Chapter 20 – Academy (7)
From the first day to the fourth day of classes, nothing important really happened.
Wake up, morning bells, breakfast, lectures, paperwork, lunch, more lectures, then back to the dorm. I trained my body every evening out of habit, but as far as the Academy was concerned, it was all peaceful. Boring, even.
So I expected today to be the same.
I was wrong.
Today was the first official combat training for all first-years.
I had heard the professor mention there would be a "common class" where the campuses mix, but that was back on the first day, buried under rules, timetables, and Rion complaining about forms. Somewhere between then and now, I had filed it under "future problem" and promptly forgotten about it.
Apparently, the future had arrived.
We were marched out to one of the large outdoor training fields, a wide, flattened expanse of packed earth and sand, ringed by low stone walls and mana lamps. Weapons racks stood at the edges—wooden swords, staffs, spears, padded shields. Lines were drawn on the ground to mark out smaller arenas. Above us, clouds drifted lazily across a pale blue sky, completely at odds with the tension rising off the gathered students.
Sword campus. Staff campus. Divination. Priest. All mixed together in one place.
And I was separated from Rion.
He had been pulled to the far left with another group when the teaching assistants began sorting us, and before we could even complain, we were herded apart like sheep. I caught a glimpse of his exasperated face, then he disappeared behind a wall of uniforms.
Worse than that, I could feel eyes on me.
It wasn't just one or two glances. It was the prickling sensation of people remembering the duel in the arena. The "mana-less" viscount's son who crushed a duke's daughter without casting a single spell. Word had spread. Of course it had. The Academy was very efficient when it came to gossip.
Some students looked at me with curiosity. Some with open hostility. A few with thinly veiled fear.
I kept my expression blank and my breathing steady.
After a while, the professors arrived.
They came in a small procession, one older man in light training armor, a middle-aged woman with a staff strapped across her back, and a priest in simple robes with reinforced bracers. Behind them, a handful of teaching assistants followed, each carrying slates and lists.
The older man stepped forward, his voice carrying easily across the field.
"As you've all noticed," he said, "we've split and merged students from different campuses. This will be the group you will stick with—for now."
The teaching assistants began moving through the lines, checking names and making quick notes.
"The purpose of this combined class," the professor continued, "is to evaluate your aptitude for close-quarters combat—no matter your path. Sword, Staff, Divination, Priest… it doesn't matter. Out in the world, you don't get to complain that 'this isn't your specialty' when a blade is coming for your neck."
A few students shifted nervously.
"We will be testing stamina, reaction, basic combat sense, and the ability to work with others," he said. "Even mages and priests need to be somewhat knowledgeable about close combat. If you refuse to learn, you are choosing to die early. I do not recommend it."
That shut everyone up nicely.
He lifted one hand and pointed to the outer edge of the field where markers had been placed.
"First, running. Around the field, following the marker flags. You will run until you can't. Those who fall too far behind will be pulled out immediately. Consider that your first evaluation."
A low murmur of dismay ran through the lines.
Of course. Start with the simple, cruel part.
The assistants moved quickly, spacing us out along the starting line. I ended up somewhere near the middle. I rolled my shoulders, quietly testing my breathing.
In my first life in this world—before the wars, before the portals, when I was still just a confused civilian dragged from Earth—I couldn't even finish three laps around a training field like this. My lungs would burn, my legs would give out, and I'd be sprawled in the dirt, gasping while knights looked down at me like I was something pathetic.
Back then, I thought that was normal.
Now, after hundreds of lives of screaming muscles and battlefields… now it was just a warm-up.
Or it should have been.
"On my signal," the older professor said. "Keep your pace. If you drop too far behind the main group, an assistant will pull you out. No arguments. This isn't a punishment."
He raised his hand.
"Begin!"
A whistle cut through the air.
The line lurched forward as one, the field shaking slightly under the impact of dozens of boots hitting packed earth. For the first few strides, everyone tried to show off. Some sprinted. Some stumbled. More than a few already looked like they regretted their life choices.
I settled into a pace just a hair faster than comfortable.
Breath in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Arms relaxed. Feet touching down lightly, evenly.
The first lap was easy.
On the second lap, an assistant's whistle shrilled behind us.
"You, out!" he barked, grabbing a boy in priest robes who was already dragging his feet several lengths behind the group. The boy tried to protest, but the assistant just shook his head and steered him off the track.
One.
Another lap. Another whistle.
Two girls from Staff campus, faces flushed red, were pulled out when they fell too far back, chests heaving, legs wobbling. A few Sword campus students shot them smug looks—until one of their own misjudged his pace on lap three and was yanked a moment later.
"Don't slow down!" one assistant shouted. "If the gap opens more than ten lengths, you're done!"
Sweat began to bead on my forehead.
By the fourth lap, the group had compressed into a smaller core. The show-offs who started by sprinting had burned most of their fuel and were now suffering for it, breaths ragged, shoulders slumped. The smart ones had settled into the same rhythm as I had.
My lungs hurt. My legs burned. But it was a familiar pain, the kind that could be ridden like a wave.
Back in my first regressions, three laps would have broken me. I remembered collapsing on the dirt, vision blurring, knights muttering about "soft foreigner" under their breath.
Now I pushed past the place where my past selves used to fall.
Fourth lap. Fifth.
Students peeled off more frequently now, some stumbling, some being pulled away by assistants before they outright collapsed. A few tried to keep going even as their feet dragged, but the eyes of the assistants were sharp. As soon as someone slipped too far behind, a hand would close on their arm and drag them off the track.
Sixth lap.
My breath had turned into a harsh rhythm in my ears. Each inhale stung my throat. My thighs felt heavy, the burn spreading up into my hips. My shirt clung to my back with sweat.
But my steps stayed steady.
I could hear some of the remaining students wheezing. One boy's steps went uneven beside me; he stumbled and nearly fell. An assistant was there in an instant, catching him before he hit the ground and pulling him away.
The pack shrank again.
By the seventh lap, my vision had started to narrow at the edges. The markers at the corners of the field blurred slightly, smearing with each bounce of my steps. Every heartbeat echoed in my skull. The air tasted like metal.
…Just a little more.
I could have slowed. I could have dropped out gracefully. Seven laps was already far beyond what most of the class had done. But there was a part of me—a stubborn, petty fragment—that remembered collapsing at two and a half laps in another life and being laughed at.
That part refused to quit first.
Halfway through the seventh lap, my legs finally rebelled.
My right foot struck the ground slightly out of rhythm. Pain shot up my calf. My next step landed badly, the shock jarring through my knee, and my balance slipped. The world tilted for a heartbeat.
I tried to correct it.
My body disagreed.
The ground rushed up to meet me.
I hit the packed earth shoulder-first and rolled, dust scraping my cheek, the sky spinning overhead. Shouts rang in my ears, muffled under the roar of blood.
"Out!" an assistant yelled somewhere nearby. Boots thudded. A hand grabbed the back of my uniform, hauling me off the inner line before the rest of the runners trampled me.
My chest heaved. Each breath was a ragged drag, lungs burning as if I'd inhaled fire. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to punch its way out.
"Seven laps," the assistant said, glancing at his slate. His voice sounded oddly distant. "Not bad at all. Breathe. Don't stand up too fast."
I let myself sit in the dust, head tilted back, staring up at the washed-out blue sky.
Seven.
More than double what the first me could do.
Pathetic for a knight. Pathetic for what I needed to become. But for a twelve-year-old noble student in his first week?
…Tolerable.
The world slowly stopped spinning. My breathing calmed, the burning in my lungs fading to a dull ache. The last of the runners finished their laps and staggered toward the instructors, some collapsing outright, others somehow managing to keep their feet.
A handful—Sword campus monsters, mostly—looked like they could have kept going if ordered.
Of course.
"Well," the older professor—Garen—said when the last of us had been sorted into the "still-conscious" and "temporarily-dying" piles. "Now we know where you all are."
He gave us a moment longer to recover, then clapped his hands once.
"On your feet. Slowly," he added dryly as several students tried to spring up and nearly fell over again. "We're not done. Stamina is one thing. Now we see if any of you can actually fight."
The assistants began moving between us again, calling names and arranging us into smaller clusters of eight.
When my legs finally cooperated and I stood, I glanced around at the faces in my new group.
Blue uniforms. Red uniforms. Mixed insignias.
A tall boy in Sword campus colors with a calm, serious gaze.
A nervous-looking girl clutching the handle of a practice staff a little too tightly—Lyra. Our eyes met for a moment, and she flinched, then quickly bowed her head in greeting.
A priest candidate with short hair and a steady expression, his robe's sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped in cloth.
And, because fate was fond of patterns, Tamara von Hailbrecht.
Her hair was tied up high, her Academy uniform immaculate even in the training field. She noticed me at almost the same time I noticed her. For a heartbeat, our gazes met.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, something like annoyance flickering in her eyes—followed by something else. Calculation. Memory of our duel. The cafeteria. Her father. Her wooden sword.
Then she snorted quietly and looked away.
…At least she didn't start shouting.
"All right," the older professor said. "Listen up. My name is Garen. For the next month, I will be responsible for making sure you don't disgrace this Academy the moment someone swings a stick at your head."
He looked us over, gaze cold but not cruel.
"Today's schedule is simple. You've done your stamina check. Now, basic combat. We will start with one-on-one evaluations. Later, group work. You will use practice weapons. You will get bruised. If you bleed, it means you weren't paying attention."
He gestured toward the weapons racks.
"Choose something close to what you intend to specialize in. No heroics."
The Sword campus boy in our group took a wooden sword without hesitation, testing its balance with an easy flick of his wrist. Lyra did the same, though her hands were still shaking slightly. The priest candidate picked up a short staff and weighed it in his hands. Tamara reached for a practice staff as well, flipping it in her hand as if it were natural, letting the wood spin once before she caught it under her arm.
I took a simple wooden sword.
It felt light. Almost too light.
"Milton," Tamara muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. "Don't pretend that's your first time picking one up."
I didn't bother answering.
"Group nine!" a teaching assistant called. "You'll start with Professor Garen's station. Line up!"
That was us.
We gathered at the marked square near the center of the field. Professor Garen was waiting there, along with one of the teaching assistants wearing light padded armor and a wooden sword of his own.
"Good," Garen said. "You'll be first."
He looked us over again, eyes lingering briefly on Tamara, then on me. Recognition flickered there. So he had heard about the duel.
Of course he had.
"For this station, I want to see your instincts," he said. "Not your fancy spells, not the forms you memorized to impress your parents. How you move when someone is trying to hit you. First, we start with defense."
He nodded to the assistant.
"You will attack them," Garen said. "One at a time. Controlled blows, but don't treat them like glass. If they can't handle it, that's useful information too."
The assistant grinned a little too eagerly.
"Understood."
"Feld," Garen said, turning his head slightly. "You first."
Lyra stiffened beside me.
"I—yes, Professor," she said.
She stepped into the square. Up close, her tension was more obvious—shoulders tight, grip too high on the hilt. Her stance had the rough outline of proper form, but there were gaps everywhere. It reminded me of recruits on their first week, all theory, no experience.
The assistant lifted his sword.
"Ready?" he asked.
Lyra nodded, swallowing hard.
"Begin," Garen said.
The assistant opened with a simple diagonal cut toward her shoulder. Basic. Clean. Telegraphed just enough that anyone with practice should see it coming.
Lyra did see it. She raised her sword to block—but her timing was late, and her arms were too stiff. The wooden blades met with a sharp crack. The impact jolted through her entire body. Her feet shifted back, almost tripping over each other.
The assistant flowed smoothly into the next strike, a horizontal cut aimed at her ribs. Lyra tried to parry again, this time stepping sideways, but her sword dragged in the air. The blow knocked her weapon aside. Her guard opened completely.
The assistant stopped his follow-up strike just short of her shoulder, the wooden blade hovering a finger's width from her uniform.
"Dead," he said.
Lyra's lips pressed together. She stared down, knuckles white on the hilt.
"Your basics are weak," Garen said, not unkindly. "Your arms are doing all the work. Your feet are only following, not leading. But—" he tilted his head slightly, "—you moved. You didn't freeze. That's good. You'll improve. Step back."
She nodded quickly and retreated to our line, cheeks flushed.
One by one, the rest of our group stepped forward.
The Sword campus boy had clearly drilled his whole childhood. His stance was solid, his guard compact. He took the assistant's blows on his blade and shoulders properly angled, letting the force slide down into his legs. Even so, after a dozen exchanges, his breathing roughened and a misjudged parry opened a brief gap. The assistant's sword stopped at his throat.
"Dead," the assistant said again. "Better foundation. Work on your recovery."
The priest candidate suffered, but in a different way. He blocked with his staff, but his movements were almost too honest, too direct. No feints, no misdirection. He looked like someone who had been hit more than he'd ever hit back. Garen watched him with a faint frown.
"You're used to absorbing blows, not avoiding them," the professor said. "That will keep you alive for a time. Not forever. Learn to move your head, not just your staff."
Tamara's turn was… explosive.
She stepped into the square with casual confidence, spinning the staff once and letting it settle behind her back. When the assistant raised his sword, she was already moving.
"Begin," Garen said.
The moment the word left his mouth, Tamara lunged.
Her staff whipped out in a blur, jabbing at the assistant's wrist. A faint shimmer of wind wrapped around the wood, speeding its motion. He blocked, barely, the wooden sword catching the strike with a thunk. She twisted, redirected the force, and spun the staff low toward his shin.
He hopped back, adjusting his stance.
Her magic was subtle but constant, reinforcing each blow and shifting her weight just a bit faster than her muscles alone would allow. Every time she struck, a whisper of air trailed behind the staff, turning each swing into a flexible, snapping motion rather than a simple clubbing hit.
But there were gaps.
Every third strike, just as I'd seen in the duel, her guard flared open. She committed too hard, trusting her speed to save her. Against students, it worked. Against the assistant, it almost didn't.
On the fourth exchange, he exploited it. He let her overextend, then stepped inside her reach, his sword rising toward her exposed side.
Tamara's eyes widened slightly.
Wind snapped around her feet. She forced a sideways leap, staff coming up just in time to meet the blow with the very end of the wood. The impact rattled her arms.
Garen cleared his throat.
"Enough," he said.
Tamara clicked her tongue, breathing a little harder now.
"Staff," Garen said. "Your magic enhancement is better than most. But your guard is open after every third strike. Fix it before someone takes your arm off."
Tamara's jaw tightened, but she gave a short nod and stepped back to our line.
Then Garen's gaze shifted to me.
"Milton," he said. "Step forward."
The murmurs around us got louder.
Of course.
I walked into the square, rolling my shoulders once. The wooden sword rested loosely in my hand, point angled slightly down. The assistant across from me tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Been looking forward to this one," he said.
I ignored him.
What I couldn't ignore was the weight of everyone's eyes. Students. Assistants. Professors. And under that, faint and familiar, the sensation of the System quietly humming at the edge of my awareness.
No blue windows popped up. No quests. Just a presence. Observing.
"Same rules," Garen said. "Assistant will attack. You defend. No killing blows. Use only what you must."
…Only what I must, huh.
That was always the tricky part.
"Begin," Garen said.
The assistant moved.
He didn't waste time. His first strike was a proper cut; right shoulder to left hip, arms fully engaged, feet positioned to drive his weight through the blow. If this had been steel, it would have split bone.
I stepped in, not back.
The wooden swords met with a sharp crack.
I felt the force behind his blow, the line of power running from his shoulder through his arm, down into his grip. He was strong—stronger than the students, obviously—but the path of his strike was honest. Straightforward.
Too straightforward.
I shifted my blade along his, catching his sword just off-center and sliding it down, diverting the line of force past my side rather than stopping it head-on. My feet moved with it, half a step around his dominant side, so that when his sword finished its arc, he was facing slightly away from me.
His eyes widened a fraction.
Good reflexes, though. He recovered quickly, turning with his own momentum, snapping his sword back in a horizontal cut toward my ribs.
This time, instead of meeting it directly, I let my sword dip just below his, then flicked up at an angle, catching his weapon near the tip. The angle of my wrist turned his strike harmlessly upward. The impact jarred my arm, but my stance absorbed it: front knee slightly bent, back leg braced, shoulders loose.
From the outside, it probably looked simple. Boring, even. Just a student calmly parrying an instructor, not giving ground, not advancing. No sparks, no magic, no dramatic shouting.
Inside, my mind was measuring.
His reach. Slightly longer than mine.
His timing. Half a heartbeat hesitation when switching from high to low strikes.
His stance. Solid, but his weight favored his front leg when he got aggressive—that meant his back foot was light, vulnerable to any sudden change in footing.
I did not use Vector.
If I wove even a little mana into my steps, I could have made the ground slip under his foot. If I pushed a thread of force into his wrist, his grip would have loosened. If I wanted to prove a point, I could have snapped his stance apart in three moves without leaving a mark on his body.
But this wasn't a battlefield.
This was the Academy. A test. And I'd already drawn too much attention for one week.
So I just… met him.
He increased the tempo, chaining blows together. High cut. Low stab. Feint toward my shoulder that turned into a fast thrust toward my throat. He was better now—less honest, more willing to test my reactions.
My body moved on ingrained habit.
Sword rising to meet his, always just enough. Wrist turning to bleed off force, not clash with it. Feet gliding across the sand, maintaining the same distance, never letting him step fully into my guard, never letting myself be driven back.
One exchange. Two. Ten.
His breathing grew heavier. The slight smile faded from his face, replaced by focus. A bead of sweat rolled down from his temple.
I kept my breathing steady.
I could feel the frustration building in him. He was hitting me. He was connecting. Every blow met wood. Yet every time, the force went nowhere. It was like striking water that kept its shape.
He stepped in harder, trying to break the pattern.
This time, I let a little more of my strength show.
Our swords met with a sharper crack. I didn't yield as much. The shock of the impact traveled back into his arms. His stance wobbled, just for a heartbeat.
There.
Before he could recover, I rotated my wrist, letting my blade roll over his. My front foot slid in, stealing his space. My back leg pivoted, hips turning to add my whole body to the motion, not just my arms.
His sword was guided down and outward.
The opening in his chest was obvious.
I could have stepped in and driven the wooden blade into his ribs hard enough to break them. Instead, I moved just enough.
The tip of my practice sword came to rest lightly against the center of his chest, over his heart.
"Dead," I said quietly.
For a moment, the only sound was both of our breathing.
Silence rolled across our small corner of the field, spreading out as nearby groups realized what had happened and fell quiet too.
Then Garen chuckled.
It was a short sound, barely audible, but it cut through the tension like a knife.
"Interesting," he said.
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing something.
"You've held a real blade before," he said finally. "Many times."
It wasn't a question.
I held his gaze and didn't answer.
He didn't seem to expect one.
"Good," he said.
He nodded once.
"Return to your group. We're not finished. Next, we see how you all move together, not just alone."
Together.
I stepped back into line, feeling the eyes on my back again.
Rion was somewhere on the other side of the field, probably complaining to himself about how unfair his group was. Lyra was stealing quick, wide-eyed glances at me, fingers tightening around her sword hilt. The priest candidate looked thoughtful, as if trying to memorize what he'd seen. Tamara was watching me openly now, one eyebrow raised, the corner of her mouth curling up—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Reassessment.
And all around us, the Academy watched.