Crack! Crack!

Normally, when climbing a cliff, it's common sense to find footholds and handholds, using both hands and feet to pull yourself up. Just the act of gripping the cracks with your hands and feet is tough enough, so it's not just common sense—it's an absolute necessity.

But his method of climbing the cliff was different from others. No, it was completely out of sync with common sense.

Thunk!

“Huff! Huff!”

He was forcefully embedding his hands and feet into the cliff. It wasn’t as if the cliff was made of sand, but as he ascended, he kicked footholds into the rock with his bare feet, and created handholds by chopping into the rock with the side of his hands. All of this, done with nothing but his bare hands and feet.

No equipment, no safety gear—just sheer force and determination. It would seem reckless, but watching him, the word "reckless" didn't come to mind as much as "persistent." He simply kept his eyes fixed upward, relentlessly climbing. And by the time he reached the top of the cliff—

“Ha... Ha…”

He collapsed, lying flat on the ground, panting heavily. His entire body was drenched in sweat, with scratches covering his hands, feet, and skin.

This showed just how dangerous and exhausting the climb had been, how close he had come to slipping several times. Few would know that this was his fifth time climbing the cliff today, and once, he had even fallen.

The fact that he was still alive was remarkable, but the man’s extraordinary recovery ability and the resilience he had built through daily training had sustained him.

The man, Ihan, had used up all his stamina, and he had no desire to move. He realized, once again, how grueling cliff climbing really was.

Every muscle in his body was taxed, and both his physical and mental strength were worn out. One small misstep could have led to serious injury, which is why so much equipment is usually needed for safe climbing.

What Ihan was doing could only be seen as recklessness.

To others, it would look like a man on a death wish. But Ihan believed that when you pushed your limits, that’s when your body grew stronger.

Sure, he wasn’t seeing the results yet. But through repetition and perseverance, he believed one day it would pay off. That was the nature of effort.

“…Let’s move on to the next.”

Anyone else would have collapsed into sleep, but Ihan chose movement over rest. After taking in some light nutrition, he immediately began his next routine.

Smack! Smack!

He started practicing his techniques.

These were simple techniques he had picked up by watching others in the knight’s training. Mostly submission holds and joint locks. Though he hadn’t practiced them much before, today, Ihan dedicated time to honing his grappling skills.

His practice partner? A human-shaped dummy stuffed with sand.

It would have been ideal to practice on a live person, but since none were available, he made do. He practiced grappling, takedowns, and throws, tying ropes to old trees and practicing as if performing judo throws.

It was a reminder of the judo he had learned during his past life as a non-commissioned officer. He hadn’t used it much up until now, but it wouldn’t hurt to add it to his skill set.

On top of that, he still had to practice swordsmanship, spear techniques, ax swings, and dagger throwing.

He couldn’t wield more than ten different weapons like some knights, but he was determined to master whatever he could.

‘There aren’t enough hours in the day.’

Ihan grumbled about the shortness of the day, but he methodically went through his routine, completing what he could.

It wasn’t a sudden revelation, but last night’s events had ignited a fire in him. A determination had been planted in his chest.

More rivals had appeared, beyond just the old man Baltar.

Whirr!

With that thought, a sense of purpose grew within him, fueling his resolve.

 

And then, Ihan was late.

It was the first day of class.

“Did you hear? He was late again today and got called to the dean’s office.”

“First he messes up at the entrance ceremony, and now this. He’s setting all sorts of records.”

“He seems skilled, though.”

“Skill isn’t everything. His behavior is a disgrace, and it’s obvious he hasn’t learned proper manners. He’s no knight, just a mercenary.”

“…Maybe that’s why he was demoted. He’s not someone the higher-ups would approve of.”

“That makes sense.”

The academy was vast. But at the same time, it was small.

Since the cadets were still at an age where gossip thrived, they tended to form cliques. And in a place like that, rumors spread quickly. Ten minutes was all it took for word to get around about this morning’s events.

“…Do you think that instructor will be alright?”

“Who knows?”

The swordsmanship department’s cadets sighed, clearly anxious.

They were uneasy about the instructor assigned to teach them this year.

Gathered in the training ground were around eighty cadets, many of them filled with nervous chatter.

There were second- and third-year students as well, though they mostly skipped lessons. By the time they reached the higher years, most students preferred personal training back at their family estates rather than attending classes at the academy. They only made an appearance when there was a swordsmanship tournament.

That meant that most of the gathered students here were first-years—around eighty of them. Among them, some were as skilled as trainee knights, while others barely knew how to hold a sword. The latter were mostly commoners, those who had only received basic training at local swordsmanship schools.

Some were so lacking that calling what they had learned “basic” felt generous.

And ironically, those were the better ones. There were plenty of others who weren’t interested in swordsmanship at all, instead hoping to build connections with future knights.

“Still, I didn’t expect him to show up for class.”

“I know, right? You’d think he’d prefer to spend his time on personal training.”

But this year, the class was unusually full of talent. Despite the large number of students, this year had its share of prodigies mixed in with the commoners.

One such standout among the new students was Lord Roen, a prodigy and strong contender for the next grand duke. He was said to be able to hold his own against fully-fledged knights. But there were others just as noteworthy.

There was the student who was the disciple of the mercenary king—renowned for leading the Mercenary Guild—or the eldest son of the famous Ophen family, a family known for their swordsmanship legacy. Not to mention the descendants of mysterious tribes from the deserts, plains, and jungles, known as barbarians or savage warriors.

And, of course, there were the mages.

“…Why is she here?” one student muttered.

“I suppose the magic department has mostly self-guided classes, so maybe she’s here to fill out her credits or make some connections,” another guessed.

“Strange move for a mage, though.”

“Agreed.”

All eyes were on the beautiful and brilliant young mage, Irene Windler, as she stood in the swordsmanship training grounds. Her presence was unusual, to say the least, since mages rarely attended swordsmanship classes.

“…Ugh.”

Irene, for her part, was clearly uncomfortable with all the attention. She fidgeted awkwardly, not used to being the center of so much focus.

‘Maybe signing up for this class was a mistake…’

Irene regretted her decision, even though she had been the one to enroll. It wasn’t the fault of the ghost in her mind whispering advice this time; it was entirely her own error during the course registration period.

‘I didn’t realize there would be so few classes left...’

[You're so careless, Irene. I told you to register earlier.]

‘Shut up! It’s because I was busy house-hunting!’

[Sure, sure, keep making excuses. You’re still a klutz.]

‘I’ll deal with you later!’

Irene was used to bickering with the ghost in her head, but in truth, she was somewhat relieved. After all, the instructor for the class was someone she knew—a neighbor and a man with whom she had shared a meal. Surely, things would work out fine, right?

Or so she thought, until—

"Ah, so you're all here," a voice called out.

The instructor finally arrived at the training ground, and Irene turned with a bright smile to greet him. But then…

“…Huh?”

She, along with the rest of the students, blinked in confusion.

What they saw was unexpected, to say the least.

"Chair," the instructor commanded.

“Yes, sir!” came a nervous reply.

“Lower your voice. You’re too loud,” the instructor scolded.

“S-sorry!” the young man responded, his voice shaking.

“Stop trembling. You’re acting like I’m going to eat you,” the instructor said, sighing.

“…Y-yes, sir.”

“Better. Now, why is this chair so low?!” the instructor suddenly snapped.

“Eek! I-I’m sorry!”

"Does apologizing solve everything?"

"..."

"I'm joking."

"..."

—When did the young lord of a count’s family become a servant?

Damien Pollett, the very same young noble who had caused the commotion at the entrance ceremony the previous day, was now following the instructor around like a servant, carrying a chair for him. His face was still swollen, looking like an overcooked dumpling or ravioli.

The students blinked, confused by the sight before them.

 

Ihan had just returned from another scolding by the academy's dean. He had been late to the morning meeting, so it wasn’t surprising that he got reprimanded.

‘How many times is this now?’

In his past life, he had never once been summoned to the principal’s office, but in this life, he found himself regularly visiting the dean’s office. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it; he had brought this on himself, after all. But still, he was starting to feel guilty. Every time he saw the dean’s face, a sense of remorse crept up on him.

However, as soon as he spotted the familiar face of the swollen, dumpling-like boy—Damien—any lingering guilt quickly faded.

“You again,” Ihan muttered, rubbing his hands together as if he was readying himself to fight.

The sight of the boy, who had dared to cross his path before, immediately soured his mood.

“Did you come here to get hit again?” Ihan said, half-opening his eyes, already thinking about smacking the boy with something.

But then—

Thud!

“P-please, take me as your squire! I-I’ll serve as your knight’s attendant!”

“…What?”

Without warning, the boy dropped to his knees, begging to be taken in as a squire.

‘A squire? Isn’t that basically just a glorified servant?’

Slowly, Ihan stepped back, disgusted by the boy’s peculiar request.

‘This kid… has the worst taste.’

The thought was clear as day: pure disdain.