0.46 Seconds to Admission
I got hit by a runaway truck barreling through the crosswalk. Know what I was thinking in that split second as my consciousness faded? Fuck. If I'd just been a little faster, I could've dodged it.
That deranged thought must've summoned some kind of mobile in front of my eyes. *****
The moment I could stand on two legs, I started practicing running. My mother and father saw me training sprints before I could even walk properly and rejoiced, saying I had the makings of a knight.
What a load of bullshit. I knew my place all too well. Fighting? What the hell kind of fighting? This was a romance fantasy world. Beasts roamed everywhere, dragons devoured those beasts and soared through the skies, and knights hunted those dragons. In short, this world had far more reasons to die than to live.
So how do you survive in a place like this? Get stronger? That's only for the chosen few. How's a human supposed to beat a dragon? And how do those knights who beat dragons even win? You get faster. That's the one true answer.
Running away isn't shameful—it's helpful. Every single day, I ran 100 meters over and over. Two hours from waking at 6 a.m. until breakfast, four hours after lunch, five hours after dinner. Pouring 11 hours a day into training paid off—I could break 0.5 seconds for 100 meters.
It felt a bit off somehow, but hard work made it happen. Fantasy worlds are the best!
If you heard this far, you'd think I'd become ridiculously strong. Physics demanded it. Speed equals power, right? Newton's laws of motion—ever heard of 'em?
...Nah. Fantasy worlds don't give a shit about that.
This body was just fast. Just... fast and nothing else. Once, I sprinted full tilt and punched a tree. It exploded, sure. But my hand shattered completely too.
Fantasy worlds are the worst! *****
Of course, having a body like this wasn't without perks. First off, obviously, I was fast... And second, the world looked insanely slow around me.
It wasn't constant 24/7, but when I started running or got focused, time seemed to freeze. Once, I even snatched a flying fly by the wing with perfect precision. I jumped around on my bed in celebration. Looking back, I don't know why I was so hyped, but damn, it was awesome. ****
After finishing my morning training, I returned to the mansion and immediately changed my shoes. Switching from training leather boots to dress shoes had become second nature. The shoes clicked briskly against the mansion floor.
The final sprint felt off. Maybe narrow the arm angle a bit more...
Reviewing the session in my head, I soon spotted Mother Artel sitting in the central hall.
"Hard at it since morning, huh."
She let out a quiet sigh and called out to me.
"...Yeah, whatever."
I kept my eyes averted as much as possible, trying to slip past the central hall.
"Ram Artel."
"...Yes?"
I turned to her dark tone calling my full name. The vibe was off—bad.
"Come here and sit for a bit."
"..."
Fucked.
A primal chill crawled up my spine. But I couldn't run. Legs that cleared 100 meters in 0.5 seconds were useless against parental nagging.
"You know you're already twenty?"
"...You celebrated last month, so yeah, I know."
"What the hell have you been doing with the last twenty years?"
Running. Almost slipped out.
"...Not building ties with other nobles at banquets, not helping with territory management, not even practicing swordsmanship when I told you to—you've rejected everything your whole life."
No words, even if I had a hundred mouths.
"Why are you so obsessed with running...?"
"...To stay alive?"
"I'll die! Watching you makes my guts explode!"
Her thunderous roar finally dropped. Her voice shook the chandelier overhead.
"Who said I expect you to manage the territory like your brother or marry well like your sister? Just! Pull your own weight! Your own weight!"
Just one person's share. Born into a renowned count's family, and "one person's share" is her demand? She doesn't get how tough that is.
"At least I'm not in the red..."
"You are in the red, you little shit! Rumors are everywhere—the Artel youngest is a twenty-year-old rice-guzzling beast!"
Eh... not wrong, technically?
"By the way, Mother, what's with calling your son 'little shit'?"
"You wanna die for real?!"
Yeah. Better shut up.
The age-old way to shorten Mom's lectures: clam up and take it.
"...Forget it. What's the point of talking to you."
Sit like a stone long enough, and her fire died down quick. What countess has such a hot temper?
"Go to the academy."
"...Pardon?"
I lifted my head, bowed at a careful 45 degrees.
The academy? Me?
"Why?"
"Why?! A noble with no connections, just sprinting in the back hills—it's driving me insane!"
"I'm happy like this. If you truly love your son, support his passion..."
"You little shit, wanna die?!"
There she goes with that line again.
"Refuse, and you're off the family register."
"Aw, come on, that's too much!"
I leaned back against the sofa.
"Even if I've lived a bit wild, kicking out your adorable youngest?"
Grinned playfully for effect.
"What'll the other nobles say? Doesn't make sense~"
"..."
Mother stared silently.
"It... does?"
Emergency.
"Your father agrees too."
"Naturally."
Code red.
"Entrance exam's in a month. Fail to get in, and you're still off the register."
"You haven't even done the paperwork?"
"Are you nuts? Think the academy takes trash like you without exams?"
This was overkill. Me, who'd never studied or trained properly—how the hell am I passing?
Basically declaring she was kicking me out.
"Ah, got it! This is that cliché—exile the youngest, he shapes up and returns!"
"..."
"No need for the hassle. Mother, I'm grateful every day for this life! I know how hard commoners grind!"
"..."
She just glared coldly.
Fuck, not this either?
"For real? You actually want me to pass the academy exam?"
Had she lost it? Suddenly fetch the stars?
"No running admission track or anything?"
"That's not bad."
Her frozen face finally thawed.
"Do it. Running admission."
"Pardon?"
What?
"There's really such a thing?"
"If not, make it happen." *****
"Next applicant."
The academy interviewer's voice called me. Before entering, I took a deep breath and relaxed every muscle.
"Ram Artel?"
Stepping in, the three interviewers wore looks like "Not bad-looking, unlike the rumors."
"Written exam was decent? 20th out of 260 applicants."
The test wasn't too hard. No studying this life, but last life I graduated college and joined a mid-tier company. First time using modern knowledge advantage here...?
College liberal arts for the win! Would've been nice to have an extra cheering.
"You wrote zero talent in magic or swordsmanship—that'll hurt badly, you know?"
"We're not passing Ram Artel just for a good written score."
"This interview's your last shot to change our minds. Show us everything you've got."
They tag-teamed the pressure. Basically dismissing me upfront—try changing our minds.
"Uh..."
This pressure was next level; I froze up.
"Shall we head out?"
Screw it.
"Pardon?"
"Hard to show here. Let's step outside."
They followed surprisingly easy. Lots of kids must flaunt magic or sword skills.
I weaved through the academy buildings to the wide training grounds.
"I'm fast at running."
I kicked off my shoes, dropped into a crouch. Better to show than tell.
I exploded off the line, tearing across the field. Grass poked through my socks, the world blurred. Wind and everything halted.
100 meters gone in a flash.
"Oh, 0.46 seconds."
I got into the academy.