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So this… is what it feels like to be excited.

The thought drifted through Ziel’s mind as he walked, his hand patting the plump coin pouch at his waist. Excitement. A strange, warm, restless thing buzzing beneath his sternum.

One oversized chicken skewer costs 1 sel… so I could eat 2,500 of them.

His palms tingled at the memory. The skewers were enormous—three times the size of ordinary ones. He could still taste the charcoal, the pepper, the bursting juices.

Two thousand five hundred skewers.

Two thousand and five hundred.

…But.

“I want to try other things too.”

The world, apparently, was large. Full of food beyond skewered poultry. Unfortunately, Ziel’s world had always been painfully small. His exposure to cuisine even smaller.

“Hm.”

He turned his head, gaze sliding past the academy’s student cafeteria, past the teachers’ lounge dining hall, and toward a lone spire standing off in the distance.

“I hear the food there is good.”

The students whispered about it constantly. The Star of Lancaster. The most prestigious restaurant on campus—named after one of Edelvine Academy’s founding figures.

Ziel did not hesitate. With determined steps, he began walking toward it, his pulse oddly active for a place that served soup and meat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He stopped abruptly.

Somebody was walking toward him.

Gold hair swayed into view.

“Oh—Professor?”

“Dellev Kundel.”

Ziel regarded him quietly, head slightly tilted.

“Coming from training?”

Dellev blinked, startled. “H—How did you know?”

“You smell of dust. Your heart rate hasn’t fully calmed. I can also detect wood.”

Dellev’s mouth opened, then closed.

“You can see that?”

“I don’t need to see it to know it. And yes—there’s wood. Likely from a training sword.”

It was true. Dellev had, in fact, just finished a grueling sparring session. But being scent-profiled like a tracking hound was… unsettling.

What is this man? Seriously.

To a former assassin—more so to one once called the Wraith—it was hardly worth mentioning.

“No classes today, so you trained harder?” Ziel asked.

“Well… yeah,” Dellev admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “The selection trial’s soon.”

“So it matters to you.”

“I have to surpass my brothers.”

The moment it left his lips, Dellev went rigid.

Why did I say that out loud?!

“Arken Kundel, third year. Agris Kundel, fifth year,” Ziel recited.

“Right. My older brothers.”

“Why do you want to surpass them?”

“What?”

The question hit Dellev like a hex to the forehead. No one had ever asked him that before. Why surpass them?

Because… well…

Because that’s just what sons of great houses do, right?

“Just… because,” Dellev muttered. “I want to get stronger. If I surpass them, maybe Father will acknowledge me more.”

“So you want to become the head of the house.”

“……Not exactly.”

Dellev exhaled.

“I just want to get stronger.”

There was another reason. A very real reason.

One he could absolutely never say out loud.

They don’t play with me anymore, okay? Ever since they entered the academy, they won’t duel with me! They say I’m too weak now!

Childish? Yes. Mortifying to admit? Also yes.

“I see,” Ziel replied solemnly. “Understood, Dellev Kundel.”

Dellev, who had not mentally prepared to unpack his entire life story today, quickly coughed.

“Um—Professor, where are you headed? You don’t have classes either.”

“To eat.”

“Oh.”

Right on time—

GrrrOOORRRGLLLE.

Dellev’s stomach performed a dramatic protest.

The consequences of intense training.

Dellev froze. Ziel stared.

“Hungry?”

“………Yes. Very.”

“Then let’s go eat.”

“…Huh?”

Ziel suddenly recalled a book he had recently read: How to Be a Beloved Teacher, Not a Hated One — a self-improvement guide of dubious legitimacy but immense confidence.

—If you wish to get closer to students, sharing an activity is a good start.

This—he decided—was that moment.

***

Celia spotted them first.

“Oh!” she lifted a hand, ready to greet Ziel—until she saw who was walking beside him.

“Dellev?”

Before she could piece together the situation, they disappeared through the restaurant doors.

The Star of Lancaster.

A place Celia had never entered, despite being a Richard.

Sure, it wasn’t technically out of reach—but stepping inside even once would vaporize her monthly allowance in a single, glamorous explosion.

“There’s no way he’s paying,” she muttered, staring.

A second later, realization struck.

“…So Dellev’s footing the bill?”

She snickered. That tracked. Trying to score professor favor, perhaps?

But then—

Why this restaurant? Of all places?

Her eyes narrowed.

“Wait. Unless…”

Her brain leaned toward conspiracy before she could stop it.

“Is this… a House Kundel strategy?”

Her head suddenly felt muddled.

When she thought about it, Professor Ziel was rather unusual.

He wasn’t even a full professor—just an instructor—yet he treated every student the same regardless of their family name, and no one seemed to cow him.

He had even sent Dellev sprawling dozens of times in their first lesson.

There was something about him.

It was obvious.

Even the real professors handled heirs of great houses with delicate care.

They didn’t fawn, of course, but their manner changed; they were more restrained, more precise.

Ziel showed none of that.

“Steelheart… Steelheart, huh.”

It was a name she’d never heard before, then or now.

The students had been whispering all kinds of theories.

Maybe it was a fallen house.

Maybe it was a newly ennobled family.

“Maybe someone powerful is backing him.”

Without such backing, no one could act so blithely ignorant.

“Which would mean…”

Were the Kundels trying to secure a contact in advance?

Political sparring among capital families could be fiercer than anyone guessed.

Celia did not know the details; she was still young.

Perhaps that made her thoughts even more tangled.

But one thing was certain.

There had to be a reason a teacher would take a student to such an expensive restaurant.

“The Kundels are no joke.”

This was not the time for idle speculation.

Celia hurried back to the dorms.

She felt she ought to write to her family.

***

The meal had been splendid.

At least for Dellev.

I can’t believe the teacher would take me somewhere like this, Dellev thought, feeling both proud and light-headed.

The Kundel family was vast.

Naturally, the standard of dining at their table was high.

The finest ingredients.

The best spices.

A chef who moved like a conductor.

The meal at the Star of Lancaster lived up to that expectation.

It’s the sort of place that exists solely for visiting dignitaries and the wealthier staff or students of Edelvine Academy.

So when Dellev found himself there, he was surprised.

“This isn’t very tasty,” Ziel said casually.

Had he been here before?

Ziel’s manner throughout the meal was practiced and graceful.

The way he handled cutlery.

The direction in which he placed his fork and knife.

The economy with which he carved his meat.

He never made a sound while eating, and every little etiquette was flawless, like someone taught at the strictest table.

Maybe Steelheart was once a truly grand house.

If so, everyone would have known.

What had he been before?

Even here, in such a costly place…

Does the teacher have expectations of me?

Dellev felt a small swell of emotion.

After that humiliating first lesson, resentment had flared inside him.

But curiosity had grown too, and—slowly—diligence.

In a recent class, Ziel had offered praise Dellev had not expected.

It meant I should do better.

Yes.

That was it.

A special student.

A favoured pupil.

Otherwise, why treat him to such an extravagant meal?

Most special among forty students.

From now on, he would train even harder.

He would pass the selection.

He would triumph at the exchange match.

“Thank you for the meal, Professor.”

“Did it suit you?”

“Yes. It was delicious.”

Dellev asked then, somewhat puzzled.

“You said earlier it wasn’t very tasty… did you not enjoy it?”

“It’s not that. I ate something more delicious, not long ago.”

For Ziel, it had been a chicken skewer.

But Dellev heard it differently.

Did he go somewhere even more magnificent?

Tastes differ among people.

Ziel preferred the rough, quick pleasure of a skewer bought at a cart over a slow, elaborate delicacy.

“Finish eating and let’s rise.”

“Yes, Professor.”

A waiter approached.

“Excuse me, sir, was everything to your liking? Here is the bill.”

Ziel froze.

His hand trembled very slightly as he took the paper.

Dellev didn’t notice the quiver, but Ziel’s eyes flickered.

My salary…

Two thousand four hundred sel.

The bill.

He had withdrawn two thousand five hundred sel from the Imperial Bank for his monthly pay.

He had not expected it to be this costly.

A sinking feeling settled in his chest.

Was this what displeasure felt like?

“Professor?”

“Er, Professor?”

“Ah, Dellev Kundel.”

Ziel paid the bill.

They had eaten, and that was done.

He could not help how he felt.

“Thank you for the meal, Professor.”

“Ah, Dellev Kundel.”

“You treated me to such an expensive meal.”

“It seems so.”

Ziel told himself he would not come here again.

“Yes. This single meal is slightly less than my weekly allowance.”

“……”

Ziel resolved once more to earn much more money someday.

“You have generous pocket money.”

“My father gives me an extra thousand sel each year when I move up a year.”

“I see.”

A new feeling lifted its head: envy.

As an assassin, Ziel had never worried about spending money.

Not because he had riches, but because there had been no reason to spend.

Until he came to the academy, the only money he had ever handled was the small sums issued for missions, passed on to contacts or bribes.

Money matters, after all.

An unforeseen expense left him disconcerted.

Ziel swore to himself he would be thrifty henceforth.

I must stretch a hundred sel until the next payday.

Another thought followed.

If I become a professor, my salary will rise.

Instructors did receive raises, but only upon contract renewal—and the increases were modest.

I must become a full professor.

He renewed his resolve.

“Next time, I’ll repay you.”

“No. It’s unnecessary.”

“But this was an extravagant treat.”

“A teacher must not accept gifts from students. It compromises the teacher-student relationship and fairness.”

“My father always said that if someone gives you something, you must return it.”

Ziel shook his head.

“That cannot be.”

But then a line from a book he had read came back to him.

“If you feel compelled to repay, repay by growing. Let your progress be the return.”

Thump!

Dellev’s heart ratcheted up.

Was this what nobility looked like?

To reward with a meal and demand growth as repayment!

“I will. I shall work diligently, Instructor.”

He had been won over.

Books are useful, Ziel thought.

He would read more in the library henceforth.

Who could have guessed the advice between covers would be so practical?

“It’s late. Let us return.”

“Where will you go, Professor?”

“To the staff lodging.”

“Oh. Come with me. It’s right next door.”

“Ah. Very well.”

Ziel and Dellev walked side by side.

Each carried different thoughts.

How will I make a hundred sel last until payday?

I must write home and tell Father. Maybe mention Steelheart—would he know them?

A deepening bond between teacher and pupil warmed the night.

Dellev felt light and buoyant.

He had once felt humiliation, and a spark of antagonism.

But now he wanted recognition.

Recognition from the teacher who had pushed him hardest.

He had earned praise.

He had been treated to a costly meal.

Then…

It felt wrong to end the day so soon.

Perhaps it was the food.

Perhaps it was simply the mood.

“Teacher.”

Dellev stopped.

“I’ll return a bit later.”

“Is there a reason?”

“I’ll do more training before I go in.”

Ziel watched him.

Admirable.

Click.

A pocket watch opened.

“It’s after nine.”

“……”

“From ten onward are penalties.”

Of course.

No flexibility at all.

“Very well. I’ll go in.”

And just as Dellev’s shoulders drooped—

“Walking with a teacher exempts you from the rule.”

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The students still couldn’t quite believe their ears.

“Us… beating the second-years?” someone asked, voice thin with disbelief.

“Yes,” Ziel replied. Not we might. Not it’s possible. Just—yes. Flat. Certain. As if the matter had already been settled.

“But… how?” another student sputtered. “They’re already in advanced courses. They get deployed in real missions.”

Advanced courses. Active duty. All undeniably important.

But Ziel had seen it with his own eyes.

“They’re not unbeatable.”

He didn’t mean the trio of dullards who had harassed Karen and Yurio before getting suspended for drinking on school grounds. No. That wasn’t the comparison at all.

Not long ago, Ziel had observed a second-year combat fundamentals class through his position as TA. He measured their standard against the forty first-years he now trained.

The conclusion he reached was simple.

“You can beat them,” he repeated.

“Really?” someone echoed.

“Yes.”

“Actually?”

“Yes.”

“You mean—really, really?”

“Yes.”

“How on earth—”

“Miss Celia Rihardt,” Ziel interrupted dryly, “please ask your questions efficiently. ‘Can we really beat the second-years?’ is an efficient question.”

“Oh. Right.” She straightened. “Then… how do we win?”

Dellev and Celia. Both hailed as prodigies among the first-years. But naturally, the second-years would have their own prodigies. No matter how gifted they were, victory wasn’t something anyone could reasonably guarantee.

That was what Celia believed.

Ziel, apparently, did not.

“You just do it,” he said.

“…Pardon?”

“You do what you’ve been taught. Your stamina has improved. Your reflexes have sharpened. Once you’re in a real fight, you’ll feel the difference.”

His voice was calm, almost unreadably casual—like someone describing tomorrow’s weather after already seeing it in a dream.

Celia swallowed, thrown off balance.

“But… it’s barely been two months.”

“Have you ever fought a second-year?”

“N-No. We’re not even allowed to spar among ourselves outside of class…”

The academy’s rules were strict—surprisingly so. Swords could only be drawn in designated areas. Private duels required faculty approval. Unsanctioned fights were punishable.

And crucially—first-year curriculum did not include sparring at all. It was theory, forms, and striking wooden dummies. Most students had never felt a real clash of steel. They had no way to gauge their own growth.

Except here, in Ziel’s training.

Reaction times. Defense patterns. Endurance scores. Every improvement was quantified, named, and handed back to them like proof of transformation.

Yes—they could feel their growth. But feeling stronger and believing they could crush second-years were two very different things.

And yet—

“When your foundation is built right,” Ziel said, locking eyes with Celia, “everything else rises with it. Trust that.”

The strange ember glow of his orange irises pinned her in place.

Trust.

She nodded before realizing she had.

“…Right.”

Even as doubt stirred again in the back of her mind, it no longer boiled over the way it had moments earlier. Something about his certainty disarmed questions before they formed.

It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t charisma. He had the emotional flexibility of a steel door. And yet…

Somehow, I believe him.

“If—if we really win…” her thoughts ran ahead of her, spiraling with sudden speed.

“Knight Order recruitment?”

“Wasn’t even aiming that high but… beating a second-year?”

“That’s career-changing.”

Among the students, excitement flared like kindling catching flame. Especially for those from mid-sized or minor houses. For them, this wasn’t just training. This was opportunity. Visibility. Future itself.

“Karen, we’re going all in,” someone whispered hoarsely.

“Should we sneak a duel tonight?”

“We’d get demerits.”

“Second-years do it all the time!”

“They have club rooms they can lock. We do not, genius.”

But there was one student who remained unconvinced.

Dellev Kundel.

Ambitious. Hungry for validation. And notoriously impossible to persuade without proof.

I can’t even land a proper counterattack yet, he thought darkly. And we’re supposed to beat second-years?

Unlike others, Dellev didn’t come from trauma or tragedy—he came from two older brothers who had lied to him often and mercilessly for sport. The habit of questioning everything was self-defense at this point.

His earlier confidence had already been crushed once under Ziel’s boot in their first class. Now, the suspicion was back at full strength.

“Sir.”

“Speak, Dellev Kundel.”

“When it comes down to blade versus blade, fundamentals and stamina have limits. Swordsmanship is not a field that can be defined by basics alone.”

The class shifted. He wasn’t wrong. Even Celia felt the logic land like a stone.

Ziel nodded.

“Correct.”

A ripple of surprise went through the room.

“Swordsmanship cannot be explained by foundation alone.”

Then it hit them—had Ziel ever actually demonstrated swordsmanship?

“But,” he continued, “your foundation determines whether advanced skill can land at all.”

“And so… how can you be so sure?” Dellev pressed.

Ziel didn’t pause.

“It just looks that way.”

“…What?”

“The level. It looks beatable.”

What kind of answer was that?

“And,” Ziel added, gaze softening just slightly as he met Dellev’s eyes, “I expect the most from you, Dellev Kundel.”

Dellev’s jaw dropped—slowly, comically, like a gate being lowered one rusty notch at a time.

Me? He’s expecting the most from me?

***

Later, Ziel recalled the line he had read from Teachers Who Are Loved, Teachers Who Are Not:

—Praise, properly applied, draws out the deepest potential in students.

He was starting to suspect the book was right.

After that first instance of praise, the students had attacked their training with frightening intensity. Dellev had come agonizingly close to a counterattack—technically still a failure, but almost a success. And almost was enough to spark fire.

Ziel felt… pleased.

He didn’t yet have a word for it. But pleased felt close.

And today—he was pleased again.

“Salary…” he muttered thoughtfully.

In his years as a ghost, money had never mattered much.

But now…

Well.

Now was different.

This was money in the ordinary sense—the kind people exchanged for goods, meals, and necessities. For Ziel, the concept was still something of an oddity.

To him, money had only ever been mission equipment. A stack of coins to bribe a contact. A pouch of notes to slip to a broker. Or emergency funds used only when an operation dragged on longer than expected. He had never earned money before. Never been paid. Never thought of it as something owed to him in return for his own time and effort.

Assassins of the Black Sky Order returned to headquarters once their assignment was complete. Payment, freedom, or personal living expenses were never part of the equation. They were possessions, not employees.

So when someone said the word salary, Ziel still felt as though the term had been borrowed from someone else’s language.

“This is the Imperial Bank,” the academy clerk had said earlier while giving directions.

The Imperial Bank. The Valdrein Empire’s only official bank—and, luckily for academy staff, it had a campus branch.

Ziel had never stepped foot inside a bank in his entire life.

Not until today.

Other visitors tended to pause mid-step upon entering, stunned by the overwhelming spectacle of it—towering ceilings, chandeliers larger than classroom desks, gold-trimmed architecture that glittered like an unrestrained display of national vanity.

Ziel barely blinked.

“It’s… large,” he concluded, and walked in.

A uniformed attendant greeted him instantly, a professional smile poised and practiced.

“Welcome, valued customer.”

A chill of conditioned air brushed his cheeks—and within 1.8 seconds, Ziel’s mind had mapped the room.

Thirty guards. Sixteen decorative traps disguised as fixtures. Twenty-three concealed mechanisms. Arcane-activated security doors. Possible.

Twelve windows. Six viable exits. Four potential concealment points.

Conclusion: Primary target elimination and extraction possible within five seconds.

Not that he needed to assassinate anyone today.

Hopefully.

“How may I assist you?” the attendant asked.

“I’m here to withdraw my salary,” Ziel said, oddly pleased with the sentence.

He wasn’t aware he looked pleased. But he very much did.

“Oh! Are you academy faculty, perhaps?”

“Yes. Sword School.”

“Then right this way.”

A second attendant greeted him soon after, radiating the trustworthy warmth of someone who had never once lied, cheated, or misplaced an important document in their life.

“Welcome, Mr. Ziel Steelheart. I’ll be handling your transaction today. You’re here to withdraw your salary, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Please sign here and verify your mana.”

Ziel signed using the alias signature prepared in advance for this mission—not mission—for this job. Yes. Job.

Then he placed a finger on the mana verification plate. A soft click.

“Authentication confirmed.”

The skin layer he’d fabricated flickered with faint residual mana before he peeled it off and retracted it smoothly into his palm without drawing attention.

“Your account holds 2,500 sel. How much would you like to withdraw?”

“All of it.”

The clerk’s fingers blurred over coin trays at impressive speed. Ziel watched with genuine admiration.

He’d master dagger techniques quickly.

“One 1,000-sel gold coin, and fifteen 100-sell silver pieces,” the clerk announced. “Would you like the denominations adjusted?”

Ziel packed the coins into a leather pouch.

“No. This is fine.”

The clerk’s smile softened.

“Records show this is your first salary deposit and withdrawal. Congratulations.”

Ziel blinked once.

Was… congratulations appropriate?

It’s payment for labor, his mind reasoned. Not an achievement.

His grasp of social economics still had a long road ahead.

“Do you have plans for how you’ll spend it?” the clerk asked conversationally.

This one, at least, Ziel could answer with confidence.

“I will eat.”

“Oh! Eating is wonderful. Someone as striking as yourself surely has reservations with a companion, perhaps—?”

“I will eat alone.”

“…Ah.”

“And I will eat a lot.”

Ziel meant it with complete sincerity. He had only recently become aware that salary was something he could have been receiving all along.

The delay tasted like injustice.

If he’d known sooner, he would have eaten better, earlier.

“I’m going now,” he added gravely.

“Oh—right now?”

“Right now.”

The clerk coughed politely and slid a small parcel across the counter.

“Before you go, a sealed delivery arrived for you. Mana-locked. Only opens for your signature.”

Ziel took it, inspected the seal, nodded.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’m going to eat.”

“Of course. Please enjoy your meal!”

The attendant maintained their professional smile until the very moment Ziel stepped out of the bank—

—and the moment the doors clicked shut, the staff erupted like a burst flour sack.

“Who was that?!”

“Sword School faculty.”

“Wait—that academy instructor? The absurdly handsome one?”

“Since when do you know this?”

“My boyfriend works in academy administration! So? What did he say?”

“He… withdrew his salary.”

“Oh, come on. I thought maybe Ella was finally escaping singledom.”

“Escape? Please. Calm down.”

But Ella had already spun abruptly, realization striking her like divine revelation.

“Wait! He said something else!”

“What?”

“He said he’s going to eat.”

“…Okay?”

“Alone.”

A beat. Then—

“Why?? He’s gorgeous!”

“Right?? But apparently, he’s going to eat a lot.”

A bewildered silence.

“…Strange man.”

Ella crossed her arms thoughtfully, cheeks faintly flushed.

“But,” she added, almost fondly, “he did look really happy about it.”

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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?”

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Among all days, this one might have been Yurio’s brightest.

He had been praised.

Praised by a teacher he had—quite recently and quite unexpectedly—started to admire.

Better yet, that same teacher had helped him directly, altering the flow of his breathing technique so drastically that his stamina had shot upward like a hopper let loose.

He still wasn’t at the average level of the other students—not yet—but the oppressive wall that had once told him never had cracked, and in that crack, something warm had begun to grow.

Hope.

“So,” came a voice beside him, dry but amused. “Are you always this pleased with yourself, or is today special?”

Yurio didn’t even try to hide it. “Obviously I’m happy. What about you, Karen? How much did you run today?”

“Five laps more than last week,” she replied, folding her arms. There was pride there, but also something that looked suspiciously like sour envy. “…I worked hard, okay?”

Yurio beamed. “At this rate, I’ll catch up to you soon.”

“Right,” she snorted. “Keep dreaming. Kundel and Rihardt are still in our year, you know.”

Even their names felt distant when spoken. Dellev and Celia—well ahead of the first-years, forever just out of reach.

“Still!” Yurio declared, throwing a triumphant fist into the air, “there’s no rule that says I can’t get there if I work hard enough. By the end of the term, I’ll take first place at least once!”

Karen stared at him as if he’d claimed he could sprout wings by dinner.

“Seriously? You earlier said you weren’t even gonna try out.”

“That was before.” His voice swelled, brimming with dangerous optimism. “Now? Maybe I can make it to the exchange-match preliminaries too!”

“…Preliminaries?” Karen echoed incredulously. “You?”

“What?” he said defensively. “Teacher said he’d show me how to overcome fear. Maybe this is what he meant.”

She leaned closer, squinting. “So… you’re not scared anymore?”

“Nope.” He grinned, almost dazzling. “I can do what everyone else can do now.”

Karen watched him for a long moment—really watched him—before a laugh slipped out of her, soft and unbelieving.

“You know,” she said, shaking her head, “you’re the brightest I’ve ever seen you. And I’ve known you for, what, five minutes?”

He flushed. “I’m not usually gloomy…”

“Oh yes you are,” she countered immediately. “You used to mutter stuff like ‘I can’t do it,’ or ‘I’m sick,’ and ‘I’ll never make it’ like some tragic theater lead.”

“…Did I?”

“Constantly,” she said with a solemn nod. “One teacher walks in and suddenly you’re a whole new person.”

That teacher, of course, was Ziel Steelheart—the sudden new general-studies instructor who had appeared out of nowhere without explanation or fanfare, like a plot twist strolling through the front door.

“What was he doing before he came here…?” Karen murmured.

Yurio tilted his head thoughtfully. “Have you ever heard of the Steelheart family?”

“Nope. Maybe they’re some tiny countryside household. Like ours.”

“That’s awfully self-deprecating.”

“Well, who knows?” she shrugged. “Even nobodies can produce someone extraordinary, right? Maybe he’s one of them.”

Maybe we could be too, Yurio thought—quietly at first, then louder, warming like sunlight spreading behind his ribs.

“Oh! Right,” Karen said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “Show me.”

“Huh?”

“The praise card. The one he gave you.”

“…Oh.”

Yurio rummaged through his jacket and pulled it out carefully, like revealing contraband candy.

“The little smiley face,” Karen noted, squinting at it. “Is that hand-drawn by him?”

“Probably?”

“…That’s weirdly cute.”

“Cute?”

“She asked what he said when he handed it to you.”

Yurio blinked. “That it would protect me in danger.”

Karen’s eyebrows shot upward. “Protect you?”

“Yeah. He told me to throw it if something went wrong.”

“…Throw it?” she repeated slowly. “What is that thing? A magic tool?”

“It doesn’t feel enchanted,” he admitted, turning the card over, eyes narrowing in scientific confusion. “But…”

A terrible, luminous idea began forming between them.

“Should we test it?” Yurio whispered.

Karen did not recoil. That almost made it worse.

“Test it?”

“I mean,” he continued, grin turning mischievous, “He said to throw it in danger. And this place is empty. No danger. So we make our own experiment!”

“Yurio…”

“Come on. Just once.”

Curiosity, traitor that it was, betrayed her. “…Fine,” she sighed. “But if we blow something up, I’ll pretend I wasn’t here.”

They slipped into an unused building—one marked Restricted and Scheduled for Demolition. Honestly, it might have invited them with blinking neon lights.

“One of these rooms,” Karen suggested.

Yurio opened the card between two fingers.

Do I just… throw it?

He aimed through a half-ajar door and tossed it.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

“See?—” he began.

And then—

SSSSSSSSS—

A hiss.

Followed by thick, curling smoke that rushed outward, devouring the room like a small indoor storm.

Both students froze.

“…” 

“…” 

“…Is that smoke?” Karen whispered.

“It looks like smoke,” Yurio whispered back.

A smoke card. He had been handed a smoke card.

The fog didn’t burn, it didn’t explode—if anything, it was oddly polite. Dense but not overwhelming. Dramatic without commitment.

Then, as quickly as it came, it thinned, fading away into nothing.

“So,” Karen said slowly, “he meant… run away under smoke cover?”

“Apparently?”

“…That’s actually kind of clever.”

“A bit of a waste, though,” Yurio said mournfully. “What if we needed it later?”

Karen yawned mid-response. “…Suddenly tired.”

“Yeah… weird. Me too.”

Unfazed, entertained, and entirely unaware that the smoke had not been ordinary at all, the two wandered off toward their dorms.

Behind them, the building resumed its silence.

Then—

“…Can’t… sleep…”

A weak hand clawed at the doorframe.

With a slow, tragic slide, the door drifted open fully, revealing what the students had not seen earlier.

Three Sword Academy students—second-years, judging by the purple badges on their uniforms—were sprawled across the floor like abandoned laundry.

Empty bottles rolled nearby. Half-packed tobacco leaves sat untouched. One student snored like a thunderstorm stuck indoors.

“…Who the hell…” one mumbled, already descending back toward unconsciousness.

A moment later—

All was quiet again.

***

One month later.

Tiron, assistant to Professor Elcanto, sighed the sigh of a man drowning in paperwork.

His desk was a battlefield.

Forms for professor approval.

Forms requiring official seals.

And—his personal nemesis—disciplinary reports from student affairs.

Every day, without fail.

Of course it was Professor Elcanto’s business, but it did not surprise Tiron in the least that his assistants handled the paperwork instead.

He skimmed the first report and muttered, “Those second-years, what were they thinking…?”

The disciplinary file described three second-years caught drinking and smoking in the condemned building. Edelvine Academy’s Sword School forbade alcohol and tobacco without exception. Everyone knew some students drank in secret, and minor infractions usually slid by, but being discovered by the patrolling guards made this a more serious affair.

Tiron rolled his eyes. “Stupid lot. Were they asleep when the guards found them? Drunk or what.” 

He’d heard rumors the three weren’t model citizens, but luck, lineage, and a little discretion often spared troublemakers. These three, however, belonged to no notable family; that meant punishment would almost certainly stick.

He set that file aside and opened the next: Ziel’s class report.

“Huh. That’s thick.”

Weekly reports usually ran a page or two. Ziel’s filled ten pages and kept going.

Tiron flipped the first sheet and frowned. “What on earth…?”

[Week 4 Class Report]
— Sustained improvement in students’ endurance and running ability through continued long-distance and interval training. Detailed records attached; comparative data included.

Tiron’s mouth dropped open as he read.

Yurio Harmattan, a first-year once known for his frailty, had gone from twenty laps in week two to sixty, then to staggering totals—one hundred laps by week six.
Could a body improve so radically in such a short time?

“Wasn’t this student supposed to be weak?” he muttered.

Next, Dellev Kundel’s record caught his eye. Dellev had begun as a top performer with Celia Rihardt in week one, but then his focus shifted to sprints. Where a few circuits previously left most students gasping, Dellev’s endurance steadily rose; his recovery times shortened; his output increased.
It wasn’t just the three: all forty students enrolled in Ziel’s two general studies classes showed marked gains.

“How is he teaching this…?” Tiron whispered.

Ziel’s notes were meticulous. Beside each name, specific comments addressed strengths, faults, and tailored advice.

[Yurio Harmattan: appears to have gained notable confidence recently; continued guidance expected to yield significant progress.]

[Karen Aswan: correcting her breathwork; recommend additional lower-body conditioning.]

[Dellev Kundel: appears unusually conscious of Celia Rihardt; Celia’s teasing seems to provoke his attentiveness.]

[Celia Rihardt: regarding Dellev Kundel… (comment truncated).]

Each student carried a paragraph of personal observation, an attention to detail rarely seen in faculty reports. Tiron had known professors who worked like that—who treated teaching as an art—but most scribbled generic remarks and moved on.
Ziel’s diligence gave Tiron a different impression entirely.

Some comments struck him as odd—[Maris Sopen: sometimes gives a sharp look; averts gaze when Dellev stares; may owe Dellev a debt or hold a grievance.]—but the thoroughness was undeniable.

“And he’s not exaggerating the physical improvements,” Tiron said to himself, tracing the comparative charts. 

He checked the other general studies reports, the classes Elcanto himself taught. Their students’ fitness levels were middling by comparison; the measurement methods varied, but nothing matched the steady climb in Ziel’s cohorts.

“This will be interesting when the results come in,” he murmured, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

Edelvine valued physical conditioning above many other things. First-year life tended toward mischief more than study, yet if forty first-years in one track suddenly surged in stamina, the school would notice.

“And Professor Elcanto’s expression when that happens,” Tiron imagined, “will be priceless.”

The exchange competition—the Sword School’s grandest event—loomed on the horizon.

Before the exchange itself came a brutal gatekeeper: the preliminaries that selected who could represent each year. Fifty students would be chosen—ten from each year—out of the academy’s five years. One hundred first-years vied for ten spots; some resigned themselves to sitting out, but most dipped a toe. To be selected and then perform at the exchange was to thrust oneself into the gaze of noble houses and knightly orders who attended the spectacle.

***

“Did you hear?” one student said in the courtyard. “The royal order will send scouts this year. Early recruitment, they say.”

“The notice went up yesterday,” another replied. “If you’re picked for the exchange, clans and companies will come looking.”

The chance to impress the great knightly orders or a clan’s household guard was career-changing for most students. For minor gentry and lesser houses, a single student’s sudden recruitment could brighten a whole family’s future; for some, behind the scenes, it meant a comfortable life.

“Ready? No more long runs today—sword drills,” someone declared. 

“Anyone want to spar?” another asked. 

“Not you, Zeke,” came a dismissive laugh. “You’re not on my level.” 

Friendly taunts, eager practice plans, nerves braided with anticipation—this was how the first-year ranks ripened themselves.

“Dellev, you’re entering the preliminaries, right?” Celia asked.

“Of course,” he answered, brusque. “You are too, aren’t you?”

“My father will be watching at the exchange,” she said, watching his face for a reaction. 

“Yours?”

“Dunno. Probably not. He’s busy with the others.”

Dellev’s mind, though, returned to the present: a tactic, a counterstrike. He’d not yet landed a perfect reversal in self-defence practice; progress crept toward success but refused to deliver its proof. The grudge to prove oneself burned in him.

“Two weeks,” Celia said, glancing at the calendar. “Maybe Ziel will prepare us.”

At that moment the door opened and Ziel entered, and the hall’s chatter folded into silence as if a spell had been laid. Forty students slid into formation, arranging themselves into neat ranks for self-defence drills.

Ziel surveyed them with an unreadable expression. Then, in that flat, cavernous voice that somehow made the words resonate, he said, “I will take attendance.”

When Celia raised her hand, Ziel nodded.

“A question, Teacher,” she said. “With the preliminaries coming, will we have special preparation?”

Ziel’s face gave nothing away. “Preparation is unnecessary.”

The students blinked. 

“Sir, the preliminaries are important. If we are chosen for the exchange—”

“Concentrate on your studies,” Ziel interrupted. “My course teaches self-defence.”

“But—sir—”

“Worried you may fail?” he asked, and a few heads dipped sheepishly.

“I—” a voice offered, “I’m confident.”

“And the rest of you?”

Uncertainty rippled. Outside of Dellev, confidence was scant.

“Then, with less worry, you will focus more on this course.” 

“Yes. So—could we practise for the preliminaries—”

Ziel raised a hand and, for the first time, said something that stunned them all.

“Ten will be chosen for the preliminaries.”

He let the sentence sit like a stone in a still pond, then drove the point home with a single, quiet sentence.

“And those ten will come from my students.”

A ripple of disbelief spread across the hall.

He meant it literally: from the forty students who attended his two general studies classes, ten names would be taken.

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An assassin knows the body the way a scholar knows a map. The precise coordinates of the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys. The count of bones. The distribution of muscle, the mechanics of organs, the hidden architecture beneath the skin—what does what, and why. To understand that is to understand where to strike, where to sever, and more importantly, what happens after.

Which is why, when Yurio Harmattan’s pulse finally steadied—only slightly, reluctantly—Ziel spoke.

“Student Yurio Harmattan,” he said in a voice that allowed no room for debate, “run for me. A short distance. From here to here.”

Yurio jolted. “Huh? Ah—yes, yes sir!”

It was no ordinary observation. Ziel did not merely watch. He dissected motion itself. The shift of tendon under skin. The shiver of cartilage. The cadence of breath. Even the trembling resonance of Yurio’s heartbeat.

Irregular.

His verdict came swiftly, quietly, internally—as lethal diagnoses often did.

Mana flow stagnated. Constricted in places. Blocked in others. Muscle response went jagged, breathing unstable. The largest bottleneck— The heart.

A fluctuation in pulse meant strain at the core. If the mana circuit jittered there, the myocardium itself was likely affected.

Another instructor might have wondered how a student like that survived entrance into a sword academy. But not Ziel. He never wasted energy on why the world was flawed when he could be thinking about how to fix it.

“Haah… haaah…”

 “That’s enough, Yurio Harmattan. Return.”

Before Yurio had even fully straightened, Ziel’s hand was already rising—pressing directly over his chest.

“S-S-Sir…?” 

“Stay still.”

A few meters away, the others had slowed to a jog, then a walk, then a gawking standstill.

“Haaah—what is he doing?” 

“No clue—oi, look over there!” 

“Still, he’s lasting longer than last week, right? Kinda feels like his stamina’s improving!”

Only Dellev watched in tense silence—too tense. 

“Jealous?” someone snickered. 

“J-Jealous? Of what?” 

“You haven’t blinked once, man.” 

“Shut—shut up!”

He broke into a sprint to escape the accusation, yet Celia remained staring too, unable to look away either.

What could possibly take that long? 

Unlike Dellev, though, her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

When should I ask him to be my escort knight? 

It was, in her mind, a matter of when, not if.

Meanwhile, Yurio’s face pinched tight. 

“Sir… my chest feels… really warm…” 

“I am locating the blockage. It may feel unpleasant.” 

“It—may also feel like it hurts!” 

“Endure it.”

From afar, the scene looked bizarre enough that several students exchanged sideways glances.

And then, with clinical calm—

“Left atrium, lower by three centimeters. Right atrium, upper by two. Both in regions tied to mana-blood circulation.”

Yurio’s jaw dropped.

“Wh—What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Ziel said simply, “there was always a reason your stamina lagged. Since when?”

“Since… since I was born. But—how did you know?”

“I infused mana into you.”

Silence.

Because that technique—was not medicine. It was assassination.

A method used when weapons were absent, when silence mattered more than blood. Slip mana into the target’s system. Trigger disruption. Cripple. Neutralize. Or, if necessary… detonate it from within.

One of the reasons Ziel had once been called the Wraith.

Yurio stared as though the ground had learned to speak. 

Mana infusion… inside a person? That’s possible?

Before he could spiral further, Ziel asked, “Which breathing method were you taught?”

“Oh. Uh…” Yurio fumbled, ears flushing. “It was… one my father acquired. It was very expensive…”

“Perform it.”

And as though spellbound, Yurio sat, inhaled, and began cycling mana through the familiar pattern.

Ziel laid his palm back over his sternum, tracing the flow with cold precision.

The verdict arrived, devoid of hesitation.

“This breathing method does not suit Yurio Harmattan.”

Yurio went rigid. “What?”

“I will revise it.”

“…Revise? Sir—modifying a breathing method is incredibly dangero—”

“I know. I will succeed.”

“…Sir?”

Once a mana breathing technique is ingrained, adjusting it is akin to rewriting instinct. Most swordsmen spend a lifetime making marginal refinements. Tiny ones. Safe ones.

Changing it outright?

Impossible.

Unless you were Ziel.

“It cannot be impossible,” he said flatly, “because I will do it.”

Yurio could only stare, mind blank, logic trailing hopelessly behind.

Because mana breathing methods are not just routines—they are architecture. Delicate. Purpose-built. Individual-coded. A single misalignment could destroy a path instead of forging it.

Which is why noble houses guard techniques like crown jewels. Which is why warriors whisper: Your first breathing method decides your ceiling.

Ziel wasn’t proposing replacement. Only correction. A reordering of current pathways, not demolition and rebuild.

“Your mana’s route conflicts with your body’s condition,” he explained. “Especially here—your heart requires priority, yet your method starves it.”

Yurio could barely speak.

“How could you even know that?”

Ziel didn’t answer.

He simply placed two fingers over the point where mana throbbed unevenly—like a faulty gear grinding against fate—and allowed silence to sharpen into awe.

Yurio had never known an easy breath.

Even as a child, his heart carried a weight—tight, congested, wrong—as though every beat had to squeeze its way through a place it did not quite fit. That was why, when selecting a breathing method, he had been painstakingly careful. His heart could not afford strain.

And yet—

“You’re saying… you can change it?”

“I can,” Ziel replied, eyes unblinking, tone matter-of-fact. “Right now, your mana path grazes the heart only once per cycle, and at a distance. I’ll redirect it. Instead of passing by as an afterthought, it will brush the nearest artery twice.”

He wasn’t proposing to demolish the entire structure of Yurio’s breathing method. No. It was more like changing the route of a road—not carving a new highway, but replacing a wide detour with a tighter, more efficient shortcut that still connected to the original system.

On paper, it should have sounded simple.

In reality?

“…That’s terrifying,” Yurio whispered.

“Terrifying?” Ziel echoed, tilting his head. “Then this doubles as a lesson in conquering fear.”

Yurio physically shivered.

What if it fails? What if I break completely? What if the weakness I was born with finally collapses me for good?

“I’m… actually really scared, sir…”

A quiet breath. Then—

“Believe me, Yurio Harmattan. You are capable.”

“But… no one has ever said anything like this to me before…”

“Then do you stop here?” Ziel asked.

Silence.

“If you stop here,” Ziel continued, voice as certain as an unsheathed blade, “you will live your entire life with mediocre stamina. Or worse.” He leaned just enough that his gaze pinned Yurio in place. “Do you not wish to conquer fear?”

Something inside Yurio cracked open—not loud, not explosive, but deep.

Fear of collapse. Fear of being insufficient. Fear of being the frail disappointment in a family that needed strength.

In the middle of it all, in all his years of training, in all his quiet shame—only one person had ever praised him.

And it was this man.

“…You really think it’ll work?” Yurio asked, voice thin.

“A teacher does not lie to his student.”

Still trembling, Yurio nodded.

“…Then I’ll do it.”

The words landed like a vow.

It was insanity. It was impossible. Breathing techniques were not edited like drafts—they were carved like bone. Modifying one was a gamble no rational swordsman would ever take.

But—

Mr. Ziel said he can.

And Yurio believed him.

Ziel, watching the shift in the boy’s face, studied it with clinical curiosity.

His eyes have changed. Is this emotion? Was that fear, earlier? 

He was only just beginning to understand what feelings looked like.

“Breathe, Yurio Harmattan. When I instruct, change direction. I will guide you.”

Yurio didn’t understand the mechanics. Not yet.

But he felt it immediately.

Warmth.

Ziel’s mana threaded into his like a guiding hand, gentle but precise, helping his breath turn where it had never turned before.

Ziel himself was surprised. He’d used mana insertion countless times to sabotage bodies, hijack circulation, collapse organs from the inside out.

He had never used it to heal.

So it works like this as well, he thought.

Ziel was the only assassin in his order to master Breath of Long Night, a technique that let him read mana currents in people, air, even enclosed chambers. It was how he’d eliminated targets thought untouchable—

A noble guarded by fifty knights. A slave-trader hidden in a locked vault. A high priest who’d prepared traps in his name.

All died cleanly, quietly, impossibly.

Only now, far from that world, did he realize the truth.

His talent was never for killing.

It was for understanding the flow of life itself.

“Now. Slightly left.” 

“Hhh—” 

“Good. Right. A bit upward.”

He guided like a blacksmith shaping molten iron, firm, precise.

The new route was foreign, painful, burning.

“Ng—!” 

“Hold your posture, Yurio Harmattan.” 

“I—It’s really painful, sir!” 

“There is pain suppressant,” Ziel offered. “But numbing the senses will make the redirection imprecise.”

Why does this man carry pain suppressants? Yurio wondered furiously.

“Then… endure.”

Yurio clenched his teeth so hard his jaw shook.

He still didn’t fully believe it.

I lived with this for over a decade. Can one night really change that?

“One last cycle,” Ziel said.

Yurio exhaled—shaking—then inhaled, drawing mana along the path Ziel carved for him.

When he finished, he collapsed face-down on the ground.

“Hah… hah…”

“Remember that path. That is now your circulation,” Ziel said. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Yurio wheezed.

“No abnormalities. Continue.”

Again. Then again. Five cycles in total.

By the third, the pain dulled.

By the fourth, breathing felt different.

By the fifth—

“Huh?” Yurio blinked.

His chest felt… light.

The constant pressure he’d carried for as long as he could remember— the invisible hand gripping his heart— was loosening.

“Your left and right atrium pathways have widened,” Ziel observed. “Mana and blood flow are stabilizing.”

Could that really be true?

—A teacher does not lie to his student.

Ziel’s earlier words returned with quiet gravity.

By the fifth cycle, Yurio’s breath came easier—cleaner—freer.

“…Sir…” His voice cracked. “…Is this actually…?”

“Yes. Running should no longer feel unfair,” Ziel said simply. “You are closer to even ground now.”

“Sir…”

Emotion surged up faster than Yurio could fend it off. He dropped into a bow so fast it was almost violent.

Tears hit the dirt.

Someone finally praised me. And then… he fixed me?

It was absurd.

It was impossible.

It was real.

Who… who even is this man?

No one should be able to rewrite a breathing technique mid-lesson. No one should be able to heal a congenital defect by reshaping mana paths with bare hands.

And yet.

Here, now, someone had.

This was something only Ziel could have done.

Altering another person’s breathing method—adjusting the path itself rather than rebuilding it—was not merely unconventional. It bordered on impossible. For Yurio, it had already passed beyond reason and landed squarely in the territory of miracles.

“One last time,” Ziel said. “Try it again.”

“Yes, sir!”

Yurio’s voice carried a strength it had never had before. He steadied himself, assumed the posture, and drove his mana forward in a full circuit.

The difference was immediate. Smoother. Lighter. Less like dragging his heart along behind him.

And yet Ziel wasn’t finished.

“Pause. Route the mana through the heart twice per breath.”

Yurio’s head snapped up. “Twice?! That goes outside the method entirely!”

“It is possible. Attempt it. I will guide the current.”

Ziel looked, for the first time, faintly intrigued—like someone who had just solved a puzzle without realizing he’d been solving one.

This configuration suits Yurio Harmattan’s body better.

Yurio’s heart was weaker than most. Congenital vulnerability compounded by a breathing method that had never actually fit him—like wearing boots a size too small for a decade and calling the blisters inevitable.

The solution wasn’t brute force.

It was alignment.

You know what? Yurio thought, exasperated and half-hysterical. I’m not even going to try to understand anymore.

Understanding only made his head hurt.

At a certain point— 

It’s just Mr. Ziel.

So he breathed.

Once.

Twice.

His heart spasmed against the strain—but Ziel guided his mana like a steady hand on a frightened animal, firm and sure. Again, Yurio forced the cycle, gritting his teeth, nearly shaking—

And then.

It clicked.

Mana looped twice around his heart before completing its route.

“Success,” Ziel declared.

“Sir…” Yurio exhaled, nearly reverent.

“Maintain it. Lock it into memory.”

“Yes, sir!”

It wasn’t that the Breath of Long Night enabled this feat. It was that a man capable of this feat was always destined to master the Breath of Long Night.

His talent for sensing, shaping, redirecting mana—whether in bodies, air, or architecture—was staggering. It had made him a ghost in the dark, an impossible killer.

Now, without even noticing the moment it happened, that same talent was saving a life instead of ending one.

He’s incredible… truly… Yurio thought, genuinely awed.

In that moment, something stirred deep and unstoppable in him— the sprouts of hero worship.

He could keep up now. He wasn’t dead weight anymore. For the first time, the future looked like something approachable instead of something to fear.

Ziel straightened. “Your breathing method has been adjusted. No irregularities. Run.”

Yurio nearly bowed mid-sprint. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! Truly—thank you!”

The volume alone made several students flinch.

Then they saw him running.

“Wait—what?” 

“Since when can Yurio sprint like that?!” 

“I thought the guy had lung issues?!” 

“Maybe adrenaline? Or a second wind?” 

“More like a sixth wind!”

Yurio’s previous record had been twenty laps. Today, thirty—and total collapse. But now? He’d hit fifty… and was still going.

“Fifty laps? Fifty?! How is he still upright?!” 

“What did Sir Ziel do to him?” 

“This doesn’t even make sense!”

Karen gaped, calling after him, breathless. 

“Yurio! What happened to you?!” 

“No idea! Gotta go! Later, Karen!”

Ziel watched it all with unreadable calm.

Was it the gratitude? Was it the student’s improvement?

Ziel couldn’t quite identify the cause—but his mouth had curved upward by a single, almost imperceptible degree.

When Yurio finally staggered to a stop, he had run sixty laps.

Sixty.

It was still below academy average—but for someone once considered borderline unfit for combat school, it was nothing short of transformation.

“Sir—hah—my stamina—hah—” 

“It improved,” Ziel finished for him. 

“Thank—hah—you— sir!”

Yurio sat, gasping, but there was something brighter threaded through each breath now. Relief. Disbelief. Hope.

He mentioned having an illness, Ziel recalled, overhearing a fragment of Yurio and Karen’s earlier conversation.

He had treated the symptoms—but not the source.

Perhaps I should find that back-alley physician. If he’s still alive, that is.

But for now, class was waiting.

Ziel turned, voice carrying effortlessly across the training field.

“Class dismissed. Gather.”

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