Creating Ripples (2)
The first-years.
In this Exchange Event, they were garnering perhaps even more attention than the fifth-years. To be fair, the fifth-years were rarely the focus of curious anticipation; rather, eyes turned to them purely by default. With their overwhelming experience and polished martial prowess, they had always dominated the competition, routinely claiming the top step of the winner's podium.
"Aren't the fifth-years just going to sweep it again this time?"
"Well, probably. But they say this batch of first-years is something else."
"It was always so predictable that it got boring, but maybe this year will actually be worth watching."
A foregone conclusion: the fifth-years would win regardless. Because of that certainty, the Exchange Event had gradually devolved into little more than a leisurely showcase where the Sword School faculty and upperclassmen coasted on routine. But then came the shock of Match 1. The first-years had toppled both the second- and third-years to seize a joint second-place finish.
"They're saying the whole atmosphere is different now. Isn't that why the family heads came out in person?"
"I heard even Prince Dietrich is in attendance."
The spotlight on the tournament was brighter than ever before, and among the murmuring spectators, Xiel's name cropped up with increasing frequency.
"Word is the first-years' instructor is incredible at teaching..."
"I heard about that too. Isn't he an elective lecturer?"
"Supposedly he's remarkably handsome, too."
Sitting not far away, someone caught snippets of the crowd's chatter. Professor Marchen, the faculty supervisor in charge of the third-years, curled her lips into a venomous smirk.
They'll be eliminated the second the match begins. Heh-heh.
From the fifth-year supervisor down to the first-year staff, the supervising professors sat side by side in the prime viewing seats overlooking the grounds, waiting for Match 2 to commence. Today was the day she would thoroughly correct the arrogant attitude of that wretched elective instructor sitting just one seat away.
Marchen cut her eyes sideways toward Xiel.
Look at him, trying so hard to look unfazed.
That blank, expressionless mask of his—she was certain his insides were churning. It wasn't merely because he was burdened with the lowly first-years. He had dared to reject an offer from her, a third-year supervisor; by now, he had to be wallowing in regret.
You're probably half out of your mind with anxiety!
Their primary objective today was the total eradication of the first-years. It was partly personal spite, but it was sound strategy as well. Naturally, eliminating more bodies earned a class more points.
"Professor Elcanto, I trust you briefed your students properly?"
Elcanto flinched violently at Marchen's sharp voice.
"A-ah, yes. Of course, Professor Marchen."
"Excellent."
The strategy she had dictated to Elcanto was simple: form a joint front the moment the match began to wipe out the first-years, then hold out against the fourth- and fifth-years for as long as possible.
Like hell we will, Elcanto grumbled inwardly. The moment the first-years drop, you'll turn right around and gut us next.
They had forged a temporary pact, but she had never once promised she wouldn't attack him. Desperate, Elcanto shifted his gaze to the right.
Instructor Xiel.
At that exact moment, his eyes met Xiel's. Eyes glistening with profound, wistful sorrow!
Xiel felt a flicker of genuine bewilderment.
What does that look mean...?
It was said that human emotion was mirrored entirely within one's gaze. And this gaze was screaming...
Please, understand my heart!
Xiel recalled a passage he had read in an etiquette manual.
Is that... a gaze yearning for love?
Xiel found himself plunging into deep, quiet confusion.
While the instructors exchanged bewildered glances, the representatives from each year stepped forward to draw their lots. In such a vast arena, initial deployment dictated tactical advantage; much like the first match, their starting positions were left entirely to the draw. When the results were posted across the display boards, a collective wave of groans and cheers rippled through the stands.
Oh, no... Professor Elcanto let out a mournful sigh.
"Heh-heh," Professor Marchen chuckled under her breath.
Neither reaction was spurred by their own students' placements. It was entirely because of the first-years.
"Surviving from there is going to be near impossible for the freshmen."
"How do you even draw up a viable strategy from that spot?"
"What a shame. I heard they put up a hell of a fight in the first match..."
The first-years had drawn the absolute worst deployment possible: the dead center of the arena. It was a kill zone toward which every other grade's attention naturally converged. Only fifth-years, or fourth-years at bare minimum, possessed the overwhelming martial weight required to hold the center without being instantly overrun.
Even Berhal watched the board with a look of quiet sympathy.
They showed remarkable form in the first round, but this will be an uphill battle.
To the fifth-years, the center would serve as an open crossroads allowing strikes in any direction. For the first-years, it was a bullseye painted on their backs.
"Sir Lelio, from that position..."
"Regrettably, Your Highness, it is almost certain the first-years will be eliminated in the opening moments."
From Prince Dietrich to the general spectators, virtually no one held any expectations for the first-years' survival. Except for one man.
Actually, this works out better, Xiel thought calmly.
"What kind of rotten luck do you have?!"
"Seriously?! And you call yourself our leader?!"
"We should've had literally anyone else draw the lot!"
A storm of complaints rained down on Quantus's head. Naturally, Quantus did not shrink back in the slightest.
"We can advance in any direction from here, so isn't this actually an advantage?!"
"Do we look like fifth-years to you, huh?!"
While they hadn't succumbed to outright defeatism, drawing the dead center was a brutal hand to be dealt.
"Nothing we can do about it now," Deleb spoke up, sighing. "The draw is done. We stick to the plan."
"I knew I could count on you, Deleb! You truly understand the heavy burden of leadership—"
"Though I still think pulling the center was profoundly stupid."
"..."
As Quantus visibly wilted, Anne offered a gentle pat on his arm.
"Don't worry, Leader. We just have to execute our operation."
"Anne, I knew you were the only one who—"
"Though pulling the center really was pretty awful."
"Ah."
The center. The worst possible starting point. To pull the short straw in the first match and then land in the crosshairs again in the second was terrible luck. Even so, the first-years methodically checked their gear with quiet discipline. What had been drawn could not be undone; their only choice was to make the absolute best of the cards they held. Besides, the hellish preparation they had endured under Xiel was hardly fragile enough to crumble over a bad starting position.
Deleb's resolve, in particular, burned with fierce intensity. Ahead in the distance stood third-year Aken Kundel and fifth-year Agres Kundel. His second-oldest and eldest brothers. Ever since entering the academy, he hadn't managed to have a proper conversation with either of them. Now was the time to prove himself. If he showed them real martial competence today, maybe they could laugh and roughhouse together just like old times.
Celia harbored her own burning ambition.
If I perform well today, I can finally present a formal contract offering him the position of my escort knight!
Every single student on the squad held their own private motivation.
"We trained until we vomited anyway, didn't we? Let's just do exactly what Instructor taught us."
"Hey, that was my line as the leader!"
"The guy who parked us in the middle of a slaughterhouse should keep his mouth shut."
HOOOOOOOOOOOOON—!
A deep, echoing horn blast tore through the arena air, signaling the commencement of Match 2. The chaotic melee had officially begun.
Now, crush the first-years first...
Recalling Professor Marchen's strict commands, the third-years lowered their stances, preparing to sprint forward. The moment the second-years charged the center, they would follow immediately behind to pincer the freshmen and—
"...Wait, what?"
An utterly unfathomable spectacle unfolded before their eyes. The first-years... had bolted straight toward the seam between the second- and third-year formations.
"H-huh?!"
What in the world was this? Had they lost their minds? Were they throwing the match?
The spectators froze in disbelief. Everyone had expected the freshmen to hesitate in the center, get mobbed from all sides, and be unceremoniously wiped out.
A suicidal charge? Marchen and the vast majority of the audience drew the same conclusion.
The combatants on the field were just as bewildered.
"H-hey! What are the first-years doing?!"
"How should I know?! What do we do?!"
While the second- and third-years scrambled in confusion, the first-years closed the distance in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, the watching fourth- and fifth-years exchanged glances.
"Senior Agres, orders?"
"This works out perfectly. We move now."
To their eyes, this was a golden gift: a single opportunity to mop up the first-, second-, and third-years all at once. Their original strategy had been to bide their time, wait for gaps to open, and methodically dismantle the younger classes one by one.
"With them clumped together like that, sweeping the lot of them will be child's play."
Agres Kundel, Deleb's eldest brother and the undisputed heir of Duke Kundel, smiled coldly.
"You're about to eliminate both of your younger brothers in one go, Senior."
"It's a competition," Agres replied smoothly. Having brothers in the third and first years changed nothing. This was a battle, and one the fifth-years were destined to win.
The fourth- and fifth-year joint vanguard began their crushing advance.
They deviated from conventional strategy right from the start, Berhal noted, thoroughly taken aback. For first-years to execute such a shockingly aggressive gambit showed an extraordinary level of battlefield decisiveness. In almost every past tournament, any cohort dealt the center position hesitated, panicked, and imploded under pressure.
Did Instructor Xiel orchestrate this?
The entire flow of Match 2 had spun off its hinges in the opening ten seconds for one reason alone: the first-years.
"Shit, they're coming! The fourth- and fifth-years are charging!"
The scrambling second- and third-year ranks fell into panic. They had intended to swiftly overwhelm the incoming freshmen, but the board had flipped entirely.
We don't have time to mess with freshmen!
Aken Kundel, leader of the third-years, bellowed across the ranks.
"Brace yourselves! Form up against the upperclassmen first!"
Just then, the second-year leader exchanged a frantic nod with Professor Elcanto in the stands.
"We're allying with the first-years! Move, now!"
He triggered the contingency plan Elcanto had secretly hammered into them. Originally, they were supposed to pretend to obey the third-years before slipping away at an opportune moment; with the field descending into absolute bedlam, the timeline had violently accelerated. Pure, unadulterated chaos gripped the arena.
"Leader! Through that gap!"
"Good! On me!"
The first-years, the catalysts of this madness, sliced straight between the confused lines of the second- and third-years. Their practice blades were drawn, yet they neither swung nor launched a counterattack.
"W-what the—?!"
"They dodged that?!"
The third-years in their path reflexively swung their swords, but the freshmen slipped past the steel exactly as Xiel had drilled into them. They rolled across the dirt, contorted their torsos mid-stride, and leapt cleanly over low sweeps when necessary. They utilized every ounce of their mobility, pouring their entire focus into the single task of evasion. No post-dodge strikes, no wasted motion—only evasion and forward momentum.
It's working! It's just like Instructor said!
If I pivot my weight right at this beat...!
By abandoning the burden of parrying or counterattacking to dedicate every nerve to evasion, slipping through felt astonishingly manageable. Above all else...
They're so much slower than Instructor Xiel!
And Instructor was holding back against us the whole time...!
The contrast was jarring. Compared to Xiel's blinding, erratic, and lethal attack vectors, the swings coming from the third-years were absurdly honest and predictable. To make matters worse, the third-years were attacking in a state of flustered panic, rendering their trajectory reads embarrassingly simple.
"Oho. Look at that footwork."
"Their evasive instincts are remarkably refined."
The noble parents of the first-years voiced quiet admiration, while Amos Kundel and Darren Rihardt leaned forward, eyes gleaming. Though long retired from active military campaigns, both patriarchs were once peerless masters of the blade.
"Hmph, what an utterly undignified way to dodge!"
"Are they training swordsmen or circus acrobats?"
A few younger, superficial family heads scoffed, but the leaders of the two Great Houses knew better. True combat was a bloodbath. How you moved was irrelevant so long as you achieved your tactical objective. Whether an evasive roll looked unseemly or comical didn't matter in the slightest.
Did that instructor instill this into them?
The desire to recruit him burned hotter than ever. Amos and Darren reached the identical conclusion at the same moment: once Match 2 concluded, they would pay Instructor Xiel a personal visit.
"First-years! Over here!"
At the desperate shout from the second-year leader, Quantus barked back over his shoulder.
"You looking for a fight?!"
"No! Join us! A temporary truce and alliance!"
An unexpected diplomatic overture mid-sprint.
"Leader, take it!" Anne urged from his flank.
Quantus nodded instantly. "Deal! We're with the second-years!"
His blunt, simplistic decision-making was often a glaring flaw, but in moments like this, it became an invaluable asset. In such rapid, chaotic skirmishes, swift decisiveness trumped cautious calculation every single time. Thus, the second-years formally allied with the first-years, abandoning the third-years entirely.
It worked!
In the faculty stands, Elcanto fought desperately to ignore the murderous aura radiating from his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Professor Marchen's fists trembling with rage. He had crossed the Rubicon. But he felt not an ounce of regret.
"Those treacherous bastards...!"
Aken Kundel ground his teeth in disbelief, but he had no time to vent his fury. In the span of a few breaths, the first-years had cleanly bypassed his lines, and the combined vanguard of the fourth- and fifth-years was already crashing down upon them.
Damn it all!
It was a textbook pincer. If they fell back, they would crash into the freshly united first- and second-year alliance. If they pressed forward, they would smash headlong into the elite fourth- and fifth-years. Whichever way they turned, the third-years were completely isolated. How on earth had the board deteriorated to this point? They hadn't managed to bring down a single freshman during their breakthrough.
What the hell is happening to this match?!
Right at that moment, Aken's eyes locked with Deleb's.
It lasted for only a fraction of a second. Yet the expression on his younger brother's face was completely alien to him. Gone was the whiny little boy who constantly pestered him to play. In his place stood a focused, hardened combatant whose gaze was wholly locked onto the flow of battle.
The sight struck Aken like a splash of freezing water, snapping his mind into sharp focus.
"Everyone, forward!"
They couldn't simply roll over and die. If they were going down, they would go down swinging.
"Aken! What are you saying?! Forward?! We should fall back and—"
"If we retreat, we'll get flanked by the entire arena! We take as many of them with us as we can! Focus all attacks on the fourth-years!"
With a desperate battle cry, the third-years launched a head-on charge into the teeth of the upperclassmen's advance. Every single grade's meticulously crafted battle plan had been shattered beyond recognition within the opening minute of the match.
And watching the chaos unfold with quiet satisfaction...
Good.
The man who had cast the stone that stirred these wild, uncontrollable ripples was none other than the Sword School's sole elective instructor.
Xiel Steelheart.