The next day, at the combat arena.
Class A of the sophomore year, 42nd generation of the Department of Combat, waits here for their unreliable new teacher.
"Ah... so annoying. Why does the principal have to rush? Couldn't he let us rest a few more days before hiring a new teacher?"
"I want to go to Teacher Nightsong's class instead..."
"What a slothful remark..."
"I'm more curious about what kind of person our new teacher will be..."
"I suppose he's someone who doesn't keep time." A red-haired girl glances at her watch and says with displeasure, "He's already late."
"Nice! Let's just disband!" Immediately a troublemaker tries to dash off, but the red-haired girl grabs her by the back of her neck and drags her back. "The teacher's negligence is the teacher's problem. Our negligence is ours. Don't let someone else's failure become an excuse for your own."
"With words like that, why didn't our classmonitor join the Department of Arts instead..."
"The Department of Philosophy would object to that."
——At the Royal Academy, "the philosophy department" is a running joke. Long ago the Academy had seven major departments. Now only five remain. The Department of Anti-Demon Beasts declined as alien races and demon beasts waned, leaving only as electives. The Department of Philosophy, due to numbers and other issues, was merged into the Department of Arts.
When that happened, the philosophy students rioted furiously, shouting things like:
"Philosophy will never perish!"
"We and the Arts Department are eternal enemies!"
"If we can't even protect our own department, how can we protect our country and families?!"
"We will never be slaves!"
...only to be mercilessly crushed by students of the Department of Combat. Ever since, philosophy students fall to the lowest rung.
Now, whenever someone says something "that sounds philosophical," others quickly retort: "You should join the Arts Department." In truth, it's just a joke mocking the defunct philosophy department—a kind of unique campus culture only Royal Academy students really get.
"Where's the teacher... Don't tell me the principal was lying and there really isn't a new teacher?"
"Hey, look, someone's coming over. Must be our new teacher. He looks really young."
"Let me see—cool guy? Beautiful woman? ...kind of handsome, but not fully handsome one..."
"Sophomore Class A?" Lindholm finally arrives. He yawns as he confirms.
"That's right." The red-haired girl, as class monitor, steps forward with seriousness. "Are you our new practical combat teacher?"
"Correct. My name is Alvin Lindholm. You can call me Teacher Lindholm." Always eager to play the teacher, Lindholm shows no awareness of his lateness.
The red-haired girl nods and speaks calmly: "Then, Teacher Lindholm, you are five minutes late. I hope you can give us a reasonable explanation. This is your very first class, and to be honest, my impression of you is not good."
Lindholm raises an eyebrow, his dead-fish eyes narrowing as he counters: "Do you think... I am late?"
The red-haired girl frowns slightly. "Everyone here can see that you are..."
"Do you really think that's possible? How could anyone sleep in until nine-thirty, get lost for half an hour, and arrive late? Impossible. No such useless layabout exists. Clearly, I am not late. I am... observing your reactions."
Without seeing the expressions of classmates behind her as she stands at the front, the red-haired girl hesitates. "Observing... our reactions?"
Lindholm can tell from their faces that his excuse doesn't fly. But as long as even one fool buys it, he refuses to give up. So he insists boldly: "Exactly! I've just taken over this class. I know nothing about you—your skills, your temperaments. And today, after just five minutes, so many of you already lose patience. Clearly, your endurance needs work..."
He pauses, realizing his reasoning is too forced, and quickly patches it up: "Of course, five minutes doesn't prove much. Originally I planned to leave you waiting half a class, but as one student just said, too harsh an approach on the first day may not be effective. So I let it go..."
Students exchange glances behind the red-haired girl.
'I want to sleep until nine-thirty too.'
'Keep dreaming.'
'How does he even get lost for half an hour?'
'That's just how some people are.'
'Did the monitor buy it?'
'Sounds like she did.'
Clearly, nobody is convinced.
The red-haired girl wavers, then nods. "If it's truly as you say, I won't comment too much on your teaching style... Please begin class."
Lindholm sweeps his gaze across the group. Around thirty students. Not many.
He says: "Before we begin formally, I need a rough idea of your abilities so I can teach accordingly. So... numbers 7, 15, 21, 28—step forward."
Four step forward: the red-haired girl; a bright, enthusiastic boy; a purple-haired girl—the one who tried to slip away earlier, now with a bitter expression; and a quiet boy with no expression, wearing a scarf and earrings despite it being late April.
Lindholm tilts his chin lazily. "Grab your preferred weapons from the side and show me what you've got."
"I'll give it my all..."
"Alright, here I go!"
"Spare me... I'm going to embarrass myself again..."
"..."
They either fetch practice weapons designed not to injure too badly, or simply ready themselves barehanded.
"Ready?"
"Anytime."
"Of course!"
"I guess..."
"..."
"Good..." Lindholm claps once. "Begin."
And the moment the four move—Lindholm lifts his gaze toward them!
A strange, astonishing scene unfolds.
The red-haired girl charges forward with her sword—but as soon as she takes a step, the light in her eyes vanishes. Her posture collapses mid-charge, as if cut in half, and she falls flat on the ground.
The boy doesn't rush in recklessly, but his eyes too lose focus. His body, taut with muscle, suddenly slackens, and he crumples as if drained of life—barely catching himself with his hands before hitting the floor.
The purple-haired girl reacts differently. When Lindholm's gaze strikes her, she drops both daggers in fright, stumbling back two steps. Miraculously, she doesn't fall. Perhaps she's just too stunned.
The quiet boy tried a sneak attack, leaping to Lindholm's rear. But one glance cuts him down—his body goes limp, crashes to the ground, completely out of control.
All four—undone by a single glance. Everything happens in an instant.
Now some lie flat, others stare blankly at their hands, some grope their necks to make sure they still live. They know what just happened—but the rest of the class doesn't. Still, they are Royal Academy students. Department of Combat lectures have covered countless bizarre arts. Their knowledge and acceptance outstrips that of adults like Ford. So after their initial shock, they quickly piece it together.
"What... what art is this?!"
"Not necessarily an art—maybe a style..."
"No, no, remember when Teacher Nightsong said a true hero kills with just his eyes?! Isn't this it?!"
"Despite Mihai and Ivy, but Arabella and Plakhotja don't fake things. This has to be real..."
"Could only be explained as some special school..."
Combat has three cores: "art," also called external skills or techniques, and "style," also called inner training or mental cultivation. Last, there is prana, a kind of energy and inner force that flows within the body of combaters.
Arts are for fighting. Styles temper the body and grow prana. Special styles can even reshape the body's constitution, which in turn affects what arts you can use and even what styles you can learn.
At the beginning, students practice balanced, stable styles. Later, once they choose their path, they may switch to styles that reshape the body. Arts and styles are endless in variety. "Killing with a glance" sounds terrifying—and it is—but it's not impossible.
Over the years, countless strange arts and styles appear. Some mesh perfectly, created specifically for one another. Once famous enough, these pairings gain the title of "school."
——After all, compatibility isn't the key. Power is. If you are strong enough, you can create a school by your own.
"What the hell was that..."
"I really thought I was dead..."
"..."
They're young, more open-minded, but less resilient than hardened combaters. Of the four, only Mihai manages to recover somewhat.
"That move just now... what is it?"
"I call it Consciousness Slash," Lindholm says. "Through specific stance, movement, gaze, killing intent, and prana, I make my opponent believe they've been cut."
He turns to Mihai. "What did you see?"
"In darkness... a mosaic uses a mosaic in the shape of a blade cut me in two..." Mihai answers.
Lindholm can only look exasperated. Then he says: "I have a rough sense of your level now. Return to formation. Class is about to begin. If you feel unwell, rest at the side."
"That's an incredible technique..." Mihai suppresses his discomfort and rejoins the class. Clearly he is intrigued, but tactful enough not to press further.
Department of Combat students can seek masters of specific schools, or learn the standard schools the Academy verifies and teaches. Either way, it has little to do with Lindholm—unless he chooses to pass on his own school.
Practical combat class doesn't teach arts or styles. It teaches universal theory—general techniques.
Plakhotja, the quiet boy, silently returns.
Ivy's eyes light up at Lindholm's words, but before she can speak, the red-haired girl Arabella drags her back into line by the neck.
"How did your previous teachers train you?" Lindholm asks. "Two groups sparring while the teacher critiques from the side?"
As he says this, his eyes fall on Arabella.
She doesn't disappoint him. "That, and often one-on-one or one-versus-many duels where the teacher quickly points out flaws. Otherwise, special task battles—ambushes, capture missions. Sometimes multiple periods combined for special training."
"Then let's start like that. Pair up with someone of equal strength and spar." Lindholm smooths his hair with a flourish, smiling confidently. "If anyone is left out, the unmatched beautiful girl may team up with me."
And so...
"I said girls! Why am I stuck with you?"
"Ahaha... Don't be like that, teacher. I fought hard to get this spot." Mihai grips his sword. "Please, enlighten me."
"I don't mind..."
No matter when, no matter where, no matter who, no matter if man or woman, old or young, many or few, weak or strong—Lindholm never cares.
If challenged, he fights.
For him, combat is not just instinct. It is destiny.
He lowers his gaze and murmurs: "Then the first match is between us. I won't end it quickly. The others can observe."
"Formless Divinity School, Mihai Cobert. Please enlighten me."
"Ephemeral Transcendence School, Alvin Lindholm... Please enlighten me."