Does This Training Make Any Sense? (1)

Dagger throwing was one of the traditional pastimes of the Valdrain Empire.

Because it was considered traditional, far more people avoided it than actually played it nowadays. Even so, it had once been an amusement enjoyed across classes, by nobles and commoners alike, and a small pocket of students still kept the hobby alive.

It's a lot harder than it looks, after all.

Draco, the operator of the game booth and vice president of the Sword Love Research Society, smirked inwardly, convinced he had hooked another easy mark. Gambling was always like that. Some people took a loss or two and walked away clean, while others grew obsessed over the coin they had already sunk, continuing to throw good money after bad until their purses were hollowed out.

Judging by his face, he's definitely the second type.

Draco handed Ziel three throwing daggers with sharpened tips.

"Three throws per round."

"And if I hit all three?"

"Six cel."

One round cost a single cel. In theory, hitting all three targets yielded a sixfold return of six cel. The trouble was that most patrons failed to win back even their initial one-cel stake, let alone take home six. For anyone without prior experience, striking a target situated more than thirty meters away bordered on impossible. It wasn't as though the target was large, either; it was barely the size of an open palm.

"If you play it safe and hit the outer ring, you'll earn one cel and five liom. Even if you miss entirely, you'll still walk away with a prize."

"What is the prize?"

"See that blue booth over there? You can exchange your ticket for a small trinket."

Naturally, it would be a cheap, worthless trinket.

He's an instructor, so he's bound to have deep pockets.

In truth, the club wasn't setting out to fleece students ruthlessly. The wager was only a single cel. How much profit could anyone wring from that? While it might be a significant sum to a commoner, the overwhelming majority of the Sword School's entrants were nobles. To most of them, parting with a cel was like flicking away dust.

"Three daggers, then."

Ziel weighed the blades in his hand and stepped up to the throwing line. The mark was a modest wooden placard, upon which a red circle roughly half its size had been painted dead center.

"I throw from here?"

"That's right. Right behind that line. You don't necessarily have to hit the red circle, either. All you have to do is knock the board over."

Draco grinned widely.

Good luck with that. Throwing daggers is nowhere near as simple as it looks.

Propelling a projectile with pinpoint accuracy wasn't something a person mastered merely by boosting their physical traits with mana. Enhanced senses might accelerate the learning curve, and focused concentration might steady one's aim, but a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠complete novice was never brilliant right out of the gate. Unless, of course, they possessed freakish, innate precision from the very beginning.

Dagger throwing was essentially an eccentric parlor trick. How many people in their everyday lives ever needed to hurl knives across a field? Unless their profession explicitly demanded it, of course.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Hit the closest board and make your money back! Miss entirely and still take home a prize! You there, freshmen heading that way! Come try your hand! Come on over!"

While Draco barked to drum up a crowd, Ziel adjusted his grip on the first dagger.

Whoosh—

Thwack!

Cast with an utter lack of hesitation, the dagger struck home. Dead center on the placard. Right in the middle of the crimson bullseye.

"...Huh?"

Draco casually turned his head, then blinked in disbelief. The wooden target had toppled backward. Across the booth, another club member scrambled to his feet, eyes wide.

"H-He hit it?"

The attendant quickly set the target back upright.

Whoosh, thunk!

Without a second's delay, the second blade flew true. This time, the problem wasn't the target board.

It had struck the pommel of the first dagger.

"..."

Draco's jaw went slack.

Then came the third.

Whoosh, crack!

The third dagger slammed flush into the pommel of the second.

Three daggers were now linked in a straight horizontal line, the tip of each impaling the base of the previous blade.

That's impossible.

A strangled squeak escaped Draco's throat.

"Uh... b-but..."

Ziel pointed calmly toward the target.

"I hit all three. That makes six cel."

"Well... er..."

"I hit the daggers themselves, but I trust that still counts."

Ziel extended an open palm.

"Six cel. I will take my winnings."

A few moments later, Ziel held five wooden skewers in his hands. Every variety of grilled meat was represented, stacked high across five sticks.

"The second is quite good. The third is far too spicy."

Maintaining a severe, discerning expression, Ziel critiqued the flavors and assigned each skewer a personal rank. The classic salt-seasoned skewer took second place. The heavily spiced chili skewer took third. The finest of the lot was the one glazed with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sweet sauce—

Draco stared back and forth between the ruined target and the departing instructor in stunned bewilderment.

"How does that make any sense?"

The man had pocketed the cash and immediately bought food. Had he thrown those daggers with godlike precision just to buy snacks? Yet that wasn't even the most baffling part.

"How can someone even do that?"

Splitting one pommel with another meant throwing each subsequent blade along the exact same trajectory, with identical force, angle, and spin, down to the millimeter. Not a single degree of variance.

He's out of his mind.

To be fair, Draco had designed the booth with the full intention of being cursed out by frustrated patrons. But to see the game broken like this... How on earth?

"Did he spend his entire life doing nothing but tossing knives?"

Occasionally, people like that did exist. Individuals passed over in the succession struggles of noble houses who retreated into hyper-fixated hobbies. Take Rata Rihardt, for instance, who had forfeited ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his claim as fourth heir early on to pursue culinary arts, ultimately becoming the owner of the empire's most renowned restaurant. Perhaps this general education instructor was cut from the same cloth.

Wait...

A faint memory flickered in Draco's mind.

A few years ago, an open dagger-throwing contest had been held in the imperial capital. A mysterious man had stunned the audience by lodging ten consecutive daggers directly into the pommels of the preceding blades, sweeping the grand championship before vanishing without a trace. No one had known his name, and his face had been obscured.

Could it be...?

Right at that moment, a voice broke his reverie.

"Here is one cel. I would like to go again."

Draco looked up. Ziel stood before the counter once more, clutching five empty wooden skewers.

He finished all of them already?!

"I need to eat more."

Draco's face crumbled into despair.

By that afternoon, word began circulating through the campus about a newly hired elective instructor who had utterly wiped out a student club's daily operating funds. Rumor also had it that the owner of the nearby skewer stall was grinning from ear to ear after registering record-breaking sales.

Professor Elcanto took a leisurely sip of his warm tea, a satisfied smirk spreading across his doughy cheeks.

"They'll have this Phantom fellow in chains before long. As well they should. Though an escape to a foreign power... if the rat slips over the border into Ferroso, that will be an enormous headache."

The Kingdom of Ferroso shared a tense, contested border with the Valdrain Empire. Relations were already frayed; should an assassin of Phantom's caliber offer fealty to the kingdom, it would trigger a geopolitical nightmare.

"Where is this country headed? Tsk, tsk, tsk."

His teaching assistant, quietly observing the professor's self-important tsking, cast a weary glance around the cluttered office.

If I weren't here cleaning up after you, this room would look like a landfill, Professor.

He should have seen the man's true colors before Elcanto secured his tenure. Back then, there hadn't been a more pleasant, accommodating gentleman in the entire academy. Perhaps Elcanto had only played nice because they had shared a similar low-ranking background.

"Assistant."

"Yes, Professor?"

"It's been about a week now, hasn't it? How is Instructor Ziel getting on?"

Today he's 'Instructor Ziel,' the assistant mused. Elcanto's manner of address swung wildly between 'that bastard' and 'Instructor,' depending on his mood.

"Nothing out of the ordinary seems to have occurred, sir. Even when asking the students directly, there haven't been any complaints."

"Is that so? Handling things smoothly, then."

The assistant wasn't sure if Ziel was truly doing well or if the students simply lacked the breath to complain.

Still, no grievances filed means no problems for us, right?

Objectively speaking, it would have been entirely natural for complaints to arise. Ziel had repeatedly floored an esteemed noble student dozens of times in the very first class, then strapped sandbags to the first-years and run them into the dirt. It wasn't as though he had threatened them into silence, so...

Could he actually be an exceptional teacher?

"Speaking of Instructor Ziel, haven't you heard any curious rumors?"

"Rumors, sir?"

"You know what I mean. Backing. Who might be pulling the strings behind the scenes..."

"I haven't heard anything of the sort."

"Ahem. There has to be something, I tell you. Someone is backing him. The question is who... Could it be House Rihardt? House Kundel has been losing political ground lately. Perhaps that's why the Kundels stayed silent after their scion was humiliated?"

"It didn't appear that student Deleve reported the incident to his family."

"Ah. Really? Hmm... Then who could it be?"

Elcanto tilted his head in contemplation, his small eyes suddenly bulging in revelation.

"Could it be...?"

"Sir?"

"T-The Imperial Household?!"

"..."

The assistant sighed in the quiet recesses of his mind.

How on earth did your mind leap all the way there?

"Yes, that would make sense! I heard the Imperial Palace has been quietly sponsoring minor and fallen noble houses rather than the Great Families lately. I knew it! It all adds up! It's the Imperial Family, without a doubt!"

"Ah, yes, sir..."

"Assistant."

Crunch!

Elcanto bit into a buttery biscuit.

"Find a moment when Instructor Ziel has some free time and gently sound him out."

"What should I ask him?"

"Inquire about where he hails from. Naturally, don't ask outright. Keep it subtle, understand?"

Why don't you do it yourself?

"Understood, sir."

"My word, these biscuits are delightful. Just one more, and that's it."

I wouldn't mind having one of those biscuits myself, you know, the assistant thought, watching the plate dwindle. Weren't you supposed to be on a strict diet?

Swallowing his grievances, the assistant refocused on his broom. For some reason, the dust seemed exceptionally thick today.

It was the second week of the self-defense curriculum.

Today's lecture took place inside the cavernous Sword School gymnasium, the same venue where the endurance run had been held.

"Ugh, my calves are still trembling."

"I'm going to die. Seriously. He said we have to run even farther this week."

"Want to hear something truly horrifying? We haven't even started today's self-defense practical yet."

"Damn it all..."

The stormy memories of the introductory class and the grueling long-distance run remained vivid in the students' minds. Yet the greatest lingering apprehension hovered over the self-defense portion.

Is Deleve going to get tossed around again today?

It looks like he didn't run home to his father, at least.

Watching the youngest son of the prestigious Kundel family get smashed into the wooden boards dozens of times had left a lasting impression. Looking back, Deleve had been equally unhinged to keep charging the instructor after suffering that many bone-rattling throws.

Today, Deleve stood silently among the ranks, his gaze locked forward.

"Deleve."

When Kus called out, Deleve turned his head. Kus flinched involuntarily.

A glint resembling feverish madness flickered in Deleve's bloodshot eyes.

Did he completely lose his mind after that first beating...?

Kus knew well how stubborn Deleve's pride was. He knew how bitterly the boy hated defeat, and the crushing family expectations he carried on his shoulders upon enrolling at Edelbein.

"Deleve, are you holding up alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine at all..."

Deleve hadn't collapsed after the self-defense trial; he had been bedridden for two full days following the 'Healthy Body and Physical Strength' course. Stripped of mana reinforcement and weighted down by heavy sandbags, he had sprinted until his heart nearly gave out.

"Kus."

"Yeah?"

"Instructor Ziel."

"Instructor?"

Kus paused. Deleve hadn't sneered or called the man an elective teacher; he had used the respectful title of instructor.

"Uh... what about him?"

"What kind of life do you think he lived before coming here?"

It was a question Kus had vaguely pondered as well. Before he could offer a theory, the heavy gymnasium doors swung open and Ziel entered.

"I will now take roll."

His voice was, as always, entirely devoid of inflection or emotion. At the sight of his calm, chiseled visage, several students stared in a daze. Most of them were young noblewomen.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Celia Rihardt."

"Present, Instructor."

"Karen Aswan."

"..."

"Student Karen Aswan. Are you unwell?"

"Ah, n-no, sir!"

Ziel stepped closer, studying Karen's face with detached scrutiny.

"Your complexion is flushed."

"Th-That's just..."

Startled by his proximity, Karen squeezed her eyes shut and dipped her head. Ziel stared for a moment longer before speaking.

"Have you been exposed to poison?"

"...Pardon?"

"Speak if you require an antidote."

Leaving the girl bewildered, Ziel moved down the roster to call the remaining names. Karen stood frozen, turning his absurd question over in her head without ever finding a logical conclusion. While the other students shared similar looks of bemusement, one particular young woman watched the exchange with a distinct, searching gaze.

Why didn't he come check on me?

It was Celia Rihardt.

"All present," Ziel stated.

No special attention was granted to her.

"I will now outline today's self-defense curriculum."

The students straightened their postures, their focus remarkably sharp. Having endured the trial by fire of the past week, their attitude toward Ziel was completely transformed. During the previous self-defense session, he had neutralized Deleve dozens of times with impossible economy of motion. In the subsequent endurance run, he had traversed endless laps without shedding a single drop of sweat, even as the rest of the class lay sprawled on the ground vomiting bile.

Some claimed he must have secretly circulated mana, but anyone with martial training knew that even with mana reinforcement, running that distance without a bead of sweat was unheard of for their age group.

He operated in an entirely different weight class.

That reality had been firmly hammered into their heads. In just seven days, an unassuming elective instructor whom nobody took seriously had completely shattered their preconceptions.

"As demonstrated last week, self-defense is an essential method for neutralizing unexpected ambushes, surprise attacks, and strikes launched from one's blind spots."

Ziel swept his dark eyes across the gathered cadets.

"Reacting effectively to a surprise attack is far from simple. Therefore, today's lesson will focus on honing your reflexive defensive instincts. Spread out with five meters of clearance to your front, rear, left, and right."

The students promptly obeyed, shifting across the polished floorboards until proper intervals were established. They glanced nervously at one another, wondering what kind of ordeal awaited them.

"The objective from this point onward is straightforward. You must defend against random, unannounced ambushes directed at one of you—or several of you simultaneously."

It was an exercise Ziel had performed hundreds of times himself.

During his days in the Organization's assassin conditioning program, dozens of trainees would be gathered in a confined room, tasked with fending off unprompted lethal strikes from the instructors. The current curriculum was laughably mild by comparison. He carried no real daggers, and failure wouldn't result in severed tendons or missing chunks of flesh.

"Does that training make any sense at all?"

A hand shot into the air.

It was Maris Sophen.

He was the student caught cheating with mana during the endurance run, and he had harbored a bitter grudge against Ziel ever since being put in his place.

"Student Maris Sophen. Which part of the exercise strikes you as nonsensical?"

"No matter how skilled you are, there are forty of us and only one of you, sir. We may only be first-years, but we are still cadets of the Edelbein Sword School."

Ziel regarded Maris calmly. A practical pedagogical concept from the instructional manual he had borrowed from the library yesterday crossed his mind.

Stimulating a healthy sense of rivalry among students is often an effective teaching tool.

"Very well," Ziel announced smoothly. "If even a single student successfully repels my ambush, class will be dismissed immediately."

The cadets' eyes instantly narrowed with sharp, competitive fire.

"In addition," Ziel added, "the student who succeeds will be awarded a Praise Card."