Trivial Incidents Often Become Major Affairs (1)
All events begin unexpectedly from trivial matters. Even in my previous world, didn't someone like Julius Caesar say something along those lines? "In the fog of war, the smallest incidents become decisive."
The incident where Her Imperial Highness suddenly confronted me and laid down her challenge also stemmed from something ridiculously insignificant.
It happened right around the time when the margrave and I had finished our general education courses in liberal arts and history, advancing to the upper years where we chose our majors. Thanks to my background as a history major in my past life, I quickly dove into this world's unique history and enrolled in the History Department. My margrave, on the other hand, headed to the Military Research Department—a place akin to an officer's academy—to prepare for his studies, only for me to discover a grave problem with him.
"May I speak frankly, as objectively as possible, Your Lordship?"
"...Please do, Werner."
"Very well, then. I'll be direct but measured in my words. Your Lordship, your mock battle skills are abysmal."
"Urk... I knew it..."
Our margrave swallowed a groan, unable to face reality as he stared at the crystal screen showing his army in utter ruins.
"I'm not the one going to the Military Research Department, but if the one entering it performs worse than me, that's a problem, isn't it?"
"Who doesn't know that's the issue? That's why I'm here practicing with you before the new semester even starts."
"But no matter how many rounds we play, you're not improving at all..."
Suppressing a sigh, I glanced at my own crystal screen flashing "VICTORY." My forces were parading triumphantly in ceremony.
This was the pride of the empire's premier educational institution, Sponheim Academy: the Mock Battle Command Training Simulator—or simply mock battle for short.
Commissioned by the emperor himself, it was built by countless active and retired generals, professors, mages, and engineers. You could select any race or nation from history, command battles in hyper-realistic terrain, making it a true simulation.
In the Military Research Department—the academy's crown jewel—it's used for practical command training. Detailed data is military secret, so only department students access it fully, but limited modes let regular students like me play it like a game.
Occasionally, a freshman from general education tries it, gets hooked, and switches to Military Research as an upperclassman.
From my perspective, having enjoyed modern games in my past life, it just felt like a VR mashup of Total War and Mount & Blade.
Anyway, the point is, our margrave—who was about to enter the department after finishing basics—asked for mock battle practice help. And he was terrible. Beyond terrible.
Cavalry charging into well-prepared infantry? Check. Infantry flailing without cavalry support? Check. Panicking into useless moves, annihilated without a real fight? Check. Classic newbie mistakes on repeat, and even with advice, no improvement.
"How many times did you say you'd played last year?"
"Hmm... Over ten, I think."
"Ever won?"
"Not once!"
"...That's not something to brag about."
I chided the golden-haired, green-eyed young noble, who showed no sign of shame. One of the empire's top ten great nobles: Albert von Beletia, Margrave of Ruticia.
But his personality—paying my tuition and speaking casually with a mere direct vassal baron like me— was too bright and soft.
If this were a romance novel reincarnation, he'd be the sunny male lead. Unfortunately, this world wasn't romance, and he aspired to be a military expert.
"So why ignore my advice? I told you heavy knights aren't invincible—charging unprepared infantry causes heavy losses."
"You did..."
"And that coordinating with infantry makes it efficient."
"I remember, but..."
"Yes?"
"...I remember, but when actually commanding, my mind goes blank. Worries pile up, and before I know it, I'm just ordering a charge."
I barely resisted clutching my neck. Goodness. This wasn't even a personality flaw—just freezing under pressure.
There's a saying about virtue without basics becoming tyranny. And my liver couldn't take that tyranny.
"It's just a game, isn't it? No real death or injury. If it blanks you out, maybe switch departments now?"
No matter how realistic, it's still a sim. Like mouse-and-keyboard controls, but with voice and gestures. The Military Research Department trains future commanders for real war—fail there, and you'd drop out midway.
That'd delay graduation, messing up my life plans too.
Half concern for him, half for myself, but he shook his head firmly.
"No can do."
"Why?"
"You know what the Ruticia Margraviate title means to our house."
Margrave: border defender, a frontier lord facing enemies directly. More privileges and forces than regular nobles—but also the duty to fight.
Ruticia's moniker: "Shield of the East." Peaceful now, but major wars ravaged it before our time. Natural for its lord to master military affairs.
Though it didn't suit him.
"I don't want Military Research... but duty calls. Not everyone gets to pick what fits their personality."
"I suppose..."
"And!"
"And?"
As I sighed, he raised his voice like revealing a grand reason, making me tilt my head. His green eyes sparkled.
"My fiancée will be watching."
"Ah... That duke's daughter?"
"Yes, she's entering Military Research too."
"Figures."
"Can't look bad in front of her!"
Ah, got it. He wants to impress her. Noble marriages might be political, but no one wants to fumble and embarrass themselves before their fiancée. A one-sidedly ignored marriage isn't happy.
Other reasons were his business. No helping it—I'd assist a bit.
"Then you'll have to work hard. Right?"
"Of course!"
"But at this rate, you'll be the same in a week. May I make a proposal?"
"Hmm. Your proposals never hurt me! What is it?"
I eyed the crystal screen and spoke.
"First, master basic commands, trivial or not. Can't practice—or study—without them."
"...True."
"I'll just defend until you can. Then... I'll teach you one unbeatable opener—once, for anyone. You've never won properly, so you need face-saving."
His green eyes gleamed like gems.
"Hm...? Such a method exists!"
"...Conditions apply. But you'll meet them. Just once—then it's seen through, no more ace."
"Better than nothing! Let's do it!"
Thus, my plan to save him from fiancée-induced shame...
"Big trouble, Werner!"
A week after term start, post-lecture, he rushed to me, yelling. Forgetting noble dignity—unusual even for his casual self.
"Yes? What happened?"
"That... method you taught?"
"Yes... Used it?"
"Y-Yes. Won a round beautifully, as you said... but."
"Problem?"
"Method was fine—some puzzled looks, but not important. After, Her Highness keeps chasing and harassing me!"
"Pardon?"
I tilted my head at the absurdity.
He explained: Hellish week of training with me got basics down. First class post-opening, professor called mock battle for basics—opponent: the princess.
Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis, imperial princess. Same age/year as us; glimpsed her in lectures. Also in Military Research.
No pulling punches for status there—margrave's rank close enough. And she's a renowned mock battle prodigy.
Scared, he used my ace—won by luck.
"Then she demands where I learned that weird tactic, insists on rematch!"
"And?"
"Lost badly, as you predicted."
Obviously—he could barely command. Shocking upset for her, nothing more.
No invincible strat; counters it easily.
"So it's over?"
"No... She accused me of sandbagging—said someone researching that tactic can't be this bad!"
"So... she's chasing you?"
"Barely escaped her demands for a proper fight..."
His pale face nodded. First such expression in 15 years knowing this handsome noble. How tormented in days...?
I nearly said handle it yourself, mouth agape.
Then—
"So that's how it happened, Margrave of Ruticia."
"...!"
A clear, resonant voice. Startled margrave gasped; our eyes turned. There she was.
Braided side-swept hair surely by attendants, elaborate platinum updo. Sharp amethyst eyes matching, formal attire radiating authority.
Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis. The imperial princess.
Ignoring surrounding stares, she addressed us.
"Sorry for overhearing. No intent, but I did. My apologies."
"Ah, no..."
Polite words, but her gaze burned fiercely. Like a predator spotting inescapable prey—intense, willful.
"From what I heard, you taught him that method?"
Her eyes fixed on me: Werner von Hebel.
She voiced her irrepressible nature.
"Then it's simple. Care to duel me?"
Golden flames impossible to defy, a storm of surging momentum. Facing her briefly, I felt like prey meeting predator.
So prey responds thus:
"No, sorry, but I must decline, Your Highness."
"...???"
Because clashing head-on with a sudden beast is sheer folly.