Proud of Myself
First-year students at the academy rarely had the chance to measure their skills directly against one another.
Barring prestige of lineage or rumors circulated before admission, they had little to go on but guesswork. The selection trial was, for all intents and purposes, the very first time they crossed blades in earnest.
During the entrance examination, applicants had been pitted against handpicked instructors in private sessions hidden from the public eye. And throughout their entire first semester, their schedules had been dominated by liberal arts and theory-heavy core lectures.
Unless one came from a household as renowned as Deleve Kundel, Celia Rihardt, or Maris Sophen, there was simply no way to gauge what anyone was truly capable of.
Of course, a single glance was often enough.
Pedigree.
Bloodline alone dictated the vast majority of outcomes.
Yet occasionally—
Every once in a great while—
"Good grief, he landed another hit."
"Student Yulio Harmatan... Isn't he one of the boys under Instructor Ziel?"
There came a student who shattered precedent entirely.
Much like Yulio was doing right now.
So this is what it feels like.
In the past, his stamina had never kept pace with his ambition. A mere handful of swings would leave him gasping for air. As his physical strength flagged, his concentration unraveled, and his body inevitably failed to execute the forms his mind envisioned.
Now, however, everything was different.
A corrected breathing technique.
Stamina that surged without sputtering out!
Swordsmanship that unfolded precisely as he pictured it, relentlessly driving his opponent into a corner!
The swift sword style of the Harmatan clan was finally coming into its own.
Just two forms used to drain every drop of strength I had.
A swell of emotion tightened in his chest.
Father... I think my path has finally opened.
Though his family had urged him to abandon the blade because of his frail constitution, Yulio had stubbornly refused to give up. That choice had not been in vain.
Clang!
"You little bastard!" Maris roared, lunging forward in a fit of rage.
Yulio slipped aside with effortless grace, parried the incoming blade, cracked his practice sword across Maris's shoulder, and followed through with a sharp kick to the shin.
"Guh!"
Clutching his leg, Maris tumbled violently across the floor.
The outcome was already decided, yet Maris scrambled back to his feet, screeching in fury. "Not yet! I haven't lost!"
His pride refused to brook it. He needed to land at least one blow on this insect—no, he wanted to beat the wretched boy half to death just to soothe his bruised ego.
How could someone like him... against me...?
Minor nobility. The kind of nameless trash Maris had spent his entire life looking down upon.
Yulio, Karen, Brent...
Scions of insignificance nobody had ever heard of, mere filler to pad the Sword School's freshman quota. The Sophen family was entirely different. Worlds apart!
Overwhelming wealth! Prestige on the cusp of rivaling the Five Great Families! And as the treasured heir carrying the full weight of that household's ambitions, it was Maris's divine right to grind common runts beneath his heel.
"Did you... Did you pull some kind of filthy trick?"
Faced with Maris's desperate denial, Yulio merely shook his head. "No. I just worked hard."
"Did Instructor Ziel feed you something behind my back?!"
A weakness? A habit? An analysis of his swordplay?
There's no other explanation!
Even if that were true, Maris still should have won. At the very least, a Sophen should never have fallen here.
Without offering another word, Yulio kicked off the ground and closed the distance.
"Ghk!"
That was the end of it.
Yulio dismantled Maris's guard in a single stroke, thrusting the blunt tip squarely into his chest and sending him sprawling.
Catching the subtle nod from the observing professors, the teaching assistant raised his hand. "Winner: Yulio Harmatan."
"No!" Maris scrambled up frantically, only to be blocked immediately by Tyron.
"Student Maris Sophen. If you refuse to accept the verdict here, it will reflect poorly on your conduct score."
"I lost anyway, so what does it—"
"Consider your family's name."
"..."
Maris's head slumped. As the burning fury receded, cold reality rushed in, and an unbearable wave of humiliation crashed over him.
This can't be happening...
Losing to Deleve or Celia would have been one thing. But to Yulio? The bottom of the barrel?
"Salute your opponent."
Going through the motions with sullen reluctance, Maris trudged back toward the sidelines. Not a single student spoke to him. Not a single soul even spared him a look. Every pair of eyes in the hall was glued to Yulio.
"Whoa, you actually pulled it off," Karen muttered in disbelief, slapping Yulio hard on the back the second he returned. "Nice work! You really do have talent with a sword, don't you? And here I thought you were just blowing smoke."
"I told you it was real..."
"Who in their right mind would have believed you?"
Yulio had casually mentioned in passing that people back home used to praise his swordsmanship. Karen had dismissed it every time, assuming that in a place like the Sword School, every noble brat grew up hearing empty flattery.
Turns out he wasn't lying.
Still, Karen felt justified. They had never crossed blades directly, so how could she have known?
"Seriously, that was incredible. Beating Maris Sophen of all people. Wow."
Maris was by no means weak. Some dismissed House Sophen as upstarts who merely plastered over everything with money, but accumulated wealth bought top-tier resources. On top of that, Maris possessed genuine talent. And Yulio had just cleanly dismantled him.
"Fascinating."
Sitting nearby among her circle of friends, Celia's eyes sparkled. I never paid him any mind, but he was hiding skill like that?
Meanwhile, Deleve watched in silence, his thoughts churning furiously.
Taking him down decisively won't be a simple task.
It was a pure martial instinct: sizing up his own strength against anyone who demonstrated true capability. Deleve's fingers twitched with the urge to test himself against Yulio right then and there, but he held back. His true rival lay elsewhere.
Across the room, the evaluating faculty exchanged quiet remarks as they finalized their marks.
"Well, I suppose these scores will suffice?"
"House Sophen will hardly be thrilled... but there's simply no ground to justify giving him the win."
"Had Student Maris put up a close fight, we might have given some weight to his pedigree, but..."
Even for professors accustomed to favoring highborn backgrounds, the defeat had been far too lopsided to doctor.
"It's difficult to award Student Maris any meaningful points."
"Do you think House Sophen will lodge a formal complaint?"
"Unlikely. Not at this stage."
Professor Elkanto's measured response carried heavy implications. No matter how deep House Sophen's pockets were or how lavishly they donated to the academy, they had not yet attained the standing required to overturn an open trial on sheer influence alone. The other faculty members nodded in solemn agreement.
"In that case, the evaluation for Student Yulio Harmatan stands as recorded."
The grades were tallied, and the teaching assistant promptly updated the tournament bracket.
"...This is absurd."
Maris sat slumped in a distant corner of the hall, entirely isolated from his peers, drowning in misery.
Though he had grumbled during the opening weeks of class, fear of Deleve had forced him to take the conditioning seriously. His stamina and reflexes had visibly improved, earning him high marks in the physical trials. He had assumed selection for the Exchange Event was a foregone conclusion.
What kind of trick did he use? Did Instructor Ziel secretly coach him?
Maris snapped his head up—and froze.
Ziel's impassive eyes were fixed directly on him.
"I-Instructor..." Maris squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. "I don't need your pity..."
The last thing he wanted was empty consolation. What he needed was to be left entirely alone.
Ziel watched him in silence for a beat before speaking. "Step outside for a moment."
"Pardon?"
"I told you to step outside, Student Maris Sophen."
"What...?"
"The door is behind you."
A few moments later, the latch clicked, and Ziel emerged from the adjoining storage room holding a small wooden box.
Maris blinked in embarrassment. He just went to fetch something... Dammit, how mortifying.
He flushed red at the thought that he had braced himself for comforting words that were never coming. But then—
"Apply this to your cheek." Ziel pulled a jar of medicinal salve from the box and held it out.
Maris accepted it dumbly.
"You took two solid thrusts to the chest. Refrain from heavy coughing or laughing loudly for the time being. It will aggravate the internal bruising."
"Uh..."
Ziel's flat, steady tone continued without pause. "Recovery from injury is paramount. Focus entirely on recuperating for now."
"I-Instructor..."
"The faster you heal, the faster you grow. Keep that in mind."
A sudden warmth swelled in Maris's chest, prickling behind his eyes. It was an emotion he had never once experienced since entering Edelbein Academy, and his throat tightened involuntarily.
He actually... cares about me?
He had detested Ziel. He had only endured the man's brutal drills out of terror toward Deleve, harboring bitter resentment the entire time. Yet in this very moment, Ziel appeared to him as the most compassionate teacher in the world.
"Instructor, th-thank—"
Before Maris could finish, Ziel added coldly, "And you will undoubtedly fail the selection. Aim for the Exchange Event again next year."
The ruthless strike of unvarnished truth instantly shattered the tender mood.
Damn bastards, the whole lot of them.
The selection trials spanned the entire day.
With two physical fitness trials and two separate sparring assessments, processing the entire freshman roster required exhaustive hours.
"Is this the thirtieth bout?"
"Ahem. Honestly, nothing has really caught the eye since the match between Student Yulio and Student Maris."
The professors' attention had begun to wander. The opening duel had delivered a startling upset, but everything following it had been utterly unremarkable.
"Haaah!"
"Guh!"
"I-I can't lose here!"
While the students clashed with desperate intensity on the floor, the evaluators were succumbing to sheer boredom.
"Only ten matches left. We should be wrapping up soon."
"Professor Elkanto, would you care to join us at Abuela for a drink once this is over? Ah, wait, weren't you on a diet?"
"Haha! On a day like this, one simply must raise a glass. Besides, when my esteemed seniors invite me, how could I possibly refuse?"
"That's our Elkanto! Hahaha!"
Amidst the jovial chatter, the thirty-first match was called.
"Student Deleve Kundel. Student Yon Riversong. Please prepare for your bout."
Finally, his turn had arrived.
Deleve rose to his feet without a word. Instantly, the atmosphere shifted as all eyes gravitated toward him. Even the gossiping professors leaned forward with renewed interest.
His advancement is already guaranteed, but one must still put on a show.
While the other entrants fought for survival, the notion of Deleve Kundel or Celia Rihardt failing was an utter impossibility. Victory was a foregone conclusion.
In stark contrast, the boy named Yon was visibly shaking from the very start, even though no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention.
"Poor guy. He had to draw Deleve?"
"House Riversong used to be quite something, though."
"Oh, come off it, they've fallen so far behind lately."
"Keep your voice down, will you?"
Though not counted among the Five Great Families, the Riversong lineage boasted considerable history and heritage. However, due to past scandals and dwindling fortunes, their standing had long since plummeted. And now, their heir stood opposite the most gifted prodigy of House Kundel.
"..."
A bead of cold sweat tracked down Yon's spine. He cast a furtive, trembling glance down at his own hand.
It will be fine.
He forced his shuddering fingers to hold still.
"Instructor, I will perform to the best of my ability."
Across the way, Deleve bowed with impeccable decorum toward Ziel. The sight prompted puzzled murmurs among the faculty.
"To think he shows such deference to Instructor Ziel..."
"Hmph. So Professor Elkanto's claims were true after all. Is House Kundel genuinely sponsoring him?"
"I suspect his backing originates from even higher up than that."
"Mmm. Professor Elkanto had best attend to him with great care."
"Naturally. I have already been seeing to it personally."
Unaware of the professors' wild conjectures, Deleve stood waiting with bated breath.
"Student Deleve Kundel."
"Yes, Instructor!"
Deleve's heart thumped with anticipation, wondering what profound insight Ziel was about to impart.
"Fasten your collar button properly."
"Ah."
Flushing, Deleve hastily fixed his uniform before marching into the center of the arena.
Kundel... What a monstrous house...
Opposite him, Yon swallowed hard. Deleve wore an expression of complete, stony detachment.
It was an unintended lesson absorbed from Ziel.
A blank face is the ultimate weapon.
Deleve had grown to revere Ziel, and the first habit he had actively sought to emulate was that chilling, unreadable expression. Looking into a deadpan countenance bred tension, making opponents doubt themselves and walk on eggshells without reason. It could also provoke them into reckless fury. After all, nothing stoked irritation quite like complete indifference.
"Begin the match."
Clang! Cl-clang!
Just as expected, Deleve overwhelmed Yon from the opening exchange.
"Mmm. This will be over shortly."
"House Riversong once commanded respect, but..."
"They have no momentum these days. I heard their debts are staggering. Rumor has it they had to carve off and sell a portion of their ancestral lands."
The professors settled back into their seats, confident that the match would conclude within seconds.
"Kh!"
Yon caught a glancing blow across his flank and staggered back.
He's faster and stronger than I ever imagined.
Deleve was already leagues ahead of his peers to begin with. With his stamina and reflexes further refined under Ziel's brutal regimen, he was an insurmountable wall for Yon, who had never even taken Ziel's classes.
Deleve merely stood in place, sword leveled, watching calmly for his opponent's next move. Internally, however, a very different sentiment reigned.
I'm so proud of myself. I've truly matured.
In the past, he would have sneered, taunted, or indulged in youthful arrogance by now.
Across from him, Yon shifted his grip, holding his sword with only one hand.
A secret technique?
Deleve tightened his stance slightly. Regardless of the gap in skill, secret techniques demanded caution. A single esoteric art had the power to overturn an engagement in a heartbeat.
Step!
Yon burst forward, thrusting the blade held in one hand while reaching out with his free hand directly toward Deleve's chest.
Even then, Deleve failed to notice anything amiss. He sensed no lethal intent, assuming the outstretched bare hand was merely an opening to exploit, and drove his sword forward to meet the charge.
Right at that moment—
Snap!
Yon's reaching hand froze in midair.
Deleve's driving blade stopped dead, halted by an iron grip.
"Wh-what...?"
"Instructor Ziel?! What is the meaning of—"
The teaching assistants, the professors, the spectating students, and even the two combatants themselves were struck dumb with shock.
Only one person remained entirely unfazed.
"This match is terminated."
Standing between them, having effortlessly locked down both of their hands at once, was Ziel.
Wh-when did he—?!
Deleve was utterly horrified. Even granting that he had been hyper-focused on the fight, Ziel's appearance had felt less like an approach and more like he had materialized out of thin air right in front of his face.
The spectators felt the same. One moment the arena had been clear; a single blink later, Ziel was standing dead center.
"Ugh!"
Ziel yanked Yon's left arm upward. With his other hand, he peeled back the boy's sleeve, exposing a peculiar cord wrapped tightly around the wrist.
Protruding from the band was a slender, concealed needle mechanism.
"A delayed paralytic venom."
The entire hall fell dead silent.