Advanced Psychological Warfare
Standing out in the Exchange Event yielded a wide variety of benefits.
Chief among them was the coveted opportunity to be scouted by prestigious knight orders, including the Imperial Knights. Once an offer was extended, an appointment upon graduation was practically guaranteed, securing one’s future in an instant.
While such prospects held little appeal for firstborn sons destined to inherit their families' titles and lands, the academy naturally housed far more second and third sons, daughters, and minor nobles than direct heirs. This alone was reason enough for students to throw themselves into the selection trials, desperate to secure a spot on the roster.
Yet there was another incentive.
“Yurio! Yurio, did you hear?”
“You actually have enough energy left to make a fuss, Karen?”
“How could I not? They raised the prize money for this year’s exchange match!”
“Huh?”
“It was originally five hundred thousand Sel, but they bumped it up to a whole million!”
Yurio, who had been sprawled limply across the ground, shot bolt upright. Life instantly rekindled in the eyes of the two impoverished first-years.
“A million Sel means…”
“Even split ten ways, that’s a hundred thousand Sel each! A hundred thousand Sel pays for an entire year of tuition!”
Not all nobles were wealthy. In fact, plenty of aristocratic families scraped by on a quality of life far worse than that of an average commoner. Some were crushed under mountains of debt, others had ruined themselves through failed business ventures, and some were simply destitute by ancestral tradition.
While Yurio’s House Harmatan had fallen into ruin due to medical expenses, Karen’s House Aswan was notoriously one of the poorest noble families in the already impoverished eastern provinces.
“And that’s per match! They’re offering a million Sel for each event! If we win both the Breakthrough Match and the Melee Match, that’s two million! Two hundred thousand each!”
“Two years of tuition…”
Tuition at Edelbein Academy cost a hundred thousand Sel a year. Some families went so far as to take out usurious loans just to afford the fees. House Aswan had done exactly that.
“We can finally pay off my family’s debts.”
Karen clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. An increase in prize money was an absolute godsend. Once again, an incandescent fire roared to life in the hearts of the two students.
On the other hand…
Two million Sel. A decent sum, I suppose.
Deleve Kundel merely blinked, thoroughly unimpressed. It was a fair amount of coin, but nothing more. It certainly offered him no real motivation—not when he carried the name of House Kundel.
Two hundred thousand Sel? I’d burn through that on a single weekend outing.
Celia Rihardt felt much the same. Though this stark disparity in perspective was never voiced aloud, it was ultimately for the best. The promise of cold, hard cash was doing wonders to light a fire under the students who desperately needed it.
And then…
“How much did you say the prize was, Cadet Karen Aswan?”
“Two million Sel if we win both matches, sir!”
“That is eight hundred times my monthly salary.”
“…Pardon?”
Ziel had disclosed his wages without a hint of hesitation.
“Should you emerge victorious, I shall be quite envious of you all.”
Ziel was well aware that the purse belonged entirely to the students. And he was envious. Genuinely, deeply envious.
With that much, I could eat chicken skewers to my heart's content without a care in the world.
He possessed a stash of Dikelen Silver Coins, of course, but laundering underworld currency into imperial tender was a complicated affair that ran the risk of leaving a trail. Nor could he simply hand an illicit silver coin to a street vendor for a skewer.
I suppose I could open an entire chicken skewer stall instead.
Alas, at present, he was an elective lecturer at Edelbein Academy. He had to remain faithful to his cover.
“Right? We’re definitely going to win it, Instructor!”
“Do not become overly excited.”
If they got too enthusiastic, his envy would only deepen. Yet to the students' ears, his dry counsel carried a far nobler weight.
He’s telling us not to get distracted by money and keep our focus sharp.
As expected of Instructor Ziel.
After Ziel stepped away, whispers rippled through the gathered cadets.
“Instructor Ziel probably doesn’t care about prize money at all, right?”
“Most likely. Haven’t you heard the rumor that he treated Deleve to an insanely lavish meal? They say he’s filthy rich.”
“He must hail from some incredible family we’ve just never heard of. Have you ever heard of House Steelheart?”
“The name sounds vaguely familiar, but…”
A grand misunderstanding was rapidly taking root. In truth, Ziel’s current bank account was teetering on the edge of oblivion.
At this rate, even buying a single chicken skewer will soon be out of reach.
That was precisely why overhearing the sum had tempted him so thoroughly. He envied them. He truly did. But that reward belonged to the children. There was only one thing he could do for them: lead them to victory. And in his mind, that outcome was already a given.
Preparations for the Melee Match are essentially complete.
There were exactly two days left until the Exchange Event. Ziel intended to wrap up training early on the eve of the competition to let them rest, which meant today was their last chance to prepare for the Breakthrough Match.
Physically, they were more than ready. Even Yurio, whose stamina had lagged furthest behind the rest, no longer posed any concern. From this point on, everything depended on their ability to cooperate—especially during the first trial.
The Breakthrough Match was held in a dense, untamed forest. It was a perilous trial where cadets had to contend not only with a myriad of hidden traps, but also ferocious beasts and venomous vermin. Although baseline safety measures were in place, the sheer danger frequently forced participants to forfeit halfway through.
To Ziel, however, none of it felt the least bit dangerous.
Now came what was effectively their final training session.
Everything will conclude according to plan.
Back when he had first been assigned to oversee the first-years, this was the very lesson he had scheduled for the final slot while drafting the curriculum. And it happened to be the one subject where Ziel held absolute confidence.
“Training begins now. Gather round.”
The afternoon hour had arrived. Having endured days of relentless conditioning, the students assembled with resolute, hardened expressions.
“From this moment, we commence preparation for the Breakthrough Match.”
The Breakthrough Match.
Is there something worse than scaling fortress walls?
We already did long-distance running… Are we doing sprints this time?
What absurd torture has he cooked up now? There’s only one day left!
Their minds raced with frantic speculation. Knowing Instructor Ziel, whatever he had planned was bound to be horrifying and utterly exhausting.
Their instincts were half right.
“I shall now begin the lecture.”
It was a classroom lecture. Or rather…
“Practical application will follow immediately after the instruction.”
It was a lecture combined with hands-on field practice.
“What kind of lesson is this, sir?”
“A course on traps, poisons, antidotes, and emergency protocols.”
It was a curriculum unlike anything they had encountered so far.
Rattle.
Ziel dragged a rolling blackboard into the center of the training grounds from who-knew-where.
“We have only today. Six hours of lecture this afternoon, followed by practical exercises through the night.”
The first-years stood dumbfounded. They had naturally braced themselves for another grueling physical beatdown. While other professors and upperclassmen had warned them of the countless hazards awaiting in the Breakthrough Match, none of them had anticipated sitting through theory.
“There is nothing difficult about it.”
To Ziel, of course, none of it was difficult in the slightest. To the students, however…
We’re doomed.
He expects us to master all of that in a single day?
The task seemed insurmountable. Yet they had no choice but to soldier through, just as they had done every day prior.
The moment Ziel’s lecture began, however, the cadets found themselves genuinely mesmerized.
It’s… actually making sense.
This is fascinating.
Perhaps it was the relief of not having to run their bodies into the ground, but the material was surprisingly engaging. They found it easy to focus. Above all else, Ziel’s method of instruction was remarkably compelling.
“This is an authentic pressure trap. It is particularly effective in mountainous and forested terrain. Beware of unnatural camouflage. If you train your eyes to spot subtle disharmonies that do not naturally occur in the wild, it will stand out immediately.”
Click.
“This is how the mechanism triggers. Disarming it is relatively straightforward, but should you find yourself in a situation where you must neutralize it to advance, apply pressure in this manner.”
Ziel reset the spring mechanism and slid a prepared wooden dowel into the trigger gap. With a sharp snap, the iron jaws clamped shut, cleanly snapping the wood.
“While we cannot predict the exact models utilized in the trial, it is reasonable to assume they will be variants of this design. Next.”
The lecture on traps pressed on. Before long, all ten students were furiously scribbling in their pocket notebooks, sketching trap schematics, trigger mechanisms, and disarming methods with rapt attention.
Next came practical drills.
“You will disarm them yourselves. Step forward, Cadet Karen Aswan.”
To everyone’s surprise, Karen demonstrated an innate knack for identifying and disarming concealed devices. When Ziel hid a snare amidst an arrangement of potted foliage, she sniffed it out almost instantly.
“Well done, Cadet Karen Aswan.”
On the other hand…
“I—I really can’t figure it out, Instructor!”
“Cadet Quantus Hophel. Utilize your brain.”
Quantus was hopelessly inept when it came to traps.
“If you applied even half the effort you invest in your muscles toward contemplation, you would achieve far better results.”
Part of it was undoubtedly his tendency to panic before even attempting to think.
“No matter how you look at him, the guy's skull is hollow,” Anne remarked casually.
“Hey! I can hear you!”
“See? His ears work brilliantly, at least.”
Goaded by his longtime friend and sparring rival, Quantus redoubled his focus.
“Here it i—AAARGH!”
“Utilize your brain, Cadet Quantus Hophel.”
He had managed to locate the trap, only to get his hand clamped in its jaws. Fortunately, the blunt training teeth caused no serious injury.
“How did that guy even pass the entrance exam?”
“Isn’t he like Yurio? One singular trait that’s ridiculously overpowered.”
“True. But Yurio actually pushed Deleve to the brink.”
Deleve flinched, his brow twitching at being dragged into the conversation out of nowhere. The culprit was Celia.
That girl is seriously asking for it…
Right on cue, his turn arrived.
“Cadet Deleve Kundel. Step forward.”
“Yes, sir.”
Determined to save face, Deleve flawlessly dismantled the mechanism in a display of practiced finesse. The problem arose immediately afterward.
“Ow!”
He had disarmed the trap, only to prick his finger on a thorn from the surrounding foliage.
“Much like Cadet Quantus Hophel.”
“I—I disarmed it, didn’t I?!”
“Disarming a trap only to be punctured by a thorn is functionally identical to falling victim to the trap itself, Cadet Deleve Kundel. A significant portion of thorns found on forest flora are coated in paralytic toxins.”
“……”
Deleve felt a sinking sensation as his reputation steadily degraded into comedic relief. Retreating to his place, he deliberately ignored Celia’s smug gaze, though a genuine question crossed his mind.
How on earth does the instructor know all this?
Toxins and concealed snares were hardly subjects covered in standard professorial curricula. For an elective lecturer, possessing such expertise was downright absurd. More precisely, it was knowledge that was excruciatingly difficult to acquire without years of specialized, lethal field experience.
Then again, nothing he does surprises me anymore…
Even so, each revelation unraveled another layer of intrigue, leaving Deleve in perpetual awe.
“Next is this variant. This time, I shall introduce associated venoms alongside it. Naturally, I will also cover the corresponding antidotes and extraction techniques, so pay close attention.”
Enthralled by the demonstration, the students leaned in. Preparation for the first-years' debut was hurtling toward its grand finale.
Around the same time, preparations among the other academic years were also reaching their conclusion. However, the second-years were currently undergoing a regimen every bit as punishing as the first-years'.
I cannot afford to lose to Instructor Ziel again.
Elcanto Paredes was wrestling with profound ambivalence. If Ziel performed well, the credit would technically fall upon Elcanto as the supervising professor, which was ideal. Yet suffering defeat at the hands of a mere elective lecturer would utterly destroy his standing among his peers.
After the humiliation he had endured during the selection trials, the snide whispers of the faculty had proven unbearable. In that respect, taking direct charge of the second-years had been a blessing in disguise.
This time, things will be different.
The first-years were fifteen years old; the second-years were sixteen. At an age where youths experienced rapid physical and mental growth, a single year made a world of difference. The gap in practical experience could not be overlooked, nor could the breadth of knowledge accumulated during their time at the academy.
The Exchange Event was the ultimate proving ground where that disparity shone brightest. In a strict one-on-one duel, a prodigy from a lower grade might upset a senior. But the exchange match was an exercise in collective warfare—a theater where raw, isolated talent could easily become a liability.
Deleve is far too headstrong, and Celia refuses to mingle with others.
Recalling how the two had acted at the beginning of the term, Elcanto let out a faint chuckle.
“They won't stand a chance.”
Elcanto gazed down at the second-years drilling themselves to exhaustion, his expression radiating satisfaction. Just then, Tyron approached.
“Professor.”
“Ah, you're back. What took you so long?”
“My apologies, sir. It took longer than expected. It appears the other years are also winding down their regimens.”
“Is that so? Good. They need a day of rest before the match. And what of the first-years?”
“They were conducting a theoretical lecture.”
“A lecture?” Elcanto tilted his head, perplexed. “At this stage?”
“Yes. From what I observed, he was instructing them on traps and toxins.”
“Traps and poisons?”
Elcanto scoffed in disbelief. To hold a classroom lecture when the trials were right around the corner struck him as sheer folly. There was clearly nothing to worry about.
“Should our second-years review those subjects as well, Professor?”
“What difference would that make now? Simply breaking through at maximum speed is the superior strategy.”
Elcanto remained entirely oblivious to the real reason his assistant had returned so late: Tyron had been utterly spellbound by Ziel’s lecture.
Every word he said was crystal clear…
Listening from the sidelines, Tyron had felt an almost magnetic pull dragging him into the lesson. That was precisely why he had suggested preparing the second-years, but…
He has no intention of listening.
Well, it was none of his concern. The supervising professor was free to run his class as he saw fit.
Even so, a quiet thought lingered in the back of the assistant’s mind.
Could the first-years… actually pull off a miracle this time?