Making Waves (3)
"Well, well."
Dietrich Valdrain could not conceal his astonishment as the match unfolded in a manner entirely contrary to his expectations. Leaning forward slightly, the Second Prince murmured to his escort, "Sir Lelio, things are playing out quite differently from what we anticipated."
"Indeed, Your Highness... It feels less like a school exhibition and more like watching a tactical field exercise."
Every accredited knight was schooled in military doctrine and unit-level warfare, but Lelio possessed a particularly sharp grasp of strategy. Through his discerning eyes, the seamless coordination of the first-year students was nothing short of remarkable.
"It appears the first-years are employing the Awl and Thorn Strategy."
"The Awl and Thorn?"
"Yes, Your Highness. Piercing through enemy lines like an awl while bristling with outward defenses like thorns, rendering themselves too prickly for anyone to touch carelessly. It is a doctrine typically favored by a weaker faction when caught between three or more contending forces."
It was, however, a perilous gamble. A single misstep could easily leave the smaller unit enveloped and crushed by the surrounding factions simultaneously. Yet, as the field stood now...
"It seems the first-years have forged an alliance with the second-years," Lelio observed.
"I see."
"Which has forced the third-years into an untenable dilemma."
Such maneuvering could hardly have originated from green students. In Edelbein's martial curriculum, supervising professors were responsible for devising high-level battlefield strategy. That led to only one conclusion.
"I suspect this is the handiwork of that elective instructor," Lelio said.
"Hmm. As I understand it, an elective instructor rarely oversees an entire academic year."
"I looked into the matter, and it came about under exceptional circumstances. One of the Sword School's former professors was dismissed after attempting to harm a student..."
"Ah, that incident."
It had been a scandal of sufficient magnitude to reach the Imperial Palace. Fortunately, the head of House Kundel had let the matter rest without escalating it, but Dietrich remembered the Imperial Court keeping a vigilant eye on the fallout for some time. A great territorial lord like Duke Kundel could have easily used such an outrage as leverage for aggressive political maneuvering.
"In any case," Lelio continued, "it seems that elective instructor, Xiel, stepped into the vacancy left by the dismissal."
"Fascinating. He took charge of the first-years after that and molded them into this?"
"So it would appear, Your Highness."
"A formidable talent." A sudden thought struck Dietrich, and he turned to his knight. "Could you look into him further and arrange a quiet meeting?"
"Of course, Your Highness. I shall instruct Sir Eton to investigate him alongside the matter of the man from that night."
"Very good."
The mysterious man from that dark night, and Xiel Steelheart, the humble elective instructor of the Sword School. Neither Dietrich nor Lelio dreamed for a moment that both figures were one and the same.
While the prince spoke, the third-years, caught in the vice between two opposing alliances, were systematically dismantled.
"Hold the line! Hold it!"
"Aken! Over here, give us a hand—gaah!"
"Sharon!"
Yet the third-years did not go down quietly. Despite their desperate plight, they dragged three of the fourth-years down with them—an opponent whose gap in seniority was narrow enough to contest. In the arena of Match 2, an elimination was registered the moment a combatant's back touched the earth. On top of the three eliminations, the third-years inflicted severe injuries on two others before Aken Kundel, fighting as their rearguard, finally succumbed. In their dying breath, the third-years had halved the fourth-year contingent's effective fighting strength.
"A valiant effort," Amos Kundel murmured.
The duke remained entirely composed as his second son fell, offering only a slight nod of approval. If anything, he esteemed the lad's composure in rallying his senses just before crashing against the veteran upperclassmen.
Meanwhile, across the faculty box, someone was taking it far less gracefully.
"Damn it all!"
Unable to contain her boiling fury, Professor Marchen shot up from her seat, her venomous glare drilling straight into Elcanto beside her. "Professor Elcanto, you treacherous..."
"Sit down, Professor Marchen," a measured voice interrupted.
Department Head Berhal stepped forward, his tone cool and warning. "Have you forgotten how many eyes are watching us?"
"...My apologies, Department Head."
Marchen sank back into her chair, seething inside with helpless indignation. With this collapse, the third-year class was all but guaranteed dead last in the overall standings.
'We're saved,' Elcanto thought, wiping a bead of nervous sweat from his brow. His second-years had finished fifth in Match 1, but now a golden opportunity had opened for them to leap to fourth—or perhaps even third. Still, the true contest for placement was only just beginning. Standing before them was the monolithic senior alliance of the fourth and fifth years. Though the fourth-years had lost half their numbers, their opposition was, after all, merely a coalition of underclassmen.
"Instructor Xiel," Elcanto whispered, leaning sideways with an anxious grimace, "will we truly be all right?"
Xiel replied without a trace of hesitation. "We cannot defeat that alliance."
Elcanto's heart sank. 'I knew it. Even Instructor Xiel can't perform miracles against—'
"However," Xiel added in the same flat cadence, "we will not be eliminated easily, either."
"Pardon?"
"You need only watch."
In the beginning, that absolute, unvarnished confidence had grated on Elcanto's nerves, striking him as sheer arrogance. Today, however, it resonated with the weight of unshakeable authority.
'Their melee training was sufficient,' Xiel thought as his gaze swept across the arena.
The first- and second-year alliance stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the senior ranks close the distance. A chaotic melee might resemble an indiscriminate brawl, but victory required a razor-sharp objective. And for the underclassmen, that objective was clear.
'The fourth-years.'
He had already driven the foundational rule into his students' heads: crush the weakest link first. The fourth-years, having just suffered severe attrition, were the obvious target. Furthermore, while the seniors marched under the banner of an alliance, the fifth- and fourth-years did not advance as an integrated formation. They simply occupied the same flank. Strategically, that meant the fourth-years could be isolated and broken before the fifth-years intervened.
Xiel's amber eyes narrowed, cataloging the opposing line in an instant. "The fourth-years' left flank is compromised."
It was the precise sector where the two wounded seniors stood.
Elcanto's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The moment Xiel's words faded, all ten first-year students broke into a unified sprint, hurtling directly toward that battered flank.
"All of them at once?!" Elcanto stammered.
"Concentrating our forces delivers far greater impact than a clumsy division of strength," Xiel remarked evenly.
Orthodox melee doctrine dictated splitting a unit into offensive and defensive echelons to guard against flank attacks, which was precisely how Elcanto had drilled his second-years. Yet Xiel's first-years charged as an indivisible mass, moving with the singular momentum of an iron spearhead.
'Wait, then what about our students...?'
The second-years hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by the sheer velocity of the charge, before instinctively surging forward in their wake. An absurd spectacle unfolded: the first-years spearheading the assault while the upperclassmen followed behind them as support.
The tactical payoff was immediate and brutal.
"Stay calm! Hold your ground!"
"You two wounded, fall back!"
"We can't! They're hammering us from the flank...!"
The fourth-years were formidable combatants, but the third-years' desperate stand had already claimed three of their comrades and maimed two more. On top of that, the first-years' onslaught possessed a ferocity that defied all expectation.
Clang! Cl-clang!
Blades collided in a flurry of sparks. Moving on the razor's edge, the first-years deflected incoming strikes with disciplined parries or agile evasions, fluidly transitioning into coordinated counterattacks.
Slash!
A senior holding the front line let out a sharp gasp as three synchronized strikes clipped his shoulder guard, parting the leather and drawing blood. "What in the world...?"
Flustered, the fourth-year swung his blade in a broad retaliatory arc, but Delev dropped low, rolling across the packed dirt to let the steel whistle harmlessly overhead. In that fraction of an opening, Anne darted inside the senior's guard, snapping the flat of her blade against his exposed wrist. The numbing impact sent his sword clattering to the arena floor.
Before the disarmed senior could recover his footing, a towering shadow engulfed him.
Quantus launched himself forward like a runaway boulder, throwing his entire bulk into a full-body tackle.
"Good heavens!"
"A fourth-year just...!"
Thud!
Dust billowed across the ring as the senior crashed flat onto his back. The first casualty of the clash had fallen—and it was a fourth-year student. Even the downed senior stared up at the sky, his expression frozen in dazed disbelief.
"It worked. It actually worked," Anne muttered, steadying her trembling hands as adrenaline surged through her veins.
It was exactly as their instructor had promised during their grueling melee drills: so long as three or more swarmed in unison with relentless coordination, even a fourth-year could be brought down.
"Keep your head, Anne," Celia said, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder before she could recklessly surge ahead alone. Celia tapped Delev next to her. "We're up."
"Right. I'll take the lead."
The heirs of the empire's greatest martial houses stepped forward in lockstep—the first-year class's premier prodigies, combining the crushing momentum of Heavy Swordsmanship with the lethal precision of the Swift Sword Style.
"Oho."
"Hmm."
In the elevated stands, Duke Kundel and Duke Rihardt sat a little straighter, their shoulders broadening beneath the weight of countless admiring glances.
'Show them what you are made of, my boy.'
'It had better be our daughter who delivers the finishing blow.'
Yurio fell into formation right alongside them. Up in an obscure corner of the pavilion, Lord Langle Harmattan watched with rapt, unblinking intensity, his entire world narrowing to the sight of his son's advancing figure.
Barely a heartbeat had elapsed since Quantus's tackle. Moving with seamless timing, Delev, Celia, and Yurio converged on the next target like a three-pronged spear.
Clang! Clang!
A fourth-year scrambled desperately to intercept them, his blade ringing against Delev's heavy cleave and Yurio's rapid strike, but...
Thwack!
"Ugh!"
He had no defense left for Celia's blinding thrust. Even as he strained every muscle to fend off Delev's crushing weight and Yurio's swift feints, Celia's blade found the seam at his thigh. The senior's leg gave out, dropping him hard onto one knee.
"Out of the way!"
A booming roar shattered the air as Quantus barreled in once more.
"..."
"...Are you serious?"
"Damn it, he swooped in at the end again..."
Blessed with a colossal physique, the boy's charging tackle carried the force of a battering ram, flattening the kneeling senior instantly into the dirt.
"Hahaha! Behold your leader!" Quantus crowed, hands on his hips.
The sight of him claiming two consecutive eliminations sent a sudden ripple of urgency through the rest of the first-years. Losing to seniors was one thing, but allowing this idiot to hoard the glory was intolerable.
"Woooaaah!"
"Go, first-years! Tear them apart!"
The spectator stands erupted in deafening cheers, their favor swinging decisively toward the underdogs. It was human nature to rally behind the weak when they defied all odds to topple the strong, and with the patriarchs of the realm's premier ducal houses watching from above, the crowd had every reason to roar.
"Remarkable," Dietrich murmured, his eyes alight. "For first-years to dismantle fourth-years so decisively..."
"Individual skill may favor the upperclassmen, Your Highness," Lelio replied, "but numerical superiority combined with flawless synchronization can bridge vast gaps. When three or four disciplined combatants converge on a single target, even a fourth-year must yield."
It was a principle that held true until one crossed into the realm of true monsters—the knights. For academy undergraduates, coordinated numbers remained an overwhelming force.
'Yet breaching the fifth-years will not be so simple,' Lelio noted internally.
The fourth-years' predicament had worsened drastically. Plunged into disarray, they had surrendered two more students, leaving only five standing—two of whom were nursing injuries. And yet, their supposed allies showed no sign of moving.
"What in the blazes are the fifth-years doing?!" a fourth-year spat, clutching his side.
The fifth-year squad stood in aloof detachment across the ring, watching the slaughter like disinterested spectators. From their perspective, it was the only rational play. Every student outside their own rank was an obstacle to be eliminated. Rather than expending stamina to help the fourth-years sweep the underclassmen only to fight them afterward...
"They intend to let the first- and fourth-years bleed each other dry, then mop up whatever remains," Lelio observed.
In Match 2, alliances were merely temporary conveniences. And that reality was not lost on the first-years, either.
"We take the next one—" Anne began, raising her wooden blade, but Delev reached out and grabbed her wrist.
"Hold on, Anne. We shouldn't be doing all the heavy lifting." Glancing over his shoulder at the second-years trailing behind them, Delev pitched his voice low. "It's time to make our allies earn their keep."
"Ah."
Celia nodded in swift agreement. "Delev is right. We managed to bring down two, but five seniors fighting with their backs against the wall won't go down without taking some of us with them."
Understanding immediately, Anne turned toward Quantus, who was dusting off his knees. "Leader, time for a tactical withdrawal."
"Eh? What does that—"
"Keep your voice down! The second-years will hear you," Anne hissed through her teeth. "The fourth-years are regrouping for a countercharge. They're about to throw everything they have at us, so we fall back."
"Right. I have no idea what you're scheming, Anne, but if you say so, I'm with you."
Step by cautious step, the first-years began drifting backward just as the desperate fourth-years braced to counterattack.
"Seniors, please fight with us!" Anne suddenly cried out in an earnest, ringing voice, waving toward the second-years. "We are allies, aren't we?!"
"Wait, what?"
Riding the high of the first-years' momentum, the second-years had been surging forward to join the fray. But the instant they crossed the threshold, the first-years neatly parted, slipping past their flanks and retreating behind them.
"Huh?"
Before the second-years could process the maneuver, the first-years had completely vanished from the front line, leaving the second-years standing face-to-face with the charging fourth-years.
'What the hell just happened?!'
"Take as many of them down as you can! Charge!"
With a desperate battle cry, the fourth-years slammed directly into the second-years. A brutal clash erupted at the center of the ring, with the first-years safely entrenched behind the second-years and the fifth-years looking on from afar.
"Well, well," Department Head Berhal chuckled heartily, shaking his head. "This is unfolding entirely contrary to everyone's expectations."
The faculty box presented a gallery of conflicting expressions.
Professor Marchen, supervisor of the third-years, sat with her head buried in her hands, consumed by silent humiliation.
Professor Idel, supervisor of the fourth-years, wore a hollow, shell-shocked stare as he watched over half his class get culled in mere minutes.
Professor Elcanto, supervisor of the second-years, wrung his hands, anxiously tracking the brawl his students had just been shoved into.
And Professor Isabella, supervisor of the fifth-years, watched with a serene, amused smile, thoroughly enjoying the show.
Yet among them all, one man looked past the immediate chaos toward a far grander horizon.
'Instructor Xiel.'
The man who had plunged Match 2 into this glorious, unpredictable mayhem—Xiel Steelheart.
'He has certainly left an indelible impression today,' Berhal thought.
The grandees of the empire, including the heads of the two foremost ducal houses attending as proud parents; the commanders and chief scouts of prestigious imperial knight orders; and above all...
'Prince Dietrich himself is watching him with keen interest.'
An ambitious imperial prince, forever thirsting for exceptional talent. Even if the match ended this very second, the prestige showered upon the first-year class would be unprecedented. Yet Xiel's calm, steady gaze suggested he had set his sights on something far greater.
'The real storm will hit once this exchange event concludes.'
Berhal's lips curved into an intrigued smile as he pondered the administrative battles ahead. 'A standard salary incentive won't come close to being enough. Just what will it take to keep a man like him bound to this academy?'