He's Just an Instructor, Ours is a Professor
Tyron clicked his tongue in disbelief as he reviewed the records.
'Their stamina is already at the level of an average third-year. Deleve and Celia are well beyond even that. Maris Sophen did surprisingly well, too. Meanwhile, on Professor Elcanto's side... Killian and Ebnis are about the only ones who barely stand out.'
The performance of the students trained by Instructor Ziel was nothing short of extraordinary. Even setting aside the top-tier talents like Deleve and Celia, the rest of the cohort posted remarkable scores. What astonished Tyron even more was the stark contrast between these results and the weekly logs he had compiled.
During regular classes, the students had been forbidden from using mana. Now that they were allowed to tap into it for the official test, an improvement was only natural, but even so...
'If you calculate backward from their baseline, their raw physical capacity has skyrocketed. Did that bizarre drill actually work?'
Strapping on sandbags and running for as long as possible without a shred of mana—when Tyron had first witnessed the routine, he had sneered at it. He had written it off as crude, primitive nonsense. Yet looking at the hard numbers now, the results were impossible to deny.
Come to think of it, Ziel had never merely ordered them to run. During the sessions Tyron had observed, he had seen the instructor actively correct their strides and teach them precise breathing patterns to sustain their rhythm while on the move.
'The man is terrifying. Was he some kind of military drillmaster before this?'
That flat, emotionless voice. That ruthless impartiality, holding even the heirs of grand noble houses to the exact same standards as commoners. And above all, the surprisingly reverent deference shown by Deleve Kundel...
'Whoa, careful. I can never let a word slip about Celia Rihardt stalking him.'
Tyron clamped his mouth shut tight.
Unfortunately, the moment he sealed his lips, an all-too-familiar, grating voice echoed in his ear.
"Assistant."
"Ah, yes, Professor."
"Let me ask you something."
Noticing Professor Elcanto's unusually grave expression, Tyron tilted his head, wondering what fresh grievance the man was concocting.
"What is it, sir?"
"Instructor Ziel."
"Yes?"
"Just... what did he do to produce numbers like that?"
Tyron quietly extended the clipboard.
"You saw the progress report I submitted, didn't you?"
"Report? Ah, r-right. The report. Of course I saw it."
Saw it my foot. That neat stack of paperwork had sat on Elcanto's desk for over a week untouched, the corner of the third page still askew exactly as Tyron had left it.
"If you review the documentation, you can see the students' abilities improving steadily week by week," Tyron explained evenly. "Student Yulio Harmatan in particular underwent an explosive surge starting from a specific week."
"I-is that so?"
"Yes. It appears Instructor Ziel's unorthodox curriculum yielded unexpectedly potent results. The drill where they strapped on sandbags and ran for endurance without drawing upon mana."
"......"
Elcanto was caught in a bind. To acknowledge the drill now would mean endorsing an absurdly primitive method, but feigning complete ignorance would expose the fact that he hadn't bothered to read the report at all.
'From a ridiculous class like that...?'
Every student admitted to the Sword School was already versed in basic mana breathing techniques. Naturally, every standard lecture presumed the constant use of mana. Channelling mana allowed a knight to unlock greater athletic output, which in turn accelerated the refinement of martial skill. That was foundational logic. How could running like a common laborer achieve this?
"In my assessment," Tyron continued, "Instructor Ziel chose to focus entirely on their innate physical stamina."
"Pardon?"
"Which is likely why he devised such an uncompromising drill in the first place. It really is quite astonishing."
Tyron's own perspective on Ziel had shifted considerably. Where there had once been wariness, pity, and occasional annoyance, there was now a distinct undercurrent of professional awe.
"......"
Elcanto stood frozen, a dreadful thought gnawing at his ego.
'Does this mean... my teaching methods were wrong?'
His hands trembled with suppressed agitation. Yet the outcome was written in plain black and white. Out of the forty students who had cleared the first trial, thirty-five belonged to Ziel's class. Only five were Elcanto's.
A vast majority of the students who had arrogantly assumed they would breeze through the opening round had been unceremoniously disqualified.
'Running with sandbags? Hmph. The next round will be a different story.'
Elcanto forced a faint, oily smirk back onto his face. The physical fitness examination was far from over. The reflex trial was up next.
During the brief recess, Ziel remained stationed at his post near the edge of the gymnasium, quietly observing the students. His official duty today was that of an exam proctor—monitoring for illicit conduct, catching cheats, and intervening in the event of an unexpected injury.
Beneath his impassive exterior, however, a faint warmth stirred in his chest.
'So this is what it feels like to be proud.'
The endurance of his students had grown immensely. During their very first session, nearly all of them—save for Deleve and Celia—had collapsed in ragged, wheezing heaps after barely a few laps. While lifting the restriction on mana had certainly unlocked their latent power, the foundation had been forged by forcing their unaugmented bodies to expand their natural limits.
To Ziel, the outcome had never been in doubt. It was a principle he had verified with his own flesh and blood during his days in the Organization.
An assassin could never afford to rely blindly on mana. High-ranking marks possessed sharp senses that could sniff out ambient mana signatures in an instant, meaning there were times an operative had to close the distance and strike with their core completely suppressed. It had been agonizing work. Movements that were effortless with mana suddenly felt like wading through wet concrete without it.
Yet once the body adapted, those movements became second nature. And when mana was finally layered back over that hardened foundation, the resulting explosive power was incomparable.
Ziel had simply passed down what survival had taught him. And that was not all he had shared.
"Ten minutes remaining in the recess!" Tyron's amplified voice cut through the air. "I will now announce the details for the second trial."
Ziel's expression remained steady. His lessons were about to be tested once more.
"The second trial will measure your combat reflexes."
A ripple of anxious whispers swept through the hall.
"Reflexes?"
"What kind of test is that supposed to be?"
Clack. Clank.
Before the murmurs could subside, the massive arcane apparatus that had previously anchored their legs with localized gravity began to shift. It was the pride of the Arcane School—the Multi-Purpose Environmental Device.
Thud.
"From this point onward," Tyron explained, gesturing across the polished floor, "students will advance in heats of eight, sprinting from the far end of the gymnasium to the finish line right here. Along the way, you must evade or deflect the various 'projectiles' launched by this mechanism."
Clack-clack!
With a series of metallic snaps, the two transformed pillars revealed dozens of narrow apertures riddling their forward faces. The students swallowed hard. Anyone could see what was coming—something was going to shoot out of those holes at high velocity.
"The closer you draw to the finish line, the fiercer the barrage will become," Tyron continued. "To prevent premature disqualifications, the initial volley will be relatively gentle. You must cross at least the halfway mark to earn your baseline score. From that point on, points will be deducted each time a projectile strikes your body."
In short: reach the halfway threshold to secure a passing grade, then fight to keep those points intact until the end.
"Any student who reaches the arrival point without suffering a single strike will receive a perfect score," Tyron warned frankly. "However, should you absorb too many hits, your score may very well drop to zero before you ever step across the line."
Even as he delivered the rules, Tyron winced inwardly. 'Why do they have to make this so brutal?' It certainly hadn't been this unforgiving when he was an underclassman. He understood the immense prestige riding on the upcoming Exchange Event, but the relentless march of magical engineering seemed to exist solely to torment Sword School trainees.
"Each participant must retrieve one wooden practice sword from the rack at the starting mark before commencing."
A standard practice sword. Its sole purpose was defense—parrying or batting away incoming fire.
"With that, please make the most of your remaining rest before stepping forward."
The moment Tyron concluded his briefing, collective groans echoed through the ranks.
"The first round was hellish enough, and now this...?"
"Wait, are those real arrows shooting out?"
"Do you really think they'd shoot real arrows at us? Ugh, I'm doomed. I didn't even crack the top forty in the first round."
Complaints, heavy sighs, and even muttered contemplations of outright forfeit spread like wildfire. It was an exact rerun of the atmosphere prior to the first test. Yet among the crowd, one group stood in stark, silent contrast.
'Instructor Ziel's students are completely composed,' Tyron noted, observing the divide.
He had a fairly good idea why. The self-defense class!
At first, Tyron had suspected Ziel was merely tormenting the freshmen under the guise of teaching personal protection. Lining up forty students in five ranks of eight, Ziel had moved like a ghost, launching relentless, unpredictable strikes from every conceivable blind spot. Tyron had never seen a single student successfully block him. He had wondered what pedagogical madness could possibly justify such a beating, but now...
'Did he somehow know the test parameters in advance?'
Nonsense. The event parameters had been finalized behind closed doors in the professors' council. Ziel's relentless focus on raw fundamentals had simply aligned with the trial by sheer coincidence.
Tyron leaned forward, genuinely curious. How far had those brutal self-defense drills honed their reflexes?
"Recess has concluded! I will call the first heat of eight. To ensure fairness regarding rest intervals, we will proceed in reverse order, starting with the lowest-scoring participants from the first trial."
Another wave of disheartened groans rippled through the ranks. Those who had flunked early in round one were now being fed straight into the grinder.
"Commence!"
Right on cue, the air split with a piercing whine.
Fwip!
"Gah!"
The instant the signal dropped, a condensed bolt of magical energy struck the lead student square in the shoulder. While not lethal, the kinetic force was substantial enough to stagger him.
Pat-pat-pat!
Scrambling forward in desperation, a few students managed to tumble past the halfway threshold to secure their baseline score. But that was where the true nightmare began.
Thwack! Bang!
"Aaargh!"
"Ack!"
"W-why are they so fast?!"
The magical bolts accelerated sharply, multiplying in volume until they formed a whistling hail. As the panicked runners flailed and absorbed strike after strike, the assistants' quills flew across their grading ledgers without pause. Moments later, the verdict dropped like an executioner's blade.
"Halt! All participants disqualified!"
The mechanism powered down with a low hum. The first group had failed to reach the arrival line entirely.
"Following point deductions, all eight have been eliminated. Calling the second heat."
The waiting students stared in sheer disbelief.
"Wait, they're out just like that?"
"How many times did they get hit?"
"Felt like at least ten strikes per person..."
Though the magical bolts were enchanted to dissipate their kinetic impact upon skin contact, the psychological shock was devastating.
"Is this... really just a reflex test?"
"It fits the definition... you're supposed to dodge or parry them somehow."
"All students who have completed their run, please clear the floor and assemble to the right!" Tyron commanded.
Watching their peers get wiped out in seconds, the remaining students began to chatter nervously.
"Doesn't going later give you a massive advantage?"
"What good does watching do? It's not like you can suddenly learn how to parry in five minutes."
"There has to be a pattern! A firing sequence!"
"I looked, and I couldn't see a single damn pattern."
Amid the rising panic, however, a few quiet thoughts circulated among a specific subset of students.
'They aren't impossible to deflect.'
'Huh. Honestly... they look a lot slower than Instructor Ziel's strikes.'
Not a single student who had endured Ziel's classes showed signs of distress. They had already spent weeks weathering ambushes from invisible angles and strikes delivered at terrifying speeds. While none of them had ever managed a successful counterattack against Ziel, deflecting an incoming blow was something they had practiced hundreds of times.
"Heat concluded. Next group, step forward."
The second heat performed slightly better. A couple of students managed to bat away a projectile or two, stumbling across the line by the skin of their teeth. The third heat improved further, and the fourth and fifth mirrored that modest competence.
Then came the sixth heat.
With five groups of eight having concluded, the students who had washed out of the first trial were finished. From this point forward, it was the turn of those who had passed.
'Yes, this is where things change,' Professor Elcanto told himself, watching with white-knuckled anticipation. 'The standings will shuffle right back to where they belong!'
Of the eight students taking their marks, three were Elcanto's pupils. The remaining five belonged to Ziel.
Among them was Karen. Tightening her grip on the hilt of her wooden sword, she drew a slow, measured breath.
'I can do this.'
Strangely enough, watching from the sidelines, the incoming bolts hadn't seemed all that fast. The earlier groups had been pummeled mercilessly, which proved the velocity was objectively high, and yet...
'Let's see.'
"Begin!"
Dash!
The moment the command dropped, a magical bolt streaked toward Karen's chest—
Crack!
With a clean, remarkably fluid flick of her wrist, she deflected it cleanly away.
'What?'
Elcanto's jaw dropped.
No, it was a fluke. A sheer stroke of dumb luck.
Yet that desperate rationalization evaporated an instant later. As the runners crossed the halfway marker, a dense storm of projectiles erupted from the pillars.
Clack! Crack! Whoosh!
They were parrying. They were slipping past the trajectories. And they were doing it with practiced, unhurried precision.
Meanwhile, the three students Elcanto had personally instructed panicked entirely under the barrage, freezing in their tracks before being battered into submission.
'A-again...?!'
The contrast was horrifyingly absolute. Elcanto whipped his head around toward the proctor's post.
Instructor Ziel. That upstart bastard who had appeared out of nowhere!
"Is he... smiling?!"
Elcanto gasped. It was unmistakable. Faint though it was, the corner of Ziel's mouth was undeniably curled upward!
Grind.
'That stone-faced freak actually knows how to smile?!'
Fortunately or unfortunately, Ziel's students did not deflect every single projectile. A few stray bolts slipped past their guards. But compared to Elcanto's students, the difference was night and day.
"Passed!"
"Aaargh!"
Far from passing, Elcanto's pupils hemorrhaged all their baseline points and sank into immediate disqualification. Conversely, Karen and the other four from Ziel's cohort preserved their qualifying scores and crossed the finish line intact.
'This... this can't be happening...'
It was a waking nightmare. Yet the true display of absurdity had been saved for the very end.
With only three of Elcanto's students having scraped through the entire round so far, Tyron called the final lineup.
"Commencing the final heat."
The group containing Deleve and Celia stepped up to the line.
"Whoa."
"Look at them—they're batting down everything!"
"Are you kidding me?!"
Moving with staggering kinetic vision and reflexes, Deleve and Celia charged down the lane like armored cavalry, their wooden blades carving through the barrage in a blur of motion.
"P-passed!" Tyron stammered into his speaking crystal.
Neither had permitted a single bolt to graze their clothes. They crossed the threshold side by side, entirely unscathed.
"Hey. I crossed first, Deleve."
"In your dreams. My chest clearly broke the plane before yours."
They had the sheer luxury to bicker about the finish. Meanwhile, the lone high-performing student Elcanto had pinned his hopes on managed to limp across the line, having absorbed three direct hits in the final stretch.
"That's insane. What kind of training did they go through?"
"Deleve and Celia are monsters anyway, but why is everyone else in that class so ridiculously good...?"
Amid the admiring murmurs of the gathered crowd, a stray, careless remark drifted over like a poisoned dagger, plunging straight into Elcanto's pride.
"Wait, their teacher is just an instructor, and ours is a full professor... so why are we getting crushed like this?"
Professor Elcanto clutched his chest, swaying on his feet as his vision swam with dizzying despair.