Making a Plan

Fortunately, Professor Seras granted the favor I asked of her.

Which meant that, lunch hour included, I now had exactly three hours a day.

I had requested sparring sessions with her, and through them, private instruction.

Truthfully, I'd had plenty of worries going in.

Would a professor personally training a single cadet run afoul of some regulation or other? And if word got out that she was teaching me, wouldn't the rumors that had circulated a while back only grow fresh flesh?

But achieving my immediate goal mattered more than any of that, so I'd thrown caution to the wind and begged for it anyway.

As luck would have it, no such rule existed, and my worries proved unfounded — the lessons began without a hitch.

"Haaahm…."

The toll of that instruction was that lately, I lived with a yawn permanently attached to my mouth.

I suppose someone might wonder what the big deal was — a mere three hours of sparring a day?

But that only holds true when you're trading blows with someone around your own level.

For my current abilities, Professor Seras was a miracle of an opponent — a single brush of her blade could end me.

She was one of the few professors in the entire Combat Department who handled both theory and practical instruction, after all.

Thanks to that, every single day spent sparring with her was its own private hell.

Frankly, I could spar with Phorion for eight hours straight and not feel this worn out.

"Vel, you tired?"

My yawns kept coming, and Rone, beside me, asked with a note of worry in her voice.

The old me would have flexed and insisted it was nothing, but I couldn't afford the bravado right now.

My eyelids were threatening to close on the spot.

"Yeah. I'm dying."

"You really should sleep properly at night. What are you even doing until then?"

Reeling off proverbs about sleep being the best medicine, Rone launched into a nagging session just like my big sister used to.

Normally I'd let it slide in one ear and out the other, but today, for some reason, it rubbed me the wrong way.

All this suffering was because I was trying to save someone, you know.

I wasn't asking for credit, but I couldn't help resenting it a little.

Tak.

Unable to hold it in any longer, I delivered a well-ripened knuckle to the top of Rone's head.

She sprang up like a frog hit with a pebble and clutched her forehead.

"Ow!? Why did you, why'd you hit me…!?"

"No reason. You were getting on my nerves."

"Getting on your nerves…? I didn't even do anything."

Rone's eyes brimmed with wounded innocence as she shot me a sharp glare.

Hmm. Now that I thought about it, wasn't Arden the one I should be blaming, not Rone?

If only that one hadn't gone off to Class C alone, I wouldn't have to run myself ragged and worry myself sick like this.

Fine.

Next time we crossed paths, I'd knock him flat.

Just as I was hardening that resolve in my head, Rone tapped my arm and pointed at a bench standing nearby.

"Vel, instead of sitting like that, let's rest over there for a bit. Your color's terrible."

"Hmm… sure, why not."

She'd just taken a knuckle to the forehead, yet here she was offering me a rather thoughtful suggestion.

There was still a fair stretch of time before my next class anyway, so I decided to take her up on it.

The sunlight was warm enough that a little photosynthesis might actually restore some energy.

I leaned back against the bench, crossed my arms, and let my eyes drift shut.

The mellow warmth of the sun made it feel as though sleep would take me at any moment.

"Vel. Asleep?"

"No."

Just as I was drifting toward dreamland, Rone poked my arm again and I had to drag my consciousness back up.

Wondering what she wanted this time, I cracked my eyes open to find her patting her own thighs.

"It looked uncomfortable sleeping like that, so I thought maybe you'd want to lie down here."

With a shy little ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠smile, Rone had offered — of all things — a lap pillow.

Frankly, to a man as exhausted as I was, it was a proposal tempting enough to accept on the spot.

But the last shred of conscience left in my skull rejected it with everything it had.

"Lie down on your… isn't that a bit much?"

"Why? Embarrassed? There's really nothing to make a fuss about."

Rone blinked her big eyes at me, tilting her head in pure, guileless puzzlement.

The sight wasn't so different from the Rone I remembered, and yet something about it felt subtly off.

Was Rone always this kind of person?

Granted, being childhood friends meant we were comfortable with each other.

But as far as I remembered, once she hit the thick of her adolescence, Rone had grown a little shy about physical contact.

Around that time I, too, had realized that boys and girls were worlds apart, and stopped grabbing her hand on a whim.

And yet ever since we'd entered the Academy, Rone seemed to have reverted right back to the little girl she'd been years ago.

She didn't seem to mind one bit when I leaned on her or took her hand.

Well, I suppose there was nothing strange in assuming we'd simply grown numb to each other over the years.

Looked at that way, maybe I was the one being self-conscious about nothing.

From Rone's perspective, she was just looking out for me — and here I was, unable to take a kindness as a kindness.

"…Yeah, you're right, actually."

"Hehe, see?"

The moment I showed signs of conceding, Rone beamed and flashed her trademark V-sign.

Come to think of it, it was only a lap pillow. Why had I made such a fuss?

Is this what happens to men who've never dated — mistaking every little gesture for something more?

"Then pardon the intrusion. Wake me when it's time to go."

"Okay. Sleep well, Vel."

I laid my head on Rone's thighs and closed my eyes again.

A faint, flowery scent teased my nose, but I did my best to ignore it.

There was no question — it was on an entirely different level of comfort from sleeping propped against a hard bench.

Not a method I could make a habit of, but I hoped I'd get to call on her kindness again sometime.

As I let my body melt into the gentle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠breeze drifting past, I felt my consciousness slowly sink beneath the surface.

Somehow this felt even better than the bed in my dorm.

I'd better be careful not to let it become a habit.

Thanks to Rone, I'd slept like a rock, and my whole body felt that much lighter for it.

With my newly light steps, I arrived at the classroom, and Tina — seated at her desk — came scurrying over to me the moment she spotted me.

Comparing her to a puppy greeting its master would probably be rude of me.

Though honestly, if someone told me there were ears hidden in that orange hair, I'd believe them.

"Vel! Did you see it?"

"See what?"

True to her role as our class's news hub, she'd once again brought some piece of important information with her.

Come to think of it, I doubted anyone at this Academy had done more for me than Tina had.

She stomped her feet in place, pointing animatedly at somewhere outside the classroom.

"The mock exam! It was posted on the notice board outside — you haven't seen it yet, right?"

There it is.

Her news was exactly the thing I'd had in the back of my mind.

Just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as she said, the notice board — where all official announcements were pinned — bore the bold title 'Mock Exam Schedule' with fine print running beneath it.

Worried it might differ from what I remembered, I kept my gaze lowered and read on intently — and around that point, the voices of the students around me began to overlap.

"A mock exam already? We barely enrolled."

"My point exactly. Pure meritocracy, no two ways about it."

"And the privileges they're dangling are garbage, too. Who'd even want that stuff?"

Every word of it, tedious as it was, rang true.

At its core, this mock exam existed purely to gauge the first-years' grasp of theory, nothing more.

It wouldn't influence the later class reassignment, and even a stellar score earned you nothing beyond the special privileges written in the notice.

The one saving grace was that outings from this Academy were severely restricted — which gave Class A a genuine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reason to take the exam seriously, if only for the sake of that single Outing Pass. The students of Classes B through E didn't even have that.

Because the 'Study Tour Pass' granted to them was a privilege of remarkably little use.

What was this Study Tour Pass, then? Exactly as the notice stated: the right for a lower-class cadet to spend two days living among a higher class.

On paper, the chance to taste the life that elite students enjoyed sounded like a magnificent windfall. In practice, it did nothing but deepen your sense of deprivation — a right without meaning.

The Academy insisted it gave students motivation to sharpen their skills.

For all those reasons, in the original novel as well, almost no one had bothered to focus on this mock exam.

Save for a rare handful of earnest souls hoping to gauge their own abilities — diligent to a fault.

But that utterly worthless privilege happened to be, right now, the single most valuable windfall in existence for me.

And that was the crucial fact.

If I can put that thing to use, I can sit in on Class C's lessons.

It was the only way for me — a Class E student — to take part in the survey of the Magician's Forest, an activity reserved for Class C and above.

In other words, I would have to give my absolute all to a mock exam that no one else would spare a passing thought for.

The problem was that, apart from my knowledge of the original novel, I possessed almost no theory of magic whatsoever.

Which meant I'd have to fight a desperate battle of brains against the very bottom of the Academy's barrel — the hopeless deadbeats of Class E.

There was no helping it. Much of what counted as basic common sense for every mage in this world simply wasn't basic common sense to me.

I never resolved to study this hard even when I was heading to university.

Which is presumably how I'd ended up at a third-rate school, come to think of it.

Regardless — this once, I had no choice but to pour everything I had into it.

If a country bumpkin who wasn't even the protagonist wanted to get what he wanted, then getting down in the dirt and grinding was the least he could do.