Class
Class
"Again."
Rank 22 rolled across the floor.
"Next."
Rank 13 went flying.
"Again."
The students, unified by a single-minded determination to make something other than 'again' and 'next' come out of Eldmia's mouth, believed their steadfast resolve burned like a blacksmith's furnace. But by the time Eldmia was nearly half-throwing Rank 7, they sensed it was flickering like a candle flame.
"This is just too much, even for you..."
Not an argument, not a protest, but a murmur that slipped out of pure dejection seeped into the hearts of everyone who'd finished their sparring match.
When exactly three minutes had passed, repeating the cycle of Babeli being unilaterally thrown and rolling on the ground, the students up to Rank 25, who'd competed with him as near-equals, had foreseen their own future. They were the lucky ones. After steeling themselves, they could at least prepare to regard Eldmia as a teacher.
But the students who'd believed there was a clear skill gap between themselves and those lower ranks were different. Some had scorned the lower-ranked students getting tossed around like ragdolls, and some had waited for their turn with the confidence that they'd last more than 3 minutes themselves. The fact that Eldmia had shown signs of physical exhaustion while sparring with the lower ranks in quick succession only added fuel to their confidence. Right, even facing 10 people was 30 minutes. It was never going to be easy.
"Pretending to tire out isn't easy either. Next, Rank 20."
As if he'd predicted their reactions, Eldmia had dispatched everyone up to Rank 21 precisely at the 3-minute mark. When his breathing returned to normal and he called for Rank 20 as if nothing had happened, the smiles vanished from the faces of the middle-ranked students. They belatedly realized it. Eldmia had feigned exhaustion, luring them into a desperate struggle.
The lower-ranked students had all struggled to the very end. For the higher-performing middle ranks, giving it their all was the only option.
"Again."
The prayer, 'Please, let me last past 3 minutes,' had changed to 'Please, let his sense of pacing be off so he can't nail the 3 minutes' the moment even Rank 15 hit the 3-minute mark. Even those who'd considered themselves reasonably objective about their own abilities broke into a cold sweat, hoping somehow to glean something useful for their own sparring as they meticulously watched the students rolling on the ground for those 3 minutes.
But regardless, Eldmia simply made everyone roll for an equal 3 minutes. Still without drawing his sword once, he ruthlessly shattered everyone's hopes. Only when he'd made them roll the same way up to Rank 4 did the despairing students recall Eldmia's age. And they recalled the defense mechanism for a perfect mental victory.
He's a genius. That's what a genius is. What else could it be? At that moment, as if reading their minds, Eldmia recited:
"That guy's a genius. Looks like you're all making that kind of face."
Even if he'd noticed exactly what they were thinking, saying it aloud amounted to praising himself, something difficult to put into words. Yet he said it as flatly as ever, and the students' gazes gathered on him.
"You, who maintain high ranks among the Royal Academy's hundreds to qualify for Practical Combat, are hard workers, and I'm strong because I'm a genius... Don't you find it fascinating what the other students who can't take this class would think? Next."
At his command, Rank 3, Kalits, eyes shining with anticipation, jumped up from his seat and leapt onto the sparring ground. Seeing this, the students lowered their heads. Then, seized by a sudden surge of frustration, they snapped their heads back up.
No? No matter what, this was too much. Couldn't he at least be considered a hard-working genius? Half of them thought that, and the other half thought that from Kalits onward, things would be different.
"You're the friend I saw last time."
Eldmia remained impassive, still not drawing his sword. Thanks to this, a suspicion began to stir among the students. Was his sword actually just for decoration, and Eldmia was really a martial artist? Swept up by the 'Guillotine' moniker, they'd assumed he was a swordsman, but maybe he was a supremely skilled martial artist who beheaded people with his bare hands like a blade. Looking at his physique, which wasn't the least bit intimidated standing against Kalits, it seemed entirely possible.
"Thank you for the lesson!"
But Kalits didn't care in the slightest and drew his own sword. Then, Eldmia, who'd simply continued the sparring without much comment until now, showed surprise for the first time.
"One-handed sword?"
"Yes!"
"What about your shield?"
"Hahaha!"
Kalits responded with a hearty laugh and charged.
"Indeed. Worthy of Rank 3."
Praising him for not missing the chance to hide his weapon and seize an advantage, Eldmia lunged forward as well. To students who were taught that the default response to an unknown enemy was to first step back and observe, it seemed like excessive overconfidence. More than anything, they already knew the structure of Kalits's shield.
So they hadn't doubted for a second that Eldmia would take a huge hit.
That is, until the sword was drawn from his waist and slashed through empty air.
"Huh...? Huhh?"
Even though the sword strike hadn't reached him, Kalits, engulfed in great bewilderment, looked at the bracelet on his right wrist. The Mana that had been connected until just moments ago was severed, almost like a lie, leaving him unable to activate his Mana shield.
"You're not the only one with a card up your sleeve."
Kalits belatedly shifted his gaze to Eldmia, but he couldn't dodge the kick. It was less a strike to the solar plexus and more a powerful push kick. Despite his efforts to notice it and endure, Kalits was sent flying backward, tumbling across the floor.
"Again."
In the end, Kalits suffered the same 3-minute torment before he could step down from the sparring ground. Watching his pitiful state, the other students felt a strange sense of kinship, and at the same time, the shame and sense of deprivation they'd felt until then were oddly offset.
If Ogatorf was also beaten with bare hands for 3 minutes like this, they felt they could accept it all as natural. Whatever trick he'd used, Eldmia hadn't used his sword except when disrupting Kalits's Mana shield, so it seemed entirely possible.
"Next."
But the moment Griwills stepped onto the sparring ground and took his stance, their hope was brutally crushed.
"Getting knocked out bare-handed within 1 minute. Or lasting 3 minutes with swords. Choose."
Everyone was shocked at Eldmia's answer, openly declaring that he couldn't afford to go easy on Griwills. Some doubted their own ears. Did that man have some kind of combat power measuring device attached to his eyes? What was his criteria? But Griwills, still wearing an enigmatic smile, briefly considered before calmly answering.
"...I'll take the latter, please. If you don't mind me asking, I'm genuinely curious—what exactly is your criteria?"
Instead of answering, Eldmia walked to a corner of the sparring ground and took off his cape. As his physique, which had been hidden by the flapping cape, made its presence unmistakably clear even over his clothes, the gaze of every student, male and female alike, was drawn to him. Returning to his spot, Eldmia tilted his head at a crooked angle, watched Griwills for a moment, then slowly drew his sword and took his stance.
The process of the longsword's tip, tilted horizontally at head height, pointing toward Griwills, was not fast at all. Yet Griwills felt a chill run down his spine as he watched Eldmia's sword fix on his face with flawless precision, without a single waver.
As if time had frozen in that very stance, Eldmia took a perfectly immovable posture before he belatedly answered.
"You can gauge someone by watching them take their stance."
It was a statement impossible to understand if you hadn't seen it, but he had already seen it, so he could understand. The stance Eldmia had taken was treated as the most fundamental of fundamentals in Kingdom swordsmanship, a stance so common that even third-rate swordsmen could roughly imitate it. There was no way he wouldn't recognize it.
At the same time, it was also a stance he himself had practiced tens of thousands of times.
It felt as if he was seeing the perfect stance he'd always yearned for, and Griwills felt like he was about to cry. He abandoned his middle guard stance and took the exact same stance as Eldmia. When Eldmia slightly nodded his head at him, Griwills felt his spirits lift, as if all his hard work had been acknowledged.
"Diligent. What's your name?"
"Gri...wills."
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
One year older than you. Unlike Griwills, who believed he'd trained without a single moment of shame but now felt embarrassed at the thought that he might have been lazy this time, Eldmia let out a baffled laugh and shook his head.
"This is why they say geniuses are the worst. They're absolute masters at making a man feel empty inside."
"Honestly, I have to say this. Isn't that our line?"
"No. It's not your line. Cut the nonsense and let me see everything you've got."
Had he actually lied about his age? Of course, it didn't matter either way, so Griwills lunged at full force as Eldmia instructed. And as the distance closed, he twisted his wrist and swung his sword, aiming to knock Eldmia's blade downward.
Trusting his instinct that breaking down Eldmia's current stance first was better than targeting his wrist before pressing forward, Griwills swung his sword directly at Eldmia. If both were using aura, it was a battle of split seconds. Countless scenarios began to unfold in Griwills's mind, all based on Eldmia either shifting his stance or deflecting the attack with a slight sword movement.
But Eldmia did not move, even up to the moment the swords clashed. The moment the question formed in Griwills's mind—was he trying to see how he'd react when an opening appeared?
-CLANG!
Griwills's swung sword bounced back as if he'd smashed it against a boulder.
"Clean. Let's see how you block."
Even though it had been a full-power attack, Eldmia hadn't wavered. Before Griwills had time to be horrified, he barely evaded the thrust driving in as his stance broke. Then, faced with Eldmia's blade flowing into a rotation and the follow-up strike threatening to cleave through his temple, he nearly laughed in disbelief.
Naturally, there was no time for that. He was desperate just to block Eldmia's seamless attacks that came as if without a single breath.
He could perceive some with his eyes, or his senses. Other attacks were countered because the motions he'd practiced until he spat blood sprang out instinctively. Because of this, Griwills managed to endure. The moment the 3 minutes were fully up, he collapsed onto his back on the sparring ground, completely spent. Only after staring at the sky and finally catching his breath could Griwills recall that he hadn't rolled on the ground even once.
As his head spun, Eldmia came over and stood beside him, looking down.
"Do you feel the reward of training so hard that swordsmanship is carved into your very body?"
"...Yes. I feel it."
"Good, that's how you do it. Don't get impatient."
It was an indifferent comment, but it sounded as if he knew exactly how much effort he'd put in. Griwills, using the sweat streaming down like rain into his eyes as an excuse, let himself cry, just a little.