Which Path Will You Take?

Two of the deceased had been in the same party. Noble students from the Empire and the Grand Duchy. The request they had taken on was, like the one Chrome’s group had accepted, bandit extermination. Objectively speaking, its difficulty had been far lower. Unlike Mule Easton, who had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at least learned the basics of mana manipulation as the heir of a noble house, none of the bandits in this request could properly wield mana, and their numbers had been smaller as well.

Perhaps that had been the problem. The students had not bothered to consider how the enemy might respond and had simply pushed forward with brute force. The bandits had fallen like autumn leaves, and the request seemed to be nearing an easy completion—yet that was not how it ended.

They had failed to account for mana consumption in a fight without set rules.

Because the opponents were weak, they had grown careless and never treated it as a real battle.

The student acting as squad leader had lost control; the others refused to follow orders.

They had believed themselves accustomed to it, but that had been an illusion. When it came time to actually kill, their hands had unconsciously frozen.

Which of these had been the decisive factor was impossible to say. The only certainty was that two corpses had resulted from a request they had thought would be simple.

The students’ reaction to the news was dramatic, and in a way that was only natural. Fatalities had occurred during a request organized by the Academy. Some might have wondered why anyone was making a fuss now, when so much blood had already been spilled during the entrance exam. But that had been more than half a year ago, and more importantly, the students at the time had not yet felt any sense of belonging as “Academy students.” The Academy had held various events—group assignments disguised as survival exercises, mock battles against the southern army—yet no deaths had occurred during any of them. The unspoken rule had finally been broken.

Some students claimed the Academy would issue a grand apology. Others believed one of the professors would take responsibility and resign. It was common to assume that the Special Request Division would be shut down, or that even if it continued, guardians would be required to accompany the students and the structure would change.

They were wrong. Despite everything they had experienced, they still did not truly understand the place they had stepped into.

The memorial statement was announced in a solemn atmosphere, and the names of the two students were carved into a massive stone monument standing in one corner of the Academy grounds. That was all.

The Academy did not panic. It offered no apology. The Request Division remained unchanged. When the bereaved families protested after hearing the news, Neville Brix—the professor in charge of this Special Request Division—answered concisely.

“They were informed in advance that they might lose their lives, and the students accepted that risk before undertaking the request.”

Indeed, such an oath had been sworn. But how many of the students had truly taken it seriously?

What struck the shocked students even harder was the official announcement from the Barhart Empire itself.

Stripping away the details, the decree essentially promised that students who had performed requests in the Special Request Division would be given the right to join an official Imperial unit, and that those who joined would receive the corresponding treatment. It carried many implications.

The Academy—or rather, the Barhart Empire—had no intention of stopping because of this incident. On the contrary, they had anticipated such events and had not hesitated to send students into live combat. Casualties during training at an “educational institution” were considered an “accident,” but injuries or deaths suffered by “soldiers” during missions were simply “to be expected.”

In truth, this was not a sudden development. Hadn’t various figures at the Academy repeated the same message countless times? They had no intention of raising flowers in a greenhouse. You are swords meant to fight demons. One day, you must wield that power for humanity.

Yet even after hearing those words repeated endlessly and enduring dangerous practical exercises multiple times, truly accepting it in one’s heart was another matter entirely. Students who had attended the Academy simply because they vaguely wanted to rise higher, to become something special, or because others had encouraged them, now found themselves confronted with a choice that left them breathless.

Even so, they ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could not openly rebel. The decision had been made by the Empire—by the Emperor at its apex, and by the legendary hero standing behind him. Even if the Empire had forcibly conscripted every student currently enrolled, Ludwig the Great’s power and influence could have crushed any resulting noise. Granting students the choice of whether to enlist was hardly a significant concession.

Not everyone opposed the decree, either.

“The Imperial Vanguard? They’ll treat us as military officers while we’re carrying out requests? Even if I only reach a middling rank, the salary alone— I, I have to do this!”

Several commoner students focused on the fact that they could become officers. The Barhart Empire championed meritocracy, and there were indeed cases of baronial officials outranking marquess officials, or commoners holding high positions. However, most such cases were concentrated in the civil bureaucracy, where opportunities to demonstrate ability were more abundant. The Empire, the largest and strongest nation on the continent, had administrative work in proportion to its vast territory, and civil officials could rise through proven results—provided they were exceptional enough that their superiors could not easily steal the credit.

In contrast, opportunities to accumulate military merit were scarce from the start, and ranks were often determined by career length and simple comparisons of qualifications. When comparing noble-born talents—who had eaten well since childhood, built strong bodies, received high-level education, and could devote themselves to training without worrying about livelihood—against commoner talents who struggled just to survive and could barely read or write, the advantage was obvious.

Mana users enjoyed relative freedom from these constraints, but even they had limits. Now, however, the Empire was offering to appoint them as officers while ignoring all the intermediate steps. Of course, there would still be differences among officers, but simply starting from a similar position was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠already several times better than climbing from the bottom while competing against entrenched interests. Even setting all that aside, the mere fact that they would receive salaries commensurate with their rank each time they completed a request ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was enough to make commoner students’ mouths water.

“We’ll be under the Emperor’s direct command? And as commanders of a unit composed entirely of mana users? We can’t let this opportunity slip away!”

Noble students, on the other hand, focused on the fact that the Imperial Vanguard would be under the Emperor’s direct command. Among the existing five armies—including the northern, southern, eastern, western, and central forces—only the Central Army received the Emperor’s direct orders. Furthermore, the decree stated that the Commander of the Imperial Vanguard would hold the same rank as the Corps Commanders of the existing armies. Considering that the Central Army’s Corps Commander was effectively treated as the pinnacle of the military, this was an extraordinary privilege. No freshly graduated student would be given command of the entire unit immediately, but even reaching the second or third rank would grant immense honor and authority.

Some students from outside the Empire felt reluctant to join the Imperial military and tried to keep their distance, but their home countries pushed them forward instead. Officially, the justification was that the vassal states and the Empire must unite beyond borders to face the demons, but the real reason was self-interest. While there was a risk of losing talent, having their own nationals occupy key positions within the Empire offered considerable advantages from the vassal states’ perspective.

On the day of the official announcement, a long line of students wishing to join the Special Request Division formed, including the Pendebig siblings and high-ranking nobles from other nations. Students who had completed requests first were elevated to leadership roles over the newcomers. They had gained one step ahead in the race for merit.

Not everyone joined this flow, however. There were still students who disliked the idea of belonging to the Imperial Army, and others who felt fear or resentment at the prospect of truly risking their lives in battle. The Academy did not pressure or push them. Forcing them would not create true swords. The choice belonged to each of them.