Cadardarian Brysenwog, Professor of Etiquette, spoke with remarkable gravity, his gaze intense and commanding.
"Any brute can bear a distinguished title—baron, knight, or even king—for such things are nothing more than labels men bestow upon themselves to set themselves apart from one another." He walked upright, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. "But manners are not so trivial. They are born when humanity looks inward and understands that it cannot live as animals do. They are also the mark of a great spirit."
"He who upholds his principles at all times rises above the rest. Dismiss my words if you wish—" The man paused, sweeping his gaze across the hall. "—but know this: the worth of a soul lies in its wisdom, its manners, and the way it beholds the world."
An imposing man.
He was well past eighty, with blue eyes that shone with extraordinary vitality.
The passage of time had given his face wrinkles and his hair a dignified white.
His first command upon entering had been a powerful, "Everyone, to your seats."
He handled us like troops who both feared and respected their commander.
Personally, the first thing I noticed was his magnificent mustache.
Its tips pointed upward, giving him an air of masculine elegance that, if I am being honest, I envied quite a bit.
And his beard, in particular, gave him a certain Chad-like edge.
"What a distinguished gentleman," I heard a classmate sigh with obvious longing. "Nothing like those bland young men."
Apparently, someone had developed a crush on her professor within half a minute of meeting him.
"I wonder if that happens with any of the female professors," I murmured under my breath. The image of Niali that immediately came to mind was answer enough…
I have to admit, for many girls, a calm and experienced man must be far more interesting than a lot of young nobles.
"…"
Setting aesthetics aside, I noticed something else about him as I leaned back in my seat.
His back was straighter than that of half the students in the room. His shoulders were broad, his arms enormous, and his musculature was obvious despite being covered.
He is a warrior.
How many others had realized it?
I mean, the gray suit, black waistcoat, and shining shoes could have made him pass for a butler.
'He is a gentleman,' Friedrich said after staying silent for most of the morning. 'He should be respected by every classless brat in this Academy.'
I rolled my eyes, but I had to begrudgingly admit he was right. This man exuded an aura that demanded respect.
"Mmmm."
He carried no visible weapon—at least, not to some people. But I am not that stupid.
The cane in his right hand was made of black wood and gleamed faintly. Each step was accompanied by the heavy sound of wood striking wood.
'A weapon worthy of a gentleman,' Friedrich praised again.
'Oh, so you deigned to speak again?' I used my most irritating mental voice. I heard him growl and nearly laughed.
'Pay attention, punk,' Friedrich scolded me in a teacherly tone. 'You might learn something and stop being such a shameless womanizer.'
The insult left me stunned for a few seconds.
'Womanizer?' I processed that slowly. 'Me?'
Friedrich remained silent for a moment.
'Focus on the lesson, brat. You are going to need it.'
And then he shut up.
I knew it was pointless to try to start a conversation with him at this point.
Better to follow his advice.
"Titles," Cadardarian continued, gently tapping the floor with his cane, "are inherited, granted, bought, stolen, or won in war. Manners, by contrast, must be cultivated. A title may open a door. Manners determine whether one deserves to enter."
I had expected etiquette to mean forks, bows, introductions, and the proper angle at which to pretend interest when a count talked about horses.
Apparently, I had underestimated the subject.
Again.
That was becoming a recurring theme in my new life.
I swept my gaze around the classroom.
There was an attentive silence, the kind belonging to people who had understood that the old man before them was not someone it would be wise to test.
After using my speed at full capacity, I had taken a shower and prepared myself for this terrible, abominable day.
School.
Honestly, I had underestimated just how eccentric this Academy could be.
Silver Hall, Section B. After Niali had gotten a good look at us, she had led us to a different classroom.
"Good luck, brats," she had said with a grin from ear to ear, her chest doing very interesting things with every movement. "Good luck. I can't wait to see how many of you are real noble material."
The room was long and elegant, with tall windows along the sides. A chandelier shaped like falling droplets hung from the ceiling.
White wooden tables covered in thick black linen cloths stretched across the room, and a desk stood at the far end.
The polished wooden floor reflected the morning light.
The desks were arranged in pairs.
Naturally, I had chosen one near the back.
"…"
Thanks to my good fortune—and please imagine all the sarcasm possible in that thought—I ended up beside Yoko Kojiro. Or Kojiro Yoko, if said according to her preference.
I have to admit, it was curious having a non-Japanese beauty sitting next to me.
"Lord Liedschlag," her serious voice made me nervous and alert at the same time, "I see the rumors about you are true. I have barely sat down, and you have not stopped looking around in search of your next concubine."
She brought her delicate hand to her chest, her long, downturned eyes looking at me with impressive indifference.
"Excuse me?"
The contrast between her accusation and the way she said it made me stare at her in doubt.
"I come from a society with sokushitsu and Ōoku." I knew the meaning of neither term. "There is no need to be discreet around me, since I am the daughter of a concubine."
I stared at her.
Then I faced forward, deciding not to dig any deeper into that subject.
I had enough problems without knowing what she was talking about.
"…"
Honestly, being away from my friends right now was hitting me harder than I had imagined.
It would have been great to spend the day with Primrose or Conlaoch.
I searched for some way to pass the boredom.
Plumshire Woodlock had sat down right in front of me, her crimson ponytail bouncing with every small movement.
Oswyn sat beside her, his broad back perfectly blocking part of my view.
My classmates avoided me like the plague. Few of them looked at me without nervousness or disgust.
Cedric Valehart was seated relatively far away, writing something in one of his notebooks even though class had barely begun.
He seemed to feel my gaze, looked up, turned around, and gave me a cordial nod.
I returned the gesture, and we both went back to our own business.
Florence Neri had chosen the seat closest to the door, probably for tactical retreat purposes.
Her face was hidden behind a notebook.
Finally, Katya sat three rows ahead, arms crossed, her scowl aimed at the world.
Perhaps it was arrogant of me to evaluate my classmates, but I felt they were the most important and most present people outside the protagonists.
"A question," Cadardarian said suddenly.
No one moved.
His gaze swept the classroom.
"What is the first duty of a noble?"
Several hands rose.
Cadardarian pointed his cane at a blond boy near the front.
"To protect the honor of his house," the boy replied, lifting his chin.
'Buffoon,' Friedrich barked with notable contempt.
"Incorrect."
The word fell like a guillotine.
The blond boy's confidence died in real time.
Cadardarian pointed to the girl beside him.
"To preserve order?" Nerves made her stammer and avoid the professor's gaze.
"Closer," the professor said, his gentleness calming her slightly. "But incomplete."
Another student near me raised his hand.
"To lead those beneath him."
I almost grimaced.
How heroic of him.
'Arrogance is the word you are looking for,' Friedrich said, his tone lightly filled with condescension.
"A dangerous formulation." Cadardarian's eyes narrowed. "Do not use those words in my class unless you wish to spend the next hour explaining precisely which part of the human soul qualifies as 'beneath' another."
The student immediately shrank into his chair.
I smiled. I liked this professor.
'Careful,' Friedrich warned in an imperious tone.
"You."
The professor pointed his cane at me.
My spine stiffened.
Of course.
"Sir?" I asked, standing by instinct.
Cadardarian looked at me with calm intensity.
"What is the first duty of a noble?"
Why me?
No, stupid question.
I thought carefully.
If I answered like Jakob, I would say something pompous and unbearable.
There were other options. The best would be one that bought me a good image with him and my classmates.
I felt my mother's ring on my left hand… I suppose…
"To honor and respect the trust placed in him," I began, remembering my first days as an idealistic lawyer. "The title placed upon someone creates duty and expectation."
'Brat,' Friedrich warned me calmly.
Maybe it was arrogance on my part, but I believed it was the right answer.
Cadardarian studied me.
His expression did not change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
"Explain."
"Titles create distance," I said slowly. "People bow because custom, law, or fear tells them to. That does not mean the person they bow to deserves it. So the first duty of someone with a title is to avoid becoming the kind of person others obey only because they must."
A silence followed.
A dangerous silence.
I realized too late that I had spoken too honestly.
Friedrich laughed faintly inside my mind.
'Careful, brat. That almost sounded like integrity.'
'Shut up, Betsy.'
'Friedrich.'
Cadardarian's cane struck the floor once.
"Acceptable answer." He looked at me closely before nodding. "You may sit."
I obeyed at once.
Oswyn half-turned and gave me a small nod of approval.
Cadardarian resumed his slow pacing.
"Manners are not decoration. They are restraint given form. They are the sheath around the blade. Without them, society becomes a battlefield where only the strongest, the richest, the loudest, or the most shameless survive."
He stopped beside Katya's row.
"Miss Karamazov."
Katya's eyes narrowed.
"Yes?"
"Do you disagree?"
"With nobles pretending courtesy makes them moral?" Her voice was sharp. "Yes."
Several students tensed.
Cadardarian did not. Instead, he smiled.
It was a small smile. Sharp as a razor.
"Excellent answer."
Katya looked suspicious.
"Manners used as masks are contemptible," Cadardarian declared. "Courtesy without principles is merely perfume over rot. But tell me, Miss Karamazov: if a starving man enters a bakery, does his hunger become false because a glutton once pretended to be hungry?"
Katya's mouth opened.
Then it closed.
The old man continued.
"Abuse does not invalidate proper use. A noble can turn etiquette into a weapon of humiliation. A merchant can turn debt into a weapon of enslavement. A scholar can turn knowledge into a weapon of domination. Does that mean etiquette, money, and knowledge are evil?"
Katya looked away first.
"No," she muttered.
"Correct." Cadardarian's voice softened slightly. "Your distrust is not without cause. But do not let it make you foolish."
Katya's face reddened.
I nearly coughed.
Damn.
The old man had claws.
"Now," Cadardarian said, returning to the front. "A practical exercise."
Half the room tensed.
I understood the terror.
In my old world, "practical exercise" in any class meant humiliation disguised as learning.
"Each of you will introduce yourself properly. As if you stood before the authority you recognize as worthy." His gaze became merciless. "I invite you to be as honest as possible. Do not try to deceive me. I will know at once if you lie."
A collective groan almost rose, but died before becoming audible.
Cadardarian smiled.
"Good. Suffering forges character."
He really was a grandfather.
A ruthless one.
"Excellent! What a pleasure!"
Plumshire stood with an enthusiasm that exhausted me.
She straightened her back, tucked a crimson lock of hair behind her ear, and clasped her hands in front of her.
Then she looked directly at Cadardarian—not with nerves, but with the specific intensity of someone who had decided honesty was the most efficient policy.
"Plumshire Aelindra Woodlock," she announced, her voice projecting with practiced ease. "Daughter of Professor Aldnyn Woodlock and Mira Caelwyn Woodlock. My father studies applied transmutation theory at the Glorienne Academy of Sciences. My mother runs the largest independent alchemical supply chain in the eastern provinces of Glorienne."
She took a breath.
"I am at Eozän because my mother's surname opens doors my father's genius cannot, and because my father's work means nothing without the funding my mother's name attracts. I intend to become the bridge between them." Another breath. "I am aware that, at present, I am more dangerous than I am useful. I am working on that."
Silence.
Cadardarian observed her for a long moment.
"Honest," he said. "Even in the parts that embarrassed you. Sit."
Plumshire sat with the energy of a child who had just received unexpected praise and was visibly fighting the urge to smile.
Oswyn stood before being called.
His height alone drew attention. He straightened, which made him look even larger, and clasped his hands behind his back with the particular posture of someone who had spent years doing physical labor and had recently learned that it could look dignified.
"Oswyn Goudwick," he began, his voice deep. Even. Unhurried. "Fourth son of Hadvar Goudwick and Benonine Goudwick. I come from a family of farmers. We are from a border village. We have held land between the mountain pass and the river valley for six generations."
He paused.
"We are not prestigious."
Someone near the front snorted softly.
Oswyn gave no sign of having heard.
"I am here because I believe even we commoners can become something more. Not through connections or alliances. The highest authorities are God and my father." His jaw tightened. "And I will become a knight."
'A noble spirit,' Friedrich said with notable respect.
The classroom's silence spoke for the rest.
"Pfff."
Someone seemed to be holding back laughter.
Cadardarian struck his cane once, and that laughter died.
"A noble goal, though I hope you are aware of the difficulties that await you."
At the professor's sober tone, Oswyn nodded with a serious expression.
"Determination. Commendable. Sit."
Oswyn obeyed, and I noticed Plumshire immediately whispering something to him. He replied with what, being generous, might have been called a smile.
Cedric Valehart stood without closing his notebooks.
"Cedric Valehart." His tone was the same whether he spoke to empty air or a live audience—dry, precise, economical. "Second son of House Valehart, Gwyndon. Bourgeoisie, not landed nobility. My family manufactures most of the cartographic instruments used by private and state naval expeditions."
He paused briefly.
"I am at Eozän because I intend to understand how political relationships govern trade routes before anyone currently controlling those relationships realizes I am paying attention." His cynicism was refreshing. "The highest authority is whoever sits down to decide the fate of others."
He looked at Cadardarian.
"I recognize that formulation is somewhat aggressive. I left it because you told us to be honest."
Cadardarian studied him.
"You left it," the old man said calmly, surprising me, "because you understood the risk and took it anyway."
He inclined his head slightly.
"A different matter. Sit."
Cedric sat and immediately went back to writing.
I noticed he had been writing the entire time he was standing.
Friedrich murmured something I chose to ignore.
Florence Neri took approximately forty-five seconds to stand.
She rose in stages—first straightening her spine, then her shoulders, then pushing herself upward as if gravity were charging her a surcharge specifically addressed to her.
Her notebook was clutched against her chest.
"Florence Neri." Her small voice forced me to lean forward to hear her. "From Ausonia. Minor house. I would prefer not to go into the details of why it is minor, since that involves a lawsuit that is technically still ongoing. I am at Eozän because my grandmother said education was the only inheritance she could give me that no one could dispute in court."
She said it without bitterness.
There was something in her face that was the opposite of self-pity—something closer to the particular peace of someone who has examined a difficult fact and placed it somewhere manageable.
"She also said—" Florence glanced briefly at her notebook, then raised her eyes. "—that the purpose of good manners is to allow people to cross difficult rooms without causing harm. I thought about that a great deal on the way here. She is my highest authority."
"You were paying attention," Cadardarian said, smiling faintly. "Despite your apparent desire to occupy as little space as possible, your answer occupied exactly the space it needed. Sit."
Florence obeyed and immediately became deeply interested in the cover of her notebook.
Several other students followed.
A boy from Hesperidia, the son of a shipping magnate, gave his introduction with the polished efficiency of someone trained since childhood to make good first impressions and who had therefore learned how to say a great deal while revealing nothing.
Cadardarian looked at him the way one looks at a shining coin to see whether it is genuine.
"Technically correct," he said. "Sit."
The boy sat, not entirely sure whether he had been praised.
A girl with amber eyes and a Gwyndon accent introduced herself as the fourth daughter of a house that had been loyal to the same lord for four generations and was tired of being so.
She said the last part quietly, as though she had not meant to, and then looked alarmed.
Cadardarian simply said, "Loyalty offered to those who do not know your name is not loyalty. It is habit. Learn the difference. Sit."
She sat looking slightly dazed, as if a doctor had identified a symptom she had lived with for so long she had stopped noticing it.
A boy with Ausonian features introduced himself as the heir to a merchant guild and said the highest authority he recognized as worthy was whoever possessed the most accurate information at any given moment.
Cadardarian pointed his cane at him.
"Dangerous man," the professor said. "Good. Sit."
Then Katya Karamazov stood.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by a fraction.
She stood without adjusting herself, without clasping her hands, without composing her expression.
She simply rose and looked at the professor with the frankness of someone who had decided, at some point between sitting and standing, that there was no point softening anything.
"Katya Miroslava Karamazov. Vintergard. Common blood. My grandfather was a foundry worker until the Drangnach Osten campaign burned the foundry and turned him into a soldier." There was warmth in her voice when she mentioned her family. "My father also worked at the foundry after the war. I grew up among heat and the smell of metal."
She paused.
Not from nerves.
By choice.
"I am at Eozän because a woman named Sonja Karamazov, who was nobody, decided one of her children would be somebody. She worked sixty-hour weeks in a textile plant until she could fund my application. She is sixty-three years old and still standing." Katya's jaw tightened. "The highest authority I recognize as worthy is her."
The room fell completely silent.
Cadardarian did not speak at once.
He let the silence hold long enough to make it deliberate.
"You have named a textile worker from Vintergard as the highest authority you recognize," he said at last. "In a room filled with heirs and titles."
"Yes," Katya said.
"And you meant it."
"Yes."
"Then you have answered correctly." He struck the floor once. "Sit, Miss Karamazov."
Katya sat.
Her face was red.
Not with shame.
With something that required more composure than I had credited her with.
I noticed Oswyn looking at her with an expression I recognized: the specific look of someone who had recalibrated another person upward and was filing away the new information.
Yoko Kojirou stood next.
She rose like poured water—completely, without waste, without hesitation.
"Kojirou Yoko." Surname first, naturally. "Daughter of Kojirou Masanori, daimyō of the Kojirou domain, and his third consort, Hana. My father has four legitimate heirs. I am not among them."
She seemed to lose herself in her memories for a few moments.
"I am at Eozän because my father wants to see whether I am useful for something other than opening my legs and carrying another family's name." The calm way she said that made me stare at her in genuine horror. "I have no particular desire, and the highest authority I recognize as worthy is whoever earns it."
Her sharp, emotionless gaze sent a chill through me.
Cadardarian observed her.
"I understand." He inclined his head. "Sit."
She obeyed.
I watched her for a moment, unsure what I should feel.
One by one, the remaining students rose and introduced themselves.
The room developed a rhythm.
Cadardarian received these introductions with the expression of a man who had spent decades watching people rehearse their own myths and found them interesting in the way archaeologists find pottery interesting.
Some answers were raw. Accidentally honest.
Students who began with one intention and ended somewhere else, dragged there by the peculiar gravity of being told someone in the room would know if they lied.
Cadardarian received those differently.
His cane would pause.
He would look at the student for a moment with the concentrated attention of someone reading fine print.
Then he would say something specific—never exactly kind, but precise—and the student would sit looking somehow both lighter and heavier.
I watched it all.
I counted.
I had been counting since Plumshire stood.
'You are nervous,' Friedrich observed, in a tone that was as close to neutral as I had ever heard from him.
'Yes,' I admitted. I truly did not know what to say.
'Lying is not a good idea.'
'Obviously.' I did not want to know what punishment the professor had for liars.
'Do you have any idea what you want to say?'
I looked at the ring on my left hand.
I looked at the ceiling.
I looked at the back of Plumshire's head, where her ponytail bounced every time she turned to observe whoever was speaking.
'No.'
I heard the cane strike the floor.
"You."
Ah. Time to face the scaffold.
I stood.
The chair scraped as I pushed it back. My hands clasped behind me.
The posture of someone who had learned how to stand before an audience.
Cadardarian looked at me with the infinite patience of someone who had, in one way or another, been waiting for most of his life.
"Name," he said. "Origin. Purpose. And the highest authority you recognize as worthy."
The room was perfectly silent.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
They would know the instant I lied.
My name is Jakob Liedschlag.
Except it is not. Not entirely.
I am the ninth son of a declining noble family.
Except I am not.
I am at Eozän because I need to survive, and because the boy whose life I am living wanted to prove something to people who never cared about him.
Except that was no longer entirely the reason.
And the highest authority I recognize as worthy—
I looked toward the window.
Why couldn't I have been transmigrated into a different game?
What else had I been playing back in those days when I was still a streamer?
A philosophical game about an android in a leotard… no, wearing a blindfold over my eyes is too much even for me.
A game about a post-apocalyptic world and voluptuous girls fighting mechanical monsters… the only bad thing there is that everyone is depressed or traumatized.
And of course, the epic about a silent elf who had to save the world from an ancient evil… At least everything would have had a nicer tone…
Really, only the last one was a good option.
'Brat, stop rambling,' Friedrich ordered with notable exasperation. 'And if you were a hero destined to save the world, we would all be doomed.'
I almost laughed, but held it back.
The room waited.
Cadardarian waited.
My mouth was open. No sound came out.
To my left, I heard Yoko shift almost imperceptibly in her seat.
Somewhere behind me, Cedric's soft scratching pen had stopped.
The silence was lasting too long. Far too long.
'Jakob,' Friedrich said, very quietly.
I blinked.
Inside me, I saw a forest. The path, a scar of mud and soaked pine needles, wound beneath the suffocating canopy of the Coastal Range.
To an outsider, those monumental trunks, wrapped in emerald moss and lichens hanging like ghostly tatters, were imposing. Perhaps terrifying.
To me, it was the place that had seen me grow up. Not my home, but where I had many good and bad memories.
I feel stupid. This is not the time or place, but…
Cadardarian had not moved.
I released my breath.
"My name is Jakob Liedschlag," I said, my voice coming out steadier than I expected. "I come from a place I cannot return to."
The professor scrutinized me.
"It is very far from here. It rains often, and the trees are old. In autumn, the light takes on a particular color I have not seen replicated anywhere since." October, of course, was my favorite month. "I do not really think about that place much since coming here, which means I have learned to carry it instead of chase it."
The classroom fell silent.
"I am at Eozän because my life sometimes feels like a joke," I continued. "The people I have met here are some of the most… honest I have ever known." A pause. "As for the highest authority I recognize as worthy—"
It had been there the entire time, beneath everything else, the way the ocean lies beneath fog.
I looked at the ring on my left hand.
"It is a woman from that same distant place. She died before I could become the person she believed I was capable of being. She always found a reason to smile—not to lament; she was practical that way. She believed that becoming someone was always still possible, right up to and including the last day." I closed my hand. "She was the most honest person I ever knew. She never pretended the world was better than it was. She simply refused to treat that as an excuse to stop trying."
My voice did not break.
"I recognize her authority because she earned it in the most direct way possible. She lived what she taught."
I let the words settle in the air, their weight leaving my shoulders.
"You learned from someone who is no longer alive to see it?" Cadardarian gave me a look that was difficult to interpret.
I smiled with all the honesty I could manage.
"Yes."
"That"—Cadardarian seemed to search for the right words—"is the most costly way to learn anything."
"No doubt," I said, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and joy.
His cane struck the floor.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
Oswyn said nothing, but he shifted slightly in a way that felt like acknowledgment.
Behind me, I heard—or imagined I heard—the quietest possible exhale from Florence Neri.
Yoko, beside me, had not moved.
She did not look at me.
But something in her stillness was different from before.
The introductions continued for a few more minutes. Many were quick, and others were not, so I did not feel too bad about having frozen.
When the exercise ended, several students looked as if they had survived a duel.
Cadardarian returned to the front.
"One final question before I release you from my custody." His eyes swept the room. "If someone insults you in public, what would you do?"
Hands rose again.
With less confidence this time.
"Demand compensation," said one boy.
"In some contexts, acceptable. In many, idiotic."
"Report it to a superior," offered another.
"Wise, if the superior is competent."
"Destroy their reputation," said a girl coldly.
Cadardarian stared at her.
"Effective. Ugly. Often contagious."
His gaze fell on me again.
Of course.
I sighed inwardly.
"If it is only against me?" I said. "Let it pass, if possible."
Murmurs.
Cadardarian raised a finger, and the room fell silent.
"And if it is not only against you?"
I thought of Primrose.
Of Armine.
Damn it, no one would be that stupid, but also of Conlaoch and Rodrigo.
My hand twitched.
"Manners are no excuse for cowardice."
Cadardarian's expression became unreadable.
"Then you would abandon etiquette?"
"No." In this place, one always had to maintain decorum. "I would use it while it remained useful."
"And when it ceased to be useful?"
I smiled faintly.
"Then I suppose the blame would fall on those who made civility impossible."
Cadardarian watched me for a long moment.
Then he walked down the aisle toward me.
Every eye followed him.
He stopped directly in front of my desk.
For one brief, absurd second, I wondered if I had failed so spectacularly that he intended to hit me with his cane.
Instead, he placed an old hand on my shoulder.
His grip was light.
Warm.
"Young man," he said softly enough that only the nearby students could hear, "do not let this place convince you that restraint and weakness are the same thing."
I stared at him.
His eyes were blue, clear, and far too wise.
"You are not what I was told," he continued.
My throat tightened.
I did not know what to say.
"I…"
"Good," he said, as if I had answered correctly.
Then, louder, addressing the class:
"Remember this. The purpose of manners is not to avoid conflict at any cost. It is to ensure that, when conflict becomes necessary, one enters it with clean hands." He removed his hand from my shoulder. "A good introduction. Tomorrow there will be a lesson on table manners. Come prepared. You may leave."
'Congratulations,' Friedrich said with amusement in his voice. 'You survived your first class and left your professor with a somewhat decent impression.'
I had to admit, that was an achievement.
We all began calmly leaving the classroom. First class completed. If only I could see my performance as a letter grade…
"Liedschlag."
I stopped mid-step.
I turned around with false calm while my classmates threw me looks of pity.
Plumshire waved both hands at me while Oswyn gently dragged her toward the hallway before she could ask the professor whether explosions counted as breaches of etiquette.
Cedric passed by me and said, "Good luck. You are going to need it."
Florence nodded from behind her book before fleeing.
Katya gave me an unreadable look and left.
Yoko slipped away like a ghost.
'I celebrated too soon,' Friedrich said, sounding genuinely dismayed. 'Well, go on. Do not make that gentleman waste his time.'
I sighed internally and approached the professor's desk.
"You called me, sir?"
In these circumstances, the best approach was to be as docile as possible.
Cadardarian studied me with an expression that made me feel twelve years old.
"When was the last time you ate properly?"
I blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"You have the posture of someone attempting to maintain dignity on too little rest and too much coffee." Then he gave me a scrutinizing look. "And you seem worryingly accustomed to that."
Friedrich made a noise suspiciously close to agreement.
Traitor.
"I had a large breakfast today after a good rest." Besides, I usually ate plenty, though I supposed being the victim of horrors beyond my understanding did not help my mental health. "The person who prepared it is energetic and healthy."
Also rather terrifying, but let us set that aside.
"May I ask who?"
"Someone precious to me."
It took me a moment to process what had left my lips.
The old man's eyebrow rose.
"Ah."
That single syllable contained terrifying amounts of information.
Embarrassment made my entire face feel as if it were on fire.
"Sir, it is not—"
"I have asked no question." His eyes gleamed faintly. "A gentleman does not explain himself before being accused unless he fears the truth."
Damn it.
This grandfather was dangerous.
He opened a drawer and took out a small wrapped sweet.
"Take it."
I looked at it.
"Sir?"
"Take it."
I did.
It was a honey candy.
"My late wife used to say that boys who looked too thin needed sugar before noon." His expression did not soften, but his voice did. "You remind me of one of my grandsons. He also believed he could carry three tragedies, two secrets, and one bad night's sleep without anyone noticing."
I felt something uncomfortable in my chest.
"That sounds inefficient."
"It was." Cadardarian's mouth barely moved. "He got over it. In time."
He waved his cane toward the door.
"Go. Military Strategy will not wait for you."
I bowed.
Properly.
Not as Jakob would have done it.
Not as a noble displaying form.
As myself, thanking an old man who had seen too much.
"Thank you, Professor."
His eyes narrowed.
Then he nodded.
"Good lad."
I nearly tripped on my way out.
Good lad?
I had been an adult man in my previous life.
I put the honey candy in my mouth as I walked.
Mmmm… not bad.
….
…
..
.
"Whoa," That was the general verdict from nearly all my classmates as we entered the classroom.
Military Strategy was being taught, naturally, in a room that looked like a war crime waiting to happen.
"Look at those toys."
Several round tables stood throughout the room, each engraved with precisely drawn maps. On top of them were metal pieces that surely represented something.
"They're miniatures, not toys."
The classroom chairs had been stacked at the back, which suggested this was not going to be a comfortable lesson.
The windows along the sides overlooked the inner forest and let in the sunlight. Against the far wall stood a large blackboard, framed by what looked like the broken remains of swords.
The walls were covered in banners.
A red boar on a black field.
A black dog on a silver field.
And a red wine jug on a blue field.
'Trophies,' Friedrich said, his voice hollow. 'She is showing off her victories.'
Niali must have been very proud of defeating those mercenary companies.
Someone who knew war and its horrors was going to teach us.
Good.
Mercenaries understood war better than any noble trying to dress it up with ornaments.
'It would be useful to meet the captain of the Stone Coffin,' in the game, you could gain her support after completing a few key missions.
Having the backing of an army loyal to nothing but money and profit was extremely useful to the player.
After a few more missions, they could even occupy territory, which meant Aeono would no longer have to worry about enemies attacking constantly.
'All for the modest price of installing a new queen in a country in chaos.' Many complained that the captain wasn't a heroine with her own route, but you really had to be out of your mind to want a romance with her.
And, of course, the player could nominally join a mercenary company, mostly for a few items or minor stat improvements.
In the run that had led me to this disaster, I had made Aeono join the {White Rose}
Solely for a medal that increased my Speed stat by two.
… I was thinking about the game too much today.
I decided to focus on something else to distract myself.
There were shelves holding miniature fortresses, cavalry pieces, naval markers, tokens, and small painted figures representing infantry.
They were vaguely similar to the ones I had seen in the game's official art.
"…"
It was discouraging to think about all the merchandise I had lost by being transmigrated here.
My things…
Damn, I remembered the figure of Sir Cadfarchog raising his blood-red greatsword.
Elen had given it to me before she left. I used to show it off during streams all the time.
Mmm…
I hoped I would get the chance to meet him.
'Brat,' Friedrich said, sounding irritated. 'You are making this morning unbearable. Focus on what is in front of you.'
At the center of the room stood an enormous table.
Professor Niali Cogadhálainn stood beside it, arms crossed, her axe resting against her shoulder.
"Brats," she greeted us with a shameless grin.
"Good morning, Professor," Plumshire said, waving cheerfully.
Niali looked at her, losing her smile and gaining an expression of doubt.
"Something tells me you're not entirely right in the head." Her smile returned, this time fierce. "Magnificent. That absurd thing called sanity gets in the way of good strategy far too often."
The fear that overtook me upon seeing Plumshire practically glowing with joy was greater than when I fought the Demigod.
"That's me!" Plumshire declared, with the kind of optimism that could only come from mild insanity. "Can I use fire for this class?"
Everyone who had witnessed her magical talents grimaced. I wanted to believe they all felt the same chill running through me.
"Don't set my things on fire," Niali said.
Great.
Niali hadn't outright denied Plumshire's request.
Misfortune truly did follow me.
I could already feel a headache forming.
I'll try." I didn't like Plumshire's smile or the glint in her eyes. "But I won't promise anything."
"That wasn't a request," Niali said, clearly amused by the entire exchange. "First—catch!"
With a swift motion, she uncrossed her arms and threw a series of small colored marbles into the air.
My hand moved before my mind did. I caught a golden sphere between my fingers.
Several of my classmates also managed to catch marbles in midair, but a good number fell to the floor, making an unpleasant clattering sound.
"Mmm… More of you than I expected, honestly. I thought more than half of you wouldn't be able to catch one." Niali sounded perfectly calm despite the mess. "All right, brats. Form groups with whoever has the same color as you."
"Professor," one of the students who had failed to catch anything said, raising a trembling hand. "What about those of us who dropped the marbles?"
Niali pointed at her with one finger and smiled.
"You'll deal with me during physical training." Her tone did not bode well. "For now, stay still and enjoy the show."
"The show?" The girl looked nervous under Niali's grin.
"Exactly!" She pointed at Oswyn. "You, big guy—show your color."
Oswyn sighed and raised a red marble.
"Great!" Plumshire attached herself to him with a smile full of excitement. "Looks like we're together in this, Big Guy."
"God," Oswyn contemplated infinity, possibly regretting the decisions that led him here.
"I'm with you as well, apparently," Cedric said, joining them with an indifferent expression. "I hope we can achieve a decent performance in whatever task the professor gives us."
"I'm in this group too."
"Excuse me."
"It will be a pleasure to be part of this group."
"Let's do our best."
"This should be fun."
They quickly gathered around Oswyn, Cedric, and Plumshire. I had to admit they gave off a protagonist air.
Part of my attention shifted toward the rest of the room. In the blue group were Katya, Yoko, and Florence.
Florence was half hidden behind Yoko, which was impressive considering she was taller than the non-Japanese girl.
Katya radiated confidence, while Yoko stood serenely, observing everything with a curious glint in her eyes.
"Excuse me." A hand settled on my shoulder. When I turned, the first thing I saw was a pair of dull violet eyes. "It seems we are in the same group."
"…" Something about her sent a chill through me. My instincts screamed that I should either get away from her or… help her. "Are you all right?"
The words left my mouth before I could think about them.
"Ah?" She took several steps back. Her voice came out as a pained gasp, her face almost distorted by surprise.
I did not know why, but something about her stirred both rejection and pity in me.
It should not have.
Everything about her was captivating and beautiful.
Short golden-blonde hair framed her oval face, a fringe falling over her forehead. Her violet eyes, though dull, were beautiful.
It was the kind of face that could have ranked among the most beautiful in the world.
"You seem a little fragile right now," I said.
Her skin had an unnatural pallor. Even under makeup, it was obvious something was wrong.
"I… I…" It took her a few seconds to compose herself. "You have nothing to worry about."
Her face twisted into a fake smile so obvious that Primrose's from this morning looked genuine by comparison.
"All right." I could not press the matter either. "I hope we can get along."
Her smile vanished, and she looked at me with suspicion.
"Excuse me," a third voice joined in. I turned and saw a boy with curly brown hair and orange eyes.
"It seems we are in the same group as well." I looked at the yellow marble between his fingers, then at him.
"Bastian Muth."
His earlier introduction had been about his aunt, who owned vineyards, and about how he wanted to mingle with old money.
According to his presentation, the highest authority he recognized was his uncle's wine master.
"It is pleasant to know I left a good impression on a noble such as yourself," his mischievous smile told me there was a great deal of irony there. "I should introduce myself again."
He offered me his hand. "Second son of no one particularly important, unless one happens to be fond of vineyards, debts, and relatives who sing at funerals."
I shook his hand.
"A pleasure," I said with a smile. "At least, I hope it will be. If this turns into a disaster, I reserve the right to say I tried to leave early."
The blonde girl beside me released the smallest possible breath through her nose.
"You may call me Aveline." There was desperation and longing in her voice. "Please, be considerate of me. I am useless."
Bastian and I exchanged a glance. The same discomfort I felt was reflected in his eyes.
I looked back at Aveline.
During her introduction, she had been reserved, almost evasive, and had spoken of her boyfriend with unsettling intensity.
"He is the best thing in the world," she had said.
"Don't worry," I said, trying to sound relaxed, although being near her made me nervous.
Her smile returned, even worse than before, and her eyes seemed to examine something beneath my skin.
Then, without explanation, she said, "You really are like a corpse that still moves."
The revulsion I felt upon hearing that almost made me lose control of my expression.
Before I could answer, someone cleared her throat behind Bastian.
"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt your… whatever this is." It was a girl with amber eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, wearing the expression of someone who had expected the day to be irritating and had already seen her suspicions confirmed.
"Maribel Ashdown," she introduced herself. "Fourth daughter of the Ashdowns. We own orchards, debts, and a very damp manor in southern Gwyndon."
Her voice was sharp, practical, and dry enough to preserve parchment.
She was bourgeois. Her introduction had been fairly ordinary.
"I do not enjoy chaos or loud people, which means someone here has already become my natural enemy."
Several meters away, Plumshire turned as if she had heard the slander by instinct.
"I heard that!"
"That was the point," Maribel replied without raising her voice.
I smiled despite myself. Good—a sane person.
"Luciano Vescari." A voice sounded behind me.
I turned. His intense blue eyes made me feel slightly irritated.
He had olive skin, dark hair combed too neatly to be accidental, and the kind of handsome face that only grew more suspicious the longer one looked at it.
His smile was polite, and specifically untrustworthy in the way bankers looked before selling you your own house.
"My family trades in dyes, glass, and some grain. I am here because my father believes military literacy improves negotiation positions, and because my mother believes I need hardship." He glanced around our group and sighed. "I hope she is satisfied…"
Aveline's smile sharpened almost imperceptibly.
From a distance, we probably looked less like a strategy team and more like the beginning of a bad joke.
"Wonderful," I muttered. "We're all doomed."
Bastian smiled at me.
"Oh, come now. It's not as bad as it looks."
I gave him my flattest expression.
Better to focus on the rest of the class, which had already finished grouping up.
The red group had formed around Plumshire through what I could only assume was a mixture of stupidity and hope.
Oswyn stood at the center, large enough to serve as both shield and landmark.
Cedric stood at his side, already writing something in a notebook before the exercise had even begun.
Jon Alveira—a polished boy from Hesperidia—stood with perfect posture.
Beside him was Giselle Morcant, a noblewoman from Glorienne with an angular face, ash-blonde hair tied back, and eyes that looked as if they had been born to calculate dowries and battlefield casualties with equal serenity.
The blue group was no less interesting.
Yoko stood very straight, hands folded, face unreadable.
Katya looked as if she would rather fight the table.
Florence was half hidden behind both of them in a way that would have been comical if she did not seem so sincerely determined to disappear.
With them were Elspeth Fairwick—the tired-looking girl from Gwyndon who had admitted earlier that her family's lord did not remember her name—and Renato Bellaforte, an Ausonian merchant heir with impeccable posture and the expression of a man silently deciding on the best course of action.
I looked from one group to the other and did the only sensible thing.
I sighed.
"Brats!" Professor Niali's delighted roar cut through every conversation in the room. "Now that you have gathered like lambs before the slaughter, let's do something useful."
She walked toward the enormous central table and struck the butt of her axe against the floor once.
The sound was enough to silence the entire room.
"Today," she announced, pointing theatrically at the map-table, "you are going to wage war."
Plumshire let out a gasp of joy.
Maribel silently covered her face with one hand.
Niali ignored both reactions.
The table itself was a work of madness.
It was not merely an engraved map. It was a miniature battlefield: rivers represented in polished blue resin, forests flocked in dark green, ridges carved in raised relief, walled towns no larger than loaves of bread, and roads traced in silver thread.
Neat rows of metal pieces had been placed along the edge:
- Infantry Blocks
- Cavalry Wedges
- Artillery Discs
- Supply Wagons
- Scouts
- Engineers
- Command Banners
I felt like a child thrown into a toy store designed by a retired general.
"Each group commands the same number of troops," Niali said, clearly delighted. "The scenarios will change. Your resources will not. Your decisions will. Victory conditions will be announced clearly. If you ask a stupid question, I will mock you. If you ask a useful one, I might mock you anyway."
Her smile was pure malice and delight.
"Professor," Cedric said, raising a hand. "Will command authority be centralized within each group or distributed?"
"Oh, I like you." Niali pointed her axe at him. "Choose however you like. Name a commander, argue like idiots, stage a coup—I don't care. The point is to see what kind of fools you turn into under pressure."
Jon Alveira raised his hand next, looking only slightly offended.
"Will the engagements be sequential or simultaneous?"
"Sequential. I want to see you suffer." Niali smiled and placed one foot on the table, heedless of what it revealed beneath her skirt. "First scenario: Thornwash Bridge."
She slammed a small iron plate onto the map.
A village stood on one side of the river. A long bridge crossed toward a wooded rise and then into open ground beyond.
"Red and Gold. You first." She pointed at us, then at Plumshire's group. "Your objectives are simple. Capture the bridge and secure the village. You have one hour of campaign time before reinforcements theoretically arrive. Which means one side will have the bridge, and the other will be explaining themselves to the dead."
She turned toward Blue.
"You watch. Learn. Or don't."
I looked at my group.
Four faces looked back at me.
Bastian raised one finger.
"Question."
"Go ahead," Niali said.
"Which of us looks like the best commander?" Then he smiled with a trace of arrogance. "A noble by birth, a commoner, or a bourgeois? Does anyone appear naturally remarkable in your eyes?"
Niali burst into loud laughter.
She fell over clutching her stomach and rolled on the floor for a few minutes.
Then she stopped abruptly, stood, and looked genuinely offended by the question.
"What an idiotic question." Her face turned serious, her gaze cold, her voice nearly filled with contempt. "If appearance or place of birth had any effect on how good a commander you are, there would be no room for a baker's son to defeat an experienced general."
Bastian fell silent before showing an uncomfortable expression.
"I'm sorry, Professor."
"Bah." Niali put her foot back on the table. "Better those ideas die here than end up killing you later."
The calm with which Niali said that left me cold.
"Hey." Someone tugged at my sleeve. I looked down and saw Maribel. "Can't you seduce the girls on the rival teams?"
I stared at her.
"Excuse me?"
"Seduce them," she said, unusually serious. "Coax them into letting us win, like you did with your commoner girl, or—"
"Finish that sentence," I said, smiling at Maribel with a sweetness that did not mask my hostility, "and I will find a way to make this exercise hell for you specifically."
"Ehehehe." Her nervous laugh and the way she looked aside made it clear she had understood the message. "It was an innocent joke. But hypothetically speaking, does my joke contain any truth?"
"No," I said at once.
"Ooh." Maribel looked disappointed.
"I must say, that is difficult to believe," Luciano joined in smoothly. "You have the posture of someone accustomed to disappointment. That tends to help with intrigue."
I gave him an unfriendly look.
He smiled serenely.
Aveline clasped her hands on the edge of the table.
"You remind me of an albino wolf with its muzzle covered in blood." I could see I wasn't the only one disturbed by the way she said things. "Surely that's the reason people are drawn to you."
Everyone in the group looked at her as if she were insane.
Bastian extended one hand.
"Enough chatter." Then he crossed his arms and took on a confident expression. "I nominate myself as leader."
Well.
That was fast.
"No objection," I said.
The sooner we had a leader, the better. Whether we won or not, the important thing was getting through this.
"Wow," Maribel said, looking at us with some disbelief. "Someone is very confident, and someone else simply doesn't seem to care at all."
And there it was.
The passive-aggression had begun.
"I see no reason why Bastian cannot be our leader," I said.
Honestly, I did not care, but appearances mattered.
"Let his results speak for him."
"Mmmm. I suppose that's true." Maribel turned to the rest of the group. "Any objections?"
"None," Luciano said, remarkably calm about everything around him.
"I'm fine," Aveline said, giving us a disturbing expression of happiness.
"Fine," Maribel admitted, clapping once. "We have a leader. Let's hope this goes well."
Then she looked at Plumshire, and an expression of pure hatred overtook her face. "We're going to crush them."
Plumshire was already moving pieces at an alarming speed while Oswyn tried to restrain her by simply placing one large hand over the cavalry tray.
Cedric had taken command of a notebook and, by extension, probably half the group.
"Very well," Bastian said, approaching the table. "If I am the commander, speak up when you see something useful. Do not wait for permission just because I am the one standing here."
I studied the board.
Thornwash had:
- A River Crossing
- A Central Bridge
- A Lower Village
- A Patch of Forest Near the Far Bank
- Two Ridges on Either Side of the Road
Basic.
Which meant the danger would lie in how everyone overcomplicated it.
"Plumshire will want the bridge quickly," I murmured.
"She will set something on fire if they let her," Maribel said, sounding ready for trouble.
"Oswyn will anchor the center," Bastian added. "He's too sensible not to."
"Cedric will protect supplies before pride," Luciano observed.
That seemed true.
Mmm…
I supposed I should contribute something.
"And Jon," I said, looking at the Hesperidian, "seems like the type who believes cavalry solves emotional problems."
Bastian looked delighted.
"I like you."
Aveline pointed at the map with a pale finger.
"The village is a trap," she said quietly.
The rest of us looked at her.
She continued, eyes fixed on the tiny buildings.
"If we rush to hold the houses, Red can pin us there and turn the bridge into a bottleneck. If they take the bridge after we commit, we drown in place." Her smile returned, thin and strange. "Villages are coffins for those who love walls too much."
Bastian blinked.
"That was beautiful and disturbing."
"It was also correct," Luciano said, looking slightly unsettled. "Then we won't hold the village first. We'll maintain movement."
Bastian seemed to be adjusting well to his role.
Maribel leaned over the table.
"Can we lure them across the bridge and cut them off from the forest?"
"Not with Oswyn there," I said.
He carried the most powerful weapon in his group: common sense.
"He'll see through it if it's too obvious."
Bastian snapped his fingers.
"Then let's make it look accidental."
I looked at him.
He gave me a self-satisfied smile.
"I come from a family of vintners. We survive by making disasters seem charming."
That was so absurdly specific that I trusted it by instinct.
Five minutes later, we had something resembling a strategy.
"Very well!"
Niali circled the table like a wolf prowling around sleeping prey.
"Command tokens in place," she said. "Once a move is made, it stays. No complaints. No revisions. No appeals to God, king, or mother. Begin."
Red moved first.
Of course.
Plumshire pushed two infantry blocks and one cavalry wedge toward the bridge approach with such enthusiasm that I was surprised the pieces did not explode.
"PRESSURE ON THE CENTER!" she declared.
"Controlled pressure on the center," Cedric corrected, adjusting a supply marker with two fingers. "Do not leave the rear undefended."
Oswyn shifted a heavy infantry piece into the center with calm precision.
Jon, predictably, committed his cavalry too far on the right flank, clearly hoping for a quick collapse.
Giselle protected their baggage.
As expected: strength, structure, impatience.
"Rival team's turn!" Niali said, pointing at us.
"Let's go!" Bastian's enthusiasm made me feel tired. "Luciano, pull our supply wagons one move back and left, behind the orchard line."
Luciano obeyed immediately.
"Maribel, keep our central infantry one space behind the bridge—not on it."
She moved the piece and shot me a look.
"Jakob."
"Yes?"
"Scouts into the forest, but not deep. I want them seen."
"Seen?"
"Yes. I want Red to think we're nervous about the forest."
Aveline's eyes gleamed.
"Then they will try to take it from us."
Bastian smiled.
"Exactly."
For the next fifteen minutes of campaign time, the game became a dance.
Red pressed.
We yielded space without yielding structure.
Plumshire committed more and more to the bridge because we never quite gave her a satisfying target.
Jon's cavalry kept drifting wider, clearly preparing to circle around and strike our rear.
Cedric began moving reserve infantry into the forest to punish our scouts.
"Now," Aveline murmured.
Bastian nodded.
"Jakob, pull the scouts out. Fast. Make it look ugly."
I withdrew them with a visible grimace.
"Oh, this is going to look deliciously incompetent."
The bait worked instantly.
Plumshire smiled like a maniac and pushed her forest reserve in too deep.
Jon committed to the cavalry sweep.
Oswyn's center crossed the bridge to support what they believed was a panicked retreat.
"Cedric is still keeping the supply line disciplined," Luciano warned.
That was the real problem.
"Not for long," Maribel said, pointing.
Jon's cavalry wedge had spread so wide in its attempt to outflank our left that it had accidentally created a gap between Red's right side and its baggage road.
"Oh."
I looked at Luciano.
He smiled for the first time.
"This is perfect."
"Move our light cavalry around the orchard and hit the supplies," Bastian ordered me with a smile.
"Okay."
They were enjoying this far too much.
Bastian actually slapped the table in delight.
"We look like villains." I felt slightly embarrassed by the excitement in our leader's voice.
But his strategy was good.
Red did not realize what had happened until it was too late.
By the time Cedric reacted, our cavalry had cut the road token and forced a supply check.
At the same time, Oswyn's center found itself on the far side of the bridge with limited reinforcements and no easy retreat.
We still could not crush them completely—that was never going to happen—but now they had to choose:
- Hold the bridge and starve slowly.
- Retreat and save the baggage.
- Abandon one flank.
Cedric chose the least wrong answer and began to withdraw.
Plumshire groaned dramatically.
"This is sabotage by geometry!"
Niali laughed so hard she nearly leaned on her axe.
"Gold takes Thornwash through logistical pressure and selective cowardice!" she roared. "Excellent. Red loses. Learn from it."
Bastian looked extremely pleased with himself.
"Selective cowardice is the best compliment I've ever heard." He then laughed like a villain.
I let out a slow sigh.
An unexpected victory, but a welcome one.
Plumshire turned and pointed at us with furious joy.
"I hate how effective that was."
Maribel bowed with amusement. "Next time, don't burn someone's hair."
Plumshire looked her up and down, brought a hand to her chin in a gesture of deep contemplation, and then said: "Who are you?"
Maribel's face passed through surprise, disbelief, and finally the red of pure rage.
"I'm going to…" She took a breath to calm herself and smiled pleasantly. "I despise you."
The pyromaniac answered with a bright smile.
"Okay."
Plumshire's ability to ignore danger was magnificent.
I think everyone in the room heard Maribel grinding her teeth.
Oooh.
A rivalry.
"Okay, time to continue, brats!" Niali pointed at the red group and smiled. "You get another chance to prove your worth. Let's see whether these Gold punks can keep their streak."
The second scenario was worse.
Niali rearranged the board with terrifying speed.
"Scenario Two: The Orchard Road."
This time, Gold had to escort two civilian carts and one supply wagon from a small chapel at the edge of the map to the southern road.
Red had superior cavalry and one artillery token.
"If the civilians die, I count it as a defeat regardless of the road," Niali said. "War is not a game of pretty little flags. Move."
Red had learned from the first battle.
Cedric took far more control.
Plumshire still burned with manic energy, but now Oswyn and Giselle contained her enough to keep their formation coherent.
Jon used the cavalry properly this time.
That made them dangerous.
We needed something uglier.
"Can we split the convoy?" Maribel asked.
Luciano frowned.
"Too risky."
"No," Aveline said softly. "Too obvious. Which is why they won't expect the wrong cart to matter most."
She tapped the smaller wagon marker with one finger.
"The empty one."
Bastian lit up.
"A decoy."
"With bells," Maribel added.
"There are no bells," Luciano said.
"There are if Professor Niali is generous."
Niali, listening three steps away, smiled like a demon.
"Bells approved."
We ran the convoy with:
- One visibly heavy civilian cart.
- One lighter cart.
- One supply wagon.
But the truly important route was not the obvious road.
We used the scouts to create panic along the northern path, made the empty cart noisy, and let Jon take the bait.
Red's cavalry crashed into nothing of value.
At the same time, Red's equivalent of Oswyn—their heavy line—could not redeploy fast enough to stop our real convoy from cutting through a line of trees and into the shelter of the orchard.
Cedric almost saved it with artillery.
Almost.
Aveline pointed out a blind angle between two low ridges.
Luciano pushed the supply token through it.
Maribel refused to let us get greedy and pulled the rear guard back just in time.
We reached the southern road with one civilian cart and the supply wagon intact.
By points, it was enough.
"Gold wins again," Niali announced, sounding almost pleased. "Ugly. Cautious. Effective. I could spit."
Plumshire threw both hands into the air.
"I demand a rematch on real terrain with fire permitted!"
"No," half the class said at the same time.
Oswyn buried his face in one hand.
"You are the reason war crimes need names," Cedric muttered.
Two victories.
That sounded too good to be true.
"Blue Group's turn!"
I felt a chill; I looked. Yoko seemed to be looking down on us; her indifferent expression had a hint of condescension she couldn't hide.
Beside her, Katya smiled with all the malice of someone who knew they had already won.
Niali rearranged the table once more.
"Scenario," she began, "the White Pass Retreat."
Blue would command the pursuing army.
Gold would command a battered force trying to escort three civilian wagons through a mountain pass and off the map.
"You are outnumbered," she told us. "Not catastrophically. Just enough that foolishness will kill you."
She looked at Yoko's group.
"You have better terrain awareness, one additional scout unit, and weather advantage. Congratulations."
"Perfect," Yoko said simply.
She turned to her team and calmly ordered, "To your positions."
No aggression.
No ostentation.
"Shit," Bastian said, sounding as if we had already lost. "Everyone, get ready."
Within seconds, we understood that Bastian knew what he was talking about.
Florence, standing near Yoko, whispered things to her while Yoko nodded without taking her eyes off the field.
"Quickly," Yoko said.
To my surprise, she handled the map with terrifying confidence, silently pointing out elevation routes and blind angles as if she had been born studying topography.
"This is more fun than I thought," Katya said, smiling at me as though she wished I were one of the pieces on the board.
"My lady, you are certainly one of the noble women who represent the future of nations," Renato Bellaforte, the handsome blond from Ausonia, praised her while managing supplies like a man organizing a funeral he intended to profit from.
"…" Elspeth, a taciturn young woman from Gwyndon with black hair and blue eyes, anchored their reserve with the bitterness of someone too accustomed to prolonged resistance and poor support.
"They look like a real army," Luciano murmured.
"They're going to crush us," I said quietly.
Aveline's smile looked faintly eager.
"How fortunate."
"No," I said on instinct.
"Begin!" the professor shouted.
We moved slowly.
Too slowly, perhaps—but if we rushed, Katya would tear open our flank.
So we screened the lead wagon with infantry, protected the rear with scouts and reserves, and kept the supply line tucked behind a ridge.
For a while, it worked.
Blue followed us like a shadow.
Never overcommitting.
Never taking the bait.
We tried a false gap on the left.
Yoko ignored it.
We threatened a push up a hill.
Florence silently rotated her archers to deny it.
We sent troops to feign a wagon breakdown.
Renato adjusted his reserve and cut off the passage.
"She is not leading like Plumshire or Cedric," Bastian murmured. "She is not trying to solve us. She is waiting for us to reveal ourselves."
That was exactly right.
Yoko was not trying to win quickly.
She was trying to let us lose to ourselves.
A cold and infuriatingly elegant strategy.
"Then we make her act," our leader said, clearly frustrated with how everything was unfolding. "Ideas?"
Maribel looked at me.
"Seduce her?"
I gave her my best deadpan expression.
"No."
Then I studied the board.
I was not going to pretend I was good at military strategy. Far from it. I was probably terrible.
But fortunately, this was still a game.
The only place where the pass narrowed enough to become decisive was a broken bridge ledge over a ravine. If we crossed there, one wagon at a time, we might get two out before Blue collapsed on us.
Maybe.
And she knew it.
"I have an idea," I said.
Bastian looked at me as if I were a miracle from heaven.
"A good idea?"
The hope in his voice made me feel bad.
"No."
And with that, his good mood left his face.
"Move the lead wagon."
Luciano looked at me.
"That is the knife's edge."
"I know."
Aveline's eyes flew to mine.
"You are sacrificing the rear."
"Only if she takes the bait."
Bastian laughed without humor.
"Which she will."
The moment our first wagon entered the pass, Katya's flanking pieces burst from concealment and struck our right screen hard.
At the same time, Yoko committed just enough pressure in the center to pin our infantry while choking off our secondary retreat route.
Damn it.
We saved what we could.
Maribel held one wing long enough for one civilian wagon to get through.
Luciano preserved the supply train longer than I thought possible.
Bastian burned his scouts to delay the collapse of the rear passage.
But Blue had already won the shape of the battle.
The pass became a tourniquet.
I stared at the board.
We had two options:
- Abandon the last civilian wagon and save the command token.
- Hold the pass, lose the commander, and get one more wagon out.
I exhaled slowly.
"One more wagon," I said.
No one objected.
Not one of them.
Aveline moved the token herself.
Bastian sacrificed the last scouts with an almost theatrical grimace.
Maribel committed the reserve to a desperate defense.
Luciano gave up the supply road to buy us two more turns.
And when Yoko finally sealed the pass, it was over.
Blue held the field.
Our command token was surrounded.
Our army was split.
Our supplies were broken.
But two civilian wagons had escaped, and the third had reached the edge of the map one turn before the total collapse.
Niali looked at the board in silence.
Then she tapped the mountain pass with one finger.
"Blue wins."
Katya leaned back with a small, savage smile.
Florence looked as if she had accidentally survived being useful.
Renato nodded once, satisfied.
Elspeth's expression remained indifferent.
Yoko's dark eyes rose to meet mine across the table.
No triumph.
Only recognition.
Then Niali looked at our side and pointed to the last wagon.
"You understood the purpose of a retreat. It was not to preserve your pride, nor your commander. It was to get people out alive." Her smile returned, wolfish and bright. "That is what I call losing with honor, brats."
Bastian fell back into his chair like a man struck through the heart by an arrow.
"We lost beautifully," he murmured.
Maribel rubbed her temples.
"I hate that you're right."
Luciano crossed his arms.
"I will accept an honorable defeat once, and only once."
Aveline stared at the board with that pale, unreadable face of hers.
"It was almost enough," she said quietly.
I fixed my gaze on the mountain pass.
It had been the correct defeat.
Yoko walked over to us and inclined her head slightly.
"Your retreat was properly judged," she said. "Many men would have sacrificed the civilians to preserve the dignity of command."
"Ha!" Bastian laughed heartily, struck the table, and wore the face of a young man in love. "That was a good game."
Yoko looked him in the eyes, the captivating gleam in her gaze making me feel as if I stood before a tiger ready to hunt me.
For the smallest fraction of a second, one corner of her mouth moved.
It was not a smile.
But it was close enough to count.
Katya clicked her tongue.
"Next time, don't make it so difficult."
Bastian straightened instantly, gave us a friendly look, and said, "Ah. She does respect us."
"Do not misunderstand me," Katya snapped.
"Too late," he said cheerfully.
Niali burst into laughter and struck the butt of her axe against the floor.
"Good!" she shouted. "Now you have all had a taste. Every single one of you is inadequate in different and fascinating ways."
Plumshire shot out of her chair as though struck by divine revelation.
"I learned so much!"
"Congratulations," Cedric muttered without much enthusiasm.
Oswyn gave us a nod from across the table.
He had learned something too.
"Brats!" Niali shouted brightly. "You are free for now. Tomorrow we continue the lessons. Don't keep your next professor waiting!"
We moved quickly.
With every step, I felt a faint sense of calm.
The next class was history.
It was time to learn more about this world.
….
…
..
.
"Is he our professor?" Luciano asked, pointing at the man leafing through books, gathering them, and beginning to carry them to a large black wooden desk.
"…He reminds me of an uncle," Plumshire said, revealing more of her life than necessary.
All of us kept a safe distance from the man… No.
"Come on." I was really getting tired of this. I crossed the room, already ready for class.
We had entered a world of bookshelves lining the walls, and the smell of coffee filled the classroom.
There were also suits of armor on display and replicas of weapons hanging from the walls.
"Excuse me," I said once I stood before the man, using a friendly tone. "I'm looking forward to the class."
The man did not seem interested in me. Instead, he continued stacking books.
"History," our professor began, taking the pile and turning his back to me, "is the art of proving that everyone was warned."
He was a thin man with hair as black as ink and a long face bearing an expression of friendly exhaustion.
He set the pile on his desk.
"Take your seats." He took two books from the stack, flipped through the pages quickly, threw them behind him, and sat down with his chair backward. "I warn you—those who only came for an easy grade, please go to the back. Up front I want those who came to learn."
I took a seat in the first row and waited for the rest to decide what to do.
Then I finally analyzed the professor.
His green eyes looked tired, and he carried the air of a man who had once loved history, only to later make the mistake of reading all of it.
He stood abruptly and, with quick movements, wrote three words on the blackboard.
Memory.
Power.
Excuse.
Then he turned and threw the chalk out the window.
"Who controls history?"
No one answered immediately, likely because they were doing the same thing I was: deciding whether this man was insane or merely eccentric.
Cedric took the seat to my right and raised his hand.
"Those who preserve the records."
"In part."
Yoko, near the window, spoke without raising her hand.
"Those who win."
"Common answer. Incomplete."
Katya said, "Those with money."
"Also incomplete."
Plumshire raised her hand.
"People with very good handwriting?"
The professor stared at her.
After a few seconds, he said, "Occasionally."
I coughed into my hand.
The professor's gaze fell on me.
"Answer?"
"Those who erase it?"
He smiled.
"Good."
He nodded and spread his arms.
"History," he began, "is not the past. The past is dead. History is what the living build from its bones."
"Ugh." someone groan in disgust.
I did not blame them.
That was a deeply disturbing sentence for eleven in the morning.
"I want each of you to take a history book. You will study one specific topic related to the nation in that book." He pointed at the books on his desk and reclined even farther in his chair. "Do not take too long choosing. I am perfectly capable of assigning anyone a topic of my own preference."
His smile made me stand and take the book at the top of the pile.
I opened it. The old paper had that yellowed pigmentation left by the passage of time.
I felt the engraved letters. I inhaled the scent of old pages and let the weight of the history in the book captivate me before I read.
{Born in Tsarkholodgrad on the twenty-fifth day of Aer in the year 530, Ioann was the long-awaited son of Basil III.
His father died when the boy was barely three years old, and Ioann was proclaimed Grand Prince.
His mother, Elena Glinskaya, served as regent, but died when Ioann was eight. The young prince fell under the authority of a group of nobles who fought fiercely for power.
Treated with respect in public but neglected in private, he grew up lonely and humiliated by his powerful regents.
Abuse, violence, and murder were commonplace in the palace.
It is believed that this miserable childhood made Ioann someone who hated the nobility.}
I closed the book.
I said nothing.
I looked at the professor.
"Thank you." Zofia had told me—this world was never fictional; using the knowledge from the game and the history of this world perhaps I could…
Armine's smiling face reminded me of the reason I must prepare better.
"…" The professor met my eyes with slight intensity, nodded faintly, and then turned his gaze toward the seats. "Do not get distracted. History is something you must live."
I smiled.
"Understood."
I returned to my seat, and Cedric quickly stood, took a book from the pile, and went back to his chair.
That was the incentive the others needed. One by one, they took books from the pile and returned to their seats to await the professor's instructions.
"Now that all of you have your books…" The man rose from his seat, walked a little with his hands behind his back, and looked at no one in particular.
"I want you to understand something. History is a series of consequences born from terrible decisions."
His eyes examined us coldly, with faint disdain.
That behavior made me reevaluate my first impression of him.
At first glance, he had not seemed like much: lanky, almost comically thin, dressed in an olive-green suit without a tie, which gave him the air of an erudite vagrant.
"Each of the books you have taken covers the same period of time. Different contexts and perspectives, but the same events running through them. Each of you will give me a report on the contents of your book by the end of this first semester."
To my surprise, no one showed any sign of displeasure or weariness. Everyone suddenly looked serious.
"For our next class, we will address the advancement of Gwyndon's parliamentary system over the last three decades." His mocking smile gave me a bad feeling. "You have the rest of the hour to find whatever information you consider relevant."
Now I understood what kind of professor he was.
"Remember to take notes and prepare whatever you deem important."
A bastard.