.
He’s not going to hit it.
Throwing wasn’t something magic could solve.
You could enhance your strength, quicken your reflexes—but precision? That came only with practice. For most, it took weeks to learn the balance between speed, angle, and release. And this man looked like he was trying for the first time.
Then, as Draco turned to call more customers—
“Come one, come all! Even if you miss, you still get a prize! Yes, you there, first-year!”— a sound split the air.
Whoosh—Thud!
The first dagger buried itself dead center. Right through the middle of the red circle.
“…What?”
Draco blinked. For a moment, he wondered if his eyes had tricked him. The target had toppled clean over. His fellow club members stared, open-mouthed.
“D-did he hit it?”
Before anyone could answer, Ziel lifted another dagger.
Whoosh—Thunk!
The second throw struck the exact spot where the first had landed—no, it hit the handle of the first dagger, splitting the grain.
Draco’s jaw fell open.
Then came the third.
Whoosh—Thock!
The last dagger buried itself squarely into the second’s handle. Three blades, in perfect horizontal alignment, one after another, each balanced on the back of the last.
It was absurd. Impossible.
“Wh–wh…” Draco stammered, his voice cracking.
Ziel turned calmly and pointed toward the target.
“Three hits,” he said. “That makes six sel.”
Draco could only stare.
“Y-you… you—”
“The dagger hit the dagger’s end,” Ziel said mildly. “That still counts, doesn’t it?”
He extended a hand, unbothered, as though such feats were routine.
“I’ll take my six sel.”
A few minutes later, he was strolling away, munching on skewers—five of them, all different.
“The second one’s good,” he murmured, frowning in contemplation. “The third’s too spicy. The salt’s fine, but this one with the sweet sauce—yes, that’s the best.”
Behind him, Draco was still gaping at the target, muttering to himself.
“Is that even… possible?”
The man had just earned six sel only to spend it all on grilled meat.
But that wasn’t the unbelievable part. No—what defied reason was how he’d done it.
Three throws. Three perfect hits. Each one landing on the handle of the last, with not a hair’s width of error.
He’s insane, Draco thought, swallowing hard. He’d built that target expecting to humiliate a few overconfident nobles, not witness a miracle. Who was this man?
Rumors flickered in his mind—of a mysterious competitor years ago at the Imperial Dagger Tournament. A man who had split ten blades in a row, each throw striking the hilt of the previous one before vanishing without a trace.
No way…
And then, just as the thought formed—
“Here’s one sel,” said Ziel, appearing at his side once more. “Let’s play again.”
Draco could only stare.
Ziel stood at the fairground, five wooden skewers in hand.
He ate all of them? Draco thought in disbelief, watching him lick the last trace of sauce from his fingers.
Ziel nodded gravely to himself. “I should eat more.”
Draco’s face fell like a man watching his savings go up in smoke. By that evening, word had already spread across the Sword School campus:
—A new liberal arts instructor had completely cleaned out one club’s daily profits.
Rumor added that the skewer vendor, having made his highest sales record to date, went home that night grinning from ear to ear.
***
[Imperial Police Knights Vow to Track Down ‘Wraith’!]
[Commander Declares: “Suspect May Be Attempting Foreign Asylum”]
[Royal Palace Promises Full Eradication of the Assassin Network]
Professor Elcanto took a sip of tea, savoring the rich aroma before smiling with satisfaction.
“Good. That blasted Wraith will be caught soon enough. Serves him right. Still, if he really flees to Ferroso…” He sighed. “That’ll be trouble.”
Ferroso—kingdom of narrow valleys and sharp politics—shared a long, uneasy border with Valdrein. The two nations had barely avoided war in recent years; if an assassin of Wraith’s notoriety crossed that line, it would spell disaster.
“Ah, this empire…” Elcanto clicked his tongue. “Who knows where it’s headed.”
Across the desk, his long-suffering assistant gave a silent look that said, If I didn’t clean this office, it’d turn into a junkyard in a week.
He had known the professor long before tenure had made him lazy and self-satisfied. Back then, Elcanto had been kind, even warm—perhaps because they were both nobodies.
“Assistant,” the professor said suddenly.
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s been, what, a week now? How’s Instructor Ziel doing?”
Ah, yes—today’s topic: Instructor Ziel. Elcanto’s way of talking about him shifted daily between “that fellow” and “that lunatic.”
“Nothing unusual, sir,” the assistant replied carefully. “The students say they’ve got no complaints.”
“None at all? Huh. Guess he’s doing fine, then.”
Or perhaps, the assistant thought, they simply haven’t had time to complain.
Given what he’d heard, that was likely.
After all, this same instructor had supposedly thrown a first-year student over thirty times during his very first class. And then there was the “running with sandbags” incident. No threats, no anger—just relentless training.
Still, the results spoke for themselves.
Elcanto leaned back in his chair. “No rumors, then? Nothing about who might be backing him?”
“What sort of rumors?”
“You know. The kind that explain why he’s still employed. Maybe he’s got connections. Someone powerful.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything, sir.”
The professor frowned. “Oh, there’s definitely something. I can feel it. Could it be the Rihardt family? No, they’ve been quiet lately… Maybe Kundel? They’ve been losing ground. Perhaps they can’t afford to cross him.”
“Dellev hasn’t reported anything to his family,” the assistant offered.
“Ah, hasn’t he? Hmph. Then who…?”
Elcanto’s gaze went distant for a moment, then widened with sudden revelation. “Wait. Don’t tell me—royal blood?”
“Excuse me?”
“The Imperial Family!”
The assistant stifled a sigh.
Here we go.
“Yes, yes, that would explain it!” Elcanto muttered to himself, pacing now. “I’ve heard the Crown’s been supporting smaller noble houses lately. It all fits! Ziel must be part of that program. Ha! Of course—royal ties!”
“Right… of course, sir,” the assistant said politely.
“Assistant.”
Crunch.
A cookie snapped between the professor’s teeth.
“When you get the chance, talk to him—casually. Ask where he’s from. Don’t be too direct, you understand?”
“…Yes, sir.”
“I’ll just have one more cookie,” Elcanto said cheerfully.
You’re on a diet, the assistant thought bitterly, sweeping the ever-growing pile of crumbs. Today, it seemed, the room was dustier than usual.
***
Two weeks into the Self-Defense and Physical Conditioning course. The same gymnasium that had hosted last week’s brutal long-distance run echoed now with weary chatter.
“My legs are still shaking.”
“I swear I’m gonna die this time. He said we’d run more than last week!”
“You think that’s bad? We haven’t even started the self-defense part yet!”
The memory of the first class still haunted them all—especially the part where Dellev, youngest son of House Kundel, had been thrown to the ground dozens of times. That he’d survived—let alone returned—was something of a miracle.
“Dellev,” said Kuse, glancing over.
Dellev turned slowly, eyes sharp with a strange gleam.
Kuse flinched.
Is he… all right?
Dellev had always been proud, the type who refused to lose. Everyone knew the pressure he carried—the burden of his family name, the expectations of nobility.
“You okay, man?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He wasn’t. Dellev had spent two days bedridden after Ziel’s “conditioning” class, collapsing from exhaustion after running with sandbags strapped to his legs—no magic allowed.
“Kuse,” Dellev said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Instructor Ziel… What do you think he did before this?”
Kuse opened his mouth, but the question was answered for him as Ziel entered the room.
“Attendance check,” he said simply.
His voice was calm, even, utterly without inflection—yet it commanded attention. A few students, mostly girls, stared as if spellbound.
“Celia Rihardt,” he called.
“Yes, Instructor.”
“Karen Aswan.”
“…”
“Karen Aswan, are you unwell?”
Karen jumped. “N-no, sir!”
Ziel stepped closer, studying her face. “Your cheeks are flushed.”
“That, um—” She froze as he leaned closer.
“Poison?” he murmured.
“E-excuse me?”
“If you need an antidote, let me know.”
And with that, he moved on, leaving Karen blinking in confusion.
Poison? What on earth…?
One student, however, watched with a strange intensity—Celia Rihardt.
Why didn’t he come to me? she thought faintly.
“Everyone’s here,” Ziel said. “Let’s begin.”
The murmurs died at once.
“Today’s lesson,” he continued, “is about reflexes.”
He looked over the class, measuring their focus. “As you’ve seen before, self-defense isn’t just about strength. It’s about reacting to the unseen—to what strikes when you least expect it.”
A few students straightened instinctively.
“But reacting to surprise attacks isn’t easy. That’s why today’s exercise is simple: each of you will stand five meters apart in all directions.”
They spread out across the hall, puzzled.
“Now,” Ziel said, “you’ll defend against surprise attacks—delivered at random. It may be one of you. It may be several. The objective is to block or evade.”
It was a familiar exercise to him—one he’d performed hundreds of times during his assassin training. Back then, a mistake had meant a knife to the ribs. Today, he’d made it easy. No blades, no blood.
A voice broke the silence. “Instructor—how is that a reasonable exercise?”
It was Maris Sopen, the same boy who’d been caught using magic during the running drills. He’d never forgiven him for that.
“Maris Sophen,” Ziel said evenly, “which part seems unreasonable?”
“Well, there are forty of us and one of you! We may be first-years, but we are Sword School students.”
Ziel paused. Then, a slow, thoughtful smile touched his lips.
Sometimes, he recalled from a book he’d read the night before, a teacher must first awaken the will to win.
“Very well,” he said at last. “If even one of you manages to block my attack, class will end immediately.”
The students’ eyes lit up—sharp, predatory, electric with challenge.
“And as a bonus,” Ziel added, “you’ll each earn a praise card.”
The air in the hall tightened like a drawn bow.
The game was on.
Cliche Novel 