Magical Combat Theory
The Imperial Academy's standard enrollment age is 19, barring exceptional circumstances. Considering imperial law treats anyone 16 and older as an adult, it's a rather ambiguous cutoff.
The reason for this peculiar age is straightforward. It's right around when conscripted commoners finish their national service obligation and get discharged. Instead of becoming reservists, they can stake their claim on one of two paths: applying to a non-commissioned officer school suited to their specialty, or enlisting in a military band school to become a band soldier.
Most opt for NCO promotion, with a tiny elite few jumping straight to officer training. This was once exclusive to band school grads, but last year's reforms opened band school slots to top performers from select branches.
But there's actually one more way to stake your claim. I said there were only two options earlier, but... the imperial military has a path you can't choose.
If you demonstrate superhuman talent as either a martial artist or mage during your three-year service, the academy doors swing open for knight training. That's the most common route for commoners entering the academy.
Of course, there are other ways in. Secure a recommendation and pass the review, and you're golden. Most nobles get in this way. No rule says commoners can't—nobles just have an easier time finding someone influential to write that letter.
Theoretically, a commoner could stumble into talent discovery and get recommended. But it's no easy feat. Those "stumbles" are rare, and most are drafted long before academy age anyway.
Sure, enlistment might get delayed a year here or there. But three years? Fat chance. So recommendation slots demand a service exemption—and most exemptions come with disqualifiers that bar you from regular units, let alone academy standards.
Thus, commoner recommends are exceptions among exceptions—a vanishingly rare handful. Like Beni, who beat miracle odds as the sole heir to four generations of only daughters.
In a pre-modern society where you start popping out kids ASAP, four-generation single heirs are already outliers. Add innate knight talent and someone spotting it? That's a miracle if ever there was one.
And that leads to one inevitable result.
"……."
Two days into her academy life, country girl Beni still hadn't made a single friend.
The official ceremony was two days back, but she'd been in the dorms longer. This was a crisis.
Sure, she was shy... but she'd tried approaching others. Especially fellow commoners—fewer of them, so maybe they'd bond tight.
She learned too late that greenhorns who skipped service weren't welcome as comrades.
"Hey, don't make eye contact. That's the frontwoman's lackey."
"Heard the Konstantia house wrote her rec."
They were oddly polite whenever she spoke up—no real hazing. But there was always this subtle distance. They clearly wanted no ties.
Eventually, Beni started keeping her own distance. And here they were.
She glanced around furtively.
Professor Yael Jeffrison's "Practical Magic Fundamentals" was mandatory first-year fare. The lecture hall fit the whole class... but it wasn't infinite. Full up, it'd be packed with a few seats spare.
...And those spares clustered suspiciously around Beni.
Anyone could see they were giving her space. She sighed inwardly.
"Oh, front row's wide open!"
"……!"
That's when it hit—a heavy something hurtling her way.
It whooshed past, thunking into the chair right beside her.
She jolted, whipping her head around.
A leather sack...?
Worn and crude, big enough for her slight frame to hug with both arms.
As Beni stared blankly, the thrower strode up and snatched it back.
"This seat free?"
"Uh, y-yeah..."
She jammed the sack under the desk, propped her spear next to it with her left hand, and plopped down rough.
A feral woman. Maybe "feral" was too kind.
Top half bare save a bra—or maybe a swimsuit-style one-piece. Red tattoos snaked over exposed skin; skintight jeans clung below. A pristine white fur coat draped the half-nude form—who knows why.
A barbarian...?
Picture-book savage incarnate. Wild black hair, dark skin—textbook.
She'd heard tales of beautiful, brutal tribes in the empire's eastern fringe, beyond the sea. Beni dimly recalled.
"Riley."
"Uh, what? Oh, right—yes?"
"Imperials introduce themselves on meeting. You?"
The self-proclaimed Riley grinned, extending a hand gloved in black half-gauntlets—spear-handling gear, probably.
"B-Beni."
"Ah! Heard about you here! You're tight with Konstantia, right?"
Awkward handshake exchanged, and Riley's eyes lit up.
"N-Not really..."
"We respect great warriors. Make time for us sometime!"
"N-No, it's just..."
We just happened to walk together once.
Beni opened her mouth to clarify—but the front door slid open with a rattle. In strode Lieutenant Yael, white professor's robe over uniform.
Behind her, another soldier. Tapping a dark brown cane precisely—professional habit, keeping perfect rhythm.
Yura Konstantia entered, shut the door. Yael took the podium; Yura posted to the side, clear of the board.
"Headcount checks out. Skipping roll call—straight to lecture."
The front clock ticked to the hour.
"Plenty of you aspire to martial knighthood—pure fighters."
I, Yura Konstantia, came to the academy as a band soldier. Beatkeeper duty: helping students sync rhythms for magic drills.
In pure theory lectures like this? My workload trends to zero.
"You might wonder why this is mandatory—why fighters need magic class."
Maybe haul handouts or prep materials. But none today. So I stood there, idly munching invisible popcorn.
Lieutenant Yael insisted on first-day impressions, though. No reason to refuse—or slack.
Bonus: scoping first-years up close. Ceremony view was distant, uniforms bland.
Now in civvies? Personalities popped. Vibrant upgrade from last time.
Some holdovers, though. Dress-code scofflaw barbarian countess heir, baring her midriff at orientation. And the one proper-uniformed one... Beni, was it? The hopeless direction girl.
Come to think, she'd worn rags when I guided her. Probably stuck to uniform to dodge "commoner rags" jabs.
Why don't other commoners? Three years in fatigues probably sours you on uniforms forever.
"Two reasons. First: fighters don't just face fighters on the battlefield."
Worlds apart or not, back-row bias universal. Front near-empty.
With seats galore, why'd those two plop right together? Already buddies?
"Yes. This year, I'll teach you how to kill mages."
The room tensed. Understandable.
"Of course, how to defend against committed killers too."
Our lecturer: famed coastal fortress guardian. Reincarnated lit-RPG protagonist (uncensored). Top-tier in her field.
"Second reason... bluntly, you don't swing swords with your tongue. Even fighters benefit from a spell or two."
Yael glanced my way. Student eyes followed.
No rule bars fighters from magic—or mages from aura.
"Mastering both fully? Near impossible. You'll specialize eventually."
...Eyes flicked back to me.
"When I cover magic theory, mentally exclude Ensign Konstantia here."
"I'm a fighter. First and foremost."
"...We'll call it that."
Flattering, if overstated. Hard to deny outright. My translation cheat alone clashes with canon theory like divine intervention.
"Anyway... magic research advances mean almost anyone can train to 1st Circle now. So why's dual mastery tough?"
Yael grabbed chalk, sketched a huge triangle on the board, labeled it.
"Mana, circles, chanting. Magic's three pillars."
Mana refines spells, manifests impossibilities. Circles engrave intent. Chanting demands precise rhythm.
"Mana derives from aura. Fighters convert it for spells."
But, Yael added...
"Mana use drains aura. If you're aura-gifted over magic, it's a net loss opportunity-wise."
"Teacher!"
"...I haven't opened questions yet, but go ahead, Miss Riley Tiwe Kuntak."
The barbarian shot her hand up.
"What's 'opportunity cost' mean?!"
"From the start...? ...Money for pricey cake buys several meat stew bowls. Eating cake's the loss."
"Oh! Got it!"
Yael blinked, then nailed a grade-school analogy. Elementary teacher potential?
Nice work, Lieutenant Yael. I dub thee my mana mom.
Such idle fancies as I stood quiet by the podium.
"Circles: pure visualization. Tough mid-brawl."
Unaware—or uncaring; she'd eye me like feral spawn if she knew—Yael pressed on calmly.
"Chanting last. Swords aren't swung by tongues."
She tapped her lips.
"But same issue as circles. Rhythm's hard in combat. Band soldiers help... but other hurdles remain."
Her hand drifted to her chest. Modest by local standards, perfect one-hand fit.
"Fights need no tongue—but breath yes. Violent motion disrupts it; chanting disrupts breath."
Hence dual mastery sucks.
...Unless reincarnate physique hacks.
"Still... more trump cards win fights. Fighters, learn spells. Hone one or two as aces—that's standard."
Low-level chants barely dent aura. Drill circle shapes obsessively till they auto-form. Practice chant-melee sync relentlessly; master short phrases for rigid rhythm sans band aid.
"We'll train that here. I'll advise, and Ensign Konstantia too. Treat the TA as equal faculty—respect and follow."
Right after class...
"Teacher! Wanted to meet you!"
"...First time meeting? And I'm no teacher—just a lowly TA."
"What's the diff? Anyway, heard tons about you!"
...Somehow, I was meeting my surveillance target.