Prev I TOC I Next

“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.”

Prev I TOC I Next

Prev I TOC I Next

The class ended at last.

“Today’s lesson will stop here,” said Ziel, his voice calm but carrying the kind of finality that made the room exhale all at once.

At once, several students collapsed where they stood, gasping like stranded fish. Two hours of tension had drained every drop of strength from their bodies and minds.

“Ugh, I’m dead,” one groaned, sprawling across the floor. “Think I should drop this course?”

“Sure. And next year you can take it again—with the first-years,” another said dryly.

The groan that followed was half despair, half acceptance of fate.

There were five general-education courses this semester, and luck—or perhaps misfortune—had placed two of them under Professor Ziel Steelheart’s charge. Students had fought tooth and nail to win a place in his class, convinced it would be an easy ride.

They no longer thought so.

“Can’t even drop it now…” someone muttered.

“I’m actually dying,” said another, too exhausted to exaggerate.

Not everyone was miserable, though.

“I don’t know,” said one boy, flexing his shoulders. “I feel kind of good, actually.”

His friend blinked at him. “You’ve completely lost it.”

“I’m serious! Tired, sure—but better than I expected.”

Nearby, one poor soul merely wheezed for breath. A few, like Dellev and Celia, stared at Ziel with determined eyes, waiting for the verdict.

“From now on,” Ziel said, his expression unreadable, “you’ll keep repeating this exercise until you can successfully defend yourselves against me.”

That earned a collective look of horror. Against him? Against the man who had just spent two hours attacking forty students without breaking a sweat?

“Is that even possible?” asked Yurio, raising a trembling hand.

“It is,” Ziel replied simply. “If you don’t give up, you’ll improve. Bit by bit.”

Something in his tone made Yurio believe him. The boy nodded almost despite himself.

“Yurio Harmattan,” Ziel went on, “that final movement was good.”

“R-really?”

“Yes. Your reflexes are getting sharper.”

Yurio’s eyes brightened, pride washing away fatigue. To be praised—by Ziel Steelheart himself!

Dellev, meanwhile, sank lower in his seat. He had practiced until his legs trembled, and yet—nothing. No praise, no progress he could feel.

“Lucky you,” murmured Karen beside him. Yurio just grinned.

“Go wash up and rest,” said Ziel, cutting through the chatter. “Recovery is the most important part of training.”

Students groaned their assent and began dragging themselves to their feet.

Then Ziel added, almost offhandedly, “Ah, and since no one managed to block my attacks today, I won’t be giving out the praise cards.”

Collective deflation. You could almost hear it.

“But,” he continued, “I did promise a card to whoever showed the most improvement.”

Hope flickered in tired eyes. Not Dellev’s—he had already written himself off.

“The student who showed the greatest progress today…” Ziel paused, scanning the group. Then he lifted his chin toward the corner. “Dellev Kundel.”

“W-what?!”

Dellev blinked, utterly bewildered.

“From the start of class until now, you’ve shown the best growth. Your responses are faster, your sense sharper.”

Dellev sat frozen. Had he?

“It’s a small change,” said Ziel, “but greater than anyone else’s.”

Then came the words that hit harder than any blow.

“Well done, Dellev Kundel.”

The boy’s chest swelled. For the first time, his heart felt light.

Murmurs rippled through the room.

“Kundel again, huh?”

“Can’t deny he’s been working hard.”

“I thought he’d quit after the first class.”

He heard none of it.

“Come forward,” said Ziel. “Collect your card.”

Dellev rose awkwardly, legs stiff, and took the white card Ziel held out.

It looked ordinary enough—plain, with a smiling face stamped in the center.

“A… praise card?” he asked.

The professor gave no hint of irony.

Dellev squinted at the round, symmetrical smile. “Do we get something if we collect them all?”

“No,” said Ziel. “Just keep it.”

“Oh. So… symbolic, then?”

“It’ll protect you,” the man said matter-of-factly, “when you’re in danger.”

“…This will?”

He examined it again. No glow, no enchantment—just paper. If it was meant to block arrows, it was doing a poor job of looking the part.

“When you’re in danger,” Ziel said, “throw it. At your enemy.”

“Throw it?”

“Yes.”

Dellev swallowed. “It won’t… kill them, will it?”

“It won’t.”

Apparently the man could read minds now. Dellev nodded quickly and tucked the card into his pocket. The truth was, he didn’t care what it did. For once, he’d been recognized.

And then, as he turned to go, Ziel added one last thing.

“Collect five praise cards,” he said, “and there will be a prize.”

He’d read it somewhere—motivation came from desire, not obligation. Let them want to improve.

“What kind of prize?” someone blurted.

Eyes shone all around. Dellev’s most of all.

“You’ll find out,” Ziel said, smiling faintly.

Dellev grinned back, heart thrumming with new energy. Whatever the prize was, he’d earn it—and maybe, just maybe, figure out what kind of magic hid inside that smiling card.

***

Assassins are trained in a thousand quiet ways, and magic sits among them like a blade hidden in a sleeve.

You learn to thread power into trinkets and steel. You learn to breathe it. To shape it. To send it where it needs to go.

Every discipline has its own “breathing” for power—swordsmen, mages, even the odd artist with a temperamental muse. Assassins have theirs, too.

Ziel’s was called the Breath of the Long Night.

A legend in the old “Black Sky” syndicate, it was so intricate, so impossibly knotted, that no one had ever mastered it. No one but Ziel, the brightest blade the syndicate had ever sharpened.

And now that the organization lay in ash, he alone remembered it.

Lately, fragments of its techniques slipped out of him without permission.

Once, everything had been strictly governed—pulse, gaze, heartbeat, thought. Now something new tugged at the reins.

A self.

The Breath of the Long Night came with gifts and dangers. The most practical trick was the eye—lacing a look with magic, sending intent across a room the way a bow sends an arrow.

Useful. Powerful. Dangerous if he forgot where he was and who was watching.

He would have to be careful.

“Selfhood,” he murmured.

He hadn’t had much of one when they dragged him away. The mind they’d left him with had been scrubbed and sanded until it didn’t make a sound.

But after the deprogramming, after freedom, something had started to grow back—quietly, stubbornly.

Feeling.

He closed the book in his hands. What Is Emotion? The librarian had pressed it on him with a knowing look.

According to the author, emotion was mind and mood and sometimes provocation. Ziel wasn’t sure he understood. Hard to, when you’d been turned into silence at a very young age.

Still, one entry stood out: fear.

Ziel had none.

Training had buried it deep and laid stone over the grave. Perhaps other feelings might return in time. Fear, he suspected, would not.

Fear: an emotion of dread, aversion, and revulsion in the presence of a perceived threat.

It didn’t sound pleasant.

“Fear,” he repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “Will I ever feel you again?”

He set the book down with a soft tap and left the library.

Eyes followed him. None belonged to Dellev this time, and none trailed him far.

Stay cautious, he told himself. The instincts were still sharp; the senses, keener than most knives.

“Did you see him? Who is that?”

“Sword School? Arcane? Or Arts?”

“Arts, surely. That face is a masterpiece.”

He kept his ears open, as he always did—corners, bins, benches, hedges. An assassin’s habits do not loosen quickly.

“…I’m sorry, senior.” 

“Life at the Academy’s easier now, isn’t it?” 

“N-no, sir!”

That wasn’t idle chatter. The voices were ahead, in the direction he was already walking.

Curiosity—a new, unruly tenant in his mind—tugged him onward.

He turned the corner and found familiar faces.

“Hey, where’s Aswan from again? Which forgotten house?” 

“Eastern backwater, isn’t it?” 

“Figures. Never heard of them.”

Karen Aswan stood rigid, jaw tight.

“And you’re what again? Yu…?” 

“Yurio Harmattan, sir!” 

“Should’ve been born to a proper house. Never heard of yours either.” 

“It—It was once well known…?” 

“When?” 

“Two hundred years ago…” 

“And now?”

“Now” didn’t need an answer.

My students, Ziel thought.

The other three were strangers. Second-years, by the look and smell of them. The meeting place was a narrow strip behind a building, shaded and mean—the sort of ground assassins chose when they wanted witnesses to forget what they saw.

They didn’t feel like assassins. Just boys with borrowed bravado.

Ziel slipped against the wall and listened.

“First-years really are a mess, huh? Don’t even recognize your seniors? Where are your manners?” 

“S-sorry!” 

“Sorry ends your Academy career, does it?” 

“We just haven’t memorized everyone’s names—” 

“Pathetic, isn’t it? Back in our day we had all hundred down in two days, and still got yelled at for being slow.”

Sword School admitted about a hundred per year. Memorizing them all in two days was nonsense.

“Third-years and up go easy on you, but not us. Get it?” 

“Y-yes, sir…”

“Do your best. Okay? Oh, right. There’s going to be a grade exchange match soon, right? See you later?”

They shoved past Karen and Yurio, light as taps and heavy as insults, and sauntered away.

Something tightened under Ziel’s ribs. He did not yet have a label for it.

He stepped into view.

“P—Professor Ziel?” Karen blurted. 

“H-how did you…?”

“What was that,” he asked, voice level, “just now?”

“Ah. That was…”

“Second-years?” he prompted.

Karen flinched. She knew his tone—flat, uncolored. But today there was a shadow in it. A weight.

It was—frightening.

“Y-yes,” she admitted.

“It’s nothing, Professor,” Yurio said quickly, elbowing Karen. “Just our elders offering advice—”

Ziel ignored the performance. “It looked like harassment.”

“Sir, it’s… just how things are between years—”

“Why did you stand there and take it?”

They both stared. The question had never occurred to them.

“Because…” Yurio began.

“Does a ‘senior’ require your absolute obedience?” said Ziel.

“No, but…”

There was a deeper reason. In the Empire, some names carried iron. Others, paper.

Those boys wouldn’t lay a finger on Dellev Kundel or Celia Rihardt. You didn’t pick fights with Kundels and Rihardts if you planned on breathing comfortably for the rest of your life.

Aswan and Harmattan? One from the far east, one from the cold north. Noble by courtesy, not by consequence.

Harmattan had shone five centuries ago. Now the name survived the way old paint clings to a doorframe.

“You two aren’t helpless,” Ziel said. “Not against those three.”

They blinked. He had measured their skills in the time it takes to breathe.

“Why were you cowed?”

“B—because they’re seniors,” Karen whispered.

“If that is enough to shrink you,” said Ziel, “you will shrink before almost everything.”

Karen felt something thump in her chest. Aswan. Harmattan. Small houses. Small voices. She had been bowing all her life out of habit.

“So,” she ventured, “should we fight them?”

“No.”

“Then what—?”

“What you felt looked like fear,” he said thoughtfully. “The book describes it as dread, revulsion, and horror in the face of a threat. Is that right?”

“For most people… yes,” Yurio said.

“Then you will need to learn how to master it.”

In the old days, even with conditioning, fear seeped in.

When the knife had to fall. When the walls closed. When the enemy ringed you like wolves.

Fear came. Training taught you to kill it. And when that wasn’t enough, they killed every other feeling with it.

“I’ll teach methods for mastering fear in our next lesson,” Ziel said. “Read as well. What Is Emotion? Central Library, B-24, fourth shelf, sixth from the left.”

They could only gape.

“Also,” he added, “what is this ‘exchange match’ the senior mentioned?”

Karen explained. The Exchange was part of the Academy’s Open Day, when parents descended in a parade of fine cloaks and sharper opinions. The biggest draw was the inter-year contest.

“Years pitted against years,” Ziel summarized.

“Yes, and… a lot of parents come,” Karen said faintly.

“A good opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” she echoed.

“The sun’s down,” he said. “Back to your dorms.”

“Good night, Instructor.” 

“Rest well, sir…”

They watched him go, stunned into silence—yet both of them felt something stirring, an ember waiting for air.

Ziel rounded the building toward the front and paused. A strange sensation pressed against his chest—a feeling he had never been permitted.

Karen and Yurio.

My students.

The pressure sharpened into intent. On the paving stones: scuffs heading east. In the air: the second-years’ scent, still fresh.

“That way,” he murmured.

His face had shifted without his noticing—drawn tighter, edged thinner. He did not yet recognize the expression, nor the emotion warming to a slow boil beneath it.

There they were, up ahead.

His chest tightened again. It was… unpleasant. Heavy.

Was it because his students had been harassed?

Within the unnamed weather of his mind, something rose.

According to the book… this is…

He considered. He decided.

Not much, but unmistakable.

Anger.

Prev I TOC I Next

Prev I TOC I Next

The teaching assistant trudged toward the lecture hall, muttering under his breath.

“I swear, one of these days I’m really going to quit.”

Three years into this assistantship, he knew the rules of survival. If you wanted that coveted professorship, you obeyed your supervising professor—completely. Only then came the letters of recommendation, the job security, the prestige.

The professor’s word was law. Disgusting and unfair, perhaps, but what could he do? While others landed knightly posts with powerful families or opened their own academies, he had chosen the assistant’s path. Regret or not, he had to endure it.

Still, today’s errand had a simple goal: to check in on that new lecturer, Ziel. The professor had told him to “test the man, see what he’s made of.”

As if the royal family would really be backing him, he thought skeptically. Professor Elcanto had clearly gotten the wrong idea.

It didn’t make sense. 

“If someone truly had the Imperial Family behind them, why would they be teaching a basic elective?” 

A man with such backing would be a tenured professor—or better yet, running a department by now.

He sighed as the hall came into view. 

“Almost there…”

When he opened the doors, his jaw nearly hit the floor.

“What—what in the world?”

The room was chaos.

Screams echoed through the air. 

“Ugh!”

“Gah!” 

“Argh!”

Students were collapsing left and right—then scrambling back to their feet, only to be knocked down again. 

Each time they rose, they glanced about nervously, and—wham—down they went once more.

“What… what are they doing?”

This was supposed to be a self-defense class. 

So why were forty students lined up in neat rows, taking turns getting hit—by the instructor himself?

“Is this some new kind of punishment?” he whispered in disbelief.

While he gawked, another student fell with a thud. 

It was Dellev Kundel—his face unmistakable. 

Oddly enough, despite taking a solid hit, the boy looked almost pleased.

“I nearly saw it that time…” he muttered through gritted teeth, like a man annoyed at losing a bet.

He wasn’t alone. 

All around, students were grinning, dusting themselves off, and jumping back into the fray as if determined to do better.

“This isn’t punishment…”

The assistant blinked, struggling to make sense of it. These weren’t average students—they were heirs of noble houses, some from families so influential that even professors tread carefully around them. And yet here they were, following every instruction without complaint.

“What on earth did he do to them…?”

Even as he watched, students continued to fall. And Ziel—calm, composed Ziel—moved through the chaos like a breeze.

“Karen,” he said, tapping a girl lightly on the arm. “Your movement was fast, but prediction requires certainty. Next time, adjust your timing and raise your arm just so.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

“Good. I’ll see that again in a bit.”

Then he vanished from sight, only to reappear in front of another student and tap his chest before the poor boy could react.

“An ambush can come from any direction—front, back, left, or right. Remember that. Keep your senses sharp.”

Ziel moved constantly, offering precise feedback with every strike. And strangest of all—the students were smiling.

Those who nearly blocked his attacks wore the proud grin of someone who had just passed a test.

“I was so close that time!” 

“Not bad,” Ziel said with an approving nod. “But you kept your eyes too far to the left. Watch the right flank next time—you’ll manage.”

The assistant could hardly believe it.

Was this what self-defense training looked like now? He thought back to his own student days at Swordschool Academy. Electives were nothing but easy credits—half the class barely showed up, and the instructors didn’t care as long as attendance sheets were filled.

But this—this was different.

He found himself staring at Ziel Steelheart, wondering, Who exactly is this man? Could the rumor be true—was there really royal influence behind him? Otherwise, how could he command this kind of respect?

At Edelvine Academy, elective lecturers were usually treated like nobodies. Students barely bothered to call them “sir,” and the school’s budget ensured the faculty hired for such roles were second-rate at best.

But Ziel was something else entirely.

“Celia,” he called, intercepting a strike midair. “Raise your arm higher. If your opponent had a weapon, you’d have lost it.”

The assistant swallowed hard. Royal backing or not… Ziel was fast. Too fast.

Even with the students’ full focus, they could hardly keep up. After dozens of sudden attacks, no one had managed to block him cleanly.

“Just who are you?” the assistant murmured.

Then—boom!

A smoke bomb went off.

His last bit of composure vanished with the cloud. Students coughed and stumbled through the haze, silhouettes dropping one after another.

“What kind of class is this?!”

By the time the smoke cleared, Ziel’s voice rang out calmly: “Fifty minutes have passed. Take ten to rest before we continue.”

The students collapsed where they stood, gasping and drenched in sweat.

Fifty minutes—spent in total concentration, muscles tense, eyes darting for unseen attacks. It was absurd. And yet, strangely… effective.

The assistant couldn’t deny it. For all its madness, there was something compelling about this training.

When the break ended and the lesson resumed, the change was visible. The students were adapting—slowly, but surely.

“I blocked it!” one cried.

“You grazed it,” Ziel replied, deadpan.

“But that still counts for a merit card, right?”

“No,” he said, with the faintest trace of a smile. “Only a perfect block counts.”

He moved again, swift as a shadow. Whether he had slowed his speed or the students had truly improved, the difference was undeniable.

The assistant stood frozen at the back of the room, completely forgetting why he’d come in the first place—too captivated by the impossible scene unfolding before him.

Among all the students, one stood out unmistakably—Dellev Kundel.

“Dellev Kundel,” Ziel said evenly. “Your right pivot was too slow.”

Dellev straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “But I almost blocked it this time.”

Ziel’s expression didn’t waver. “No, you didn’t. If that were a real blade, you wouldn’t still be speaking.”

His tone was calm, almost casual—but the lesson landed harder than any blow. And yet, the students weren’t discouraged. In fact, they were beginning to see things—tiny details they hadn’t noticed before.

At first, Ziel’s movements had been impossible to follow, like shadows slipping through moonlight. But when they applied his advice—focusing on balance, prediction, and reaction—they found themselves improving.

When I do it the way he says, it actually works. 

I think I’m getting the timing right this time…

Of course, Ziel wasn’t moving at his full speed. He was holding back, letting them learn. But to the students, the difference was thrilling.

By now, none of them treated the class lightly. It wasn’t that they’d ever been openly defiant—they just hadn’t cared. Elective courses were for filling credits, not learning anything meaningful. Everyone knew that. Their upperclassmen had said as much.

But this new lecturer—Ziel Steelheart—had somehow turned that notion upside down.

The first session had been a shock. The next, brutal. But slowly—strangely—it began to feel rewarding. Not just from getting used to the pain, but from realizing they were genuinely improving.

“Dellev Kundel,” Ziel called again, his voice sharp but not unkind. “Raise your guard higher. And listen to the sounds behind you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Karen, your right leg is too stiff. Relax faster or you’ll never move in time.”

Each precise correction led to a visible change. Every student who listened found their reaction sharper, their timing smoother. And with Dellev and Rihardt throwing themselves into the lesson so earnestly, the rest had no excuse not to follow.

Well—almost everyone.

“Damn it! What’s the point of this stupid class?!”

A frustrated voice cut through the rhythm of the room.

Even if everyone was getting knocked down, most accepted it as part of the training. But one student clearly hadn’t made peace with that.

“All we do is get hit! What kind of lesson is this?”

Maris Sopen. The same student Ziel had caught using magic last time.

He wasn’t shouting exactly, but his muttering was loud enough for everyone to hear.

“What’s this supposed to teach us? Bloody useless…”

The Sopen family wasn’t among the Empire’s top five houses, but they were close—close enough for their eldest son to believe he was practically nobility incarnate.

Maris still hadn’t forgiven Ziel for calling him out in front of everyone during the previous class. 

He could’ve let the magic thing slide, he grumbled inwardly. Did he have to make a show of it?

Karen, standing nearby, sighed. Of course.

He’d been like this since the entrance exams—acting as if being almost aristocracy made him untouchable. A nouveau riche attitude wrapped in noble robes.

“Hey, don’t you agree?” Maris said suddenly. “What was your name again?”

Karen ignored him.

That didn’t sit well.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

Just as he took a step forward, a dry voice snapped from behind him.

“Would you shut up and focus?”

Maris froze. “…What did you just say?”

He turned—and his heart skipped a beat.

Dellev Kundel was staring right at him.

“Is this your private lesson? Stop whining and pay attention. If you’ve got complaints, get out.”

“W-wait, Dellev, I didn’t mean—”

Dellev didn’t flinch.

“You’re distracting everyone. Keep your mouth shut.”

“I—I said I get it…”

“Do you?” His tone dropped like a blade.

Maris swallowed. “Y-yeah. I get it.”

Dellev Kundel. A scion of one of the Empire’s founding families—an ancient name tied to centuries of history and valor.

The Sopens might have been rising stars, but compared to the Kundels, they were still commoners with polish.

At Edelvine Academy, family rank could outweigh even academic standing. And faced with that difference, Maris fell silent, glaring at the floor.

Karen couldn’t help but shake her head. 

Pathetic.

And then—

“Ugh!”

Maris yelped as Ziel appeared behind him and delivered a swift tap to the shoulder that sent him sprawling.

“Maris Sopen,” Ziel said coolly. “Speak out one more time and that’ll be a warning.”

“B-but, sir!”

“If you have complaints about my teaching, you bring them to me directly. Understood?”

Maris wilted. “…Yes, sir.”

From the back, the assistant stifled a laugh and shrugged. 

Well, that’s academy life for you. 

No one mouthed off to an old family—certainly not in front of one.

Still, it was strange to see Dellev take Ziel’s side so firmly.

Does he actually like the man?

After the first self-defense class—where Ziel had completely humiliated them all—he’d expected Dellev to hold a grudge. But instead, the boy had quietly accepted it.
And now… this?

Could it be that Dellev knows something? Maybe he knows who’s backing Ziel…?

The Imperial Family’s support, perhaps.

Could it really be true?

Maybe Professor Elcanto’s “wild hunch” wasn’t so wild after all.

While the assistant’s imagination ran wild—

“Dellev Kundel,” Ziel’s voice cut in. “Your reaction’s slower than before. Focus.”

“Ugh!”

Caught mid-thought, Dellev took a hit square to the chest.

He grimaced. A little unfair, considering he’d just stuck up for the man.

Trying to salvage some dignity, he muttered, “Ah, about that just now, sir—don’t worry about it. I just thought I’d help refocus the class, that’s all—”

“Leaving your position only reduces focus,” Ziel interrupted flatly.

Dellev bit back a groan. So much for helping.

A small pfft of laughter came from his right. Celia, of course.

Oh, come on…

But then—

“Still,” Ziel said, glancing over his shoulder, “thanks to you, Karen seems more focused now. Good work.”

And just like that, he was gone again, already moving on to the next student.

Dellev blinked. 

Was that… praise?

He honestly couldn’t tell.

Prev I TOC I Next

Prev I TOC I Next

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.

Prev I TOC I Next

Prev I TOC I Next

“Huff… huff…”

For a moment, Dellev thought he’d blacked out. The world spun, his vision trembled—but then a firm hand seized his shoulder and steadied him back into reality.

“Student Dellev Kundel,” said Ziel calmly. “Go get some water.”

“Th-thank you.”

He barely managed to straighten up, his legs still trembling like reeds in the wind. The strength had drained from every inch of his body—but strangely, it felt… good.

When was the last time I ran like this?

He raised the flask to his lips. Gulp after gulp slid down his throat, each mouthful so sweet and cold it made him dizzy. The sting of losing to Celia vanished in an instant, replaced by the light, heady thrill of freedom.

Across the field, Celia herself finally collapsed, though not before Ziel darted forward and caught her by the arm.

“Student Celia Rihardt. Go get some water. Two hundred and twenty-six laps.”

“Th-thank you, sir…” she panted, cheeks burning scarlet.

“Your ears are red again,” Ziel observed mildly.

“T-that’s because—”

Whether from embarrassment or something else entirely, Celia gave up trying to explain.

“I looked it up in a medical text once,” Ziel continued in that same unruffled tone. “Apparently it can happen after overeating—or drinking.”

Celia scowled and pulled free, marching off to the water barrel before she said something she’d regret. The water hit her tongue like lightning—sweet, sharp, alive. For the first time in years, she felt utterly weightless.

She had trained in swordsmanship her whole life as a Rihardt, just as Dellev had trained as a Kundel. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this. Before awakening their mana, such exertion was impossible; after awakening it, such exhaustion was unnecessary. The two of them weren’t the only ones thinking the same thing—every student in the yard stared at the sky with identical disbelief.

Of course, none had yet guessed Ziel’s true purpose.

A body trained without mana will, once imbued with it, grow all the stronger.

Even the most talented assassins could not maintain mana for days on end. They spent weeks—sometimes months—lying in wait for their mark, surviving only on endurance. For that, they trained their bodies the old-fashioned way: strength without sorcery.

Ziel’s lesson was the same—an assassin’s regimen disguised as a physical-education class. He was forging bodies that could bear power, not simply wield it.

The students were far too exhausted to protest anyway. They sprawled across the field like discarded cloaks, breathless and limp.

I want to take a leave of absence…

If only I’d enrolled a year later…

Such were the thoughts echoing through the Sword School’s newest recruits—everyone except two.

Dellev.

And Celia.

***

“Now,” Ziel announced, “I will read out each student’s record. Yurio Harmattan—twenty laps. Next…”

No one even had the energy to gasp. Without so much as a notebook, Ziel recited every name and number flawlessly from memory.

“…and finally, Celia Rihardt—two hundred and twenty-six laps.”

Celia smiled faintly. The pride of the Rihardt family had been defended well enough.

“Dellev and Celia… they’re insane.”

“Talent. Pure talent.”

The murmurs died when Ziel’s voice carried again over the field.

“Today we measured your basic stamina. You should now understand where each of you stands.”

From Yurio’s twenty laps to Celia and Dellev’s ten-times-that, the gulf between them yawned wide.

“Our goal for the year is simple,” Ziel went on. “Those who ran fewer than fifty laps will increase their record fourfold.”

“F-fourfold?” Yurio squeaked.

“Your stamina is insufficient. I hear that from the second year onward, the curriculum shifts toward live combat.”

“But—”

“The purpose of these general courses,” Ziel cut him off, “is to prepare your bodies for the true work ahead.”

He dismissed further complaints with a flick of his hand.

“Next: those below a hundred laps—triple it.”

Silence.

“Below two hundred—double it.”

The stronger the student, the smaller the multiplier; Ziel was balancing the field, not breaking it. Even assassin training, ruthless as it was, demanded parity. The weak were brought up, the strong tempered further.

It was harsh, but logical.

All about matching the pace, he mused. Push too far, and even talent snaps.

Still, the goals were ambitious.

Wait, I did over hundred laps… am I doomed?

I’m dead. I’m actually dead.

Their teacher seemed unconcerned.

“And finally—those who ran more than two hundred laps.”

Two names only.

Dellev Kundel.

Celia Rihardt.

Double? Maybe less?

Or is he going to make them triple it?

Ziel smiled faintly, confounding every guess.

“You two will train by a different method.”

“Excuse me?” they chorused, almost in unison.

“A separate class,” he said simply.

“What kind of class?” Celia’s eyes brightened.

Dellev tried to look indifferent but couldn’t quite hide his interest.

In assassin training, those far beyond the rest are separated and honed alone.

Forcing them to keep pace with ordinary students would only dull their edge.

And Ziel had no intention of letting that happen.

Ziel was exactly that sort of man.

Because of him, while everyone else ran until their lungs burned, Ziel taught them the finer points of assassination at the same time.

“Soon enough I will show you,” he said, brisk as ever. “For now—run. Together.”

“Yes! We’re looking forward to it!”

“Understood.”

Then Ziel turned his attention back to the students.

“That is all. From now on, every week in this class you will raise your records. Remember also the posture and breathing corrections you heard today. How you run and how you breathe will change your times.”

He added, simply and without fanfare, “By the time this course ends, you will feel your stamina altered—both in training and in your everyday life.”

At that, the students stared at him as if bewitched.

Those who had run the longest looked at him with something like worship.

They had been brought to the edge of collapse and then, the moment the running stopped, had tasted a liberation they had not known since awakening their mana.

In truth, many of the veteran warriors of the Valdrein Empire had long complained that young fighters were not what they used to be.

War had ended and peace had held for over a hundred years.

Sword School was no longer the forge of steel and endurance it had once been.

It had become a diploma factory.

A rite of passage.

A credential to join an order, a ticket for royal employment.

Each year, the graduates’ skills slipped a little further from what the old masters remembered.

Ziel, of course, knew none of this history.

His plan was simple.

“This course follows the basics,” he said. “As I said—no mana use allowed.”

Basic, by the book.

He was doing exactly what the syllabus demanded.

He taught this way because he meant to stay at Edelvine Academy for a long time and forge a life there.

If fortune permitted, he would become a professor.

And perhaps, a little bait might help.

When Ziel had first trained as an assassin, his instructors had dangled rewards. Looking back, those promises had been the very thing that made him train until he nearly broke.

The students here were no different.

“From now on,” he went on, “at each class I will award the student who shows the greatest improvement—”

Heads perked up.

Some imagined a day off.

Some fancied a waiver for next week’s running.

A few silently hoped for something that would spare them the worst of Ziel’s drills.

“—a praise card,” Ziel finished.

The excitement died as quickly as it had bloomed.

“Er…what is that?” Karen raised her hand timidly.

“You’ll know when you receive one,” Ziel answered, perfectly calm.

***

After class, Ziel cleared six bowls in the staff canteen.

It had been a satisfying meal.

I could eat this forever, he thought as he swallowed another spoonful.

Gone were the days of choking down tasteless lumps of nutrition.

He knew the students would like it too.

Food always tasted best after hard work.

How much better would it be when one was starving?

As he imagined the students’ delighted faces, a familiar figure appeared nearby.

“Professor Elcanto Paredes.”

“Ah—Ziel?”

Professor Elcanto looked visibly flustered.

“Good day.”

“Yes. Um—are you leaving after your class?”

“I finished and then came to eat. It was good.”

“I see.”

Elcanto’s lips moved as if he had something to say, then he coughed and changed tack.

“Hmph. Ahem. Very well. If you need anything—speak to me.”

Ziel noted the shift in tone and frowned inwardly.

Until very recently, Elcanto had been the sort to storm out of the canteen as if prepared to tear the roof down.

What a posture change—almost assassin-like.

Perhaps he was simply careful because of who watched.

Whatever the reason, this was no one to underestimate.

“Then I will be going.”

“Ahem. Yes. Do—do go.”

“Is there something you wanted to say?”

“No. Ahem. Go on.”

Ziel walked off, and Elcanto watched him until he was out of sight, then let out a small, baffled sigh.

“Why bother asking? He wouldn’t answer properly anyway.”

Who was backing that man, to leave him so untroubled?

Elcanto had just heard that Ziel had put the entire class through hell in the second elective—yet no one had dropped out.

He scratched his chin and worried.

Should I try to get closer to him?

While Elcanto pondered, Ziel strolled across the green, feeling the hum of campus life—the new-term buzz, the tentative excitement of freshmen.

He did not know the particulars of every club or banner, but he felt the general flutter of anticipation in the air.

“Buy a skewer—one sel each! Three for two sel!”

“Today only—join the arts club! Freshmen, come sign up!”

Booths and banners sprouted up like mushrooms.

Looks delicious, Ziel thought as he counted the coins in his pocket.

One sel remained from his meal.

“I can only buy one,” he admitted to himself, and headed toward the skewer stall.

But then he noticed a booth beside it.

“Game today! Knock the target down and double your prize! Fail, and you still get a snack!”

A club booth.

The sign read: Sword Appreciation Society.

“Sword Appreciation Society?” Ziel muttered, and a student beside him explained.

“We love anything to do with blades! Greatswords, daggers, stilettoes—everything! Swords are marvelous!”

“Is that so?”

“Of course! Are you a freshman?” the student asked eagerly.

“No. I’m an instructor.”

“Oh—an instructor? Do we have instructors at Sword School?”

“I’m new here.”

Ziel asked about the game.

“You throw this to hit the targets,” the student said. “Anyone can play, even non-students. It’s one sel a round. If you knock down the farthest target, you win two sel.”

The rules were delightfully simple.

You tossed a small throwing knife and tried to topple targets at varying distances; the far one paid double.

Two sel for the prize—then I could double my skewer.

Ziel’s practical mind clicked into place.

And since it involved throwing—a small, manageable skill—how hard could it be?

Prev I TOC I Next