A Bet on the First-Years

Moments before the duel began, the students were given a brief window to coordinate their strategy.

"Anne. I'll take Celia, so you handle Yulio."

"You want us to each take one?"

"It's the most straightforward approach," Deleve said firmly. "All that matters is winning the match. It makes sense to pair off according to skill level."

Anne felt a prick of irritation at his offhand dismissal.

Hey, I'm right behind you two, you know!

As the eldest daughter of the Peshua family, Anne was considered one of the top talents among the freshmen. She had earned her spot on the Exchange Event roster fair and square, placing fifth overall in the selection tournament. What Deleve said wasn't technically wrong, which only made it sting more.

"And just what is my skill level, exactly?"

"Not high enough to go toe-to-toe with Celia."

"Ha. Well... fair point, but still..."

"We came here to win, right? Then stop complaining and just do it."

"..."

Watching from the sidelines, Xiel thought otherwise.

Splitting into individual duels will settle nothing.

The entire point of a team duel was singular: to foster cooperation. If they were simply going to fight one-on-one, there would have been no reason to conduct the exercise in pairs at all.

Across the arena, a starkly different conversation was underway.

"Celia, I have an idea... do you mind hearing me out?"

"Go right ahead."

"Right. Um... what if the two of us joined forces and took down Anne first?"

"Anne? Not Deleve?" Celia asked, arching an eyebrow. "I assumed we'd each take one."

"That works too, but Anne is exceptionally quick on her feet," Yulio explained earnestly. "If she flanks us while you're busy dealing with Deleve, she'll be nearly impossible to ignore."

"Eliminate the faster target first?"

"Exactly."

"Good. Let's do that," Celia agreed without hesitation. "And what about Deleve?"

"Ah, once Anne is down, I'll charge in first to draw his attention..."

The atmosphere on their side could not have been more different. Seeing how readily Celia accepted his suggestion, Yulio looked momentarily startled, but he quickly gripped his wooden training sword and assumed his stance.

"Begin the match," Xiel called out.

The difference in each team's planning made itself apparent the second the spar commenced.

"Wait, what?"

Deleve had braced himself for Celia's charge, but to his utter bewilderment, both Celia and Yulio suddenly sprinted straight toward Anne.

"Ugh!"

Anne collapsed in an instant.

First came the blinding thrusts of Celia's Rihardt Fast Swordsmanship, closely followed by Yulio sweeping behind her to shatter her center of gravity. Anne was remarkably capable in her own right, but she had no way to withstand a synchronized ambush from two top-tier fighters at once.

"Anne went down already...?"

"What was that footwork from Yulio just now?!"

"I couldn't even see Celia's sword..."

In the span of a single breath, Deleve found himself completely isolated.

"Not bad," Celia said with a smirk, throwing a glance at Yulio.

Yulio managed an awkward, sheepish smile in return. That tiny exchange set Deleve's blood boiling.

It's just the two of them. I can take them both!

Yet even that reaction had been anticipated.

"Deleve gets hot-headed easily," Yulio had warned her earlier.

The moment he saw Anne fall, Deleve was bound to rush them in a fury. And of the two opponents before him, there was no question whom he would target first.

Take down the weak link!

Unfortunately for Deleve, his premise was entirely flawed.

Clang!

The instant their blades collided, Deleve sensed something profoundly wrong.

He's... holding his ground?

A corrected breathing technique. A cured congenital ailment. Two full days of dedicated rest and recovery. This was the raw, untamed talent that had allowed Yulio to gain admission into the prestigious Edelbein Academy purely on swordsmanship alone, despite an impossibly frail constitution!

Now—counter!

That talent was now being unleashed directly against Deleve.

He's fast!

Clang!

Deleve desperately deflected Yulio's blade. Had he not ramped his focus to its absolute peak in a split second, that razor-sharp strike would have broken clean through his guard.

To make matters worse, Celia was circling him like a hawk, looking for an opening and grating on his nerves far more than necessary. She made a show of lightly tapping Yulio's shoulder, flashing provocative smiles in Deleve's direction.

Damn it, that smirking face of hers...!

Deleve swung with furious momentum.

Clang!

Yulio's sword met the blow at an angle, letting Deleve's immense force slide smoothly past the edge. It was not a missed parry—Yulio had deliberately redirected the kinetic weight, throwing Deleve off balance.

Thud!

Stepping forward, Yulio drove the heel of his open palm squarely into Deleve's sternum.

"Ghk!"

The air rushed from Deleve's lungs. Had he just allowed a clean hit?

"Yulio is on fire!"

"He's actually pushing Deleve back!"

Cheers erupted among the spectators, and with them, Deleve's temper flared out of control.

"You little...!"

Stumbling back a few paces, Deleve unleashed a ferocious counteroffensive. Yulio managed to deflect it by a hair, but cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck.

Incredible speed.

It was Deleve, after all. Had his illness not been cured, Yulio knew he never could have deflected that blow; his breathing would have failed, his focus shattering under the strain.

Clang! Cl-clang!

The Kundel Heavy Sword Style carried tremendous destructive mass behind every swing.

"Kh..."

Worse, it was not merely heavy—it was lethally precise. This was the Seventh Form of the Kundel style, newly polished after the insights Deleve had gained under Xiel's instruction. If things continued like this, Yulio's defeat was only a matter of time.

He's ridiculously strong...

Just as the momentum began to swing back into Deleve's favor—

"Yulio, drop left!"

Yulio rolled aside without a moment's hesitation, and with impeccable timing, Celia stepped into the vacuum, unleashing the Rihardt Fast Swordsmanship.

Thwack! Crack-thwack!

Deleve didn't even have time to raise a guard. Carrying the full momentum of her sprint, three consecutive lightning-fast thrusts struck Deleve across the torso in rapid succession.

It was over in the blink of an eye.

Thud.

Deleve's knees buckled, and he dropped to the stone floor.

"Damn it all..."

The match was finished.

"Victory goes to the team of Celia Rihardt and Yulio Harmatan," Xiel announced.

The observing students erupted in noisy cheers.

"Unbelievable!"

"That was insane! Did you see their coordination?!"

"Yulio's movements were completely different from before! What happened to him?!"

Leaving the clamor behind, Xiel stepped toward the victorious pair.

"Your coordination was commendable. In particular, the timing of Student Yulio Harmatan disengaging and Student Celia Rihardt stepping in was precise. Collapsing on Student Anne Peshua right at the start was also an effective strategy."

His tone remained flat and emotionless, yet everyone present could tell it was genuine praise. Flushed with the thrill of victory and the satisfaction of being commended, Celia gave a slight nod, the tips of her ears turning pink.

"It's all thanks to your excellent guidance, Instructor."

"I know."

"..."

Seriously, what is wrong with this man?

"Student Yulio Harmatan, how is your stamina?"

"I feel wonderful, Instructor! I'm hardly out of breath at all. It really is all thanks to you."

"I know."

What is his deal?! Celia screamed internally.

"Even so, Student Yulio Harmatan," Xiel added, "it is also due to your own diligent efforts."

Wait, why does he credit Yulio's hard work, but when I say it...?!

"Both students performed well."

With the praise concluded, it was time for critique. Naturally, directed at the opposing pair.

"Student Deleve Kundel."

"...Yes, Instructor. I had many shortcomings."

"I know."

"..."

"Your greatest failing was a lack of cooperation. Had you not acted independently and instead coordinated with Student Anne Peshua to double-team a single target, the outcome would have been far better."

"Yes, sir."

"At the very least, you would not have lost so decisively."

Xiel then turned his amber gaze toward Anne.

"Student Anne Peshua."

"Yes, Instructor..."

"During the strategy discussion earlier, you allowed yourself to be intimidated by Student Deleve Kundel's authority and failed to voice any objections."

"Well, that was..."

"In my classroom, there is no lineage, nor is there prestige. What matters most in this lesson is cooperation. It is said that cooperation does not stem from authority; it stems from communication."

Xiel was once again quoting directly from the pedagogy manuals he had studied so diligently. Today, however, the lesson seemed to resonate with unusual weight.

"Communication..." Anne murmured.

"Resolve your issues through active dialogue. Had you cooperated, you two were more than capable of winning."

Neither student could utter a word of rebuttal. At the beginning of the semester, the old Deleve or Anne might have scoffed, demanding to know what a mere elective instructor could possibly teach them. But now, neither of them dared challenge his words.

Because that very concept of authority Xiel had spoken of—an absolute, undeniable presence—was currently radiating from Xiel himself.

Cooperation...

Deleve nodded slowly, having taken the lesson to heart. Anne let out a quiet sigh, acknowledging the bitter truth of their defeat.

"Let's try it again, Deleve," Anne said, awkwardly extending a hand.

Deleve clasped it firmly.

"Next time, we're winning."

Every student in the hall had heard Xiel's critique loud and clear. Naturally, none of the remaining pairs wanted to repeat Deleve and Anne's mistake.

"Should we plan our tactics now?"

"Looking at the bracket, our next opponent is Quantus, so we have to approach this intelligently. The guy's brain is ninety percent muscle."

"Hey! I can hear you, you know!" Quantus yelled.

"Whoa, he heard that?"

Scratch, scratch.

Standing to the side, Xiel calmly noted down the results of the match in his official logbook.

"'Confident,' is he?"

Professor Verhal set down Xiel's report and leaned back in his leather chair, lost ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in thought. Ordinarily, an evaluation written by a temporary elective lecturer would never find its way to the desk of the Department Head.

"It has been a long time since I read a report like this."

Most academic reports were written defensively. Nobody spoke in absolutes; everyone couched their assessments in vague probabilities. At best, they might write that an outcome was likely. And why? Because none of them wanted to shoulder the responsibility if things went wrong.

Yet the vocabulary throughout Xiel's report was saturated with unshakeable certainty.

Who in their right mind writes a report like this? Verhal mused with an amused shake of his head. What does he plan to do if things go sideways? It's not as though he can see the future.

"Hmm."

Still, it was undeniably impressive. Extremely so. Had any full professor in the department ever submitted a document of this caliber? Not a single one. None of them had ever bothered to compile individual metric assessments for every single student preparing for the tournament.

Long before one considered the sheer audacity of his confidence, the report radiated sheer sincerity and tireless effort.

"...Why on earth did he write all of this down?" Verhal chuckled aloud, rubbing his chin. Well, thoroughness was hardly a crime.

"Why in the world are they scaling walls...?"

Some of the entries were utterly baffling. And the final item on the syllabus caught his eye in particular.

Poison detoxification, trap neutralization, and emergency contingencies?

While certainly useful skills in a real expedition, did first-years really need to prioritize such things when their primary objective was merely escorting a single member across the finish line?

I have no idea what he's scheming.

Poisons and concealed snares weren't the sort of hazards one could easily train for on short notice. Even senior ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠students largely relied on luck or accumulated field experience to navigate Black Peak's perils. Did Xiel intend to hire some specialized underworld poisoner or trap master to drill them?

"Well, I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

Looking through the documentation, Verhal was reminded of why he had been so thoroughly impressed by Xiel's training curriculum earlier in the term. Meticulous. Methodical. Painstakingly detailed. And the neat, elegant calligraphy was an unexpected bonus.

It was the kind of work one expected from a dedicated scholar or an obsessive research mage, not an itinerant swordsman.

I cannot fathom why a man with such talents chose to become a humble elective instructor.

In any case, the first-years' tournament preparations appeared to be proceeding exceptionally well.

Could this truly be the year the natural order is shattered?

The freshmen always placed dead last. Barring the exceptional fourth-year class, the probability of an underclass defeating their seniors was practically zero percent. That was an ironclad axiom of the annual Exchange Event.

Yet for reasons he couldn't quite explain, Verhal found himself genuinely looking forward to this crop of freshmen—far more than the second-years currently supervised by Professor Elcanto.

"I only hope he doesn't end up making a fool of himself."

Xiel was an anomaly among the academy faculty. Friction was inevitable. If the first-years managed to post significant results in the tournament, the rest of the faculty would immediately begin closing ranks against him.

It will be fascinating to see how he handles it.

Academic politics was dirtier and pettier than most outsiders could fathom. For now, Elcanto was clumsily deflecting attention while the senior professors dismissed Xiel due to his lowly 'elective lecturer' title. But the moment an outsider threatened their tenure?

"That will be quite the spectacle."

Verhal paused, tapping his desk. Steelheart, was it? Where have I heard that name before?

He was certain he had come across it somewhere in the past, yet the memory refused to surface. It hovered tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue, an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite scratch.

Knock, knock.

"Come in."

The door swung open, revealing Robert, one of only two administrative teaching assistants serving the entire Sword School alongside Tyron.

"You look exhausted, Robert."

"I'm holding up, sir. Exchange Event preparations are always like this."

Setting foot in the office, Robert unceremoniously deposited a mountainous stack of parchment onto the desk.

"These are the tournament status reports for the second through fifth years, along with the backlog of administrative documents requiring your review."

"...And all of these need my signature before the day is out?"

"Yes, Department Head."

Verhal let out a deep, weary sigh. Why on earth did I agree to take this job?

How many thousands of documents was an administrator expected to sign? Though he held the rank of Department Head, it was his first term in the role, and every bureaucratic hurdle felt like uncharted territory.

"I took the liberty of glancing through them beforehand," Robert added helpfully. "At least where the tournament preparations are concerned, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual recitations of previous years' routines. Even if you combined all four cohorts, their total paperwork is thinner than the report submitted by Instructor Xiel Steelheart."

A wry chuckle slipped past Verhal's lips.

Were the full professors simply that incompetent, or was a single contract lecturer performing so far above expectations that it warped the curve?

Perhaps a bit of both.

Among the pile, however, Robert slipped forward a separate, distinctive sheet.

"And Department Head... I brought this along thinking it might pique your interest."

"What is it?"

"See for yourself, sir."

Rustle.

Verhal picked up the paper, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"Good grief... our Valdrain countrymen are the exact same everywhere you go."

"Indeed, sir."

The Valdrain Empire was historically renowned for its bustling merchant guilds and hyper-developed commerce. It was why a nouveau-riche parasite like Obious could strut around enjoying privileges that rivaled high nobility. The people of this empire simply loved their gold.

"So this is... the official betting odds sheet for the Exchange Event?"

"Yes, Department Head."

It was a comprehensive bookmaker's tally for the tournament, complete with projected odds for both the preliminary Breakthrough Match and the main Melee Match. Verhal hadn't expected someone to run a gambling ring right beneath the academy's nose.

"Wagers will be accepted until the day before the opening ceremonies," Robert noted.

Under normal circumstances, Verhal wouldn't have spared it a second glance. But today...

"Perhaps testing my eye for talent wouldn't be the worst pastime."

Slide.

Opening his desk drawer, Verhal retrieved a leather folio from the small safe nestled inside, drew out a crisp slip of paper, and handed it across the desk to Robert.

"My signature is already endorsed on the back. Withdraw the funds directly from the Academy branch of the Imperial Bank and place the wager."

It was an official imperial bank draft.

In the capital, such drafts served a simple function: when carrying mountains of heavy coins was impractical, high-denomination paper drafts took their place.

I suppose he'll put down around a hundred thousand cel? Robert mused.

Even a hundred thousand cel was an astronomical sum to an impoverished teaching assistant. A Sword School assistant's monthly stipend hovered around fifteen hundred cel—and in truth, the academy didn't even pay assistants directly. Their meager living allowance was skimmed from a supervising professor's research budget, and if an assistant was unfortunate enough to work under a stingy superior, they often took home less than a thousand.

Nobles, of course, tossed around hundreds of thousands without blinking an eye.

Let's see what the boss put down...

Robert glanced down at the draft—and his jaw dropped so far it nearly hit the floorboards.

"Is the sum too modest?" Verhal asked mildly.

"P-Pardon?"

"Should I add more?"

Are you out of your mind?! Robert screamed in his head.

He really was an Imperial Knight...

The figure penned in sweeping, immaculate ink was nothing short of—

Is this a joke?!

One million cel!

Just how much gold is this man sitting on?!

One million cel was enough for an entire family of commoners to live in luxurious comfort for generations. Robert couldn't fathom why such an absurdly wealthy paragon had ever bothered accepting an administrative post at Edelbein Academy. Even setting aside the Department Head position, the man held the rank of Imperial Knight—an honor that could have kept him comfortably ensconced as an honorary imperial commander for the rest of his days.

"I-I don't think all the other faculty wagers combined could match this draft, sir," Robert stammered.

"Then we have our wager."

Trembling as he held a fortune larger than anything he had ever touched in his life, Robert asked in a hushed, nervous whisper,

"Shall I place it on the safe option... the fifth-years?"

"No."

Verhal smiled, his eyes gleaming with an eerie, unshakeable certainty.

"Put it on the first-years."