You Will Win
“What’s going on over there?”
“Word is someone was running a scam.”
“A scam? What kind of scam?”
“Some target-throwing game. Apparently, he rigged the targets with magic so nobody could hit them.”
“Wait, isn’t that Draco?”
While every booth across the festival grounds drew swarms of people, the crowd encircling Draco’s stall had gathered for an entirely different reason.
I’m ruined.
The campus guards had arrived, and an order for immediate demolition had already been handed down.
“Confirmed, sir. There is active magic woven into the targets.”
“Hmm. Without a doubt.”
There were two spells at play: one that momentarily blurred the target to wrench it from the thrower’s field of vision, and another that stripped away surface friction, ensuring anything that made contact would slide harmlessly off rather than stick. To make matters worse, the whole contraption was remotely operated.
“Notify the Arcane School. This warrants further investigation.”
“Understood, sir.”
The booth was finished, and in the most humiliating fashion imaginable.
Worse still, eight hundred cel had been drained from his cash box. That money hadn’t been confiscated by the guards, either; Ziel had swept every last coin before the authorities even arrived, sinking throwing daggers into the targets with effortless precision.
Draco had set up this stall as a desperate, final gamble to recoup his previous losses, only for his cheap trickery to be completely exposed to the light of day.
“Tsk, tsk. To think scoundrels like that call themselves students of the Sword School… What will become of the empire’s future?”
Darren Rihardt clicked his tongue in profound disapproval. He was certainly not irritated because he had failed to notice the trick himself. Absolutely not.
Wait a moment.
Come to think of it, something didn’t add up.
“How did you know?” Darren asked, turning to the young man beside him. What kind of person could see through the trick and still nail every single dagger dead center?
“Know what?” Ziel asked.
“That it was enchanted.”
“I simply saw it.”
“…You simply saw it? No, wait. You knew it was enchanted, and you still threw?”
“Enchanted or not, it made no difference.”
“What do you mean, no difference?”
“Even with magic on it, I still hit it.”
Darren scowled at the deadpan answer. Out in the open sunlight beyond the stall’s canopy, the young man’s handsome features stood out even more. Was that impassive, flat expression genuine, or was it an act?
Even I didn’t notice.
As the Patriarch of House Rihardt, Darren’s martial prowess was beyond question. Of course, discerning an active spell with the naked eye was extraordinarily difficult, so his failure to spot it hardly reflected poorly on his skill, but still…
“Are you a mage?”
“No.”
“Hold on a second, though.” Darren tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Why do you keep speaking to me so casually?”
There were very few people in the world permitted to address Darren without honorifics. That insufferable Amos Kundel, perhaps his own brother, and virtually no one else. Since he never met the Emperor in purely private settings, the list could be counted on one hand.
“You spoke casually to me first,” Ziel replied evenly. “Should I have used honorifics?”
“Of course you should! I am—”
“Boss!”
Ah.
Darren caught himself. He was in disguise. Though, why had he bothered disguising himself again?
“Ahem. At any rate… You aren’t a mage, so I was merely curious.”
“I just saw it. That is all.”
Dumbfounded, Darren opened his mouth to press further. “No, but how on earth could you just—”
“Well, well. If it isn’t our esteemed Master Darren?”
A voice Darren despised more than any other cut through the air. He turned his head, and sure enough, there stood the face he least wanted to see.
“Amos.”
“My, my, aren’t you supposed to be in disguise? It certainly looks that way,” Amos Kundel drawled with an insufferable smirk.
That cursed bastard.
“Dragging four whole bodyguards along, too. What’s the matter? Are you under an assassination threat or something?”
“If you’re just here to pick a fight, move along, Amos,” Darren snapped. “And an assassination threat? If anyone wanted to kill me, they’d need to send the Phantom himself.”
“Do you honestly think you could hold your own against the Phantom? In any case, a friend happens to walk by and offer a warm greeting, and this is how you snap at him?”
That sly, irritating grin! Darren had loathed that face since their youth.
If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have bothered coming to the capital in the first place.
Had Amos not decided to attend the Exchange Event, Darren would never have made the trip.
“What was that back there? Target throwing? Playing children’s games, were we?”
“And did your illustrious self grace the Exchange Event just to watch children’s games?”
“Do you really think I came all this way just for the tournament, my friend?” The corners of Amos’s mouth curled upward. He leaned in a step closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I am on my way back from an audience with His Imperial Majesty.”
Darren stiffened.
When did this underhanded snake manage that…?
“They say the Empress’s condition has stabilized considerably as of late. Word is, they finally secured the right medicine.” Amos prattled on, sounding thoroughly self-satisfied. “Ah, don’t tell me you haven’t been granted an audience yet?”
“Ahem! His Majesty will summon me in due time!”
“Tsk, tsk. You should have dispatched a formal letter beforehand. What good does it do to sit around waiting?”
The subtle needling was practiced and effortless, prompting a collective sigh from the Rihardt knights standing behind Darren.
We’re going to bear the brunt of this all day again.
Why must they do this every single time they cross paths?
Good grief, I’m losing my mind…
The grudge ran deep, though nobody truly knew where the bad blood had originated. Rumor had it they had once fought over a woman who was now married to one of them.
“Besides all that,” Amos continued, “my precious youngest is competing in the Exchange Event. How could a father stay away?”
“The same applies to my youngest.”
“Ah, you mean Celia. A lovely girl. It is an immense blessing that she takes after her mother instead of you.”
“Why, you little—!”
While the two high-ranking nobles—the patriarchs of two great territorial houses—bickered like children in the crowd, Ziel quietly finished his business.
A profitable venture.
Having wrapped up his brief statement to the campus guards, Ziel counted his earnings. Exactly eight hundred cel in pure profit. He had known the game was rigged the moment he first laid eyes on the booth, and his intervention hadn’t been motivated by a righteous sense of justice. The huffing, blustering man next to him had asked a question, so Ziel had simply answered it with a demonstration.
Then, a realization struck him.
Their scents are familiar.
The two men squabbling nearby carried scents remarkably similar to two students he taught, reminiscent of the subtle familial ties between Berhal and Rocus.
They must be parents.
It hardly mattered. They were bound to cross paths once the matches began anyway. More importantly…
“Over there.”
A mouthwatering aroma drifted through the breeze, practically commanding him to follow it. With eight hundred fresh cel in his pocket, today was the day to partake in what society called “gourmet dining.”
“Ahem. So, is your boy doing well?” Darren asked, clearing his throat.
“Of course he is. Why? Were you hoping something had happened to him?”
“I was expressing concern, you fool!”
“Please. Since when have you ever cared about my family?”
“Whatever you may be, Deleb is a sharp lad.”
“And whose son do you think he is?”
“I try to give you a compliment, and you…”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Amos said, his tone turning grounded. “The moment I received word, I assigned personal guards to him. Once I uncover who was behind it, I already know precisely how I will dismantle them.”
“Hmm. A grave matter indeed. But wait, what was that you mentioned earlier? The Empress’s illness has… alleviated?”
“From what I gather, the Second Prince went to great lengths. Ventured into the black market himself, they say. He is her only biological child, after all.”
“Mmm. That is good news. His Majesty cherishes the current Empress deeply…”
“And thanks to that, the Second Prince’s faction has gained considerable political ground. The opposing side must be growing quite anxious.”
Amid the bustling, festive crowd, the two conducted a grave, secretive conversation entirely at odds with the celebratory mood. Yet it was precisely such a noisy venue that allowed them to speak so freely without drawing suspicion. Shedding their petty squabbles, both men carried the solemn, calculating air befitting the masters of great noble houses.
“So, Amos. What is your stance?”
“We observe. It is not yet time to pick a side. We listen to both camps, walk the tightrope, and bide our time. The moment to choose will come eventually.”
“Indeed.”
Just as quickly, the tension dissolved.
“By the way, who was that man earlier?” Amos asked.
“Who?”
“That young man you were arguing with.”
“Ah.” Darren glanced over his shoulder.
There was no one there. The handsome fellow had vanished without a trace.
“He was right here a moment ago.”
“What was that about?”
“Well…” Darren clamped his mouth shut. There was no way under heaven he would admit that the young man had effortlessly hit targets Darren himself had missed repeatedly. Never to Amos!
“I was just asking him a few questions.”
“Is that so? Ah, right. Have you heard of an Instructor Ziel?”
“Instructor Ziel? Ah… I believe my daughter mentioned him once or twice.”
“That instructor protected my boy. I was on my way to catch a glimpse of his face, but this crowd is utterly ridiculous.”
“Just how remarkable could an instructor be?”
“Who knows? We will see when we meet him. You should hurry along and see your daughter. Though, what on earth are your men carrying so much of?”
“Gifts for my darling daughter, obviously! Have you ever heard of these fruit jellies?”
“What are they? Give me one.”
“Not a chance.”
The Rihardt knights let out another quiet, synchronized sigh behind them.
Will they ever grow up?
The festival-goers flowing past had no inkling that two of the most powerful grand lords in the Baldrein Empire were currently engaged in a childish standoff over a bag of fruit jellies.
The day of the Exchange Event dawned.
The atmosphere across the Sword School campus differed sharply from the previous day. While the booths operated as scheduled, foot traffic had dropped by more than half. The reason was simple: the first match of the Exchange Event was taking place at Black Peak, located not far from Edelbein Academy.
Black Peak was part of the Blade Mountain Range, a natural barrier bisecting the central empire and serving as an impregnable fortress protecting the capital. Seen from afar, the peak appeared darker than the surrounding peaks, earning its name. In truth, it was merely that decades of hosting the Exchange Event had stripped the summit bare of trees and vegetation to accommodate various viewing platforms and mechanisms.
The rules of the opening match were straightforward.
Six starting points circled the base of the peak. Before the match commenced, the leaders of each academic year drew lots to determine their assigned starting location. Once the assignments were set, all years departed simultaneously. The rankings would be decided by which academic year saw a majority of its students reach the summit first.
“All participating students, please assemble here! Parents and guests heading to the summit observation deck, please proceed to the automated stairs on the right!”
The spectators had a remarkably comfortable route to the top: an automated mountain escalator constructed via magic engineering.
Whirrrrr…
Exceptionally wide, remarkably stable, and capable of ferrying guests effortlessly up the mountainside, it was an engineering marvel. Its only drawbacks were exorbitant maintenance costs and a fragility that caused frequent breakdowns without constant upkeep.
“Haha, this is wonderfully convenient.”
“Indeed. Magic engineering has progressed so much lately to make such feats possible.”
“Oh, were you unaware? This was developed seven years ago. News travels rather slowly to the East, doesn’t it?”
“My, coming from someone who still wears those bizarre Northern furs, that is rich. Those fell out of fashion ages ago, you know.”
Even as they ascended, the nobles traded veiled barbs. It was their generous donations, after all, that kept such expensive machinery running.
“The gallery has reached the summit, Department Head. You may deliver the opening address whenever you are ready.”
Berhal nodded and received the torch. Before him stood a sword-shaped brazier, the enduring symbol of the Sword School’s Exchange Event, modeled after the legendary blade of Elbat Angsen—the Empire’s Guardian Knight and the very first warrior ever bestowed the title of Imperial Knight.
Whoosh!
Flames roared to life within the iron blade.
Below the stage, the gathered students stood rigid, their expressions taut with nervous resolve. The Exchange Event occurred only once a year, and the opportunity to stand on this stage was far from guaranteed to all.
“I wish you all great fortune in battle,” Berhal proclaimed. “Pour out everything you have prepared without reserve, and show this gathering of spectators how you overcome adversity through unity and discipline.”
As the brazier blazed with renewed vigor, Berhal raised his voice.
“I hereby declare the opening of this year’s Exchange Event!”
The competition had officially begun.
“Year representatives, step forward.”
Professor Elcanto, serving as the master of ceremonies with an uncharacteristic solemnity, summoned the student leaders. The representatives from the first through fifth years drew their lots in sequence, receiving their assigned starting points.
“We got Point B.”
“Not bad at all. The terrain is a bit rough, but I heard it’s the second shortest path to the summit.”
The upperclassmen returned to their respective cohorts, generally satisfied with their lots.
Except for the first years.
“…We got Point D?”
“That’s right!”
“You idiot, of all the lots you could have drawn…!”
Point D.
It was the starting line leading straight into what was universally known as the “Death Course.”
Quantus Hophel was grinning from ear to ear, completely oblivious to the rising despair around him. To think their leader had pulled the most brutal route on the mountain!
We’re doomed.
We’re only first years…
Some even entertained a defeatist rationalization: Maybe this is for the best? Even if we come in dead last, we can just blame it on drawing the impossible route…
Just then, a calm voice cut through their mounting dread.
“Point D, is it?”
Ziel approached the huddle.
“Instructor!”
“I am told it is a difficult route,” Ziel remarked.
The first years fell silent, heads dipping low. Ziel turned his gaze upon Quantus.
“What are your thoughts, ‘Leader’?”
At the word leader, Quantus threw his head back, his broad chest swelling with pride. “I think it’s actually a stroke of luck, sir! None of the other classes will bother trying to sabotage or keep tabs on us!”
The other students blinked. For Quantus to make a surprisingly sharp point was a minor miracle in itself.
“Besides, if we conquer the hardest path and reach the top, we’ll earn that much more recognition!”
Sometimes, raw simplicity cut straight to the core of a dilemma. Furthermore, there was another factor.
“And Course D carries bonus points!” Quantus added boisterously.
Bonus points.
The more arduous the route, the higher the score multiplier awarded upon completion. If two classes finished with comparable times, the team clearing Course D would take the higher rank.
“You are correct, Student Quantus Hophel,” Ziel said.
Ziel let his gaze sweep across the anxious faces of the first-year class.
“Execute what you have learned. Perform as you were trained.”
Quantus thumped his massive chest with a heavy fist. “Leave it to me!”
Can we really trust this muscle-brain? Celia thought, watching with lingering unease before casting a questioning glance at Ziel.
Meeting her gaze, Ziel offered a steady, even reminder.
“Once the match begins, do not hesitate. A single moment of hesitation decides success or failure.”
Swap ‘match’ for ‘operation.’
Swap ‘success or failure’ for ‘life or death.’
It was an ironclad maxim assassins carved into their very bones. Hearing those words, the students found themselves nodding in silent agreement.
Right. He’s telling us not to doubt our leader!
Let’s trust Quantus. Though maybe trusting his muscles is safer than trusting his brain…
Amid the shifting tide of their resolve, Ziel drove the point home with quiet, absolute certainty.
“You will win.”
The despair that had settled over the first years vanished in an instant, replaced by a fierce, roaring fire.