Try Having a Nicer Heart

Reckless competition between the frontiers and the Empire would only drive the future of humanity into peril. The culture of disdain and animosity fostered by adults was fundamentally corrupt, and to survive, the students needed to unite in solidarity.

"Did you get shot in the head?"

"Are you feeling sick?"

Classmates who normally would have spat out such caustic retorts readily nodded in agreement with William's proclamation.

"I think I get what he means."

"If it means putting an end to this infernal lecture, I'd gladly praise those imperial bastards as paragons of nobility all day."

"Haa... Orknodi. She's an actual child, so we can't even chew her out properly, but seriously, that girl..."

Students returning from the obstacle sprint dragged their battered legs across the clearing, collapsing flat on the open ground or slumping powerlessly against tree trunks. Judging by the grim atmosphere alone, the clearing resembled a battlefield field hospital overflowing with casualties who couldn't even fit inside the tents. In truth, it was merely an instructor ducking into a shaded shelter to escape the blistering heat, leaving the students stranded outside.

"Instructor. Can't we watch from inside as well?"

"Under no circumstances."

"We're completely exhausted... We just want to rest in the shade..."

"Go find a tree."

"The strongest kids already claimed all the spots under the trees."

The instructor met the protesting student's gaze with a frosty glare. He seemed to possess at least a sliver of conscience, as guilt flickered across his eyes for a fleeting second, but he quickly steeled his resolve and looked away.

"It is Professor Eveningshooter's direct order."

"Are you just a scarecrow who can't exercise an ounce of discretion without a professor's command, Instructor?"

Losing his temper, William ended up provoking the man. Surrounding students gasped at the brazen defiance, yet the instructor's expression only grew bleaker.

"Look beneath that tree. What do you see?"

"It looks cool and breezy."

"It is far cooler inside this tent. Frost magic was enchanted into the fabric as compensation for running menial errands for those wizard brats."

"..."

What's his deal? Is he bragging?

"The law of the jungle already broke out over mere tree shade; do you honestly believe inside this tent would be any different?"

"!"

The instructor's sudden philosophical counter caught the students off guard. Wait, that actually makes sense!

"Even if I opened this tent, the only ones ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠basking in superior comfort would be those already hoarding the shade. None of you would ever set foot inside. This tent seats four."

"Then we could take turns, three at a time!"

At William's fiery protest, the instructor sneered at his naivety, having anticipated that exact objection.

"Fairness. A lovely concept. But what happens when the high-achieving prodigies with stellar records file a complaint, demanding that superior talents receive superior privileges?"

"You're the instructor! You should handle that somehow!"

"Is that so? Then once I grow old and retire from the Academy, will you protect this humble instructor from the vengeance of resentful noble houses? 'Fairly'?"

"...You're the instructor, so figure something out!"

"I refuse. I have no intention of sacrificing my precious privileges just to entertain the whining of brats who won't take responsibility for my retirement. Go on, feel the agony of your flesh baking beneath the blazing sun."

Zzzzzip.

The instructor pulled the flap shut and vanished back into the tent. Despite his detestable behavior, the students couldn't bring themselves to curse him as a selfish adult. Deep down, defying noble scions from imperial bloodlines frightened them just as much.

"Should we just watch the ones who haven't run yet...?"

"Yeah..."

William and his Group A comrades stared my way with faces twice as haggard as grown adults battered by the bitter realities of society.

Why are they acting like that? Did some imperial snob taunt them with, 'If you have no water, why not just drink an Iced Americano?'

I've actually been on the receiving end of that before, and it was undeniably infuriating. Still, when someone slurps an iced Americano right in front of a 230-centimeter behemoth, you have to acknowledge the raw audacity of the taunt. If imperial aristocrats were insane enough to provoke someone even in the face of a fist far closer than the law, how could impoverished commoners with neither strength nor authority ever hope to cope?

"Next heat. Step forward when your name is called."

"Scholar. Live. Carnegie. Mob. Orknodi."

Five students spaced themselves out evenly before a line hastily scratched into the dirt with a tree branch. It was an obstacle course race paired simultaneously with running target practice. The evaluations posted on the tally board for earlier students were so abysmal they embarrassed anyone looking at them.

Poor Poppy, hung out to dry like a museum specimen. Then again, the scores of the students listed beside him were even worse, so maybe he was relatively well off.

"We have to avoid the 'Is This Even a Student?' bracket at all costs!"

"Isn't that still better than the 'First to Die on the Battlefield' remark that pops up below minus thirty?"

"A cognitive disruption ward covers the track midway through, so you can't even see the layout ahead. Just what on earth is waiting past the halfway mark?"

Unlike the panicked students, Scholar, the Descendant of the Divine Archer, calmly drew a bow that possessed neither bowstring nor physical arrow. It was an overpowered weapon bestowed upon the divine archer's bloodline, capable of manifesting arrows directly out of pure mana.

He had something weird going on with his eyes too, didn't he?

The Eyes of the Line of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Death, or whatever nonsense. A filthy, cheating ocular trait that let him spout pretentious lines like, 'I can see the trajectories.' Whenever he drew and aimed, an innate predictive laser pointer visible only to his own eyes mapped out precisely where the arrow would strike in an instant. How in the world was anyone supposed to beat that?

"Orknodi. Do not be overly tense."

"Me?"

"There is no shame in losing to the strong. Pay no heed to competition; simply focus on delivering your best. Rather than fixating on victory or defeat, try embracing the true mindset of an archer."

Man, this kid is obnoxious.

"I will repeat the rules one final time," the instructor announced. "Clear the obstacles as swiftly as possible, strive to hit every target, and make haste to reach the finish line. Keeping these three points in mind, do your absolute utmost to cross before your peers. Well, it's merely a trial accounting for ten percent of your midterm grade. Don't stress too much—just perform like decent human beings."

The instructor offered half-hearted consolation and raised his whistle to blow, only to pause with an "Ah" and lower it to add:

"Still, instructors and students from other sections are spectating, so do try to put on a bit of a show. For your information, those watching us over there are third-year seniors enrolled in Jenegger's Tactics. They are currently taking an exam predicting the finishing order of each heat. If it were me, I'd trigger a delightful upset against the fools pegging me for dead last and completely wreck the seniors' grades."

"..."

Having heaped on as much pressure as humanly possible until the very last second, the instructor blew the whistle.

Fwip!

We burst forward across the track. Surprisingly, everyone maintained a respectable pace in raw running speed.

Is it because archers are typically weak at close quarters?

Whenever you roam around as an adventurer, self-proclaimed archers always turn out to have terrible stamina—huffing and puffing after walking a few steps, cowering in the rear taking potshots that invariably end up buried between their own allies' shoulder blades. Total deadweight. But as expected of the world's premier academy, there wasn't a single garbage ranged carry in sight.

So why on earth did their scores turn out like that?

The answer revealed itself as the first obstacle section unfolded.

"Damn it, a quagmire!"

A morass concocted by churning copious amounts of water into sand and thick mud. With every step, your feet sank deep into the muck, trapping you in place and guzzling precious seconds.

"My foot's stuck!"

"Aaaagh! Help me!"

Hearing the screams erupting from lanes three and four, Live in lane two glanced back in bewilderment.

"Scholar! Shouldn't we help them out?"

"Focus on the trial, Live. This is a time trial."

Coldhearted as it was, Scholar's approach was correct. In a time trial, you only need to look out for yourself. It wasn't a three-legged race, so why bother tending to the guy beside you? Besides, there was no real need to look out for them in the first place.

"Ah crap... Lane two is a bust again."

"Bad investment!"

"Look at the ground, idiot! There's a rope you can grab to haul yourself out!"

"Run, you sluggish lane-four bastard!"

"Haha! Lane four! Dead last, exactly as predicted! Looked like the biggest scrub from the start—the physiognomy taught by the Physiognomy Professor never lies!"

The seniors who had wagered on their favored picks were screaming advice from afar at the top of their lungs, desperately hoping their horses would deliver the desired results.

"Lane five, Orknodi! You're supposed to be the top scorer, so why the hell are you falling behind?! If you don't take first and blow my 500 Points, you're dead meat!"

"?"

There's always that one punk who crosses the line.

I came to a dead halt and abruptly sprinted in reverse.

"H-Hey, hey!! Are you screwing with me right now?!"

Ignoring the senior's panicked shriek, I flung a coiled rope straight to Mob, who was still floundering helplessly in the neighboring mud pit of lane four.

"Mob! Grab this and pull yourself out!"

"O-Orknodi?! Didn't you already sprint way ahead?!"

"Naturally, I came back to save you!"

"What do you mean 'naturally,' you idiot?! If you pull a stunt like that, your record will be ruined!"

"We're part of the same Group A, aren't we? Classmates in the same group need to help each other out!"

"Orknodi...!"

"It's fine! Losing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a few points on an exam worth a measly ten percent won't kill anyone!"

In the first place, coming in first in this match yielded a pitiful 100 Points.

And I happen to have a far more spiteful objective.

By throwing away that measly 100 Points, I could obliterate the 500 Points of that insolent senior who dared chirp at me. What's more, if I could drag Mob—whom every single person had pegged for dead last—up to third place, all those tactical-studies seniors watching from above would instantly fail their predictive exam on the first-years' finishing order!

A true hardcore veteran never squabbles with fellow underclassmen competing alongside them.

I will wage war against the seniors who dared insult me—through shameless match-fixing!