ODOC 06

Chapter 06

“Huff, huff.”

For a moment, Delev thought he had blacked out.

But the hand grabbing his arm pulled him back to his senses.

“Student Delev Kundel, go drink some water.”

“Th… thank you.”

Without realizing it, Delev bowed in gratitude and barely managed to stay on his feet.

His whole body felt drained.

And yet, strangely refreshed.

When was the last time he had run with such effort?

Gulp, gulp.

The water sliding down his throat tasted unbelievably sweet and cool.

The thought of losing to Celia vanished instantly.

Right now, the sense of liberation made his whole body feel like it was floating.

Meanwhile—

“Huff, huff.”

Celia finally collapsed as well.

No—she would have collapsed, but Zielle caught her at the last second.

“Student Celia Rihart, go drink some water. 226 laps.”

“Thank you, sir…”

Celia’s ears flushed red.

“Your ears turned red again.”

“I— It’s just…”

Was it embarrassment? Or something else?

“I looked it up in a medical book. It said it can happen when you eat the wrong food or drink alcohol.”

“…”

Annoyance flared in Celia’s chest; she shook Zielle’s hand off and went to drink water.

Sweet and electrifying.

Just like Delev, an overwhelming sense of liberation flooded in.

Both Delev and Celia had trained in swordsmanship countless times in their families.

But this kind of liberation was completely new.

Before awakening their mana, they had never done training this intense.

And after awakening mana, nothing had ever been this physically exhausting.

Not only the two of them—everyone here was thinking the same thing.

Though none had fully realized Zielle’s intention.

“A body trained without using mana becomes much stronger once mana is used.”

No matter how skilled an assassin was, they couldn’t keep their mana active for days.

But assassins stake out their targets for days, sometimes months.

To endure that stamina drain, they train their bodies repeatedly without mana.

That’s assassin training.

Zielle was doing the same—strengthening them without mana to achieve true stamina growth.

Thanks to that, the students’ complaints had vanished.

Because they were too exhausted.

Too exhausted to even complain.

“I want to take a leave of absence…”
“I should’ve enrolled next year…”

The Sword School freshmen were drowning in regret.

Except for exactly two people.

Delev.

And Celia.

“Now I’ll read your individual records. Yurio Harmatan — 20 laps. Next…”

No one even had the strength to be surprised.

Without any notes, Zielle recited every student’s number perfectly.

“…Lastly, Celia Rihart — 226 laps.”

Celia smiled faintly.

The pride of House Rihart had been perfectly upheld.

“Delev and Celia… they’re insane.”

“Talent is talent…”

After the murmuring faded, Zielle looked at the students sprawled on the ground.

“Today was basic stamina testing. You should now know your level.”

From the 20-lap students to Celia and Delev, who ran more than ten times that.

“For the next year, your goals are as follows:
Those under 50 laps will raise their record by four times.”

The under-50 group—including Yurio—jumped up in shock.

“F–four times?!”

“Your stamina is far too low. I heard that starting second year, classes focus on real combat.”

“But still—”

“The purpose of general education is to prepare your bodies before your major courses.”

Zielle brushed aside their complaints and continued.

“Next. Those under 100 laps will multiply their record by three.”

“…”

“And under 200 laps will double.”

The higher the lap count, the smaller the multiplier.

This was to balance their progress.

It was the same in assassin training.

If a group fell too far behind, they were eliminated.

Assassin training was harsher than people thought—but more reasonable, too.

“It’s important to keep everyone at similar levels.”

And even with good records, there was no need to force unrealistic goals.

These were actually very fair.

‘Damn… then I’m over 300 laps…?’
‘I’m dead…’

Of course, only Zielle thought it was reasonable.

“And lastly, the 200+ group.”

Two students.

Delev Kundel.

Celia Rihart.

‘Two times? Maybe less?’
‘Are they gonna make those two triple it?’

Zielle gave an answer none expected.

“You two will train separately.”

“…What?”
“…Huh?”

The two spoke at the same time.

Zielle responded simply.

“You’ll take different classes.”

“What kind?” Celia’s eyes sparkled.

Delev pretended not to care but was clearly curious.

“When levels differ too much, separate them.”

Assassin training did the same.

If a trainee was far above the rest, they were taken aside for special training.

Forcing them to match others would only hold them back.

Zielle had been one of those special cases.

Which is why he learned assassination techniques while others trained basic stamina.

“I’ll tell you soon. For now, run. Together.”

“Yes! I’ll look forward to it!”
“Understood.”

Then Zielle turned back to the whole class.

“Each week, you will improve your record. And remember the posture corrections I gave—how you run and breathe will change your results.”

Then he added:

“When this course ends, your stamina will be completely different. In this class, and in your daily lives.”

The students stared at him, mesmerized.

Especially the ones who ran long.

The exhaustion they felt—the liberation afterward—the kind of fatigue they hardly felt since learning mana.

In the Valdrein Empire, even veteran warriors criticized young warriors’ declining skill.

One hundred years of peace had softened them.

And Sword School was no longer the hardcore academy it used to be.

The diploma was mandatory.

A stepping stone for status.

For joining knight orders.

For working in the imperial household.

It was no exaggeration to say graduates were declining each year.

Of course, Zielle knew none of that.

For him, it was simple.

“This class will be done by the book. As I said, mana use is forbidden.”

By the book.

Exactly as written in the syllabus.

Because Zielle planned to stay in Edelvine Academy for a long time, building a new life.

Maybe even becoming a professor.

‘They’ll need proper motivation.’

Back in assassin training, instructors offered rewards—and the trainees pushed themselves harder.

These students were no different.

“From now on, each class, the student who improves the most will receive…”

Everyone perked up.

A reward?

A privilege?

A pass?

‘What will he give?’
‘Skipping the next class?’
‘Can I skip next week’s assembly?’

Hope swelled—

“I’ll give you a praise card.”

Silence.

“…What is that?” Karen raised her hand.

“You’ll know when you get one.”

After class.

Zielle ate six full bowls in the staff cafeteria.

A satisfying meal.

‘I could eat this for the rest of my life.’

No more force-feeding tasteless nutrition paste.

‘The students will love this too.’

Nothing tastes better than food after physical labor.

Even ordinary food tastes good—so imagine how it tastes when you’re starving.

As he imagined the students’ joy, he spotted a familiar face.

“Professor Elcanto Paredes.”

“H—huh? Instructor Zielle?”

Professor Elcanto looked visibly flustered.

“Hello.”

“Y-yes. Just leaving after class?”

“I finished eating after class. The food was good.”

“I… see.”

Elcanto seemed like he wanted to say something.

But then—

“Hmm. Ahem. Well—if you have trouble, feel free to talk to me.”

Zielle found the change in attitude odd.

Just recently, the man had seemed ready to explode at him in this very cafeteria.

‘His attitude changes faster than an assassin’s stance.’

Or maybe it was because so many people were watching?

In any case, he wasn’t someone to take lightly.

“Then I’ll go.”

“Ahem. Yes. Ah—”

“Do you have something to say?”

“…No. Ahem. Go on.”

Zielle walked away.

Elcanto hesitated before sighing deeply.

“Sigh… What’s the point of asking? He wouldn’t answer anyway.”

Who was backing that man?

Who gave him the confidence to act without caring about anyone’s opinion?

He had just heard that in the second general ed class, he made the students run themselves half-dead.

And shockingly—not a single student gave up.

“Seriously… I can’t figure him out.”

As Elcanto agonized over whether he should try to befriend him, Zielle strolled across campus, already having forgotten that Elcanto existed.

“Nice.”

The peaceful atmosphere.

The excited freshmen.

The buzz of the new semester.

Zielle didn’t fully understand it all, but he could feel its excitement.

“Everyone, come eat! One skewer for 1 sel! Three for 2 sel!”

“Recruiting today only! Art Club! Freshmen, come join!”

Clubs and booths were everywhere.

“Looks good.”

He checked his pocket.

He had exactly 1 sel left after lunch.

“I can only afford one.”

He approached the skewer booth—

Then spotted the booth next to it.

“Hit the target and knock it down! Double reward! Even if you miss, you get a snack!”

A club promotion booth.

The “Sword Lovers Society.”

“Sword Lovers Society?”

A student nearby quickly explained:

“We do anything related to swords! And we love all kinds—longswords, daggers, knives! Swords are amazing!”

“I see.”

“Of course! Are you here to sign up—ah, are you a freshman?”

“No. I’m an instructor.”

“O-oh… an instructor? Sword School had instructors?”

“I’m new.”

Zielle pointed.

“Do you throw this to hit the target?”

“Yes! Anyone can participate, even non-students. You just can’t join the club. One throw costs 1 sel. If you hit the farthest target and knock it down, you get 2 sel back.”

Simple enough.

You throw a small dagger and knock down the target.

Closest target = one snack.

Farthest target = double your money.

‘I can eat twice as many skewers.’

Zielle was slowly developing a sense of money.

And it involved throwing weapons.

“Just warning you—it’s not easy. The farthest target is really far.”

There was nothing in the world easier than this.