“What were their names again? Karen… Aswan, and…?”
“Yurio Harmattan.”
“Right. Never heard of either family in my life.”
“Study a bit, will you? Those names used to be in history books. The families are gone now, but they were famous once.”
“What’s the point of pedigree if it’s already gone?”
“Try living without one, see how far you get.”
Three second-year Sword-School students strolled down the path, laughing like they owned it.
“Hey, but those new first-years? They’re insane this year. Kundel, Rihardt…”
“Sopens too. Think we could get them into our club somehow?”
“Recruit them, maybe. If we get close now, it’ll make things easier later.”
Last year, they hadn’t been this bold. Back then, they’d kept their heads down, afraid of bumping into seniors. But now there were new first-years—and that meant the world was slowly turning in their favor.
“Finally feels good to be alive again. Oh, but Dellev? We’re not touching him, right?”
“Not unless you’ve got a death wish. Pick a fight with Kundel’s crowd and you’re done.”
“Just saying. I know his brothers are in third and fifth year.”
“Mess with the powerhouses, and we all die.”
The trio were swaggering, savoring the new power that came with being second-years, when a voice stopped them cold.
“Well, look who it is. Long time no see.”
They froze. “S-senior!”
Third-year Sword-School students—real ones.
The color drained from the younger boys’ faces faster than from Karen and Yurio’s earlier that morning.
“Ah, good evening!”
“Yeah, yeah. Having fun now that the fresh meat’s arrived?”
“Heh, well…”
“You laughing?”
“S-sorry, sir.”
That was Sword-School’s biggest difference from Arcane-School: absolute obedience to one’s seniors—unless your family name carried serious weight.
“Keep yourselves in check, yeah? Don’t lose focus just because you’ve got juniors now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boys. Oh, and the exchange battles are coming up, right? See you there.”
When the seniors finally left, the second-years glared daggers at their backs.
“Bastards…”
“Seriously, they make my blood boil.”
“Let it go. Next year, it’ll be our turn.”
“Not with those jerks in charge.”
“Whatever. Let’s go blow off steam.”
“Now? There’ll be people around.”
“Who cares? How many bottles we got left?”
Still grumbling, the trio turned a corner—and stopped.
Someone stood in their way.
Another senior? No.
“The ones who harassed first-years Karen Aswan and Yurio Harmattan… that was you three, wasn’t it?”
“What?”
The man was handsome, infuriatingly so, which made them dislike him instantly.
“Distinct faces. Easy to remember. One with mismatched eyes, one with a crooked nose, and the last with lips like sausages.”
He wasn’t wrong.
He wasn’t even trying to be cruel. Maybe a little.
“And who the hell are you?”
“Sword-School liberal arts instructor, Ziel Steelheart.”
“…Liberal arts?”
“Wait. I heard about him. The self-defense class guy…”
All three nodded, realization dawning, before one snorted.
“Sir, it was just a senior-junior talk. Some advice, that’s all.”
“Funny advice. I saw the part with the punches.”
“Wait, how’d you—?”
“I saw it myself.”
Another snort.
“What, you gonna report us to the discipline office? You really don’t know how this place works, do you?”
“I won’t. Not this time.”
“This time?”
“If you touch my students again, I’ll request disciplinary action. By the book.”
The “weird liberal arts teacher,” they’d called him. Now they were sure.
“Come on, you can’t be serious. Those two are nobodies. First-years with no backing. You get how things work here, right?”
“Does that matter?”
“Wow. You really don’t understand how the world works, do you, teach?”
There wasn’t a shred of respect in their tone now.
“Sir, first-years obey their seniors. That’s just how it is—unless you’re a Kundel or a Rihardt.”
“Even if the seniors lose?”
“Lose?”
They blinked. Then Ziel mentioned it.
“The inter-year grade exchange battle. It’s coming up soon, isn’t it? We’ll see then.”
“The exchange? Ha! A first-year’s never beaten an upperclass before. You expecting miracles?”
“If they’re my students, yes.”
“What did you just—?”
One of them took a step forward, fists clenching.
“Take another step, and you’ll regret it, Second Year.”
The instant their eyes met Ziel’s, something in them froze. His pupils glowed faintly orange, and every muscle in their bodies locked tight.
What—what is this?
Fear. Raw, instinctive fear. Something human. Something a wraith no longer felt.
The first boy collapsed, trembling.
“Hey—hey, what’s wrong with you?”
The second’s breath hitched, then broke into a gasp as he stumbled back. The third whimpered and fell to his knees.
Ziel watched them with quiet detachment, realization dawning slowly.
So this is what it means… to have a self again.
He didn’t know it yet, but the rage burning inside him had taken form, chaining them in terror.
Killing intent. A skill whispered about in assassin circles—the reason they’d once called him the Wraith. A technique that only someone trained in the Breath of Long Night could use. And Ziel was the only one who ever had.
“What’s going on?”
“Isn’t that the Sword-School second-years?”
“They were just talking, weren’t they?”
The whispers made the trio’s humiliation complete. Fear, shame—together, they broke.
“L-let’s go! Now!”
“Get up, idiot!”
They fled, stumbling, desperate to escape those burning orange eyes and the murmuring crowd.
Ziel watched them go, then nodded to himself.
“My students will win.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the faculty quarters, as if nothing at all had happened.
Meanwhile—
“Y-Yurio… did you see that?”
“I think so… that was real, right?”
From behind a nearby column, Karen and Yurio peeked out, wide-eyed.
“The teacher… did he just punish them?”
“Looks like it. But he didn’t even touch them…”
“Could he be… a mage?”
“No way. He didn’t cast a spell or use any artifact.”
To them, the idea of defeating someone with fear alone was unthinkable.
Fear.
That was what Ziel had promised them—to teach them how to overcome it. Perhaps… this was part of that lesson.
Thinking back to the second-years’ pitiful retreat, Karen realized something and smiled faintly.
“I think… my fear’s gone a little, Yurio.”
“Huh?”
“Those seniors. They don’t seem so scary anymore.”
Yurio nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Maybe… it’s the teacher who’s scary now.”
***
No one called it by its proper name anymore. The course was officially listed as Self-Defense and Physical Conditioning, but to every first-year at the Sword-School, it was simply The Long Run.
“Did you actually practice this time?”
“As if.”
“What are you talking about? I saw you running last night, Yurio.”
“That was just a walk.”
“Sure it was. What, you trying to earn praise cards now? Or did you predict the test and decide to do exactly twenty laps in advance?”
“Who in their right mind would choose to come in last?”
The students chatted freely before class began, voices bright and unguarded while the instructor was still absent.
“Hey, what do we even get if we collect five praise cards?”
“No clue. Someone should ask today. They say there’s a prize, but no one’s actually seen it.”
“Didn’t Dellev get one already? Anyone ask him what it was?”
“Who around here has the guts to talk to Dellev?”
“Ugh, fine. I’ll ask. You can’t skip this class anyway, or you’ll fail the course.”
“And yet you were the one running like mad last night?”
“I told you—it was a walk!”
The first-years were beginning to adjust—slowly but surely—to the rhythm of these grueling classes. Missing a liberal-arts course meant having to retake it next year, so most of them pushed through out of pure necessity. But that wasn’t the only reason.
There was Ziel Steelheart. The man who had appeared out of nowhere to teach.
Even Dellev, the proud scion of one of the most prestigious first-year families, listened quietly whenever Ziel spoke. Sure, there had been some rebellion in the beginning—Dellev during the first class, Maris in the second—but both had learned their lesson.
No one had expected a “liberal-arts” class to feel like boot camp.
Karen Aswan crossed her arms, deep in thought, until she noticed Yurio beside her and gave him a gentle nudge.
“Hey, you all right? You said you practiced last night again. Don’t push yourself too hard. I don’t want you collapsing like last time—”
“Shh! Not so loud.”
“I’m just saying, Yurio. It’s good to try, but still, you—”
He lowered his head. “I know. I’m… different from the others. That’s why I want to try harder. Our family’s got no money and no reputation. I can’t just blame how I was born.”
“There’s really nothing you can take? Medicine or something?”
He shrugged. “Even the doctors don’t know what it is.”
Then, quietly, “It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
They’d met at the entrance ceremony and bonded almost instantly. Maybe it was because both came from small, fading houses. Like attracts like, after all.
Karen’s pity for him had been immediate. Yurio wasn’t just from a weak bloodline—he was born frail, his stamina poor enough that running a few dozen paces left him breathless.
“Remember what Professor Ziel said? That he’d teach us how to overcome fear? Maybe that applies to your fear too, Yurio.”
“I hope so,” he murmured, without much faith.
Still, one image lingered in his mind: Ziel facing down three second-year bullies—without so much as raising a hand—and making them crumple in terror.
Could I ever be like that someday?
Without realizing it, both Karen and Yurio had begun to admire the man. For Yurio, that admiration ran deeper. Ziel was the first person at Sword-School who had ever praised him.
The heavy door slid open. Everyone fell silent.
“Attendance,” Ziel announced. His voice, as ever, was calm and measured.
“Karen Aswan.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Yurio Harmattan.”
“Present!”
“Do not talk during roll call.”
“…Yes, sir.”
When the list was done, Ziel gestured toward a crate of sandbags stacked neatly beside the wall.
“Everyone, put these on and take your positions at the starting line. Warm-up first, then we begin.”
Gone were the awkward glances and hesitant shuffling of the first day. Now, students moved almost eagerly, fastening the weights to their ankles and wrists.
When all were ready, Ziel joined them—wearing the same sandbags himself. “No use of mana,” he said. “And—Dellev, Celia.”
The two who had managed over two hundred laps last time straightened at the sound of their names.
“As mentioned before, you’ll both run at full power.”
They’d expected that, yet the reminder still made throats dry and hearts race.
“Two laps at full speed, one lap at a slow pace. Repeat.”
A small mercy, perhaps—that one slow lap between sprints.
“Begin.”
The echo of feet filled the hall: thirty-nine students and one teacher, running together. Two students broke ahead almost immediately.
“Huff… huff…”
By the twentieth lap, Yurio was struggling. He’d collapsed at the twentieth lap last time; now, though he’d practiced all week, the burn in his chest returned.
I ran every day. I really did.
It was humiliating. He couldn’t even blame his family for this. They’d poured everything into getting him into Sword-School—their one chance at honor.
He wanted to live up to that, to give them something to be proud of.
But his legs trembled. His lungs clawed for air. By the twenty-second lap, he felt he might crumble.
Then—
A hand touched his shoulder.
“Your upper body’s leaning too far forward, Yurio Harmattan,” said Ziel quietly.
“Y-yes, sir!”
“If it’s too hard, slow down a little. Don’t focus on speed—focus on endurance.”
“Understood!”
It wasn’t comfort. It was correction. And yet, somehow, it helped.
He straightened, adjusted his stride, and found his breathing easing.
Ziel, running beside him, withdrew a faint current of mana from his fingertips.
He’ll last a bit longer now, he thought.
Helping a struggling student regain confidence—that, too, was part of a teacher’s duty. He’d read that in a book once, in the academy library.
Still, when he’d placed his hand on Yurio’s shoulder, he’d felt something strange—an irregular rhythm in the boy’s mana flow. The current pulsed unevenly, faltering like a candle in the wind.
He won’t last much longer.
And indeed, by the thirtieth lap, Yurio finally collapsed, body trembling and slick with sweat.
Ziel was beside him instantly, lifting him effortlessly.
“Th-thank you, sir…”
“Drink. Slowly. Small sips.”
Yurio obeyed, his breath ragged.
“Your stamina is weak, Yurio Harmattan.”
“N-no, sir! I’ll do better! I swear!”
He didn’t want anyone to know about his illness—not even this teacher.
“You don’t look like someone who neglected practice.”
“Sir?”
“I overheard you. You’ve been training, haven’t you?”
He placed a hand on Yurio’s shoulder once more.
“The flow of your mana is… unusual.”
Yurio froze. How could he tell?
Ziel hesitated, then met his eyes.
“At this rate, it wouldn’t be fair.”
Cliche Novel 