You're That Good at Fighting?
Before anyone quite realized it, the first-semester orientation curriculum had wrapped up, and regular classes were underway.
Students split into two camps: those who'd managed to land a balanced slate of courses that actually suited their majors, and those who'd missed the cut and were stuck, through gritted teeth, taking whatever general electives they could get. Even the ones who'd snagged the right major classes often found their schedules carved into such brutal fragments that the whole arrangement was its own kind of misery.
None of that, however, was a problem for Rosaria.
The Academy offered a staggering number of majors. Even within magic alone, the options branched into elemental schools, non-attribute disciplines, theoretical studies, magical tool crafting, and more—a dense lattice of specializations, each tailored to a different kind of talent. And it wasn't just magic. Accounting, the arts, business management—the list went on. It didn't quite match a modern university, but the sheer variety made one thing plain: the Empire poured serious effort into cultivating every kind of talent it could find.
Combat, naturally, stood among the Academy's core majors. And combat was exactly where Rosaria had landed.
Unlike the other fields, which splintered into countless sub-disciplines, the combat track kept most of its coursework under one roof. First-years drilled basic conditioning and swordsmanship. From the second year on, the training deepened. With every year that climbed, the goal was the same: shed the limits of ordinary humanity and push toward higher and higher realms of mastery.
What passed for "electives" in the combat track were usually just more specialized weapon work—sword, bow, dagger—or the fundamentals of military science. They were electives in name only. Think of them as required courses and you wouldn't be far off. In that sense, the combat major ran a lot like a vocational college.
"So I get to roll around in the dirt at home and here. Great."
Standing in neat formation with the other students on a sunlit drill ground of carefully packed earth, Rosaria muttered the words with pure indifference.
A month earlier, with Ariel's help—something a little different from mana, but a power-up all the same—Rosaria had finally been cleared for Gordon's lessons and thrown herself into real training. And then she had tasted hell.
Between Darian, a physical monster in his own right, and Gordon, an old man whose movements still belonged to a man in his prime, Rosaria had spent that entire month quite literally rolling herself raw across the dirt. Through that hellish regimen, she'd clung to a single desperate hope: the day she could leave the estate and get to the Academy. Studying would have been fine. Anything would have been fine. The training had just been that brutal.
And then—what?
Rosaria's original major had been business management. From the moment she first stepped into that curriculum to the moment she walked back out of the lecture hall, she retained almost nothing. She remembered sitting down. She remembered the professor introducing himself. The second the actual curriculum started, her mind simply checked out.
It had been too hard.
The original Rosaria had at least been a noble—she'd forced her way through classes, been educated inside the manor since childhood, and been a native of this world. This Rosaria was a modern person who'd enlisted in the military and cleanly forgotten twelve years of schooling before landing in another world. She could barely remember her own original major. Keeping up with this world's coursework was never going to happen.
She'd checked the other curricula on a hopeful whim. Same story. She wasn't a genius like Felix or Freya. She was cut from the same cloth as Darian.
For a moment she'd seriously considered just picking any major at random and coasting through it. Her conscience wouldn't let her. So in the end, Rosaria chose the one thing she could still do: brute-force it with her body. Sparring and weapons work were things Gordon had already drilled into her. She figured she could catch up somehow.
And so, having switched her major to combat arts, Rosaria stood there with a vacant, half-hearted expression—until the whispers started.
"Isn't that her? That young lady?"
"It is… right? That's Evergarden."
"Then what's she doing here?"
Murmur, murmur. Whisper, whisper.
I can hear all of that, you know. Tch.
They clearly thought they were being discreet. The stares flying at her in plain sight and the muttering drilling straight into her ears were more than enough to scrape at Rosaria's nerves. Still, she could understand the reaction.
Rosaria was a well-known figure at the Academy—famous, above all, for her misdeeds. A count's house ranked just below a marquis among the five noble ranks, and since the dukes were practically royalty by blood to the imperial family, that put the Evergardens near the top. And what had she done with that lofty title? Led her hangers-on around like she owned the place. Obsessively harassed anyone who rubbed her the wrong way. Blew off classes entirely. She'd racked up every kind of nuisance imaginable—and on top of that, her older brother Felix had bought his way into an honorary professorship with bribes. There was no way anyone was going to look at her kindly.
So when the same Rosaria who'd spent every day putting on airs, declaring herself above the lowly rabble, and making a spectacle of herself suddenly switched her major to combat at the start of the new term—of course people were shocked.
And there was more. No one said it out loud, but a quiet contempt for the combat track ran through the Academy. Heirs and eldest sons among the nobility were usually educated to govern their territories or climb into the Empire's upper ranks. Magic itself was considered an extraordinary talent simply for being learnable. As a result, non-combat majors were eighty to ninety percent noble. Combat ran the other way: seventy to eighty percent commoner. Commoners hoping to reverse their fortunes as elite knights or mercenaries, and lesser nobles—third sons, fourth sons, the ones who weren't heirs and would become useless the moment the eldest inherited—came looking for a future. Graduates of the combat track were recognized enough that the mercenary guilds started them at Silver Rank, and with a little luck they might even become knights to a higher house. It was the natural choice for anyone without a powerful backer.
The two tracks did not get along. Non-combat students sneered that the combat kids were lowborn thugs who solved everything with their fists. Combat students called the others insufferable snobs. And now the eldest daughter of a count's house—a non-combat type who'd been generating scandals left and right—had dropped into the combat track out of nowhere. Of course they were rattled.
"All right. Everyone here?"
Just as the whispering among the students was swelling louder, a man approached, each heavy footfall stamping into the packed earth. He looked over the assembled group and spoke.
"Good to meet you, recruits. I'm Gerton. I'll be running Basic Weaponry this term."
It was the same Professor Gerton Rosaria had first seen during homeroom—her assigned advisor, and the man in charge of this class.
"You should already know this from the curriculum, but through this course you'll handle the weapons that suit you—or the ones that catch your interest—build up your proficiency, and train through actual sparring."
"Don't get too tense about it, though. The emergency medical unit stationed at this Academy is damn good. Literally—if an arm gets torn clean off, as long as they treat you fast enough, they can stick it back on. Hahahaha!"
"When he puts it like that, it doesn't sound like a joke at all."
In front of the students, he'd swapped the stiff, formal clothes from homeroom for a sleeveless shirt that let him move freely. He tossed out the joke with a booming laugh—but not a single student could bring themselves to laugh with him.
"Before we get into the real lesson—anyone have a question?"
Gerton asked it casually, opening the floor. And then—
"Professor. I have a question."
A student at the very front of the formation shot his hand up. Sun-darkened skin from too much time bare under the open sky, chestnut hair, something like a bandage strip across his nose, both arms wrapped in gauze—everything about the boy screamed I fight for a living.
"Right… and your name is?"
"Retin, sir."
"All right, Retin. Spit it out."
"First of all, being able to take your class is nothing short of an immense honor to me. I grew up hearing about your heroic exploits from my father. To me, Professor, you are the goal itself."
"…Hmph. Flattery won't get you anything, kid. Skip to the point."
Retin was already heaping praise on him before even asking the question. Gerton dug a finger in his ear with a look of pure annoyance—but the corner of his mouth kept twitching upward, refusing to stay put.
"However. Sitting in on this glorious class of yours is someone who does not belong."
"…Oh? Someone who doesn't belong. And who would that be?"
"That one. Right there."
Retin turned on his heel and raised a finger, pointing straight at one person.
That person was Rosaria.
The moment the finger landed, a flood of stares slammed into her. Rosaria, who'd been standing with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, scuffing the dirt with the toe of her shoe, went blank.
"She's not even a combat major to begin with. And yet the precious young lady of that oh-so-distinguished count's house—the same house that has always looked down on us combat types—is standing here in a place that reeks of dirt. Surely there must be some kind of mistake?"
"He's got a point. What is she even doing?"
"She spent all that time laughing at us—and now she just shows up out of nowhere?"
"She's going to be in the way."
"Why is she here?"
At Retin's words, the other students nodded along, fixing Rosaria with looks that were anything but kind.
"…What exactly is this? Are you standing there airing a personal grudge at me because you don't like that student?"
Gerton's easy grin vanished. The sharp look he turned on Retin made the boy flinch.
"Who the hell are you to decide who gets to take which class? You little chick. You think you're somebody? You the professor now? Huh?"
That look in his eyes…!
The pressure is incredible…! Just being stared at and I can barely open my mouth…
Under that piercing gaze, the students felt the presence of a predator and shut their mouths. The gulf between a flock of green chicks and a man who had crossed the line between life and death dozens—hundreds—of times and reached something like a higher plane was that vast.
"…I only spoke the truth."
Even so, cold sweat beading on his forehead, Retin refused to back down.
"Young Lady Rosaria has always scorned and belittled our combat track, and now she has the gall to shove her face in here. She has nothing to do with fighting, and yet she walked in anyway. How is she supposed to contribute to our class?"
"…He's right."
"I agree with Retin."
"You little—!"
Emboldened by Retin's nerve, more students started raising their voices. Gerton, who clearly hadn't seen this coming, faltered with a look of genuine dismay.
"Rosaria, get out!"
"Yeah! Get lost!"
"Where'd you leave that fancy attendant of yours?!"
"Why don't you go call your honorary-professor big brother?!"
The shouting climbed past simple complaints and into open, ugly insults—and that was when Rosaria, who had kept silent through all of it, let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"Hey. You."
"You talking to me?"
"Yeah. You, chestnut-head."
"Chest—what?!"
Rosaria pointed a finger the exact same way Retin had and called him chestnut-head. A vein jumped on Retin's forehead.
"So basically, you think I'm a piece of shit. That it?"
Thud—thud—
"…?!"
She walked toward the boy she'd just casually insulted, spitting vulgar language no young lady of a count's house should ever have in her mouth. Retin reeled with pure shock.
"If you hate my guts that much, say it to my face like a man instead of stirring up a mob, you dickless little shit."
"You—! You may be the eldest daughter of a count's house, but you clearly can't read a room. You see how this looks? You think anyone here is on your side?"
Rosaria kept coming, still staring him down and still swearing like a sailor. Retin's anger finally turned real. He glared back as he spoke. He wasn't wrong—not a single person here stood with Rosaria. Every student had lined up behind Retin, staring her down with open hostility.
"I hear those hangers-on who used to trail after you finally got sick of it and bailed. And the family's falling apart, too, right?"
"So maybe tone it down a little, huh? Young lady of a count's house?"
With the whole class at his back, Retin allowed himself a looser, smiling expression.
"……"
Rosaria kept staring at him in silence for a beat. Then—
"I was planning to keep my head down for a while. But you? You're not getting that option."
"Follow me to the sparring ground. You bastard."
Rosaria raised a fist and barked the challenge straight at him.