What was Line of Fire Detection?

It was the foremost reason superhumans were called superhuman. Speed and strength alone did not qualify someone as a “superhuman.”

Superhuman. The name meant transcending the human realm—reaching a level that mere humans could not dare challenge.

A person became classified as superhuman upon gaining near-total immunity to the most powerful weapons human ingenuity and technology had devised solely to “hunt” other humans.

CLICK.

Ivan loaded his pistol and slowly exhaled.

The humans of this world were biologically identical to those on Earth. Unlike in Earth's fiction, they had no extra organ for sensing mana, nor did their pineal glands possess any special powers. Blood volume, muscle tissue, the structure and function of their internal organs, even the workings of each part of their limbs—all were identical to those of humans on Earth.

In other words, there was essentially just one reason humans here could perform feats with their bare bodies that would be unimaginable on Earth. They had a power that was itself unimaginable on Earth.

Mana.

HAAA...

Ivan drew a deep breath and accelerated the mana coursing through his nervous system. This unfathomable power was what transformed humans into superhumans.

As he had reflected before, mana was a conveniently adaptable power that could be made to do whatever the situation required. As such, most “people of this other world” took it entirely for granted.

A power anyone could wield with enough talent. A power that strengthened the body, wove magic, and enabled the production of strange manufactured goods.

But someone from Earth could not afford to think that way. Anyone who knew what it was like without mana needed to consider “how” it worked. Surely every phenomenon in the world had some underlying principle.

And so, ever since discovering mana during his long military service, Ivan had conducted all manner of experiments.

How did mana strengthen the human body?

What were the limits of that enhancement?

What happened when mana was excessive—or severely lacking?

A kind of human experimentation, with his own body as the subject. Add to that the countless samples gathered on the knife edge between life and death in war.

In the end, he had gained two things: exceptional proficiency in attuning himself to mana, and an understanding of how mana interacted with the body.

Only natural, perhaps. He had acquired that feel for it by pushing his own nerves to their limits.

And so Ivan was certain: with suitable guidance and sufficient talent, superhumans could be mass-produced.

A curriculum for mass-producing superhumans meant an unlimited supply of excellent agents, so Ivan had confidently introduced the training program to the Extermination Unit.

Unfortunately, the Extermination Unit had never numbered more than eight hundred or so, and even those had all perished in the line of duty.

'These kids are different.'

The blood of the Hero's Party ran in their veins. Half a year of testing had proven their aptitude and talent first-rate. Those youngsters certainly had what it took to complete his training.

And one more thing: Ivan was a reasonable educator. He did not indulge in the bizarre practice of forcing students to endure things he had never experienced himself.

If he had done it with a mere handful of mana right under the demons' noses, there was no reason those youngsters could not manage it now, in circumstances incomparably safer.

That was how merciful he was.

Ivan holstered his pistol at his waist and flicked a hand. His signal set the order to commence operations spreading among the agents scattered throughout the forest.

It was day one of an exciting summer break.

* * *

“Achoo! Pff-choo!!”

“Why do humans even have hands? Isn't covering your mouth when you sneeze basic hygiene? Surely hands aren't organs designed for playing in the dirt.”

Esidisi sniffled and ignored Elpihera. She had been doing so ever since discovering that the elf had been dozing inside the carriage while everyone else suffered horrors in the forest.

And when the campfire went out, she had cast a warming spell on herself alone and slept like a log!

“W-why on earth is this... Pff-choo!”

“There's... a note...”

Oscar vacantly picked up a note lying on the ground. It was written in neat, standard script.

[Even a small flame is highly visible late at night. Do not light fires in enemy territory.]

“Since when is Krasilof enemy territory?”

“Mister has a bit of a thing for this stuff. Just bear with him.”

Isabelle muttered as she pressed at the corners of her eyes.

“So, are we going down or up? Anyone confident they can find the way?”

“The way Miss Esidisi and I went to gather firewood yesterday happened to lead downhill. It gave me quite a lot to think about.”

“Huh?”

“It's hell down there.”

Oscar looked horrified.

“You can't take three steps without finding a trap. Spot one and disarm it or go around, and there's another waiting right where you go. I've heard of this. This must be... the Extermination Unit's handiwork.”

Among the United Kingdoms' many special-purpose military organizations, Krasilof's were particularly notorious for their peculiar methods.

Other nations' units fundamentally emphasized force and responsiveness, whatever their intended purpose. Krasilof's military organizations, by contrast, based their conduct on a single objective.

Put bluntly:

'How can we piss the enemy off even more?'

To put it more politely, they were masters of psychological warfare. Cutting off information in advance. Meticulous schemes targeting nothing but vulnerabilities. Dirty operational plans involving explosives, biological and chemical weapons, and even hostage-taking.

Their approach to planning was devoted entirely to clouding the enemy command's judgment, pouring in literally every resource at their disposal without reserve.

And the legendary strike force of that very nation—rumored to have scouted ahead for the Hero's Party during the war, notorious in the profession for the sinister rumors that belied its brief existence...

The Extermination Unit's combat records and lessons alone had left a profound mark on intelligence units across the world. As a member of Thilles's Secret Intelligence Service, Oscar knew about it.

“What's that?”

“An old intelligence unit from this country. That isn't important. What matters is that we're now up against someone who served in it.”

Oscar gave a bitter smile.

“There must be a reason he told us to come up. Either the journey itself is training, or the real training starts once we arrive. In that case, why tell us we could go down?”

“Because he knew we wouldn't be able to anyway.”

“Exactly.”

“He's always like that. Honestly.”

Isabelle stretched and grinned.

“I wasn't planning on backing down anyway. Whatever he's prepared, I don't think I'll feel better until I get at least one good hit in.”

* * *

Two hours later, the students were scrambling along the ground, plastered from head to toe in mud and fallen leaves.

BANG!!

Every time a shot rang out in the distance, they dropped with a yelp. The rounds apparently weren't live, since the hits left no injuries, but they hurt like hell!

“Guns! They're shooting at us?!”

“He shot at us yesterday too! Get down!”

BANG!!

The instant the shot rang out, blue sparks scattered and Elpihera crumpled. Her protective spell had shattered.

“I'm out of mana!! Stop shooting!! You lunatic humans!!”

Wailing, Elpihera crawled across the ground in search of cover. She huddled behind a large rock, looked around, then cautiously poked her head out.

“Are they gone...?”

“They're probably still there. Looks like they mean to shoot whenever we let our guard down.”

“How is this training?! Aren't they just using us for their own target practice?!”

“I believe it's Line of Fire Detection training.”

Oscar surveyed the forest from behind a tree.

“Ambush us with gunfire whenever we aren't on alert. They seem to intend to awaken our Line of Fire Detection through repetition...”

“Is this really how the military trains?”

“Of course not.”

Oscar sighed, looking utterly miserable.

* * *

“Commander, Team Four has returned.”

“Good work. Put Team Eight on surveillance. Team Four gets eight hours' rest.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Ivan had been studying a map in the field tent. Noticing that the soldier had not left after making his report, he looked up.

“Have a question?”

“Yes...! If I may, sir, I have a question about the operation!”

“What is it?”

The soldier swallowed hard. He was an agent with at least five years of field experience, but the man before him was a living legend.

The author of Counterintelligence Command's loathsome “training” program—the so-called Guide to Torturing Recruits. And now that man was personally training “civilians.” It was easy to imagine the terror the soldier felt.

“I don't understand how evacuating the homes at twelve o'clock in the operational area and pulling troops out of that sector serve this operation!”

“Hmm.”

Following the soldier's gaze, Ivan examined the operational map. Twelve o'clock in the operational zone, with the mountain's center as the reference point.

It was an unremarkable mountainside with a single slash-and-burn farming village, situated directly opposite the “trainees'” range of movement.

In other words, the trainees could never reach it, whatever they did. The soldier did not understand why they had gone out of their way to waste manpower evacuating the homes there, only to then pull out the troops deployed to that sector.

The twelve o'clock sector had literally become an “uninhabited zone.” No ordinary military operation should create such an area. At the very least, it needed an observation post.

“Your name?”

“I-I'm Mikhail... Mikhail Soromovich, sir!!”

“Excellent, Mikhail. What do you think?”

This operation was, of course, a training exercise for the students, but that was no reason to neglect the field agents' education. A reasonable educator needed to maximize the learning potential of every student in his charge.

Rigid with tension, Mikhail stammered out his answer.

“Rather than something for the trainees inside the area, this looks like a mock battle against a hypothetical enemy outside it.”

“A mock battle.”

“Yes, sir. Almost as if you've deliberately left a convenient infiltration route for the enemy...”

“You pass. Your rank?”

“Staff sergeant, sir!”

Ivan nodded in satisfaction. If he had enlisted as a commoner and risen to staff sergeant in Counterintelligence Command's strike force, he must have ample combat experience.

“Once this operation is over, you'll be a commissioned officer. Report to my office at headquarters.”

“I-it's an honor, sir!”

“And to answer your question, you're right.”

Ivan gazed at the empty sector on the operational map and spoke quietly.

“A mock battle to lure in the enemy. Quite right.”

An excellent agent never planned an operation with only one objective.

Even if training the students was the operation's purpose, surely he would not have pushed through such an enormous mobilization of personnel for that alone.

Slowly checking his weapons, Ivan answered.

“Because it's common sense for academy training camps to come under attack.”

“Sir?”

The Crown Prince's Faction.

Remnants of the purged nobles' forces.

Demons.

Or perhaps foreign rebels, or an international terrorist organization. Whoever it might be.

Let's see who shows up this time.

Ivan was a man of common sense, so when preparing for attacks of this sort, he also made plans for torture.

And here with him now were at least fifty more “Counterintelligence Command field agents” to provide support.