You Should Take Responsibility (1)
There's a saying that just walking around draws everyone's eyes. Whether it's stunning looks or eye-catching behavior, it's a cliché phrase you'd slap on the most standout person in a crowd. At least, today in the mock battle arena, the one pulling all the attention was her.
Imperial princess, Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis. The eldest daughter of the current emperor and sister to the crown prince. Status, beauty, elegance, talent—nothing was lacking. She was truly a woman blessed by the gods.
When someone like that showed up in a place as incongruous as the mock battle arena, it was only natural that people would swarm her. Some out of pure curiosity, others harboring who-knows-what ulterior motives.
To their everyday interest, she always responded with just the slightest upward curl of her lips. "Nice to meet you. Since we've crossed paths by chance, how about a match?"
And the fate of those moths drawn to the flame of glory—getting to spar with the princess—was always the same.
"Gaaahhh!!"
"Arrrghhh!!"
Either surrounded by infantry at the last second and pummeled by maces, or blindsided by a cavalry lance charge "out of nowhere," ending up shattered in a heap that nearly crossed the line into rudeness.
Her victims ranged from curious underclassmen she'd toyed with once, to upperclassmen she'd already beaten before. Even students from the same major weren't spared this parting gift.
"Good match. Looks like I win?"
Only the seniors avoided total annihilation. A year or two of experience couldn't be ignored, after all—they stuck to the basics to push her back or threw in some sneaky tricks to throw her off. One had even practiced handling centaurs after hearing rumors and challenged her.
But even they fell to her ghostly timing on committing reserves, trampled under the hooves of imperial medium cavalry one after another.
This tactic has its limits, after all.
Lightly armored light cavalry archers inevitably crumbled if dragged into close quarters. History books showed it, and today's lecture examples confirmed it.
Stay calm, hold the line without panicking, wait for them to burn out—or herd them with no escape—and it was done.
The Conqueror King even built fortresses along every advance route to control their movements on a plain-wide scale and pin them down.
So she wanted to test the counter she'd mastered on the very person who'd beaten her with it. Right in front of everyone. To show him her winning.
That guy showed me dwarves or whatever and fed me my own medicine instead?
But he'd not only dodged a head-on rematch but beaten her again. That was the mock battle against Werner von Hebel, the Baron of Hebel who'd defeated her last time.
She was supposed to be the one holding out, pushing him until he overextended and she counterattacked. Instead, she'd overextended and gotten countered.
Did he know and bring that tactic on purpose? Nah, he didn't seem that perceptive. Someone like that wouldn't have dared ask for a lady's handkerchief.
That part chafed at her.
If you're gonna beat me like that, shouldn't you take responsibility and show me a cooler way to use it?!
Of course the match had been fun, but looking back, it irked her that things hadn't gone as planned.
Carrying that subtle frustration, she sparred for hours with anyone who met her eye or challenged her.
"Another round?"
"N-no... I have an appointment... My deepest apologies, Your Highness!"
Even the last guy fled in exhaustion, leaving the arena building deserted from top to bottom.
She pouted and muttered to herself. "......Everyone's so boring."
Some had skill, some didn't. But none showed her anything new today, either. Cue the sense of wasted time and creeping regret.
Should've dragged Baron Hebel here after all.
Part of her wanted to storm his dorm right now, haul him out, and spar endlessly until he spilled every trick in his head.
She wanted to beat the guy who'd beaten her, somehow.
But he acts like he looks down on me.
He thought he hid it well, but she was an imperial princess—how could she miss that look of dread every time she suggested something?
She'd grown up around master actors; she wasn't blind to it.
She'd been trying to get friendly, but he always slipped away.
Me, of all people, making the effort to chat, and he gives half-assed replies, always looking for an out? Unbelievable.
And from her position as princess, there was that nagging feeling of losing to someone else again. From this morning, no less.
How does he ignore my invitations like that but swallow someone else's whole...?
The baron had tried to brush it off clumsily, but only an idiot wouldn't notice. No external pressure, and suddenly all the professors agreed overnight to admit a new student en masse? She'd have to beg each one individually for that speed.
This screamed an insider at professor level prepping everything for a rubber stamp. And the one who'd convinced the baron? Not her.
Yet he couldn't be bothered to show her interest, just spouted lame excuses.
......Infuriating.
How many humiliations had that man inflicted in this short month?
How do I drag him out? Sweet-talking doesn't work.
As she pondered revenge tactics while walking, her mind filled with visions of crushing him.
That was when it happened.
"So if you do that..., huh."
"Hm? Your Highness...?"
The very man tormenting her thoughts—and his liege—appearing right before her eyes? Fate's cruel joke, indeed.
*
"......What brings you here?"
I wanted to ask, but that'd be rude. Spotting the princess wandering the department-exclusive arena—which seemed empty—I barely stifled a scream.
I'd mistaken her for a ghost. Why was she alone, anyway?
"I came to spar with Baron Hebel. Call it prep for practicals."
"......Ah."
......Why's it suddenly cold?
Sponheim's spring shouldn't suffer Siberian whims, so why this freak cold snap? Mystery.
More importantly, my plans might've gone sideways...?
"Mind if I watch?"
"No issue on my end..."
Our margrave liege only forbade crimes, insults, and dishonor. And no subordinate overrides a superior's okay.
"It won't be that exciting, though."
"It's fine. Everyone else left, and I was bored anyway."
"......You really don't know where everyone went? Even the lower floors are empty..."
"No idea."
She answered breezily and plopped into a seat like go ahead. I sensed something off in her vibe but soon took positions with our margrave.
"Shall we test what I explained on the way?"
"Sure thing!"
Our margrave replied energetically. Moments later, consciousness shifted beyond the modification screen to our preset armies facing off.
Troops identical: 2,000 each of imperial infantry, cavalry, and archers.
"Right, straight to it. What'd I explain on the way?"
"Reserves, right?"
"Yes. Ideally, throw every unit into the right spots. 2,000 hitting 1,000 at once ends it quick. But reality doesn't work that way."
There's the Lanchester's laws. Strip the math: when more friendlies engage fewer foes up close, you fight efficiently. Or, simply: land more punches more often in the scrum, and you win. Formalized common sense.
Max it always? Unbeatable. But terrain, weapons, situations prevent it. Enter reserves.
Units held back initially, fire-fighting later.
"A commander without reserves is just a bystander to battle's drama."
As Frederick the Great's famous quote goes—reserves are the general's extra cards.
Explaining forever won't stick. Better to demo.
"Say my forces clash with Your Highness's."
I sent one infantry unit forward into melee with his infantry. Armored swords-and-shields clashed.
"Fighting straight on, higher skill and wider lines for more simultaneous fighters wins."
"Makes sense."
My infantry: 8 per rank. His: 12. First line? 12 vs. 8. Lines crumble over time, ratios shift.
"Do I just twiddle thumbs?"
"Of course not—send supports, naturally."
"Right. But if every unit's engaged... no supports left, right?"
I slammed my remaining two infantry into his other two. Now infantry everywhere wrestling, cursing foes in their faces.
"Exactly. Can't yank engaged units sideways."
"Not impossible, but ordering my engaged unit supported pulls his off too."
For demo, I peeled one to aid my losing flank. His followed, pocketing my unit instead.
"See! Your support got sandwiched—bad spot."
"And without reserves, I'm stuck. If I'd started strong, maybe not."
Truth? My grasp of reserves came from that damn Total War knowledge. Strong-spec factions bulldoze one-by-one, no reserves needed. Weaker ones? Pin a foe, flank with speedy reserves—or pray.
Heavy infantry fests? Infamous tales of fights unfinished after lunch.
"Hammer and anvil? Just reserves too—cavalry as the hammer."
"But reserves mean holding back troops. How many?"
"Varies, but with three units, I hold one. Two engaged match three's width."
Chatting cleared old hangups one by one...
"You're explaining more detail than I expected?"
Suddenly, an outsider crashed the lesson. Emergency channel for outside alerts—private use? Rude, blocked by jammers. But she used it anyway: pouty-voiced spectator, Her Highness.
"Let me join. Don't hog the fun."
And dropped that bombshell.