Take Responsibility (3)
From the very first impression, I could tell that the professor in charge of our mock battle practicals was no ordinary man. Gaunt cheeks, a jawline beard mottled with dark brown and white. Lips sagging downward, sharp eyes that screamed pickiness. Short hair that made no effort to hide the deep wrinkles etched across his forehead. But what stood out even more about Professor Claudio Montecuccoli than his appearance was his booming voice and unique demeanor.
"As I said in the first lecture, I won't give a damn about your statuses during class! Because in this course, you're nothing but students!"
Addressing the makeup student who had joined for the first time in week three, Professor Montecuccoli bellowed it again for emphasis.
"Outside, I'll respect your outside titles! But at least in this class, you're students—so stick to your duties as such. Remember this once more: you're here to learn the art of war, not to play board games and chit-chat. Got it?!"
I immediately recalled what our margrave had told me about this professor just yesterday. Extremely strict, right...
"Understood."
"Good! As you've heard, last week's final session covered about half the class in the exam practical. Today, it's the rest's turn. Those who haven't gone yet, come up and draw lots! Pairs with matching numbers will face off!"
According to the syllabus I'd heard about, the class ran twice a week, splitting the students in half for practicals each time. The other half observed, evaluated, and referenced the professor's feedback. After basic tutorials, this was the stage to test results—and that's where I'd slotted in as a makeup student.
Number 2, huh...
With twenty-four of us in the practical including me, halving that made twelve, then pairing into six matches. Who would be my opponent?
"The one who drew number 2!"
The voice that followed was all too familiar—a high-pitched tone I could picture without turning.
"Whoa..."
Not that huge a class, so coincidences happen, but right away like this?
"Me."
"Wow! Nice to see you! What a coincidence, huh?"
Her lips, approaching with a chuckle, twisted into a sly smirk mid-smile. No illusion there. Yeah, yeah—after throwing out that rival line, a chance to turn the tables right away must feel thrilling.
Watching her obvious glee, I suddenly spotted one oddity about today's look.
"You tied your hair high today."
Unlike yesterday, it was pulled up high.
At my remark, she replied casually, "Oh, this? My maid did it today. My usual lady's maid was busy."
That was the difference. Though it had an oddly meticulous touch for that.
Curiosity sated, I glanced aside to see our margrave comfortably claiming spectator seats, chatting away with those around him. He hadn't noticed my look—his natural charisma drawing people in, as usual.
Well, he's never lacked friends.
In contrast, for me—still a stranger to most—the situation update came via Professor Montecuccoli's gruff shout.
"Alright! Pairs set—prep in advance and step up when called! Like last time, we'll draw for order too!"
Prep what, exactly...? Sudden chance meant my repertoire was thin.
Watch the first ones and plan?
Perfect timing—I was curious how others here handled it anyway. Luckily, the prof drew number 5 first, buying us time.
Beside me—eyes sharper than any spectator's—sat Her Highness the princess, who spoke up.
"You know? After the Ruticia margrave beat me last time, everyone's trying stuff with centaurs."
"Embarrassing talk for me."
My half-baked air cavalry tip had gone viral among elites. Makes sense—it must've shocked them.
Sure enough, number 5's player—an orc—had built around centaurs. Orcs live in rugged terrain here, so his grasp of the bumpy hill field was spot-on. Ambush some under the hills, lure the enemy slowly, then counter with hidden cavalry when they charged. Executed cleanly, leagues beyond my casual advice.
Better than me...
But Her Highness opined:
"Hmph. Impressive. But the original does it better, right?"
"I'm no original..."
"Then the propagator?"
"Didn't propagate either."
As we bantered lightly, matches flew by. Next: 1, 6, 4, then 3. We'd be last.
Then, hand to mouth, she whispered:
"That guy on the right now? Fun one—not baron-level, but decent."
Glancing her way, a somber, black-clad man emerged—like he'd come in mourning.
Name's... Johann Beltstein?
Saw him in intro to war studies too—maybe exchanged greetings.
His foe: another centaur-heavy confident type. Looked like a southern noble who'd spit, "Hah! Dare challenge me, pup who fears no tiger?!"
But Johann showed eerie savvy. Against centaurs, he massed wagons, ringed his camp in a Wagenburg—wagon fort. Shoot down the lightly armed centaur skirmishers with crossbows and bows from inside.
Wagenburg...?
Wagon fortress. Circle wagons into an impromptu fort, fight from behind the barrier. Common stopgap here—not special. Even in my past life, nomad counters like it abounded—China's Han dynasty used wugangche combat carts against Xiongnu.
But blindly done, you'd get surrounded and picked off. His tight execution surprised me.
Way better than me...?
Doubting her faith in me just as Johann clinched victory. Only Professor Montecuccoli yelled, dissatisfied.
"Last one! Next! Werner! Charlotte! To your spots—prep!"
Our turn.
"Yes!"
She sprang up energetically, glanced my way with that smile, and headed off. Quite the contrast to my still-pondering what to do...
Stations set, fiddling with setup... I felt the stares—prickly. Mostly on her, but our margrave, Johann, and a few drilled into me.
"No need to expect much..."
Dunno why they stared—bar our lord. Fine, they'd tossed the bait; time to deliver some hype.
So thinking, I manipulated the selection, pulling out centaurs.
*
The battlefield chosen for the pair differed from last mock battle's rough terrain—mostly flat plains, dotted forests. North by Princess Charlotte: a sizable lake. South: a river flowing to it, wide as the lake—swimming across unlikely.
"Hmm..."
Mounted, feeling the familiar armor weight, Princess Charlotte surveyed as Werner obligingly brought centaurs—odd sensation.
She'd nudged him that way, but hadn't expected compliance.
"...Heh heh heh heh."
Rival declared just yesterday, prime chance for payback. Thrilling. Plus, unlike last time when Hebel baron grabbed advantage, this field was fair. River and lake handicapped both—imperial medium cavalry for her, centaur skirmishers for him. If anything, worse for him: melee-avoiding comp struggled sans open mobility.
At least open ground was river's left bank—her current deployment. For easy cavalry, he'd show nearby too.
As guessed, centaurs approached via open left-bank plains, no obstacles.
Coming.
Bearing bows, they hailed arrows sans greeting.
Charlotte faced a baffling sight:
"...Huh?"
Bold centaur horse-archers lofted shots high, aiming beyond effective range. Wasteful—arrows to spare? Madness.
But depending on foe, it could sour moods. Those distant shots plunked amid her well-armored infantry and cavalry—near her.
"...?"
What now—joking? Natural thought to cross her mind.