Lord School Faction War (2)

"The Lord School Faction War... *Haah*. Right, back then I was with Team Tembris, so I never paid any attention to it."

In the Ardellion Grand Duchy, the term "Lord School" referred to educational institutions separate from Lebrant Academy. Naturally, that was purely nominal; in reality, they were hardly treated as such.

The real issue with completely forgetting about it was that this event involved a series of sparring examinations, spanning both individual and group battles. When the exam required exchanging strikes with an opponent to measure combat ability, none of the evasion tactics I had relied on so far would work.

My only option was to blend in and coast through, but the fine print on the announcement was thoroughly grating.

"Of all things, assignment locations are picked sequentially by commission Page Ranking? At this rate, I'm practically guaranteed to get dumped in Sirach, aren't I...?"

A sudden wave of bitter regret washed over me. Even if I hadn't pushed for Class E, if I had at least maintained a D or D+ rank, I wouldn't have been stuck with whatever desolate leftover was rejected by everyone else.

"One thing's for sure: if I end up in Sirach, I'm completely screwed. Nothing else for it. I should go grind some rank points today—wait, what?"

Son of a bitch.

This was practically an explicit order telling me to pack my bags for Sirach.

"I was planning on timing things with the written exams to smoothly drop down to Class D. But at this rate, I'm going to plummet straight into Class E. *Hahahaha*..."

Because academic standing was directly tied to this Faction War, my careful plan to slip quietly into Class D had just been utterly pulverized. After all, the core metric of this practical evaluation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was how effectively Lebrant Academy students could instruct and elevate ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Lord School students under their charge.

—Announcement. Placement of third-year students to their respective Lord Schools is now complete. All students are instructed to assemble in the main courtyard for detailed debriefing.

Ah. They weren't even leaving me room to choose.

Rather than languishing under the stifling prestige of Class A, I had wanted nothing more than to lay low in Class D and savor this fleeting pocket of peace. But if I botched this exam and fell all the way to Class E, I would be surrounded by those disgraced aristocratic brats—which promised to be infinitely more tiresome than my current situation.

It was as if the universe was actively protesting my desire to rest.

"Oh! You're headed to Scheat? That's where I'm going too!"

"Seriously? Well, at least it's good to have someone I know around."

"Hey, why are you clicking your tongue? You're talking to a guy who got an offer from the Melcom Guild!"

"Good grief, you simpleton..."

When I arrived at the square, students were already gathered in small clusters, chatting noisily.

Has Professor Muniher not arrived yet?

Just as the thought crossed my mind—speak of the devil—the familiar, eccentric figure appeared atop the raised platform. Once the student council president signaled for attention and the murmur died down, Professor Muniher introduced himself briefly before cutting straight to the point.

"Perhaps due to the severe fallout of the Scheat Great Subjugation Campaign, you have all worked hard handling commissions. However, you are surely aware that this has delayed your own development."

It went without saying; repeating it was a waste of breath.

"In that spirit, we intend to evaluate the true potential of those who participated in the subjugation and mop-up campaigns. You will apply what you have learned and integrate yourselves with the Lord School students."

"Those who have formed teams or parties will naturally be dispatched together. Anyone wishing to operate individually must submit a separate application."

Scanning the assembled crowd, Professor Muniher delivered several operational guidelines in person.

...Did he really need to do this face-to-face, though? A written notice would have sufficed.

Just as that complaint formed in my head, he suddenly took a small fruit knife from Ophelia.

"What is he doing?"

"Why a paring knife out of nowhere? Is he going to peel an apple on stage...?"

"As if Professor Muniher would ever do something like that."

Just as the confused whispers suggested, Professor Muniher detested useless theatrics. That meant something deliberate was coming.

"You there. Come up here."

"Y-Yes, sir..."

The student called out answered dumbfoundedly and climbed onto the platform.

"Manifest your Magic Armament."

At the professor's command, the student summoned his weapon. It took the form of an ordinary short baton, typical of wizards occupying backline support roles.

Without a word of warning, Professor Muniher swung the small fruit knife downward, shattering the mana-forged baton to pieces.

"W-Whoa!"

"What happened? A fruit knife shattered a Magic Armament...?"

"I saw it! Professor Muniher channeled mana into his hand!"

I had seen it clearly with my own eyes as well.

That strike had undeniably been reinforced with mana. Even so...

Wasn't the mana disparity completely absurd?

With all my accumulated experience, there was no way I had misjudged it. Breaking that baton using less than a tenth of the mana invested in it was fundamentally impossible. And there was certainly no way an ordinary kitchen knife possessed that kind of innate destructive power on its own.

"As all of you are well aware, what this student produced is Stage One: the Mirage state of Magic Armament. And this is the second stage you must now strive toward—the Shell-type Magic Armament."

A meager trace of mana coating the small blade. A conjured weapon shattered back into drifting particles of raw magical energy.

He was issuing an unequivocal warning to every student present.

"In this evaluation, should you fail to master this form of Magic Armament, the results awaiting you will be no different from those of the students languishing in the Lord Schools."

That demonstration was the next threshold we were expected to cross.

"Professor Muniher. That demonstration just now wasn't part of our prepared agenda, was it?" Ophelia asked, her eyes wide as she looked at him.

"What makes you say that?"

"Isn't it obvious? Saying their outcome would be no different from the Lord School students... That practically sounded like a threat to expel anyone who fails to master the Shell-type Magic Armament."

The agreed-upon syllabus had merely stated that adaptability to Shell-type Magic Armament would be factored into their grades. Yet the words he had delivered from the podium carried the distinct weight of a dismissal notice.

"I merely gave them a mild scare."

"A scare?"

"They crop up from time to time. Give them a little leeway, and they start crawling over everyone, convinced they are exceptional."

"..."

Arrogant students certainly existed. But those who harbored deep dissatisfaction with Lebrant Academy had already dropped out and migrated to places like Mirpark Lord School. Among the current student body, while some might boast idly before their peers, very few genuinely carried that sort of toxic entitlement.

At least, not from the perspective of Ophelia, the student council president.

Professor Muniher must surely know that as well...

"By the way. What prompted you to suggest this in the first place?"

"Pardon? Ah..." Caught off guard by the abrupt question, Ophelia hesitated. In truth, she had devised it to alleviate both her own frustrations and Renias's, but that was hardly an answer she could give. "I simply thought it would serve as an opportune filter. Much like how you selected candidates during the semester evaluations last year, Professor."

"Hmph. Is that so."

At the mention of screening people, Professor Muniher's eyes drifted half-shut.

—"Haah... Alkaid? Are you certain this truly came from the Temple?"

—"...Yes."

—"It's... entirely identical to that time."

—"Which is why we must find them as quickly as possible."

He recalled the sigil inscribed on the scroll Dahlia had shown him. An oracle handed down directly from the Grand Duchy Temple.

Alkaid. The one who lost everything.

Just as before, the designated individual was specified to be someone within the academy. That was the primary reason he had readily embraced Ophelia's proposal.

I almost wish the Temple would recant the prophecy, claiming it was untrustworthy.

How was one supposed to track down someone who had lost everything? There was no record of what they had possessed, and investigating the private histories of every single student was an impossible endeavor. Moreover, loss was not confined to material wealth; one could just as easily be stripped of intangible things.

How could one measure the difference?

There were no tangible clues, no physical evidence, and the only operating parameter was that they resided within the borders of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Ardellion Grand Duchy. Among the vast sea of faces at Lebrant Academy, discerning who might be Alkaid was an impossible task.

And so, Muniher intended to observe every stage of this Faction War, clutching at whatever straws he could find.

Lest the tragic end of a certain couple who had saved the Artena Empire decades ago repeat itself once more.

A few days later.

An instructor at Sirach Lord School opened the door, glanced indifferently across the classroom, and muttered a single sentence.

"Ten of you today...? Whatever. Do some self-study."

Astoundingly, that was all.

"Anyone want to kick a ball around? I brought one."

"Oh! Let's go!"

"Count me in!"

"Since this desk is empty, I'll pull it over. Let's see... what page did I leave off on yesterday...?"

"*Snoreee...*"

Students slouched over their desks fast asleep or occupied themselves with personal distractions, while several openly walked out the door without a second glance. Even more egregious was the instructor, who had propped open a novel under the guise of "self-study" to attend to his own leisure. There was not the slightest pretense of conducting a lecture, let alone reprimanding anyone.

It was an unmitigated farce.

At that moment, a female student trembled with barely contained fury before violently shoving her desk back and leaping to her feet.

"What is this?! This is supposed to be a Lord School! This is a place meant to educate students!"

"Whoa, what the hell! Why are you screaming? I was having a good nap... *Tsk*."

When the awakened student grumbled, she glared daggers at him.

"H-Hey... Lana. We told you before, didn't we? Transferring from a Lord School back to Lebrant? There's zero chance. Just eat your lunch in peace and go home."

"Do you seriously come to school just to eat and sleep?!"

"What else is there to do here? Just kill some time until we pick up an apprenticeship somewhere. I've been here a year and a half, and I haven't seen a single person actually make it out."

Sirach Lord School.

It was an institution meant to offer a second chance at education for locals unable to enter Lebrant Academy or students forced to drop out due to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠personal circumstances. On paper, it was a functioning school with enrolled pupils and faculty. But the reality?

It was nothing more than a place where people loitered, ate cheap meals, killed time, and collected government welfare stipends. It possessed none of the functional qualities of an educational institution.

It's completely hopeless... The so-called instructor isn't even pretending to teach; he's just sitting there picking his ear...!

Sick to death of this corrupt stagnation, Lana bitterly regretted dropping out of Lebrant Academy every waking moment. From the instant she withdrew to earn urgent money for her mother's hospital bills, it felt as though her life had been trapped in this dead-end swamp.

She had protested time and time again. Surely, faced with a student's vocal outrage, an educator would at least put on a show of teaching? Yet whenever she pushed, the instructor simply plugged his ears with cotton, complaining that she was too noisy.

She desperately wished someone would come along and tear this sham of an institution apart from the ground up.

—Excuse me? Is anyone here? We're from Lebrant.

"Tsk. Every damn year around this time, they pull this nonsense."

With a deep scowl, the instructor stood up, clearly irritated at having to deliver his usual routine of chewing them out and sending them away.

This time, however, luck was decidedly not on his side.

"Get lost! We don't have any business with you people!"

"Excuse me, but this is the Faction War. We have to mobilize together with the students here. Do you understand that?"

Throwing the door wide open, a black-haired youth pointed directly at the students while staring down the instructor without flinching. Unlike the previous visitors who had come merely to punch a clock and waste time, the look in his eyes was unmistakable.

He was entirely, dead serious.