Ronan's Team

One empty slot remained on the parchment listing Ronan's team assignments. The vacant seat that had begun at the long tables in the dining hall seemed to have migrated to the wall of the corridor.

In the eastern corridor of the Royal Knight Academy, the team rosters—pinned up right after morning classes—hung on the wall. Four thick sheets of parchment were aligned side by side, with quills and black ink set below them for writing names. A long corridor instead of a long table, quills instead of wooden trays. But the air felt the same. A person's worth was tied to whose name appeared beside theirs.

"Form teams of three to four members," Instructor Hagen's voice echoed from the end of the corridor. "This afternoon's basic formation drill will be scored by team. Protect the flag and maintain your lines."

The cadets murmured. Team scores directly determined grades. The first line of the Merit Ledger would be decided there.

Ronan glanced at the bottom of the parchment. One name, pre-written as if by Hagen himself: Ronan. The spot beside it was blank.

"They say you get penalized for teaming up with a flunk-out."

"Penalized? More like an automatic fail, right?"

Laughter spread, but it was subdued. The scenes from the main gate, training grounds, and dining hall still had the cadets half-throttled.

Ronan eyed the blank space and let out a small chuckle. "This time it's names instead of chairs."

Lia, standing nearby with the healing department cadets by the observer list, overheard. "How's your wrist?"

"Still attached."

"Don't joke."

"It moves. I'll say something if it hurts."

Lia looked at the blank on the parchment. "Is there a rule against writing my name there?"

"Healing department has its own observer list."

"I know that." Her voice dropped. "Then why won't those people write theirs?"

Ronan didn't answer. Instead, he glanced deeper into the corridor. There was Mark. He'd already filled his team: two cadets decent with swords and one with a large shield, their names inscribed.

Mark, spotting Ronan's blank, called out. "Still empty, huh."

This time, no physical shove. Just words. "Who'd join? Drag down the whole team's score for one guy, and it's not a team—it's baggage."

Baggage. The word dropped into the corridor.

Ronan met Mark's gaze. "Watch your mouth."

"Why? Gonna slice my sword tip again?"

"That was just a half-inch because I hated ruining the ornament."

Ronan pointed at the parchment. "This time it's in front of your own team. Wouldn't want them finding out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you're not the leader, right?"

Two of Mark's teammates exchanged the briefest glance. Ronan didn't miss it. Mark talked big, but his face didn't scream "I know what my team excels at."

Instructor Hagen clapped. "Enough chatter. Cadets without teams, decide quickly."

From one side of the corridor, two cadets shuffled awkwardly. One carried a round shield almost as big as he was. The other held a short spear. They took a step toward Ronan, then hesitated.

Mark laughed immediately. "You really going? To the flunk-out's team?"

The shield cadet's foot froze. The spear one couldn't grip his quill.

Ronan spoke first. "Names."

Both looked up.

"Your names. Can't stand together if I don't know them—easy to step on toes."

The shield cadet ventured cautiously. "Dorman."

"Shield?"

"Yes. Still a bit slow, though..."

"Not slow. You don't get pushed back."

Dorman's eyes widened. Ronan nodded toward the morning training grounds. "When shifting those weighted wooden swords, everyone else was shaking from the shoulders. Your heels stayed planted. That's not slow—it's holding ground."

Dorman fell silent, his face saying he'd never heard that before.

Ronan's gaze shifted to the spear cadet. "You?"

"Ben."

"Spearmanship?"

"My family pushed the sword, but my arms are long, so the instructor said try the spear too."

His words trailed off. A cadet bad at the family-mandated sword. The type easily shoved into blanks.

Ronan eyed his spear ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tip. "You're better blocking paths than stabbing people."

Ben's face stiffened, unsure if it was praise or insult.

Ronan added quickly. "Formations aren't about flashy thrusts. It's closing off the paths enemies want, one by one. Long arms? Perfect for it."

Ben gripped his spear shaft tighter.

From behind, Lia watched Ronan. He was reassuring them. But not with pity. Not calling them inadequate. He was pulling out their hidden value first.

Dorman picked up the quill. Dorman. The name went beside Ronan's. Ben followed. Two lines filled Ronan's blank.

Mark snorted. "Scraps banding together. Perfect match."

"Matching's good," Ronan shot back. "Better three who fit than four who don't."

"Three?" Mark checked the parchment. "Basic formation's stable with four. Good luck with three."

He wasn't wrong. Four was far better.

Then, amid the whispers, Seris's name surfaced. Daughter of a knightly house. She stood by a pillar, name unwritten.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Mark looked her way. "Seris. Saved a spot in my team."

One of his members shot him a surprised glance. Four names were already there.

Mark ignored it. "Join, and one can drop."

That member's face hardened.

Seris didn't look at Mark. Her eyes were on Ronan's parchment slots.

Seris walked over. Dorman instinctively stepped back. Ronan raised a hand slightly to stop him.

"Step back, and your spot's gone."

Dorman halted.

Seris took the quill.

Mark blurted, "Wait. You really writing there?"

Seris finally looked at him. "Why?"

"Score penalty."

"From who?"

Short question. Mark shut up.

Seris wrote her name in the blank beside Ronan's. Seris. Precise, upright script.

Dorman and Ben exhaled at last. The names no longer looked like leftovers.

The corridor whispers ceased.

Seris told Ronan, "Not bad."

Ronan eyed the four names. "We haven't done anything yet."

"That's what's not bad. Most brag they're the best before starting. You looked at what others can do first."

Lia's eyes widened slightly from behind.

Mark's face soured.

Hagen nodded. "Teams formed. To the training grounds."

Afternoon in the training grounds' center: low stakes driven into the sand, red and blue strings crisscrossing narrow paths. A small white flag stabbed in the middle.

"Mission's simple," Hagen said. "Escort the flag to the other side. Cross a line or break formation: deduction."

Mark's team went first.

"I'll clear the path. Follow."

First steps were fine. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But at the second bend, Mark swung wide, the flag-bearer narrow, and all four overlapped.

"Stop!"

The flag's tip brushed red string. Deduction.

Ronan told his team, "See that?"

Dorman nodded. "Front guy swung too wide."

"Good. You saw wide and narrow. Ben?"

"Spear guy lost his spot. Needed to block right, but dodged for himself first."

Seris quietly: "Flag moved on its own."

Ronan grinned. "So we do the opposite."

He took the white flag in his left, lowered his right. Pure mana gathered at his fingertips. A phantom sword flickered to life.

Not shaped to cut people. Tip elongated low, grazing the dirt.

Scratch.

Thin lines etched in the sand.

Wide semicircle before Dorman.

Narrow diagonal before Ben.

Short straight at the bending path for Seris.

Center line under Ronan's feet for the flag.

Hagen's eyes narrowed. "What's this?"

"Marking paths."

"Not in drill rules."

"Not forbidden either. No ground damage—just lines in dirt. You said drawing's allowed."

Hagen couldn't argue.

Ronan faced his team. "I don't need to do it all. Just put you where you shine."

Dorman planted his shield in the semicircle.

Ben aligned his spear tip along the diagonal.

Seris tilted her wooden sword at the bend.

"Ronan team, go."

First step slow, unflinching. Dorman's shield widened the path. Ben's spear closed gaps without thrusting. Seris shaped the bend without swinging.

Ronan walked the center, phantom sword correcting lines. Less swordplay, more conducting—guiding where people belonged.

Cleared first bend. No deduction.

Passed second narrow. Flag steady.

Final stakes: a hidden sandbag rolled out.

Dorman reflexively lowered shield.

Thud.

Blocked, but impact shoved his foot inward.

Ronan's phantom sword shifted the line half an inch. "Hold!"

Dorman gritted teeth, planted.

Ben's spear tip slid along the diagonal, sealing the sandbag's side path.

Seris lowered her wooden sword at the bend, deflecting a trailing practice rod.

Ronan kept the flag steady.

Crossed the final line.

Hagen went quiet a moment.

The Merit Ledger scribe grabbed his quill first. "No deductions."

The training grounds buzzed.

Mark bit his lip.

Seris eyed Ronan. "We'll need a team name."

Ronan shook his head. "Instructor'd hate that."

Then the scribe wrote small in red ink below the drill board.

Hagen saw it and left it. Small letters.

But far sharper than the parchment's blanks.