The Academy's Greatest Speech
Seat gave a dramatic shout that echoed across the training grounds. "Come on, come on, come on! Don't fall behind, Cuthbert!"
"Hee-aaah!!"
Cuthbert answered with a thunderous battle cry, his voice booming like a war horn. Yet when Cesset glanced back, she saw the same old truth: no matter how loud the roar, the horse never sped up. Cuthbert was already drifting farther from the main group, arms straining as he urged his mount forward. The animal's flanks heaved with labored breaths, each stride slower than the last.
"He must be exhausted. Let's give him a short rest," Cesset suggested calmly.
The other students exchanged relieved glances, but the moment the words left her mouth their expressions hardened into grim determination. They straightened their spines and spoke with solemn conviction.
"No. Victory demands endless effort. I am thirsty for victory."
"I can still go on. I am always ready."
"I am not tired yet. Everyone else can do it."
Cesset watched them with cool, unyielding eyes. Their speeches were clearly memorized, each one laced with self-aggrandizing flair that felt painfully artificial. Even if their hearts were in the right place, they came across as nothing more than eager show-offs trying to impress the one person who mattered most: Aria.
Diana's prediction had been spot-on. The students who joined the session with pure ambition pushed themselves harder than anyone else, their personal schedules be damned. Even Aria, who normally stayed quiet and reserved, threw herself into the training with genuine enthusiasm. Her determination was infectious, and her results were outstanding.
Yet overdoing it carried its own risks. Running drills was never just about speed; the rider consumed stamina too, but the horse bore the heavier burden. Full-speed mounted maneuvers fatigued the animal far faster than the rider. Cuthbert's mount was already wheezing, lungs burning like bellows.
Those large, round eyes stared back at Cesset, as if silently pleading for mercy. The space required for mounted training was enormous. Private drills with borrowed mounts were one thing, but team exercises demanded wide, open grounds free of obstacles. The academy was vast, yet shared space remained scarce to avoid damage to other facilities.
Classes therefore took turns using the grounds on a strict schedule. Limited time meant everyone trained with extra intensity when they finally gathered. Still, the real problem was the horses themselves. Maintaining their condition was vital—if one was injured, the entire session became a disaster.
Cesset finally halted the drill to protect the mounts. Whispers of complaint rippled through the group, but everyone knew better than to voice them openly. They were all thinking of Aria, so their protests stayed polite even as they longed for rest.
Only days remained until the competition. As a pure mage with exceptional tactical instincts, Cesset trusted her judgment completely. Her team's results were solid. Other classes, however, spoke of raging internal conflicts and students skipping sessions because their personal schedules clashed. Compared to them, Team 7's progress was enviable. Yet Cesset knew something was missing—a decisive counterplay.
Full-team events were unavoidable, but the ten-person small-scale mounted combat required perfect individual skill. Here, the ace was Aria. Her personal ability and riding technique were outstanding. The other students, though, were simply not at that level.
Team A had hand-selected their roster, so it was only fair that Team 7 fell short without a true ace. Zeroa was the only one with decent basic horsemanship, reading the horses like an open book and calming the others' mounts with calm authority. Still, the team needed something more than a trainer. It needed riders who could actually ride.
"It would be perfect if Her Highness the Princess joined us," Cesset said wistfully.
Emilia laughed softly, her voice like warm honey. "Oh my, compared to the rest of you, I'm practically crawling on all fours."
She never participated in the mounted events for safety's sake, yet she had appeared at every session to cheer the students on. Her gentle presence was both sincere and, in truth, inevitable. As the imperial princess, she simply ranked below the trained warriors gathering to become knights.
"If we placed the princess at the front and charged, wouldn't that be considered treason? Winning would be certain, right?" Cesset teased, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Hahaha, no way! Father would scold me severely."
Emilia shook her head, still smiling. Their banter had grown comfortable after she transferred to the same class last year. Now they traded jokes like old friends.
"Here's a cool towel for you."
"Thank you! This towel will become a family heirloom for my future children!"
"A towel is just a towel. The family's glory belongs to Cuthbert."
"Princess, please take it! I'll pass it around!"
"No, it's fine. Everyone is working hard, so even this small thing is something I can do."
Emilia was far more than Cesset's close friend. Her genuine sociability had earned her the trust of every student, from the top brass to the lowest cadet. She moved among them like a breeze, warm and approachable.
The training atmosphere was joyful, yet not everyone felt the same. The good mood was fragile.
"Are you joking?!"
"No! It's not a joke—I really can't do it!"
Philia and Aslan were shouting at each other, voices rising in perfect unison. Philia, normally the picture of calm and diligence, had never shown this level of frustration before. The students watching from the sidelines nodded in understanding, hearts aching with her.
"Agnes-sama said it over and over! Match the horse's rhythm!"
"I did! But this is how it turned out!"
Between Diana and Philia, the one who rode the best was clear—Diana had always been natural, while Philia had received private lessons from Agnes after moving into Rye's residence. Her skill had skyrocketed the moment they met. Aslan, who lived in the same house, had not improved in the slightest despite Philia's patient efforts.
Even when Philia demonstrated the mounted charge, Aslan's form remained clumsy and uncoordinated. No matter how many times she corrected him, he refused to listen.
"Watch. If you can't catch the rhythm, bend the horse's leg to feel the timing, then lift."
Philia demonstrated with perfect form, launching into a mounted charge that looked almost ethereal. The movement was clean, economical, like one being with the horse itself. Aslan watched, mesmerized, then copied her motion.
"Now I get it. I just have to pull?"
"Exactly. Feel the force the horse pushes off the ground and pull with your second motion."
"Got it."
Aslan nodded and charged. Eyes fixed only on the horse's legs, he poured every ounce of strength into his arms. His thighs clamped down on the saddle with brutal force, and the horse rose into the air as if obeying his will alone.
"Eh?"
Aslan let out a startled sound. He had not leaped with the rhythm; he had simply hoisted the entire horse by raw physical power. Of course the horse panicked, thrashing wildly in mid-air before slamming to the ground with a thunderous thud.
"Whoa, almost died there."
Fortunately the horse was unharmed, but Philia's expression told a different story. She was smiling in a way that sent chills down Aslan's spine.
"Watch again. This is a mounted charge."
Philia thrust her spear forward and charged straight at him, her form flawless. Aslan stumbled backward, muttering, "Damn it, complaining like a horse that can't be ridden."
Evening found him still grumbling about the unfairness. Even at midnight he kept practicing, alone, in an awkward stance. Black Horse munched hay nearby, watching with undisguised disdain, but Aslan ignored the horse's judgment. He had done it too many times to count.
Instead he repeated the posture Agnes had taught him, even though the training horses were unavailable.
"You pooping?"
Rye strolled over holding two beer mugs. One he drank; the other he poured into Black Horse's trough. The horse whinnied happily and tossed its head. Rye was not alone—Agnes had arrived on Tora, her unicorn mount steady as stone despite the uneven ground.
Two people and two horses sat around Aslan like spectators. He felt ridiculous, neither eating nor resting, forced into an awkward pose. The mood was far from enjoyable.
"If you're here to mock me, just leave."
"How can I leave when this is such great entertainment?"
"Bend your knees a little more," Agnes suggested helpfully, clearly there to train him.
Aslan lowered his stance and asked, "Is there any magic that lets you ride well?"
"Can you use two spell formulas?"
Rye took a swig and laughed. Mounted charges demanded mana flow that exploded outward in a single burst. Spell formulas were no different—mental strength was still consumed, and adding a third would be beyond Aslan's limit.
"It's fine. With more practice I can do it."
"No, no way. That guy's hopeless."
Agnes encouraged him, but Rye only laughed harder. Aslan's temper flared.
"I will force myself to do it!"
He glared at Rye, every muscle tensed.
"You think I don't know what's wrong?"
"I can't ride. Yeah, I'm garbage, just like Sierra-sensei said."
"No. That's not the main issue. There's something bigger."
Aslan fell silent, eyes widening in genuine surprise. When Rye spoke like this, something serious was coming. The playful glint vanished; his gaze turned serious. He finally answered.
"You're the same as Mia. Your talent has become the problem."
Aslan frowned, puzzled. Agnes glanced at him, hesitating. She knew his exact flaw too well, yet something held her back. When it came to his future, she wasn't sure this was the right answer. She had kept silent until now.
"Aslan, your physical strength is greater than everyone else's. That's why you can't match the horse's rhythm."
Aslan had heard it before and felt no shock. He had tried everything—rhythm, breathing, timing. The results had never improved. While others mastered the basics effortlessly, he could only perform at a level his body already allowed. The frustration was crushing.
Agnes paused, staring at the beer mug in her hand. Then she looked up.
"The solution is actually simple. If your body is too strong for the horse to keep up, just ride a better horse."
Simple. The answer was so straightforward it almost hurt. If raw power caused the mismatch, stronger horses would solve it. Much faster than waiting for Aslan to slowly improve his balance through training.
Yet Agnes had not mentioned the dangers. Having ridden Tora, she knew what it felt like to lose a horse in battle. Sometimes you had to steal one from the enemy. Proper training meant anticipating every scenario. But she had chosen her words carefully for Rye's sake.
She had agreed. If they kept using weaker horses, Aslan would never truly master riding. And with experience gained only through constant riding, the future looked bleak.
Aslan still didn't understand why Agnes hadn't given him the simple solution earlier. He had expected something profound. Instead he felt nothing but despair. The academy's best mounts were already claimed, leaving only the inferior ones for everyone else.
"Why the long face? The best horses in the academy are right here."
Rye grinned, offering his mug to Black Horse. The horse lunged forward, tongue lolling in frenzy. Aslan stared blankly.
Rye opened the fence gate. "I've already shown you how to tame them. Now man up and give it a proper try."
Aslan's lips curved into a small smile. Using his body was something he understood better than anything else.