Even Trivial Matters Can Escalate (3)
The next day, true to our agreement, when I headed to the mock battle arena next to the military research department building, I ran into an unexpected crowd.
My lord, Margrave Albert von Beletia of Ruticia, was there with an awkward smile, along with the star of our promise, Imperial Princess Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis, and clearly seven or eight others waiting with them.
“Hello, Baron Hebel. I hope you’ve had a good day?”
“Thanks to you.... But who are these people?”
“Well, you see, some folks wanted to watch, so I brought them along.... I didn’t get permission first, though. Is that okay?”
“Watching shouldn’t be an issue....”
I glanced up briefly at the group of fewer than ten and noticed they all wore coats bearing the same emblem—the military research department’s.
While I wondered what wind had blown them here, a particularly seasoned-looking man pushed forward from the crowd.
“Baron Hebel?”
His long brown hair puffed out in a magnificent lion-like mane, a thick, serious beard enveloping his jaw. Deep scars crisscrossed the back of his outstretched hand.
I knew this man. Professor Gerhard von Bisbaden of the military research department. Once a legendary imperial army general who rose from commoner to nobility. A veteran who’d spent decades in service, now the pillar holding up this academy’s military research department. His name even appeared in the chronicles I’d read.
Startled by the surprise guest, I offered a greeting.
“Please, feel free to address me casually, Professor Bisbaden. I’m Werner von Hebel.”
“I’ve heard the tale. Do take good care today.”
“Y-Yes....”
Surprised by his unexpectedly courteous tone, I shot bewildered glances at the princess and margrave. What exactly am I supposed to “take care” of?
“Well then, let us proceed at once.”
Soon, under the professor’s lead, the students rose and headed up en masse. Still dazed, I caught the full story from the margrave a little later.
“What? The princess summoned them?”
“Near the end of class, she suddenly announced she’d arranged a friendly duel and invited anyone interested to come watch.”
“Fair enough, but why’s the professor here?”
“Beats me. He just naturally tagged along.”
My gut feeling that the princess had orchestrated this crystallized when we climbed to the upper viewing room reserved for military research students—not the one regular students used.
Opening the main doors revealed a world apart from the cramped rec space for ordinary pupils. Hobbies and research must differ, I thought, sticking out my tongue in awe at the proper spectator seating complete with dedicated observer screens.
But what truly shocked me was the princess’s announcement.
“For today’s friendly match, with special permission from Professor Bisbaden, we’ve granted Baron Hebel—who isn’t a department student—the same broad privileges as our students?”
“...I’m grateful for the kindness, but has there been precedent?”
The professor answered my counter.
“It has occurred with certain promising pupils.”
Only then, hearing him declare me “promising” without even a proper look, did I grasp why he’d said “do take good care” earlier.
The princess must have spilled everything.
Recreational mock battles for regular students were boxed games, after all. So the princess, craving a fun match, pulled strings like this to play a real one with me.
“Even so, a friendly bout needs stakes for motivation, don’t you think? Especially you, Baron Hebel from history—no practical points to gain. Shall we wager terms?”
“I dare not presume to offer conditions that would satisfy Your Highness.”
The princess smiled, lips pursed.
“I seek nothing grand. How about each grants the other one simple favor?”
“And what if I wager nothing?”
“Oh? Save that for after your victory?”
“Fair point.”
The princess flashed a confident grin.
I couldn’t fathom her skill—how could someone who’d lost once to our margrave by sheer luck be so cocksure? But that smug, self-assured face made retorting feel pointless. No desire to cross the princess anyway.
I wrapped it with bland pleasantries.
“I look forward to it.”
“Then, good luck?”
She fluttered her hand in an oddly girlish wave, then turned with crisp, dignified steps.
Ignoring the other department students murmuring as they watched us, I moved to my assigned crystal screen per the professor’s direction.
“We now commence the friendly mock battle between the noble Charlotte Laura von Ahenmetis and Baron Werner von Hebel. Configure your settings.... Declare when ready.”
Lists soon floated up on my crystal screen. Races first: central humans, northern beastkin, western elves, eastern orcs and centaurs, mountain giants and dwarves, nomadic goblins.... A wealth of options absent from regular student modes, each spawning diverse unit types.
Unfamiliar? You’d burn hours on composition alone.
“Well, this much.”
But I, Werner von Hebel—from a forgotten past life—retained my gaming memories. Merged with this world’s history, I knew each race’s style, viable tactics. Roughly, at least.
All that remained: input them fitting this medieval isekai VR sim.
Recalling last night’s chat with the margrave post-princess, I finished in a flash.
A curt “Ho.” of admiration from the professor on review.
Deployment done, the start call flashed the screen, yanking my consciousness into the magic-built virtual realm.
The sudden weight of donning armor over civilian garb—heavy limbs—was a mock battle staple to acclimate to. Consciousness only, yet it replicated reality.
From spectator seats, I’d appear mounted on a pony in full gear amid heavy dwarven infantry.
Time to scout terrain, positions.
No minimap like my old Total War games—Sponheim’s sim mimicked real command: sense alone to gauge foes, issue orders.
Thankfully, random terrain was tame: open fields with gentle hills, grass patches, marshes. My side held a slight elevation edge.
The princess’s imperial pick: archers up front, spearmen behind, cavalry reserves rear and flanks. Textbook—soften with arrows, shatter lines with foot, crush with knights.
Three prongs apiece, facing off. Roughly 2,000 each—friendly match cap balancing quality.
「Dwarves, eh? Total opposite of centaurs this time?」
She messaged via sim function, spotting my choice.
As noted, dwarves: short-legged, dismal mobility. Mountain folk carving cliff-cities. Half human height, but brute strength, endurance, stamina.
No swarm tactics here.
「Then? I proposed, so I’ll go first?」
No reply; she advanced imperials boldly.
I ordered:
“Front infantry, shield wall—hold till foes close. No moves.”
As predicted, imperials formed; front archers unleashed from hill base.
Imperial longbowmen—from timber-poor heartland—lacked punch versus elite foreign/mixed marksmen. Still, ranged fire was tactical gold: harass, drain stamina.
But I foresaw futility.
Thung, thung-thung-thung—vicious impacts on the shield wall, scant screams.
Dwarves short; half height meant half hitbox. Half resources for full plate. Strength stacking square shields? Arrows ricocheted or embedded.
As expected.
Histories hailed dwarven defense supreme among races.
No elf mage-archers; pure arrows tapped out.
Princess knew—having decoded centaurs, dwarves (imperial kin) followed.
Per plan, arrows pinned as spearmen closed.
Bind feet ranged, melee rush. Dwarves’ strength/endurance offset by short limbs—no good throws.
Arms too stubby for centrifugal force, despite power. Bows/crossbows? Draw demands defeated short stature.
Dwarves weren’t fools, hunkering till ammo ran dry.
They had counters.
Thus, as her spearmen neared cockily, I forwarded rear prep.
“Carrobalistas forward.”
Dwarven ingenuity vs flaws: pre-modern field gun, carrobalista.* Human ballista refined, shrunken, goat-cart mounted—from mountain herds.
“Carrobalistas, take positions ordered. Fire on approachers when set.”
Goats hauled ahead, machines trained on her spearmen.
“Fire.”
Cheers; bolts whooshed, spearmen shrieked, toppled.
No breather, though.
“Nonstop fire!”
Points-limited: mere four units.
Max five-six per volley, aimed true.
True aim: stall infantry, jolt princess.
More delay primed my ploy.
But princess? No fluster like our margrave in crises.
Archers pushed up, retargeted machines over infantry—arrow storm.
Pew-pew-pew-pew—shafts rained near my feet; lead goat shredded, cart flipped gracelessly.