Why Is He So Good?
Pure, unadulterated denial.
Professor Elcanto stared at the physical fitness score sheet, his plump hands trembling violently. Beside him, his teaching assistant didn't dare breathe a word, keeping his head low and waiting in tense silence.
How much of a tantrum is he going to throw once we get back to the office? the assistant wondered glumly. Without question, a few display cabinets would shatter from a Battle Roar, and this time, the office windows might blow out along with them. If glass was going to break anyway, the assistant silently prayed that the professor's secret stash of luxury snacks would smash open too.
"……."
Professor Elcanto remained utterly speechless.
This is impossible. How am I supposed to live down this humiliation?!
That wretched contract instructor. How on earth had he engineered such an absurd difference in less than two months? Elcanto hadn't guarded against him; he hadn't even spared the man a single passing thought. A rivalry? He hadn't envisioned one in his wildest nightmares!
It was merely an elective, after all. A throwaway general education course that neither the faculty nor the students cared about, kept on the roster solely because academy bylaws mandated its existence. Never in the history of the Sword School had an elective lecturer—or even a tenured professor—given a damn about fostering a student's personal growth in such a class. At best, they recited dry combat theory off a chalkboard and told the students to focus on their major courses instead.
Just what kind of monster is that guy…?
For a fleeting second, a faint sliver of genuine respect reared its head within Elcanto's chest. Startled, he hurriedly crushed it beneath a mountain of indignation. But what choice did he have? Leaving aside prodigies of high birth like Deleb and Celia, taking a bottom-tier weakling like Yulio Harmatan and turning him into an endurance machine was nothing short of witchcraft.
No. It isn't over yet.
Professor Elcanto gritted his teeth, his jowls quivering. The selection trial weighed physical fitness at thirty percent and swordsmanship at seventy. Under normal circumstances, cadets skilled with a blade possessed solid physical specs anyway, rendering the point split largely irrelevant. But in a bizarre scenario like this, the math changed everything.
Swordsmanship will belong entirely to my students.
At some point, Elcanto had begun thinking of the remaining freshmen as 'his students.' In truth, all he had conducted throughout the term were unsupervised self-study sessions and private tutoring for a handful of scions from wealthy houses. The rest had been left entirely to their own devices. Yet nobody in the Sword School had ever considered that improper.
"When does the swordsmanship evaluation begin?" Elcanto demanded, his voice tight.
"Since an hour's recess was declared, we have twenty minutes remaining, Professor."
"Ensure everything is prepared flawlessly. Do you understand me?"
"Understood, sir."
Tyron bowed swiftly and excused himself. As he stepped away, his gaze naturally drifted across the hall toward Ziel.
The instructor still stood in that rigid, immaculately straight posture, quietly observing his resting students. Within Tyron's chest, a profound curiosity blossomed, accompanied by a quiet, sneaking sense of reverent awe.
Could he truly be a retired drill instructor from the Imperial Knights?
Tyron had pondered Ziel's true background before. The ruthless, uncompromising training regimen. The total, unflinching disregard for noble pedigree. And though Tyron was the only one privy to it, there was also Deleb's absurdly polite deference toward him, not to mention Celia Rihart trailing in his wake like an eager apprentice.
It has to be. He has imperial backing.
Tyron paused mid-stride, a sudden realization chilling his spine. In that case… should I be trying to get on Instructor Ziel's good side rather than Professor Elcanto's?
The academy faculty was a cutthroat ecosystem, and Tyron knew that when the dust settled, choosing the right line was the only thing that would save his neck.
Naturally, the ones most thrilled by the unexpected results were Ziel's students.
"We've actually improved," one of them whispered in disbelief, flexing sore fingers. "I had no idea we'd progressed this much."
"I know! The other kids were dropping so fast I thought they were throwing the test on purpose."
"Are we really that good now?"
"Hey, it's only the kids who took Instructor Ziel's class who aced it! Man, I spent weeks agonizing over whether I should even show up for the trials."
Nearby, two students sat side by side, having momentarily forgotten the soul-crushing despair of their entrance exam scores.
"Karen," Yulio stammered, staring at his trembling palms. "Did we… did we really pass the physical fitness test?"
"I told you three times already, we did!" Karen replied, a broad grin splitting her fierce expression. "How on earth did we pull that off?"
Yulio had barely scraped into the academy on the lowest possible passing grade, and Karen's scores hadn't been much higher. Seeing their dramatic physical transformation laid out on an official record sheet brought an intoxicating wave of joy.
"Honestly, I didn't believe it'd work either," Karen admitted with a soft chuckle.
"I mean, all we did every single day was dodge attacks until we collapsed and run until our lungs caught fire… Did that really do all this?"
The agonizing self-defense drills and the endless laps with sandbags. They had felt like meaningless torture at the time, but now every lingering doubt had vanished completely. Yet the real hurdle was only just beginning.
"We will now commence the swordsmanship evaluations," a proctor announced through an amplified voice.
While physical endurance accounted for thirty points, the true climax of the trials lay in the remaining seventy points dedicated to swordsmanship. The first segment was the sword dance.
"Each cadet will demonstrate their sword forms for thirty seconds. Scoring will be conducted on the spot by the presiding faculty."
Before anyone had realized it, two other senior professors had joined Professor Elcanto on the raised dais, watching the arena with severe, solemn expressions.
Swordsmanship—an arena where noble pedigree mattered just as much as internal breathing techniques.
This is where our comeback begins! Professor Elcanto thought viciously.
Just as he had anticipated, Ziel's students did not receive favorable marks in the sword dance. Quantitative scoring was impossible for solo katas, and identical sword motions inevitably appeared vastly superior when executed beneath the halo of an illustrious family crest. While such blatant bias cast serious doubt on the fairness of the trial, no one dared question it. What mattered was that the professors held the judging pens.
"Hmm."
"Oho."
"Splendid form."
As subtly orchestrated, scions of high noble houses and prominent martial clans received generous praise and inflated scores.
"Far too simplistic."
"It appears entirely detached from practical combat, wouldn't you say?"
Conversely, the forms displayed by cadets from impoverished or minor border families, such as Karen and Yulio, were docked points without mercy. Even so, none of the students could protest. Such was the iron law of the Sword School.
"This concludes the sword dance evaluation."
Professor Elcanto smiled with deep satisfaction as he reviewed the updated score sheet his assistant delivered. "Very good. Very good indeed."
Though Ziel's students hadn't plummeted to the absolute bottom, the rankings, which had previously tilted entirely in Ziel's favor, had now leveled out into a neat, even spread.
Now, only one trial remains.
The grand finale: one-on-one sparring. What use was raw physical stamina if a fighter lacked the martial art to back it up? They would never survive a duel against refined sword techniques. Reflexes? Even if their reaction times had sharpened, the gulf in lineage-honed swordsmanship was an unbridgeable chasm. At least, that was how Professor Elcanto saw it.
On the opposite side of the hall, Tyron approached the edge of the training mat. "Um, Instructor Ziel. Swordsmanship is next."
"Indeed," Ziel replied in an unhurried, level voice. "The final event."
"When it comes to pure swordsmanship… frankly speaking, I fear this round may prove difficult."
Ziel met the assistant's worried gaze with deadpan calm. "If by difficult you mean it will be difficult for my students to win, I disagree."
"Pardon?"
"They will win."
"Come now, Instructor. Surely you know that—"
Swordsmanship and breathing techniques were the sole reasons why being born into a prestigious family mattered. They were an immutable truth of the empire. Did he really think building up some stamina and dodging a few wooden clubs could overturn centuries of inherited martial arts?
Tyron added with great caution, "What you taught them will certainly provide some assistance, but… even so, an outright victory seems improbable."
"No. They will win," Ziel stated plainly. "They have gained confidence."
"Confidence, sir?"
"Yes. Having confirmed their capabilities during the fitness trial, that confidence will carry over into their duels. The pedagogical texts state that the presence or absence of self-confidence produces a tremendous variance in student performance."
Why is he quoting textbooks all of a sudden? Tyron thought, bewildered.
"Furthermore," Ziel added, "their physical conditioning and sharpened reflexes will prove to be of immense practical value."
"If you say so, sir…"
Tyron merely shrugged, helpless to argue further. It was a strange sensation, but Ziel struck him as a man who simply could not be persuaded by conventional wisdom. Whether that stemmed from an unshakeable confidence in his craft or sheer stubbornness, Tyron could not yet tell.
Before long, the hour had passed, and the proctors called the arena to order.
"Sparring opponents have been matched based on cumulative rankings to pair cadets of comparable standing. Even in the event of a defeat, combat performance points will be factored in alongside all previous scores to ensure the utmost fairness."
A soft murmur rippled through the hall, but the students generally nodded in approval. It was far preferable to a randomized lottery, which might have seen a lower-ranked student pulverized before they could even draw their steel.
"Each duel will last for five minutes. Victory conditions are an opponent's surrender, loss of consciousness, or an inability to continue due to incapacitation. Any foul play will result in an immediate disqualification. Please conduct yourselves with honor."
Once the ground rules were read, the chief proctor unrolled the first pairing.
"Cadet Maris Sophen."
The opening match featured a scion of considerable prestige right out of the gate. Though he had previously been humiliated by Ziel, the newly wealthy Sophen family had been rising aggressively in influence, and Maris had enjoyed the clan's boundless financial backing.
Please, just not Deleb or Celia, Maris prayed desperately, clasping his sweaty hands together. Anyone but those two monsters. Please.
The proctor called out the opponent's name.
"Cadet Yulio Harmatan."
Yes!
Maris cheered wildly in his mind, his triumphant smirk so overt it was impossible to miss.
From the sidelines, Karen glared at Maris with unvarnished contempt before giving Yulio's shoulder a firm squeeze. "Go take him apart, Yulio."
Yulio stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. I can do this.
House Sophen was an undeniable powerhouse, situated just beneath the Five Great Families. House Harmatan, by contrast, was a ruined name from the northern borderlands that most imperial citizens had never even heard of. Yulio had traveled to the capital with a single purpose: to restore his family's fallen honor and repay his parents' sacrifices.
Yet now, a new purpose burned alongside it.
I want to grow. I know I can.
All of it was because of Instructor Ziel.
As he stepped onto the stone floor, Yulio's eyes briefly met Ziel's calm gaze. Memories of their private encounter rushed through his mind.
Fear.
Astonishingly, Instructor Ziel had adjusted his breathing technique. It was a miracle that defied the laws of martial tradition—a secret known only to Karen, which Yulio intended to take to his grave. Because of that intervention, the constant, suffocating terror that had plagued his heart had finally receded. The shame of being a bottom-tier admit and the helplessness of hailing from an impoverished house were no longer chains dragging him down.
Right. Let's do this.
Just as he took his next step, Ziel moved beside him and spoke in a quiet, steady tone.
"Perform as you have practiced."
"Y-Yes, sir! Understood!" Yulio stammered, his posture stiffening.
"Lineage and background are of no consequence."
Yulio's eyes widened. "…!"
Ziel then turned to Maris, who was strutting toward the ring, and offered the exact same instruction. "Lineage and background are of no consequence, Cadet Maris Sophen."
They were the exact same words, yet they struck the two boys in entirely different ways—and elicited entirely different responses.
"…I beg to differ, Instructor," Maris sneered, letting his petulant defiance show once more.
Ziel simply gave a brief nod. "Very well."
Failing to provoke any reaction from the instructor, Maris turned away, grinding his teeth. Lineage doesn't matter? What a pathetic joke.
He would never accept such drivel. Nothing in this world mattered more than blood and status! Family prestige! Family gold! Family backing! It was solely because of those assets that the great houses ruled the realm, and it was solely because of those assets that he stood above common trash.
I'll show you what a difference pedigree makes.
Maris still burned with bitter resentment toward Ziel. If given the chance, he wanted nothing more than to win this match so overwhelmingly that it shattered that contract instructor's smug composure—knocking that annoyingly handsome nose right off his face.
"Both cadets, please advance to the center of the hall."
The two boys stepped onto the chalk circle. Maris's lips curled into a patronizing smirk. "Save your breath and yield, will you? You already know how this ends."
Yulio didn't bother answering. Instead, he gave his blunted practice sword a single, crisp slash through the empty air.
Maris scoffed. "Fine. Wriggling like a worm before you're crushed isn't the worst way to go."
Unlike Yulio, Maris hadn't matured a single inch. His quiet obedience over the past month had been born entirely of fear toward Deleb Kundel, not Ziel. Olton Sophen, his father and the patriarch of their clan, had given him strict orders: build the deepest possible ties with the heirs of the Five Great Families. That camaraderie would be the cornerstone upon which House Sophen would ascend as the 'Sixth Great Family' of the empire.
I'll finish this in five seconds.
Without sparing Yulio another glance, Maris scanned the spectator benches, hoping to catch someone important watching. By pure chance, his eyes met Celia's. Flashing her his most debonair smile, he puffed out his chest—only for Celia to immediately look away.
Is she being bashful? he thought, his chest swelling with pride.
She was not.
"Why'd you call me, Mila?" Celia asked, leaning back on the bench.
"Who do you think's going to win?"
Celia had simply turned around because her friend had tugged on her sleeve; the timing had been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. In fact, the reality was far more brutal.
"I hope Maris gets beaten into the dirt," Celia muttered, scowling.
"Why? Because he keeps hovering around you?"
"He's utterly revolting. He constantly pesters me to eat lunch with him, and just the other day, he slipped a love letter into my locker. And then he had the nerve to tell me 'not to feel pressured' about it!"
"Ugh, what a creep."
"Exactly."
Tragically oblivious to the conversation, Maris continued to preen in the center of the ring.
"Still," Mila noted, "it doesn't seem likely that Maris will lose, right, Celia?"
"I just said I *wish* he would."
Even Celia didn't seriously entertain the thought of Maris losing. She detested the boy as a person, but House Sophen's name was far more renowned than the backwater Harmatans. Though from the lofty heights of House Rihart, Sophen and Harmatan were both equally insignificant minor nobles.
"Begin the match!" the referee barked, slashing his hand downward.
"Hey, Yulio. Take the first strike," Maris offered, spreading his arms wide with an exaggerated show of magnanimity. "That way, it'll at least look somewhat balanced, right?"
Yulio stared at him for a quiet second before replying, "In a duel, both combatants are expected to give their absolute best."
"That applies when opponents are on the same level! Me holding back *is* doing my best to keep things fair. Otherwise, where's the fun for the audience?"
Rather than arguing, Yulio adjusted his grip on the leather hilt, lowering his center of gravity. "Fine. Don't regret it."
"Regret? What is there to reg—"
Crack!
With an explosive burst from his back foot, Yulio tore across the flagstones.
What?!
Maris's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The closing speed was terrifying.
And—
Sssshk!
The arc of the blade was sharper than anything he had anticipated.
Drip.
A warm line of fluid trickled down Maris's left cheek.
It was—
"You son of a…!"
Blood.
Trembling with shock, Maris touched the stinging cut on his face. Practice swords lacked a sharpened edge, but delivered with sufficient velocity and structural force, the tip could easily split flesh.
The entire gymnasium fell into a stunned silence. Even the professors on the dais sat up straight.
"Did Cadet Maris just permit a clean hit?"
"Remarkable speed."
Suddenly, one of the examiners let out a low gasp of recognition. "Wait… isn't that the bottom-tier cadet? The one who scraped in dead last during admissions?"
"Pardon?"
"You two weren't assigned to the final practical entrance exam, were you?"
Professor Elcanto and the other senior faculty leaned in intently.
"That boy's physical stamina was practically nonexistent back then. Looking at him today, his endurance seems to have skyrocketed… but during entrance testing, he was on the verge of being dropped outright, only to turn the entire board upside down at the very last moment."
"Turn it upside down?"
"Yes. During the practical sword trial. His technical swordsmanship was of an astonishingly high caliber."
Harmatan—a lineage once revered as a peerless martial clan. Over two centuries of decline, its former glory had withered into obscurity, and its signature martial arts had been fractured and lost. Yet Yulio was an anomaly: a prodigy who had pieced together and comprehended that forgotten swordsmanship entirely on his own.
To enter the empire's premier academy despite possessing a congenitally frail body…
Does that mean there was a legitimate reason after all?
While Professor Elcanto's mind reeled in turmoil, an even more astounding sight unfolded within the chalk boundary.
Clack! Cl-clack!
Driven completely onto the back foot, Maris allowed another strike to crash through his guard.
"So that is the Harmatan Swift Sword Style," the examiner murmured, transfixed.
It was a relentless, high-velocity school of fencing where opponents were overwhelmed in a blur of thrusts before they could even comprehend the trajectory of the steel. Naturally, sustaining such high-frequency strikes required immense physical stamina—a fatal weakness that Yulio no longer had to fear.
Thwack!
"Guh!"
This time, the blunt wooden tip struck squarely against Maris's sternum. In a lethal battlefield engagement, that single thrust would have pierced through his lung.
A wave of frantic whispers swept through the student spectators.
"Wait, what's happening?"
"Is Yulio actually winning? How?!"
"H-He's so fast! I can barely track the blade!"
From her bench, Celia stared at the arena with wide, bewildered eyes, murmuring in disbelief:
"What the… why is he so good?"
Against all expectations, she found herself completely unable to look away.