BANG!!

Ivan fired his pistol into the air and surveyed the area ahead. As expected, the Hero's Party's children merely cowered in terror, unable even to think of fighting back.

Had their Line of Fire Detection developed, they would have sprung out to attack the shooter before even registering the gunshot. That was how superhumans fought.

Awakening Line of Fire Detection was simple: stimulate the survival instinct while the body was reinforced with mana.

“Perhaps I should change ammunition after all.”

“... Sir?”

The agent serving as his assistant gunner broke into a cold sweat as he asked.

Ivan was a reasonable man, so rather than bother answering, he considered the problem.

'Even with a first-aid kit, wounds from live ammunition cannot be fully healed without a priest. A healing potion could do it, but...'

Healing potions were not something one could use on a pupil.

Ivan was a rational man who knew which tools suited which purposes. This was a time for education through appropriately difficult trials, not for torturing children by pumping bullets into them.

“Commander...?”

“Fire at intervals of ten, fifteen, and five minutes. Avoid the head. Aim for areas where a hit will not impede movement, if possible.”

Leaving those brief instructions, Ivan moved out. He had to prepare the next phase.

This would have been easier with Dmitry or Pavel here. Having requisitioned nothing but field agents beneath the supreme commander, he had made a mess of the chain of command.

He couldn't help chuckling. He was thinking entirely like a commander now.

He holstered his pistol, drew out a length of wire, and wound it around his wrist. Only after taking an axe in one hand and a dagger in the other did he raise his head.

He had always been more suited to carrying out missions than giving orders. It was time to return to his real work.

* * *

[Be Wary of Safe Places.]

The moment Elpihera leaned against her cover, she spotted a note affixed at head height and screamed.

“Aaaaaah!!”

The ground behind the boulder, which had looked perfectly solid—and ideal for hiding—suddenly gave way. Isabelle reached out the instant she heard the scream and just barely managed to haul her out.

“Fortunately, they haven't lined the bottom with spears or spikes.”

“What kind of insane thing is that to say, Oscar?”

“I mean that the Extermination Unit would have.”

“I'm afraid of this country now.”

Oscar examined the trap and nodded. Even he hadn't spotted it beforehand.

More malicious still was its placement on the side opposite the gunfire. Anyone taking cover behind this boulder was being steered straight into it.

“Is anyone injured?”

“It hurts like hell, but fortunately I can still move.”

“Were you all hit in the back?”

“My thigh, too...”

At Esidisi's reply, Oscar glanced at her thigh before making himself look away.

They had come wearing needlessly flimsy clothes, then rolled around on the ground until they were covered in mud. It made for a distracting sight. Especially in Esidisi's case.

At the same time, he realized that, yes, with a thigh like that, a hit wouldn't hamper her movement.

Trained marksmen generally aimed for the stomach or chest when sniping. If they had a different objective, they targeted areas where a hit would impair movement—the knees, shoulders, or elbows.

The head was out of the question. Unless a marksman could guarantee a precise headshot, it was simply too small a target to routinely aim for at long range.

Thus, basic firearms training always taught shooters to align their sights with the center of the body.

And yet not a single member of their party had suffered such a “critical” injury.

An ordinary person would have dismissed this as the shooters going easy on them because it was training. But Oscar was an agent who had received professional training (albeit only through the cadet course).

That was when a chill ran down his spine.

'These agents are far too well trained.'

Fundamentally, marksmanship was something conscripts learned. Others acquired little more than a passing familiarity with it. Ultimately, firearms were ineffective against the truly powerful fighters who decided battles.

There had to be more than ten agents in these woods. Perhaps twenty.

How many people would it take to control an entire mountain, predict the trainees' range and routes of movement to set traps, and maintain uninterrupted surveillance around the clock?

And what were the odds of every single one of them making long-range shots that avoided inflicting critical injuries, without a single error?

'And these aren't even live rounds.'

The lack of live ammunition didn't merely dull the trainees' vigilance. It also put the shooters at ease.

After all, these weren't live rounds. Even a mistake wouldn't kill anyone.

That reassurance inevitably dulled a shooter's touch. Considering the number of rounds fired at them over the past twenty-four hours, what did it mean that every shot had struck precisely on target without a single error?

'There's no way every shooter here is one of Krasilof's very best agents.'

Was this not the hidden strength of Krasilof's Counterintelligence Command—or at least one aspect of it?

Even rank-and-file agents assigned to something as mundane as supervising trainees could snipe without error, regardless of distance or time of day. And the organization could afford to expend such valuable personnel on a mere training course.

Oscar stared gravely into the woods before following the others as they moved on.

* * *

The northern operational zone, at an elevation of 250 meters—the twelve o'clock sector on the tactical map.

Amid the dense summer undergrowth, Ivan slowly raised his head. He had heard leaves rustling against one another in the distance.

When he concentrated fully on his hearing, he could distinguish forty-two species of wild animal by sound. Anyone could reach that level through training, provided they understood that each animal differed in stride, weight, center of gravity, and gait.

Therefore, a sound that shared nothing with any of those forty-two species could mean only one thing.

A large, bipedal creature weighing over a hundred kilograms had entered this area, from which all civilians and troops had been evacuated. In other words, a human or humanoid.

'Here they are.'

Not knowing how far the intruder could hear, Ivan stilled his breathing and slowly rose.

There were no traps or tracks nearby. Leaving such things would only put the enemy on guard.

He had also withdrawn all nearby troops, since he needed to identify distant targets by sound. In short, there was no need to distinguish friend from foe.

Anyone who appeared before him after crossing the cordon that barred civilian entry was an enemy.

Simple.

Forest terrain. He was the only friendly within operational range. All other contacts presumed hostile.

A routine reconnaissance mission. And Ivan had never failed a reconnaissance mission. Whoever these enemies were, they would hardly measure up to the elite soldiers stationed in the royal residences of the Seven Dragon Generals.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

A voice carried from afar. Ivan silently climbed a tree trunk and focused his hearing and sight.

Something was struggling through the thick foliage between the trees.

'Approximately thirty. All but two armed.'

The quiet voices continued.

“There is no sign of humans anywhere. Are you sure this is the place?”

“Are you questioning me?”

“I have never doubted the 'Eye.' But... isn't this strange? You spent all morning making a fuss about an omen of great misfortune!”

'Great misfortune? A mage? They said humans. Not human themselves. Elves... certainly not. Too polite for elves.'

Ivan frowned at the faint glint of weapons among the trees.

'Uncoated metal. No field experience... or a species that dislikes camouflage paint.'

There were a few such species among the demons. Some, chiefly those specialized in close combat, tended to reject camouflage paint as a display of what they called “valor.”

Naturally, most who had made that foolish choice were now extinct.

The figures beyond the trees drew closer. Ivan identified them then.

After a quick assessment of their force, he withdrew deep into the woods.

“Headquarters. This is O1.”

-O1. Headquarters receiving.

Pressing firmly behind his ear, Ivan spoke in a low voice.

“Scrap operation A1-2. We have a C2 situation.”

-Confirming. C2 situation. Is that correct?

“Correct. Which strike team is in the field?”

-Team Seven is currently deployed.

Ivan pictured the operational map. If Team Seven was deployed, Team Three would be on surveillance and Team Five resting.

“Contact 5-1. C2 situation, response two.”

-Confirmed. C2 situation, response two. Execution time?

“Ten minutes.”

-Confirmed. Operation 'Create a Crisis' commences at 1232.

Once the final transmission ended, Ivan tucked his axe into his belt, took the dagger in his right hand, and extended his arm.

* * *

'The protagonists need to become stronger.'

'According to academy clichés, training cannot make a protagonist stronger.'

'Therefore, the protagonists need crises and trials.'

That had been Ivan's reasoning when he first drew up the plan.

Take it one step further, and...

'An enemy attack during an academy training camp is common sense.'

Naturally, that was the inevitable conclusion. Ivan was a man of common sense.

And if he added another layer of thought as an agent, it went as follows.

'Unless the attackers are all idiots, they can be steered toward a suitable point of attack.'

'If the attackers are sufficiently capable, they can serve as useful training aids for Counterintelligence Command agents short on combat experience.'

The anticipated hypothetical enemies were as follows: the Crown Prince's Faction, remnants of the purged nobles' forces, rebels from other countries, and international terrorist organizations.

Those were problems for the Counterintelligence Command agents to handle. But this academy story had one other potential attacking force.

An enemy with a long and venerable history, from the train attack to the ambush during the field exercise.

Demons.

That, naturally, was a trial the protagonists had to overcome. Counterintelligence Command was an intelligence organization, not a demon-extermination force. Contrary to popular belief, the Extermination Unit had been deployed in open warfare only once in its entire history.

The protagonists had to deal with the demons. But they would be trusting the Counterintelligence Command agents to protect them.

And that...

“Wouldn't count as a trial.”

A famous literary masterpiece on Earth contained these words: [If you have sufficient courage, turn life into an ordeal.] Put more simply, it meant the same as [Trials that cannot kill me make me stronger!]

Ivan knew that truth was sound. His own life had proved it. And a rational educator should be able to teach trainees the lessons he had learned in battle.

By carefully adjusting the difficulty and controlling the situation, he would arrange only “trials that could not kill them,” with precision.

* * *

“Gah!!”

Isabelle raised her sword toward the sound and took a hesitant step back.

What kind of bullshit was he going to pull this time?

Sadly, the kind, warm, caring mister in her heart (he had never been any of those things) no longer existed.

All that remained was a lunatic who lured university students out with promises of a date over break, dumped them in the mountains, and sprayed them with gunfire.

But this time was different. The person who burst screaming from the woods was a large agent meticulously covered in camouflage paint.

“W-w-w-what? What is this? Is this training too?”

“Run... run...!”

The agent vomited a mouthful of blood, staggered, and crumpled.

The party instantly descended into confusion.

“Aaaah! A-are you all right?!”

Just as Esidisi screamed and started forward, a shot rang out.

BANG!

Blood spurted like a fountain from the agent's back.

Another shot kicked up a small spray of dirt at her feet. Screaming, she hurriedly ducked behind cover—quickly enough to earn bonus points had Ivan been watching.

“What? What, what, what?! What's going on?!”

“L-live ammunition! Everyone, get down!!”

Gunfire continued as Oscar shouted. A choked groan sounded, followed by the noise of people sprinting through the woods.

“An attack...? Are those men all being taken out?”

“Th-that's... that's what it looks like!”

Then who would protect them?

All four looked at one another at once, then peered into the woods, their faces filled with terror.

Beneath the bright summer sun, the forest fell horribly silent.