The Victory Banquet (1)
Lebrant Academy.
Founded on the ideals of self-cultivation and equality, it stood as the beating heart of the Ardelion Grand Duchy—the preeminent cradle tasked with nurturing the realm's finest talents across magic and martial arts alike.
Wherever brilliant prodigies gather, however, there will inevitably be those who fall behind. To facilitate learning tailored to individual aptitude, a tiered ladder had been erected in the form of a class placement system. In theory, its criteria were intended merely to differentiate instruction according to varied metrics, allowing students to climb the stairs one careful step at a time.
Yet anyone in the lower tiers—and anyone in the upper crust actively concealing the truth—knew full well that the system had long since stopped functioning as intended.
Ever since noble factions entrenched their influence, placement criteria had warped to prioritize raw, absolute metrics of mana output above all else. There was a clear reason aristocratic instructors favored ranged projectile magic and elemental spells, cramming them down students' throats at every turn: elemental casting produced the sharpest spikes in quantifiable mana ratings, translating directly into visible firepower. The gulf separating one class from another was measured strictly by this threshold of raw destruction, and it was precisely why elementalists and long-range casters had sunk such deep, unshakeable roots into the institution.
And yet, an impossibility had just taken place.
Sylvia of Class C had collapsed unconscious, utterly defeated at the hands of Class E's Junon.
An elementalist specializing in gale-force wind had fallen to a frontliner who was supposed to be incapable of even launching a proper attack. The ironclad laws of combat match-ups had been completely turned on their head.
To Senia, these concise facts sounded like pure contradiction. The outcome of the duel fought in secret near Megrez Hall was nothing short of an outright paradox.
"How on earth did he pull that off?"
Brushing aside the dark bangs falling over her brow, Senia racked her brain in deep contemplation.
Had Junon been defeated and Sylvia claimed her expected victory, Senia would have simply dismissed it with a chuckle, thinking he had wasted his energy on another pointless stunt. But this result defied all reason. The gap between Class C and Class D was vast enough on its own, yet Junon hailed from Class E—and was derided as the academy's weakest vanguard to boot.
It was impossible not to wonder how someone could cultivate such terrifying martial strength in so short a time. Sylvia boasted assessment marks that rivaled students in Class B; defeating her was something no one could ever achieve by mere fluke or good fortune.
For Senia, who desperately needed to reach Class C to qualify for lectures on alchemy and manufacturing, unraveling this secret had suddenly become critically urgent.
"...I suppose I'll just have to ask him myself."
Plop.
A pebble skipped across the gently babbling brook, sending ripples across the crystal surface. Junon's desire to steer clear of Michel had been sound, but in doing so, he had walked straight into Senia's crosshairs instead.
"Achoo!"
A sudden, violent sneeze overtook him. Wondering if someone was badmouthing him behind his back, Junon wiped his mouth with his sleeve. A moment later, the cacophony drifting in from outside made him shake his head in exasperation.
"I finally get a chance to rest, and this is what I have to deal with?"
Having fought Sylvia at full tilt only a short while ago, his entire body ached. He had collected some medicine from the infirmary and returned to the dorms intending to catch a decent nap. The day's lectures had ended hours ago, and his battered physical condition ruled out any training in the conditioning hall anyway. In times like this, sleep was the best medicine.
Yet how was anyone supposed to sleep through such a deafening racket?
"Of all places, why right outside my window?"
Parting the dormitory curtains, he spotted a dense crowd of students swarming around the courtyard bulletin board. Their excited chatter and shouting were so loud they reverberated straight through the glass, making sleep an impossible dream.
Accepting that rest was out of the question, Junon shifted his thoughts to handling the upcoming fallout. He already knew exactly what notice had been pinned to that board.
It announced the victorious return of Lady Ophilia's expedition and the prodigy Arcab Party following their successful subjugation of the demonic beasts in the northeastern Scheat region. Naturally, a grand victory banquet was slated to follow.
And alongside that celebration, Junon had to ensure that a certain catastrophic riot was properly prevented before it could spark.
"They call it a victory banquet, but it's really an explosion waiting to happen..."
Whenever an expedition returned from the front, a lavish banquet was hosted to honor their grueling efforts. The veterans who risked life and limb against demonic beasts were the absolute cream of the crop, handpicked elites without equal.
Because of that, the academy's students were desperate to get close to them. It was a rare chance to hear unvarnished tales from real battlefields, glean training methods that no textbook contained, and absorb hard-earned practical expertise.
While anyone could attend basic classes at the academy, not just anyone met the grueling requirements for graduation, and conventional coursework offered no guarantee of meaningful competence. Advice from warriors actively serving on the front lines was infinitely more precious than the sheltered lectures of ivory-tower professors—especially for those trapped in the lower tiers of Class D and Class E, who starved for real guidance.
Yet nothing in this place ever came easily.
Desperate as they were to learn, the guest list for the banquet hall was strictly restricted to a privileged few.
"There has to be a way..."
Though some time remained before the banquet, he needed to devise a solution quickly—before the end-of-term evaluations were derailed and the arrival of the imperial delegation threw everything into chaos.
"Excuse me, Professor Beryl?"
"How many times have I told you not to call me that? There's another professor who shares the same family name."
"Oh, right! I should call you Professor Jake."
"Never mind that. Are you stuck on another problem?"
"Yes... I can't figure out why this specific line in the formula is wrong."
The scene unfolded inside an ordinary Class E lecture hall, presided over by Professor Jake.
Though these students were relegated to Class E, Jake firmly believed that every one of them was a future vanguard, caster, or specialist who would someday take their place in a combat unit. Insisting that no student should face discrimination when their future comrades' lives might depend on them, he routinely extended his lectures well past the bell to give them extra instruction.
He was well aware that other faculty members treated Class D and Class E students as little more than disposable nuisances. That very reality compelled him to carve out his own precious free time to teach them.
"You were nodding off at your desk again during class, weren't you? Be honest."
"Yes... I was..."
"Even so, you have to listen to the lectures."
"But Professor Kyope does nothing except yell, intimidate us, and get angry! She doesn't even teach properly, so what else was I supposed to do? If I just keep my head down and pretend to sleep, at least she doesn't single me out to scream at me."
Jake knew the grim truth all too well: whenever other professors entered the classrooms of the lower tiers, they rarely bothered to deliver quality instruction. It was why he felt duty-bound to sacrifice his own hours to fill the gap.
He had promised his wife only yesterday that he would be home in time to speak with her tonight, but looking into the earnest, troubled faces of these students, he simply could not turn his back. Offering a quiet, remorseful apology to his wife in his heart, Professor Jake pressed on with the lesson.
"...Come on, show me the problem. I'll walk you through whichever parts you didn't understand."
"Yes, sir!"
With an educator possessing such genuine integrity and care for every single pupil, the students responded in kind. What was scheduled as a fifty-five-minute lecture had stretched past the three-hour mark, yet not a single student slouched or complained; every one of them sat upright, absorbing every word with fierce concentration.
To the students of Class D and Class E, having Professor Jake step into their classroom meant something fundamentally different from any other instructor's presence.
By the time three and a half hours had elapsed and dusk began settling outside, Professor Jake finally drew the lesson to a close, offering a parting remark to the room.
"Don't give up until the very end. Push yourselves as far as you can go. Understood?"
To the majority of the students, the sudden encouragement sounded like a routine pep talk.
Except to one.
While Jake had kept his words deliberately broad to avoid showing favoritism, Junon heard the deeper subtext. He was certain those words were tied directly to the upcoming end-of-term evaluation—the crucial assessment that would decide the next class assignments.
"Alright, that's it for today! Go eat a hearty dinner and get some proper rest."
"Thank you, Professor!"
Jake watched over the students with the gentle warmth of a father seeing off his own beloved children, lingering until the room had emptied. Eventually, only one young man remained: the student assigned to clean the blackboards today, distinctive with his pitch-black hair and dark eyes.
"Junon."
"Yes, Professor?"
"How did you end up so badly injured yesterday?"
Jake was renowned among the student body for his jovial teasing and kind-hearted warmth, but the expression he wore now was entirely different. His brow was furrowed, his gaze piercing and grave.
Students from Class D and Class E frequently crossed paths due to their heavily overlapping curriculums. Several foundational lectures merged both tiers outright, and joint practical exercises were common practice. As a result, the two lower classes shared a peculiar camaraderie, their daily timetables running nearly in parallel.
Having just finished her own Class D lecture, Senia had slipped immediately toward the hall where Junon's class was being held. Because Professor Jake's lesson had run significantly over time, she arrived just in time to overhear the exchange through the ajar door.
"How did you end up so badly injured yesterday?"
...Had Professor Jake's voice always carried such a chilling edge?
No. There's no way.
He was a man who mingled effortlessly with students, cracking jokes and offering gentle solace whenever someone's spirits flagged under hardship. Academy students were little more than impressionable youths whose emotions swayed wildly at the slightest breeze. Guiding young people stranded in the academy's most desperate, sorrowful tiers had honed his patience over decades. Most students claimed they had never once seen Professor Jake raise his voice in genuine anger.
Yet why did his voice sound so heavy with quiet, suffocating pressure now?
Senia understood human nature well enough to know that when someone was pushed past their boiling point, their face grew icy and their voice dropped to a low, quiet murmur rather than an explosive shout. Professor Jake was undeniably furious with Junon.
"Should I take your silence to mean you have no intention of telling me?"
The question carried no lighthearted banter; it was a stern, unyielding demand for an answer.
What will Junon do...? Senia held her breath.
After keeping his lips tightly sealed for what felt like an eternity, Junon finally spoke.
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir."
"Is that so?"
A thick, heavy silence settled over the room. Even standing out in the corridor eavesdropping, Senia could feel the prickling tension causing her palms to sweat.
Yet in the very next breath, Jake let the severe facade drop, returning to the persona of a devoted mentor offering heartfelt counsel to a wayward disciple.
"...I told the others to give it everything they have, but for you, Junon, I want you to do the opposite. Stop pushing yourself to the brink. Learn to ease up."
"I wasn't overdoing it, Professor. There's no need to worry."
"I've warned you about this before, haven't I? I understand your urge to push back against the unfairness of this academy, but sometimes endurance is the wiser path. Looking at the battered state you were in yesterday, how can you look me in the eye and say you didn't overdo it...?"
He had clearly caught sight of Junon dragging his bruised, exhausted body away after that ferocious bout with Sylvia. Jake had struck right at the heart of the matter, yet Junon subtly sidestepped the inquiry, giving evasive, measured replies.
With that, their conversation came to an end.
Well, one thing is crystal clear, Senia mused, leaning back against the wall.
For reasons known only to himself, Junon was deliberately hiding his victory over Sylvia.
Doesn't that seem bizarre, though?
Of all the students caught in the harsh currents of the academy's institutional bigotry, Junon had weathered the worst of it. Simply choosing the path of a vanguard was enough to draw sneers and condescension, yet Junon had never possessed the meek temperament to swallow insults quietly. If someone counted the times he had swung his fists in retaliation against noble hazing, ten fingers wouldn't begin to cover it. He had consistently met physical abuse and verbal derision with stubborn, unbroken defiance.
He had just toppled Sylvia of Class C—an opponent he had never once bested in the past. Why in the world would he keep such a triumph hidden?
Then again, his reasons mattered little to her right now. What truly counted was that she had caught scent of an undeniable lead.
If I play this right, I can definitely pry the truth out of him.
The corners of Senia's lips curled into a sly, knowing smile.