Peace Hall's Gray Flower Garden
On the southwestern edge of the Imperial Academy grounds stood a building called Peace Hall. To put it kindly, it was vintage; unkindly, rundown. It wasn't particularly flashy or grand. But add a dose of history to such an unremarkable structure, and the impression shifted entirely. Of course, the academy itself was less than a century old—a facility so young that even non-elves might outlive it. Yet that relatively brief history didn't diminish the weight of its name: "present from the very beginning."
It had existed before the academy's founding, hosted the declaration of its establishment, and welcomed its first students. Amid decades of renovations and demolitions, Peace Hall had undergone only the bare minimum of maintenance, preserving its original form. In short, it was the academy's most traditional building. Naturally, it served as the stage for every major event. Today, for the opening ceremony marking the new semester and welcoming freshmen, it was, of course, packed with people.
"Once again, we welcome our new students—"
Peace Hall was a long rectangle, with a stage at the front. In essence, it resembled the auditoriums I'd seen plenty of in my past life. But seeing it up close, it felt less like a lecture hall and more like a church chapel. Maybe because of the stained glass on the side walls, or the long pew-like chairs where the students sat—familiar from church services.
And rippling between those chairs was a sea of gray.
The academy's official uniform, based on Imperial Army fatigues. There was no strict rule mandating it, so students usually wore casual clothes day-to-day. But for formal events like this, it was the polite choice, the dress code. Unless someone was hopelessly eccentric or utterly shameless, they just wore the uniform without fuss. For similar reasons, I and the other faculty were all dressed in crisp Imperial Army uniforms.
Not a sea, though—more like a flower garden?
Even amid that monochromatic expanse, it didn't feel drab. Less a gray ocean, more a gray garden bursting with countless flowers. First reason: the riot of colorful hair spilling everywhere. Second: every single one of those identically dressed girls sitting side by side was a beauty or a cutie.
The academy was an all-girls school. Not because of some discriminatory "no boys in the army!" nonsense, but for a far more fundamental reason. Men couldn't wield aura or mana. That was probably the biggest cause of this world's gender role reversal. Anyway, no men admitted to the academy. What point was there in an institution training people to surpass human limits if they couldn't learn the core techniques to do so?
From my perspective, though, it was all good.
I sat in the seats reserved for faculty—off to the side, like where a choir loft might be in a church—scanning the students one by one. Hundreds from first- to third-year, all gathered closely together.
"……."
Of course, some stood out more than others.
The Second Princess, sitting with the third-years. A beauty with neatly trimmed purple hair just like her mother's. Her gentler impression compared to His Majesty's, and her lower body still a bit underdeveloped next to those artistic royal hips, were minor flaws… but unavoidable. It wasn't that the Second Princess lacked; Her Majesty was simply extraordinary. Staring too openly at imperial family members was rude, so I quickly shifted my gaze.
It landed next, inevitably, on the Croi-Treta Union's Third Princess—a freshman this year. But she was scrawny all around. Tall and slender. On Earth, she'd be called model-slim, but here, that body type didn't score high marks. For starters, her chest was flat—fatally so. Sure, bigger didn't always mean more milk, but the widespread notion here mirrored Earth's: "bigger breasts probably mean more milk."
Unlike Earth, though, women in this world were expected to literally "feed the family." In such a society, being seen as deficient in "nurturing the young" was a massive demerit—no need to elaborate. Conversely, a wet nurse was a source of immense pride for women: a symbol of alpha-femaleness, overflowing with milk to spare after feeding her own.
Feeling guilty for staring at what might be her complex, I averted my eyes quickly. And there, my gaze locked in place.
Truth be told, I'd observed her repeatedly since the ceremony began, yet I failed to ignore her again. This wasn't a lapse in my mental fortitude. In a sea of prim gray uniforms, who could tear their eyes from a tattooed leopard-bikini brown-skinned beauty queen? …Yeah. Bikini. She wore skin-tight pants over the bottoms, but the side-straps rode up her hips visibly. A fur coat draped over it all, but with the front flung wide open, rendering it pointless.
Most people just wore the uniform without fuss. But conversely, there was no rule stopping an utterly shameless lunatic from dressing uniquely. And Groomha County's heir, Riley Tiwe Kuntak, was a textbook Groomhan—"shameless lunatic" by Imperial standards.
By this world's values, though, it wasn't "lewd" attire. Translated to my mindset, it was like a barbarian baring his chest and draping beast pelts in an all-male space. Rude and savage, sure, but not quite public indecency. The strongest reaction might be "heavens, how vulgar"; most would just sigh, "ugh, can't even follow the dress code."
That was how locals saw it. To me, it was pure eye-magnet indecency. Without three years acclimating to female bodies in the army, I'd have been muttering "oooh, that body…" in a daze from the sheer impact.
"……!"
Caught staring blankly, our eyes met. I feigned nonchalance and glanced away. Even if she noticed, she wouldn't think it "that kind" of look. Back when I first arrived, I'd worried about it a lot… but people here rarely even conceived of same-sex attraction. Not a matter of culture or taste—it was legally and ethically forbidden.
I kept my composure, eyes back on the stage. The dean had yielded to Captain Yael Jeffrison. Newly appointed as professor, she was greeting the students and sharing her aspirations.
"I'd also appreciate your applause for Yura Konstantia… Lieutenant, who'll assist in my classes."
She wrapped up mentioning my name. As briefed beforehand, I stood, gave the students a light bow, and sat. I straightened my cane, leaning awkwardly against my injured leg. My role was done. In a full assembly like this, what was a mere TA supposed to do mid-event besides prep? Now I just had to sit tight until it ended, then stroll back to the dorms.
"Long time no see, Lieutenant."
…Or so I thought.
"Yes, Your Highness. I heard you summoned me."
Why the hell was I stuck in a one-on-one with the princess instead of heading back…?
×
The Second Princess of the Angras Empire, Tina Beal Angras, was a sword. She dared not possess a self. She had lived a life where she mustn't.
As the other heir to the throne, just two years younger than the crown princess, she had no choice. To survive, she had groveled belly-flat, desperately signaling zero interest in the crown. Her sister the crown princess suffered no small paranoia—and Tina knew it best.
"Mother, please allow me to enroll in the academy."
Two years ago, entering the academy had been part of that. She had decent magical talent, so she'd leverage it to live quietly as army fodder—a sword wielded by the imperial will, not a person. She'd thrashed and shouted as much.
The idea wasn't bad. Her mother, as emperor, fretted over succession anyway and approved readily; her sister even dropped her suspicions, welcoming the choice.
"Huh?"
…Until the military coup.
She'd fled politics for the army, only for it to become the epicenter of political strife. For Tina, that alone was maddening. Worse, those rebel officers—fellow "future soldiers" and royals—arbitrarily propped her up.
"Don't talk nonsense! I have zero interest in the throne…!"
"But the Prime Minister seems quite interested in you, Your Highness."
"What kind of insane…"
Of course, her opinion was ignored. The rebels needed only her title as princess. Once they sensed her cooperation at rock bottom, it turned to outright kidnapping and confinement. Ignorant of some far-off island nation's ways, they unwittingly revived an isekai tradition through military camaraderie. Unintended, but they'd decided to make Tina a trophy for legitimacy—a royal seal-stamping machine.
Game over. Her paths forward: puppet CEO for life in rebel hands, or noose as ringleader.
That she still had her head was thanks to the emperor's trust and maternal love. My daughter wouldn't be swayed by power lust. On that faith alone, a rescue op launched, and Tina miraculously cleared her name.
Though Sis still seems half-suspicious…
That depended on her future conduct. From that nightmare, this was the best outcome possible.
"Sorry to pull you away when you're busy. But I really wanted to greet you after so long…"
"Not at all. I'm not that swamped, and it's an honor."
Now, Tina Beal Angras faced again the one whose hand she'd reached for that day.
"I heard you'll teach third-year classes too."
"Yes. Major Alparia’s ‘Battlefield Magic Engineering’."
"Ah, that fits perfectly."
Hero of the empire as princess, lifesaver as individual. She'd be lying to say she hadn't wanted to see Konstantia. Yet seeking her out first spelled trouble. Already under her sister's needless suspicion, cozying up to an active-duty war hero—especially one Sis coveted—was unwise.
So inwardly, Tina thanked Groomha's barbarian. Sure, it sparked suspicions of ulterior motives up top, but it got Konstantia assigned here. Student-teacher pretenses let them meet like this…
"Should I call you ‘professor’ now?"
"Professor… probably not."
"Right. Then TA it is."
The cheeky rogue band in her rescue—the Imperial Army’s 2nd Combat Military Band. Tina still vividly recalled that day’s drumming. Intense memory, and barely over a year old.
Tina smiled faintly, extending her hand like a handshake.
"Anyway, looking forward to working with you."
×
"Mm."
Expectations from royalty. …Just stringing words together, and it's already brutal? How do I get this on day one, before even starting classes?
No. ‘Looking forward’ means the disappointment will be huge if I fall short…
Direct contempt chance from royalty? My eyes widened at the sudden idea. Just tank the class on purpose…!
…Won’t end at contempt, huh?
The fantasy lasted five seconds. They didn’t drag any band grunt; they pulled from frontline active duty to match the caliber for a class with royalty. Screwing up publicly there? Contempt might upgrade to clan execution.
I reaffirmed my resolve: just do my job diligently.
But… the imperial family is scary…