There were a handful of subjects destined to ignite arguments in the Valdrein Empire, but none burned quite as fiercely as one particular question:
Which of the two great academies was superior?
Edelvine Academy in the capital. And Telvier Academy in the south.
The south, wealthy and culturally rich despite its distance from the capital, rivaled its northern counterpart in almost every measurable way. Their schools competed relentlessly. Swordsmanship, arcane arts, alchemy, martial theory—there was no field without clashing pride.
Still… if one had to be chosen… the general consensus tilted ever so slightly toward Edelvine—at least when it came to its Sword School.
One reason stood above the rest.
The faculty.
“Then, let us begin the regular staff assembly for the Edelvine Academy Sword School.”
The room was filled with men and women who had once been legends in their own right. Former imperial knight commanders. Heads of household guard units for families like Kundel and Rihardt. Veterans who could have built kingdoms from reputation alone.
Every time we do this, I swear my life expectancy drops another year… Professor Elcanto thought.
“There are two agenda items today,” Head Professor Berhal continued. “The first is mid-term donations. The second—preparations for the Exchange Tournament.”
Every professor straightened at once.
Some watched Berhal with reverent awe. And it was hardly unwarranted. Out of the entire history of the empire, fewer than thirty individuals had ever been granted the title Imperial Knight. Berhal was one of them. Former Royal Guard. The emperor’s shield.
The man could’ve been the Academy’s headmaster with a single word. Instead—he chose the Sword School.
“As of last month, our donations stand at 200 million sel. Of that, the Kundel House has contributed 30 million, the highest of all.”
A murmur of appreciation rippled around the table.
“Crossing 10% on their own? First time since Candea last year,” one professor remarked.
“Indeed,” Berhal replied. “It appears young Dellev Kundel’s enrollment has… inspired their generosity.”
His eyes shifted naturally toward one seat.
“Professor Elcanto. How is Dellev settling in?”
Elcanto sat up straighter than a court guard at inspection.
“Ah—yes. Very energetic, very diligent. He seems to be enjoying academy life greatly.”
“Excellent. Since you are overseeing first-years officially now, I will ask for your particular attention. The first year is our foundation. The most critical year.”
“Of course, sir. You have my word.”
“And please, pay special mind to Dellev Kundel, Celia Rihardt… and Maris Sopen as well. The Sopen family has donated 10 million this term alone.”
“Wait—Sopen?” someone blurted. “Really?”
“Their business must be blooming. Or perhaps Student Maris is simply that cherished.” Berhal paused. “Either way. Eyes open.”
Elcanto nodded with the solemnity of a man accepting a knighthood.
“Now then,” Berhal folded his hands, “onto the more important matter. How fares our tournament preparation?”
The Exchange Tournament was everything.
Unlike the Academy Festival—which only involved students and staff—the Exchange Tournament flooded the campus with nobles, family heads, patrons, and future sponsors. It was spectacle, influence, and politics braided into one grand event.
“As long as this year ends as smoothly as last year did, we should be satisfied,” one professor ventured.
“Smoothly? With our student hierarchy as stable as it is?” another scoffed lightly. “There will be no surprises.”
By surprises, they meant underclassmen defeating upperclassmen. It happened occasionally—thanks to prodigies, anomalies, and the occasional terrifying genius—but it was rare.
Extremely rare.
“And so, Professor Camellia will continue coordinating tournament logistics,” Berhal concluded. “And after, we turn our attention to Edelvine’s Night. Ensure preparations move smoothly.”
The ball held after the tournament. Glamour, diplomacy, match-making, rivalry—all disguised under chandeliers and music.
The meeting was nearly adjourned when—
“Oh. Professor Elcanto.”
Elcanto flinched so hard his chair creaked.
“Y-Yes, Head Professor!”
Berhal chuckled. “Why so startled?”
“Well… it’s just… sitting in a room like this, surrounded by my seniors…”
“Oh come now,” someone laughed. “You were trailing behind us calling ‘Professor! Professor!’ just two years ago.”
“And now look,” another said warmly, “a faculty member. Time flies.”
Elcanto rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
“I owe it all to your guidance. I’ll continue doing my best.”
“That’s the spirit.” Then, casually—almost too casually—Berhal changed gears.
“Which reminds me. The new general studies instructor—how is he faring?”
Elcanto froze.
Why is he asking about Ziel?
His mind raced.
Berhal never concerned himself with first-year lecturers. Unless—unless there was something. A connection. A patron.
A powerful one.
“Elcanto? Your response?”
“Yes! Of course!” Elcanto snapped out of his panic. “He’s doing extremely well. Very punctual with reports. The assistant says he never misses deadlines. And just recently, he even sat in on 2nd and 3rd year lectures of his own volition.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Remarkably devoted, sir!”
Devoted? Elcanto winced internally. I sent him to those lectures because he asked… politely.
“Good,” Berhal nodded. “He’s an important post. Especially—for first years.”
No one else in the room reacted.
They assumed it was a throwaway motivational comment. The kind administrators made for morale.
But Elcanto—Elcanto felt his life flash before his eyes.
Especially for first years?
His spine chilled.
“Yes! Absolutely, sir! I will monitor him personally! No issues will arise—none at all!”
“That’s the vigor I expect from a first-year coordinator,” Berhal laughed.
The room filled with good-natured chuckles.
Only one man sat rigid, smiling stiffly like someone holding in a scream.
How am I supposed to handle this? Do I… attend his class? Discreetly? In a disguise?
***
Martial self-defense class was well underway.
Unfortunately, attention was not.
—Ten of you.
Ziel’s words, casually dropped at the start of class, lingered like fog. Students replayed it over and over in their heads.
Which ten?
Did he already choose? Does he even have the authority?
Ten out of a hundred? Seriously? Above noble kids? Us?
For students from modest families—Yurio, Karen, and others barely clinging to academy entry—the Exchange Tournament wasn’t an event.
It was destiny.
“Dellev,” Ziel said mildly, “you’re even slower than last time.”
“Ngk—!”
And just like that, the price of distraction was paid in full.
Delaying his guard by even a heartbeat, Dellev raised his arms. Just as Ziel had predicted, the motion was sluggish—much slower than before.
“Your focus is slipping,” Ziel observed. “Something else occupying your mind?”
“N–No, sir. I’ll go again.”
Dellev had sworn to land a counterattack today. The result, however, was a response so slow it hardly qualified as one.
“Step back, Dellev Kundel. Wait your turn.”
And Dellev wasn’t the only casualty of distraction.
“Celia Rihardt. Too slow. Raise your arm faster. At your pace, I expected you to block that by now.”
“Karen Aswan. Pivot from your left ankle. You’re turning a half-count too late.”
Across the sparring floor, the same issue repeated—wavering eyes, delayed reactions, drifting thoughts. The students were all fighting an invisible mental battle, one that drowned out technique and reflex alike.
Ten of us…?
Is he talking about predetermined picks?
Does he… actually have that kind of authority?
The questions multiplied, stacking like unsorted books in a collapsing library. It was hardly unbelievable. A man with Ziel’s skill had no business being a mere general studies instructor. Even the absurdity of this class—one that felt more elite training than “humanities credit”—somehow made sense when he taught it.
That’s it. He picks ten. Here. From this class.
Some students arrived at conclusion. Others arrived at regret.
Damn it. I shouldn’t have mouthed off to him on day one…! thought Maris, who had crossed both lines and fates by now.
Ziel halted the lesson, arms crossing loosely behind his back.
“You’ve all gotten worse.”
The room stiffened.
“Your focus is fractured.”
The question that followed was so unexpected the students almost tripped over it.
“Are upperclassmen harassing you?”
Silence.
“Or are you hungry?”
More silence—now confused silence.
“Because aside from those two reasons, I cannot think of another explanation for an entire class losing focus at once.”
The man sounded sincerely bewildered. Utterly. Genuinely. Bewildered.
At last, Dellev raised his hand.
“Professor.”
“Yes, Dellev Kundel.”
“Your earlier remark… confused everyone.”
“My remark? Confused?”
Ziel tilted his head, pupils slightly narrowing with thought. “I don’t recall saying anything intended to confuse.”
“When you said ten of us would be selected,” Dellev said carefully, “it sent the class into… well… this.”
The entire room nodded in grim agreement.
Ziel’s expression did not change.
“That would cause confusion?”
“Yes,” Dellev replied flatly. “Immense confusion.”
“Immense,” several students quietly echoed.
“Confusion…” Ziel repeated, tasting the word like unfamiliar seasoning. He ran its definition through the archives of his mind. Chaotic. Unclear. Unresolved. The book said so.
Then—realization.
“Ah.”
“You see?” Dellev straightened. “It sounded like you had inside knowledge—like the students were pre-chosen—”
“No,” Ziel interjected. “The confusion was caused because I did not finish the sentence.”
“…Beg pardon?”
“Here is the full statement.”
His voice carried no drama, no rising string music—only pure, dangerous certainty.
“Ten of you will be selected. And all ten will defeat the second-years.”
A beat of silence dropped like a misfired anvil.
“…What?” someone whispered.
“…He means the matchups, right?” another croaked.
“To be clear,” Ziel added, “first-years face second-years in the Exchange Tournament. The ten selected from this class will win all of their matches.”
The room didn’t just tilt off balance—its worldview spun violently off-axis.
He’s deciding winners now?
He’s not just coaching, he’s scripting fate?
What kind of teacher intervenes at a tournament level—?!
Their disbelief came with context. The hierarchy at Edelvine was iron-clad. Seniority ruled everything. First-years almost never defeated second-years—not through lack of talent alone, but through tradition, pressure, and unspoken order.
Dellev, normally unshakable, asked the question out loud.
“…Sir. What exactly do you mean?”
“Are you still confused?”
“…Yes. Very much so.”
Ziel considered the matter seriously.
How to simplify confusion. How to dismantle tangled thought.
Before he could decide, Celia raised her hand.
“Professor.”
“Yes, Celia Rihardt.”
“Do you… already know the results? In advance?”
Ziel had listened to Tiron’s full briefing on the tournament. He knew its structure, its history, its skill averages. But results? Results only existed after action.
Still—he understood Celia’s question differently.
“Ah.” A single nod. “That result. Yes. I can see it.”
Gasps detonated in stereo.
He DOES manipulate outcomes?!
Who is this man?!
The misunderstanding was reaching critical mass—until Ziel continued, calm as snowfall.
“You are already ahead of every first-year who is not standing in this room.”
The shock halted.
“Strength, reflexes, evasive reactions, breath control—over the past two months, you have all advanced markedly.”
The meaning snapped into clarity.
“When I said ten will be chosen, I meant: I am confident ten from this class will be selected.”
Not lucky. Not chosen by politics.
Prepared.
“And the ten chosen from here,” he continued, folding his hands behind his back, “will defeat the second-years.”
Not because it was impossible.
But because they already could.
Silence stretched.
Then Ziel asked, simply—
“Is the confusion gone now?”
Cliche Novel 