Chapter 23 - The Saint and the Woodsman (1)

St. Jansk University had no garden. This had been noted before, but it was an important point and deserved to be emphasized twice.

Which meant that even after the administration somehow procured a pair of pruning shears for him, Ivan still had nothing to do.

But Ivan, who had now decided to live his “life”—or at least give it his best shot—had no other options.

This happened while he was massacring a roadside tree with those pruning shears.

“I was watching to see what you were doing. You've made it look worse than the bonsai at my house.”

“... Hm?”

Enrique's mocking voice came from behind him. Ivan looked up at the sky for a moment, then at the tree, before turning back to face her.

“Isn't it your bedtime?”

“Surprised to find a beauty who doesn't need her beauty sleep?”

“You clearly haven't been getting enough sleep.”

Ivan, a normal man who had never felt anything beyond respect for someone at least seventy years his senior, shook his head at her remark.

Enrique's brows drew sharply together. She struggled to compose herself before speaking.

“You said your job was gardening?”

“For now.”

“It certainly sounds good for your mental health. Not a bad idea, but my prescription is a little different.”

Elise had probably intended to improve this bearded monster's (age: thirty-something) mental health with a leisurely pastime while giving him a little spending money.

But Enrique thought differently. This fellow needed practice rubbing shoulders with people.

And not with an axe or a gun. Though, strictly speaking, that counted too. Ordinary human relationships, anyway.

“Come along. I could use a hand.”

“... Hm?”

“I'm starting as a guest lecturer in the Knight Department today. I was already an honorary professor, but I've been terribly bored.”

“... Knights?”

“Sadly, they don't have an Assassin Department.”

Of course, the world had no need for a university that taught such things.

That was how Ivan ended up standing at the front of a classroom, glaring at freshmen.

* * *

St. Jansk University was a prestigious international university with exceptionally modern facilities for its time.

Examples included the Theology Department's main building, which looked like a cathedral transplanted intact; the Magic Department's main building, which replicated the environment of the Kallion archipelago; and the Knight Department building in the College of Physical Education.

The freshmen were busy gawking at everything around them. Enrique chuckled. They were just like little chicks. It took her back.

In a gymnasium with a large ring and neatly arranged training equipment of every kind, Enrique stepped onto the teaching platform and slapped the lectern.

BANG!

She called out at the top of her voice.

“Good to meet you, kids!”

Perhaps this was her way of establishing authority. The freshmen began looking at the unfamiliar professor before them.

Understanding of Close-Quarters Combat 1, a required major course in the Knight Department.

It had to be an important class, given that every freshman in the department was required to take it, but that slender woman was utterly unfamiliar.

Murmurs rose as the students tried to recall the faculty list. Enrique grinned and puffed out her chest.

“My name is Enrique. Enrique Seregeyevica. If that name sounds familiar, yes. I'm the one you're thinking of.”

“The Hero's Party!!”

“Aaah!!”

“Shadow Blade!!”

Enrique grinned at the scattered shrieks and cheers. Yes, this was it. This was “fame.” The weight of a name that even royalty dared not lightly challenge.

With a mischievous smile, she continued.

“There is only one thing I can teach you this semester. Defeat! You have chosen to one day take up arms and lead the fight, and this class is your first hurdle in preparing for that!”

No warrior with a sword could win every battle. Defeat would inevitably come someday. And more often than not, death would come with it.

So they had to grow accustomed to it. To losing. They had to learn that before they learned how to fight.

How to lose. How to survive a defeat.

And, if possible, how to gauge an opponent's skill before losing.

“Teaching each of you individually would be no trouble in itself, but our class time is far too limited. So I'll be splitting you up by skill level.”

Being freshmen together did not mean they could all receive the same lessons.

That was only natural. Surely the top entrant couldn't be taught at the same level as someone who had barely scraped in off the waiting list.

Better fighters needed harder lessons.

They therefore needed separate sections. Teaching some fifty students in three hours was too difficult to begin with.

“Now, freshmen. Fighting me won't give us any measure of your abilities. Every bout would be over in a single exchange anyway.”

Arrogant as her words were, no one dared contradict her.

The Hero's Party had slaughtered the Demon King and the Seven Dragon Generals. In other words, they were the strongest people in all the United Kingdoms.

“So I'll be providing instruction at your level. Here is our teaching assistant!”

Following her gesture, the students spotted a strange man standing back in the shadows with his arms folded.

Blazing blue eyes. Sharp features. An impassive expression.

But a bushy beard covered the entire lower half of his face, making his age impossible to judge.

Add to that worn work clothes and a towel around his neck. (The administration had hastily assembled this gardener's outfit.)

As enormous question marks appeared over the students' heads, Enrique grinned.

“Our teaching assistant is the university gardener. I invited him at short notice this morning. Now, let me tell you a bit about him.”

Age: thirty-four. (Most of the students were horrified.)

Occupation: gardener. (Two students were horrified.)

A poor pauper with no income, living on state welfare payments. (Lieutenant Colonel Petrovich was officially dead, so he had no way to collect a military pension. He lived on donations while running his orphanage.)

“Our teaching assistant will be testing your abilities. I'll watch you fight and grade you, then finish assigning your sections by the end of this class.”

“I have a question!”

One student shot his hand into the air. Neatly dressed in light athletic wear, with well-groomed features. A nobleman's son at a glance.

When Enrique nodded, the young man spoke with a sneer.

“What if that poor gardener gets badly hurt?”

“What? Ahahahaha!!”

Enrique burst into laughter, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Then I'll have to give you a prize! I'll award bonus points based on how badly you hurt him! Ahaha! Good heavens!”

“...??”

“Oh, don't misunderstand, students. I'm not doing this because I want to watch anyone die. But do show some respect. Whether for your elders or for people who've been through more than you have.”

“If you want to live,” Enrique finished with a smile.

* * *

Throughout all this, Ivan had been glaring at the students.

His participation as a teaching assistant in a practical assessment was hardly surprising.

After all, it was “common sense” that the first class at an academy would be a skills assessment.

He had no idea why a university curriculum would begin with a skills assessment, but that was presumably down to the primitive educational system of this premodern fantasy world.

At any rate, four students were worth watching.

Oscar, Isabelle, Yuri, and that ancient muscle monster sitting in the very back. Esidisi's bodyguard.

No, why was that fellow sitting there? Was he pretending to be a student? Had he no shame?

A muscle monster in his forties sitting among students half his age was grotesque beyond words.

His name had been Morde, hadn't it? Morde Erickson. Ivan remembered encountering him during his service. One of Great King Einar's closest confidants.

He'd been one of the few with some brains. He should have retired and started training disciples by now, yet here he was, enrolling as a “freshman.”

'And that kid.'

Yuri. Yuri Frank. The Knight Department's top freshman. Highest marks in swordsmanship and a perfect score on the written exam. A full-scholarship student.

Her behavior was suspicious, too.

The moment she saw him, she began acting strangely: hastily averting her eyes, breaking into a cold sweat, fidgeting. (She had even looked horrified at the mention that he was a gardener.)

His gaze grew sharper and sharper.

'A Possessor...?'

Otherwise, why would she be frightened of someone as utterly ordinary and harmless-looking as him?

In Ivan's mind, two red lines appeared beneath her name.

“Now, who wants to go first?”

When Enrique's lengthy explanation ended, students began exchanging tentative glances.

Understandable. In their early twenties, showing themselves off before students they'd only just met must be rather embarrassing.

It wasn't that they lacked skill or feared humiliating themselves against Ivan. They were simply shy.

How laughable.

Ivan glared at them in silence.

Then a student sitting in the very back shot his hand up.

It was Morde, the muscle-bound oddity in his forties.

“We meet again, eh?”

“... Mm.”

“And the more I look at you, the more you seem like someone I know.”

Morde loosened his shoulders with a crack and grinned broadly.

“Come on up. Let's settle this. Oh, and if I win...”

He reached the ring in a single leap and said,

“I'll give you a shave.”

“Go, Mr. Erickson!!!”

Isabelle, who had been watching Ivan anxiously, startled and abruptly shouted her support.

A stinging betrayal by a child of the Hero's Party.