The Professor You Chose (1)

I recruited Maya, the Oracle Priest, and stationed her at the infirmary. The previous physician was dismissed on the spot, leaving Maya to run the place alone for the time ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠being.

Divine Healing could handle just about anything on the spot, and Maya, as an Oracle Priest, possessed divine power far beyond the ordinary. She would be more than enough on her own.

With that settled, it was time to get the Combat Department's educational reform project underway in earnest.

The first order of business was reviewing the latest versions of each professor's training plans for their assigned subjects. Almost every professor, true to their title, had adapted their plans to match my intentions. The problem was the Assassination and Kidnapping course.

This wasn't taught by a General Professor — Academy Principal Kirlin handled it herself. When it came to assassination and kidnapping, no one could match a dark elf.

Would the Principal actually update her training plan and bring it in? Or would I have to go to her?

Just then, a knock sounded, and something dark slipped into the faculty office. It was Kirlin, with her chocolate-smooth skin and ruby-red eyes.

"Principal. What brings you here?"

"I came to show you the new training plan I put together."

In her hands, a sheaf of documents was tucked into a briefing folder. Hmm. This was unexpected. First impressions had me convinced she'd dig in her heels and refuse to the bitter end.

"Please, sit here. I'll take a look."

I gave up the chair I'd been sitting in and pulled a spare stool over beside her.

I opened the folder Kirlin had brought and blinked in surprise. The formatting was impeccable, and the handwriting was almost unnaturally neat. The charts, too, were something else. This hadn't been typed up and printed — so how had she produced something this polished? Did she have a ghostwriter?

"Principal. Who wrote this?"

"Sorry... Don't look at how it looks. Just look at the content."

"Don't tell me you wrote this yourself?"

"Hah. Don't nitpick every little thing. I'm still the Principal — don't treat me like a General Professor."

I stared at her. Kirlin's dark face flushed even darker.

"That's not what I meant. It was written so well I genuinely wondered whether you'd done it yourself."

"Eh? I— I did write it! Who else would I even ask?!"

Well now. That was a surprise. Dark elves lived in tribal societies, but highly sophisticated paperwork was hardly a fixture of daily life among them. That was why I'd been so taken aback.

"That's a stereotype. After the war ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ended, I studied at the Imperial Public Academy with support from the Imperial Palace. That, too, was His Majesty's grace."

"Is that true? You're an Academy graduate? A dark elf? Ah — sorry."

"This is really...! You think I got this post through nothing but connections, with no qualifications whatsoever? I met the minimum requirements, I'll have you know!"

"Right, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠right. I understand. I'm sorry. Haha."

I laughed off Kirlin's outrage and went back to reviewing the documents.

"Principal. Let's push this section a lot harder. Kidnapping is more difficult than assassination, after all."

"Huh? Harder than this? The students could get hurt..."

"I told you, didn't I? Safety first means what, again?"

"That's..."

I looked at her in silence until Kirlin fidgeted and opened her mouth.

"Dismissal as Principal..."

"Good. Change this part as I said. I'll keep going."

"Fine..."

And so the review of every subject's latest training plan was finished, Kirlin's Assassination and Kidnapping course included. Now the real work could begin.

"Um, I have something to—"

"Then I'll be going. I need to go instruct the armed combat practical right away."

I left Kirlin standing there and hurried out of the faculty office.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

The graduating class had clustered in front of the department bulletin board, murmuring among themselves. What they were staring at was a notice regarding today's armed combat class.

Until now, the only time they had ever worn armaments in armed combat class was at the start of the term, when they'd tried on the training gear to get their measurements taken. After that, the course had proceeded as theory and nothing else. Not a single student had put the equipment on again.

"Class President. What's going on?"

Every gaze swung toward Nightly, class president of the graduating class, who stood at the back with her arms folded. She studied the notice with arrogant golden eyes, then spoke in a voice like ice.

"Can't you read? It means they're going to work us properly from now on."

The students exchanged uneasy glances.

"Is it that Chief Professor?"

"Stop standing there like idiots and get your gear. Don't tell me there's anyone here who doesn't even know what standard armaments are."

Nightly turned on her heel and walked off. A handful of students who followed her scrambled after her.

"Um, Nightly. Should I fetch your gear for you?"

The moment she stepped into the dormitory, one of her hangers-on fawned at her. They were classmates, and yet the girl carried on as if she were a lady and the rest were her attendants.

"Get lost. I'll handle it myself."

"Right. See you in a bit, then. I'll wait out front."

Nightly turned and went into her room. The hangers-on bowed their heads in groveling deference — and a moment later, as they straightened up, their faces were thick with hatred and disgust.

"What an insufferable bitch."

"She's the duke's daughter, not the duke himself."

"And she has the nerve, after running off to the Academy to dodge an arranged marriage."

"Keep it down. She'll hear you. Come on, we should go get ready too."

After they left, Nightly slowly stepped away from the door. Pathetic worms. They weren't even worth a sneer, so she opened the wardrobe with a blank expression and took out her armaments.

The Toulouse Ducal House was among the most influential families in the Noble Council. Once, they had been among the true powers that commanded the Empire, but after the Four-Year War their prestige had waned.

The previous duke had taken the field as a commander and distinguished himself with neither glory nor results — and had lost more than half the private troops he'd led to war besides. Typical of noble-born officers.

As a result, their political standing had narrowed considerably against the Post-War Power Faction headed by the Second Princess: the commoner-born commanders who had risen from victory to victory during the Four-Year War.

Even so, a fortune takes three generations to squander, as the saying goes. The ducal house's power remained formidable enough that lesser nobles scarcely dared exchange words with the Duke himself.

Nightly was the third daughter of this house. Inheriting the title was out of the question, and unlike her older brothers, striking out into business on the family's wealth or carving some other path was no easy thing either.

Not that Nightly had the slightest interest in any of that. She harbored a secret ambition she had never spoken of to anyone.

She wanted to become a special operative. One of those secret agents who served in the Imperial Inspectorate and the Intelligence Department.

As a child, she had listened again and again to her second brother — who had gone to war with their father and come home alive — tell stories of the special units that had distinguished themselves on the battlefield. And of all those stories, the ones Nightly loved most were about the organization of special operatives formed for a single purpose: to kill the Demon King.

A special unit so shrouded in secrecy that even its existence had never been clearly confirmed. For a noble young lady trapped in a gilded cage, it was a tale almost too thrilling to bear.

But there had been no way of knowing how to become such an operative, and before Nightly had even come of age, a partner for a political marriage had already been arranged.

Then she heard that the Imperial Special Task Academy had been founded. The moment the news reached her, Nightly walked out of the estate and fled to the Academy.

Her plan was to graduate, enter the Imperial Inspectorate or the Intelligence Department, and hold out past marriageable age. Sooner or later, her father would have to give up on the arranged marriage.

There had been one complication, however: Kirlin, the Academy Principal.

For reasons Nightly could not begin to fathom, the Principal had gutted every combat course — the single most essential qualification for a special operative. Nightly's plan to become an agent and escape the political marriage had hit a serious snag.

If she graduated as this half-baked, neither-here-nor-there product, she would be in real trouble. A new Combat Chief Professor had arrived and seemed to be changing things here and there, but whether that would actually amount to anything...

Being told to arm up and assemble at the outdoor training grounds, when they had never done any such thing before, was surely connected to the newly arrived Combat Chief Professor. He had already caused an uproar at the Comprehensive Combat Training Ground by calling in a magic professor. There was no reason to think armed combat class would be spared the same treatment.

But if he turned out to be some pasty desk-jockey waving his authority around without a scrap of real combat experience, Nightly stood to gain nothing at all.

For now, she would go. She would go and see for herself. She was intensely curious how he intended to run things.

Fully armored, Nightly took up her wooden sword. Unlike the other students' weapons, its surface was covered in nicks and gouges. This was even her second set of standard armaments — the first had broken.

Her hangers-on were already waiting out front, but Nightly swept past them with that trademark haughty look, ignoring them entirely, and left the dormitory alone.

The students gathered at the outdoor training grounds let out a collective scream.

"Unlimited sparring?!"

"You can't just spring this on us, Professor!"

Professor Genev recited the bracket in a flat, inflectionless voice, as if he couldn't hear a word of their protests.

The content of today's armed combat class was "Unlimited Sparring." Unlimited in name only — it was a tournament, climbing the bracket one match at a time. The last one standing would receive fifty bonus points and the chance to spar with a professor, with additional points awarded according to the skill they displayed.

Fifty bonus points was an enormous reward, but after nothing but theory lectures all this time, to do this now of all things...

This was clearly the idea of that Combat Chief Professor standing behind Genev with an easy smile on his face. And the little girl beside him — who was she? Judging by the clothes, a priest? Was that the one who'd just been assigned to the infirmary? She looked that young?

The students traded guesses and whispers the entire time Genev finished announcing the bracket in that same monotone. The spars began at once.

They were a disaster. These were children who, since enrollment, had scarcely ever swung a sword — let alone hit a person with one. It looked like nothing so much as a kindergarten sports day.

Even so, one of them stood apart.

A girl with golden hair and golden eyes was beating down everyone who stepped in front ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of her, her expression utterly devoid of anything that could be called emotion. Her opponents were far below her level, true — but looking closer, there was something unusual about the way she used a sword. The fundamentals, at the very least, were rock-solid.

"Genev. Who's that?"

"Class president of the graduating class."

Let's see. Nightly Toulouse? Toulouse — as in that Toulouse? The ducal house?

"That's correct. She's a student who comes to this training ground alone every day to practice against dummies."

"Huh. A noble's daughter, of all people. Interesting."

Even as I spoke with Genev, the girl called Nightly defeated three opponents in a row and turned to look our way.

"Professor. I'm finished."

Now that I looked, she was the only one left standing. Genev picked up a wooden sword and stepped forward.

"Cadet Nightly. Fifty bonus points awarded. And a spar with this professor—"

"No. Not you, Professor."

Nightly pointed her wooden sword at me, standing behind Genev.

"I'd like to try against him."

"Huh? You want to go against me? Why?"

"Because I'm curious what kind of man you are."

Nightly answered without hesitation.

"The sudden change in class is obviously your doing, Chief Professor. I want to know whether you actually understand what you're doing — or whether you're just overreaching on first-appointment enthusiasm."

Genev said nothing in the face of that brazen attitude. I chuckled and stepped forward.

"Chief Professor. That's the Duke of Toulouse's daughter."

"I know, I know. But when she comes at me like that, how am I supposed to turn her down?"

"You must not kill her."

"I got it. I won't kill her."

I took the wooden sword, walked up to stand in front of Nightly, and asked,

"So what you're saying is, you want me to prove I'm actually qualified to pull a stunt like this. That about right?"

"That's right."

Strangled noises erupted from all around us. Bonus points on that scale meant a perfect score without even sitting the exam — a perfect score even if you skipped half the remaining attendance.

"What are you waiting for? Not coming?"

I spun the wooden sword and reversed my grip. Nightly let out a shout and charged.

Nightly lay sprawled on the ground, blood running from her nose, staring at the broken wooden sword that had landed some distance away.

Ugh. Ghk. Nngh.

The spar with the Combat Chief Professor could be summarized as follows.

He looked like a pale, harmless bookworm. He'd even gripped the wooden sword in that bizarre reverse hold, so she'd been certain he was a deskbound professor with no experience whatsoever.

Then heaven and earth turned upside down, her vision went black for an instant — and Nightly understood. That professor was not within the category of ordinary humans.

He might not quite be on the level of the rumored Demon King assassination unit her second brother had told her about, the one wrapped in so much secrecy. But he was, without question, a lunatic of a human being.

This professor. I like him.