Boot Camp Training (5)
—Day six of the boot camp.
Damian Proud completed the stabilization of his mana circuit overnight, and by morning he had finally risen to 4th level.
Hearing the news first thing in the morning, the other students' motivation couldn't help but surge. They had just caught an indirect glimpse of the sweet reward waiting at the end of this hellish training.
Oscar looked down at the students, each soaked in their own quiet excitement, and spoke.
"Starting today, we're adding to the training routine."
In exercise, there is a concept called progressive overload. It means the load placed on the body must be increased steadily, little by little. The reason is simple.
'Because humans are creatures of adaptation.'
Muscles, mana circuits—if you repeat training at exactly the same intensity every day, growth stalls far earlier than expected. The body simply adapts to that intensity and stops responding.
'And these kids have heightened natural recovery thanks to the Oscar-style Breathing Method. On top of that, they're guzzling potions like they're tap water.'
Their finely-honed bodies had probably figured it out on instinct yesterday, or the day before at the latest—that at this level of training, they would never, ever run themselves into the ground.
So first, he had to deceive those overconfident bodies of theirs.
'Whoa, one wrong move and I'm dead. I guess I'd better get tougher if I want to live.'
Raising the training intensity until such thoughts came unbidden—that was Oscar's idea of progressive overload.
Of course, the students listening to that explanation all went slack-jawed.
'...In other words, he's just telling us he's going to work us even harder, isn't he?'
'I only barely caught up to the training tempo yesterday...'
'Ah, I miss Mom.'
Into the ears of those long-faced students, Oscar's hard voice rang out.
"In the morning, we run the field exactly as before. Except the amount of mana you expend will be doubled."
"In the afternoon, you'll accumulate real combat experience through sparring. Under my supervision, of course."
Benjamin Scott's hand shot up.
"Instructor. Excluding Damian, we have thirty-one people remaining. Does that mean someone will have to spar twice?"
"No."
Oscar answered curtly, then looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses.
"And why is Damian excluded?"
"I'm sorry? Well... he's reached 4th level, so isn't he leaving the camp?"
"It was written clearly in the official notice, wasn't it? This boot camp ends when all students reach 4th level."
"...Meaning what, exactly?"
"Damian isn't leaving. He'll attend morning and afternoon sessions right alongside the rest of you."
One for all, all for one. If even a single person fell behind, this boot camp would not end. The moment that realization sank in, the students' faces drained white.
"If you don't want to be a burden to the comrade who broke through first, then give this training everything you have. So that your mana circuits stabilize as quickly as possible."
"..."
"If you understand, run."
Watching the students begin their run yet again, as always without fail, Oscar's eyes deepened. There was a reason he insisted on such old-fashioned training.
'...These kids graduated from the academy at the start of this year.'
He had attended that place himself, and the only thing it taught was competition, more competition, endless competition. A place that taught you to surpass your rivals or be devoured—only then do you survive.
Granted, considering the academy's admission rate into the Four Great Magic Towers, it couldn't be helped. He understood that. But someday, even they would face a moment when they had to entrust their back to someone else.
'But handing your back to someone you haven't built sufficient trust or bonds with is impossible.'
At least, it had been for him. That was why he had fought a lonely battle for so long on his first battlefield.
'There were plenty of crises, too. There's no more appetizing prey than a mage whose back is wide open.'
He didn't want to make them—his juniors—go through such terrible, lonely experiences. For that, he was willing to become a devil. No, he had to become one.
Tweet! Tweeeeet!
Arms crossed, Oscar blew the whistle with all his might.
"I can see your legs! Run faster!"
By the time the afternoon training ended, a strange tension hung over the field. Two men stood there, facing each other, while the rest of the students sat clustered in the stands, watching.
"You want an evaluation?"
"Yes."
Letting out a deep breath, Damian Proud slowly drew his mana upward. Staring at the man standing before him—the one whose instruction he had begged for—he concentrated every nerve into his fingertips.
'I've gotten stronger.'
That wasn't just something he said because he'd reached 4th level. He could feel it naturally: from the deployment of a spell to its final polish, everything had been refined beyond any comparison with yesterday.
And that was exactly why he wanted to know all the more—just how far he had come.
⟨ Wind Cutter ⟩
Shrrrrk!
The ten blades that bloomed from the tips of his slender fingers were clean, without a trace of excess. Blades spinning at high speed, their forms holding steady without the slightest wavering even mid-rotation.
What was more, each of the ten blades had its own character. There was one elongated and specialized for piercing, one honed for slashing, one shaped so that once it bit in, it was devilishly hard to pull free. It was like gazing upon a master smith's lifetime collection of daggers, each hammered over years of discipline.
"...The evaluation I received when I showed you Wind Cutter at my first lecture was dismal."
Generous at best: a half-baked Wind Cutter. That had been the report card of his past self. But if he had shown this Wind Cutter back then, what grade would he have earned?
Oscar caught the challenging glint in Damian's eyes and gave a faint smile.
"If I'd seen this back then, I would have praised you highly. It feels like you kept every one of your strengths while fixing all of your weaknesses."
Just as Damian's expression began to brighten at the compliment—
"But just as the Wind Cutter of then and the Wind Cutter of now are different things, the Damian of then and the Damian of now are different people."
"..."
A rise in level meant, in a word, that the standard and yardstick of evaluation had to change as well.
"As a 3rd-level mage's Wind Cutter, it's a perfect score. As a 4th-level mage's Wind Cutter, it's utterly ordinary."
"...!"
The report card he received a second time was still not satisfying. Reading the frustration brimming in Damian's eyes, Oscar teased him.
"You're not a genius. Generously speaking, you're a prodigy."
"You don't need to explain that to me every single time!"
"Then why does a guy who knows that go around playing at being a genius?"
Oscar asked with an air of indifference.
"Have I ever explained to you the difference between the mediocre, the prodigious, and the genius?"
At that question, Damian—and the students watching the sparring match—all shook their heads. If we don't know, you're supposed to teach us.
"It's simple. Teach the mediocre one thing, and they understand one thing. Teach a prodigy one thing, and they grasp five, six. So what do you suppose a genius does?"
"...I wouldn't know. I'm not a genius. I suppose they grasp ten or so from a single lesson?"
At Damian's petulant reply, he let out a soft laugh.
"No. A genius is someone who grasps ten things, a hundred things, all on their own, without ever being taught by anyone. Their entire way of thinking is different from an ordinary person's."
He himself hadn't learned his mana control from anyone. Even as a toddler wandering the back alleys, before he even knew what magic was, he had instinctively grasped how to use mana and cast things that were almost spells. It was his master—passing by and witnessing that scene—who had taken him in.
"...You're just bragging right now, aren't you? About being a genius."
"Half of it, maybe? But what I'm trying to say is this: a prodigy has a way of studying that suits a prodigy."
People try to learn the perspective and thinking of geniuses. That's why books and lectures on the subject sell like wildfire. Everyone wants to become special; everyone longs to be called a genius.
But all of that is an illusion.
"You can't learn that. It can't be taught. So quit your clumsy imitation of a genius and move like the prodigy you are."
"Prodigy this, prodigy that—at the end of every sentence! So what do you want me to do about it?"
"You wouldn't understand it anyway, so don't bother wondering what thoughts a genius harbors. Just memorize the whole thing, all at once."
Oscar beckoned with a flick of his finger.
"Throw them."
At those words, Damian sent all ten blades flying without a moment's hesitation. Worried his opponent might get hurt? Not for an instant. Knowing the Oscar he'd come to know, there was no way he'd be fazed by a Wind Cutter of this caliber.
"Watch closely. This is homework I'm assigning to you alone—and it's also the magic you'll need to memorize whole, from start to finish, before this boot camp ends."
The mana Oscar drew out took the shape of blades in an instant. Only, their number was a little strange.
One hundred in the blink of an eye, then two hundred—and finally three hundred blades, born in moments. Their size, of course, was far smaller than any ordinary Wind Cutter. No bigger than cherry blossom petals.
"..."
Damian stared at the magic, slack-jawed and speechless. How could magic be so beautiful?
A riot of blossoming petals swirled in a slow orbit around Oscar.
'The Young Noble of the White Tower...'
The epithet his senior had supposedly earned. The moment the phrase rose unbidden in his mind, a soft breeze stirred.
'There are a lot of blades, sure, but they're far too small. Could things like that really shatter my Wind Cut—'
The instant he caught himself doubting again—
the drifting petals fell upon his daggers like ravening beasts, dismantling each and every one, and swept past him in a single caressing pass.
"Gahk!"
Struck by a crawling chill, Damian toppled backward onto his rear. He ran his hands over his neck and body, searching—but he was pristine, without a single wound.
"Each blade may be small, but I reinforced every one of them with mana, so their power is more than sufficient. From the opponent's side of things, they're extremely difficult to block."
"...What is that spell called?"
What filled Damian's eyes as he asked was longing—the purest thirst for discovery, a desire to make that magic his own.
"Flower Rain."
A swarm of tiny, tiny Wind Cutters, thrown to overwhelm the enemy.
Damian clenched both fists tight.
The great conference hall of the White Tower—a chamber used only once a month—held a dozen or so people that day. In place of the absent Tower Master, Deputy Tower Master Hamel Grimwiz, seated at the head of the table, opened the proceedings.
"Is everyone here?"
"Yes, everyone except the Head of the Potion Department."
The Head of the Potion Department, Oscar Crucian, was currently away conducting the boot camp with the novice magicians.
"Which is why I am attending in his place again today."
Lena White answered crisply. The Deputy Tower Master and the elders traded knowing smiles, each privately thinking how fortunate it was that a woman like her belonged to the White Tower. She was exactly the kind of talent other towers and factions coveted, watching for any chance to poach her.
"Let's begin with the security department's report. How are the Watchers who learned the new Breathing Method faring?"
The White Watchers—they were the sword and shield that guarded the peace of the white city of Shilin.
"There's no question about it—they're on a steep upswing. I suppose you truly must call it the work of Oscar Sage... For one thing, the rate at which their mana accumulates is exceptional, and with their natural recovery so dramatically improved, they say they wake up without feeling any fatigue whatsoever. And I can confirm—I feel the same myself."
"Mm."
That their strength was climbing was tremendously encouraging. At that point, the captain of the Watchers spoke up, choosing his words carefully.
"But the effects are too remarkable. Too remarkable entirely. If the Blue Tower ever got its hands on this Breathing Method... I shudder to even imagine the consequences."
"We must be exceptionally vigilant with security, of course, so that no such thing comes to pass."
Said the Deputy Tower Master with a warm smile, surveying the conference room.
"But there is little need for grave concern. Oscar Sage is not a man who would leave things so carelessly exposed."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Just what I say. There is an unknown security enchantment inscribed into the Breathing Method itself. We don't yet know precisely what it does, but..."
That much, surely, could be figured out in time. After a moment's deliberation, the Deputy Tower Master added:
"Hmm. Elder Schwein is still in seclusion, isn't he. I suppose I'll have to consult another mage well-versed in theoretical magic."
A White Tower mage deeply versed in theoretical magic. That a single face rose in everyone's mind at that very moment was no coincidence at all.