“Mm.”

“Don't ‘mm’ me... Wait. Eshi. I'm not the only one seeing that, am I? You see him too? Do all of you see him?”

“Yes...”

“Uh...”

“Yeah.”

Ivan was looking over the injured students one by one, thinking.

There was no need to torture the students. He would have to find a priest.

They were more badly hurt than he had expected. Still, none of their injuries would leave lasting damage. In this wondrous premodern fantasy world, priests could cast actual healing spells.

Besides, iron grew stronger under the hammer, and the ground hardened after rain, so all was well. (People, of course, did not work that way.)

Every one of them had acquired neural acceleration. The training had yielded astonishing results. In a mere six days, he had advanced cadets who previously hadn't even grasped the basics of neural acceleration.

With a little more refinement, incorporating this curriculum into regular training would give Counterintelligence Command a level of fighting strength most military organizations could not dare approach.

“Mister. Is this real?”

“Hmm?”

“Really, truly. Actually. Really and truly. You're fine? You're not hurt anywhere? You can move...?”

“What do you mean?”

Was she hallucinating from the pain? Ivan raised a hand and signaled. An agent who had been ordained as a priest hurried over.

A few healing prayers for immediate treatment, followed by transfer to a nearby domain's church for follow-up care, would have them well before the break ended.

Ivan had ample experience in this area. He needed no particular surgical expertise. He had experienced most of it firsthand.

Barring the complete loss of limbs, he had personally suffered virtually every possible kind of injury. The extent of their injuries alone told him the cadets' condition.

They weren't as badly hurt as the pain suggested. That must be thanks to these cadets' miraculous physical capabilities.

If anything, this was a remarkable achievement. A mere month or two in a sickbed had bought them a toehold in the realm of superhumans. Hardly a losing bargain. (It was.)

“No, wait! Wait!! Stop!”

“Mm.”

“Stop the ‘mm,’ too! What... what... what did... did you just do? Are you actually sane? You were just watching us? Us?”

“Ah, no.”

He had been constantly supervising conditions in the field to assist their training.

It had therefore been a perfectly controlled, safe exercise.

His deadpan explanation was enough to drive her mad.

“Safe!! You call that safe?! Look, look at him. Oscar broke both arms, and she, she, Elpihera was crying blood!”

“Uncle, I got struck by lightning...”

“The injuries were within expected parameters.”

“Aaaaaah!! Since when?! Why?!”

“From the beginning.”

Ivan felt this was the time for a comprehensive performance review. Reviewing incorrect answers immediately after solving a problem was more conducive to efficient learning. This was a gift of advanced civilization that twenty-first-century educational methods could bestow upon this premodern world.

“When did you first think you were under attack by demons?”

“What...?”

“The gunshots. When an agent was shot and fell. I watched you panic and choose to flee at that point.”

“Well, obviously! Someone got shot full of holes and collapsed right in front of... us...?”

An agent was waving enthusiastically at Isabelle, looking deeply moved.

It was the agent who had screamed at them to run, spewed blood, and been shot on the first day of the attack.

“Hrghhh!” Isabelle clutched her face and let out a bizarre scream.

“Did any of the orcs you encountered carry gunpowder weapons?”

“...?!”

“You should have realized it then. The orcs weren't using guns. The agents were the only ones carrying and using firearms in this forest.”

“What does that even...?!”

Ivan broke off there and waved a hand.

Agents promptly poured out of the forest. Around fifty burly men appeared, forming a circle.

Every one of them was beaming at the girls.

“Wh-what? What is this mood?!”

“Still, congratulations. You have completed the entire course with excellent marks, learned teamwork and survival skills, and mastered neural acceleration. You have exceeded the objectives.”

Ivan believed firmly in rewarding merit and punishing faults. Naturally, every completed task deserved a reward.

At his gesture, all at once, and with tremendous solemnity.

Some were even sniffling.

That could hardly be helped. Counterintelligence Command were the spiritual successors of the Extermination Unit, after all, and had an enormous soft spot for the Hero's Party.

CLAP.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

CLAP. CLAP-CLAP. CLAP.

The agents began applauding in solemn silence.

Isabelle heard something snap by her ear.

“Urk...”

She clutched the back of her neck and fainted.

* * *

TAP, TAP, TAP.

A fountain pen with a polished gold nib tapped rhythmically against the table. (One should never do this. Fountain-pen nibs are extremely delicate.)

Ink spattered from the nib onto the tabletop. Its spreading blackness seemed a perfect expression of her mental state.

Artistic. Elizaveta gripped her teacup with a trembling hand.

CLINK, CLINK.

What a racket. Ah, her hand had developed an involuntary tremor. Yes. Understandably.

In fact, she hadn't meant to tap the fountain pen against the table either. Her hand was simply shaking. Uncontrollably.

[The entire training course described below remained under the reporting officer's control. Injuries sustained during the exercise received on-site treatment before transfer to a follow-up clinic.

Isabelle: Full-body contusions, fractures at two sites. Medical recommendation for long-term recuperation due to neural overload attached.

Elpihera: Damage to internal circuits due to accumulated mana fatigue. Receipts for medicinal ingredients required for recovery provided in Reference 2.

Oscar: Fractures of both upper arms, left foot fracture, sprain below the knee, muscle tears at no fewer than 15 sites. Medical recommendation for over one month of intensive treatment attached.

Esidisi: Exposure to a medium-area offensive spell (estimated Grade 6), burns at no fewer than 5 sites, muscle tears, moderate ligament sprain in the left arm. Medical recommendation for over 5 weeks of intensive treatment due to neural strain attached.

Remainder intentionally left blank.

Reporting officer: Ivan Petrovich Yeremov.

Reviewed by: Dmitry Cherkatov.]

“...”

Elizaveta struggled to drink her tea with trembling hands. Only after spilling it down her front twice did she give up.

As always, Ivan's report was astonishingly dry. So dry it felt like chewing dead wood.

Uncharacteristically, she found herself craving something sweet. Had Ivan known, he would have diagnosed a lack of sugar in her brain.

Sadly, Krasilof boasted a polar climate throughout all four seasons, forcing it to rely entirely on imports for sugarcane. As a frugal monarch, Elizaveta once again resisted the temptation of sugar.

Instead, she gave in to another temptation.

“What count have you reached?”

“One thousand five hundred forty-three, Your Highness.”

“Maintain that position until two thousand.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Only then did she set the report on the table and look up.

In a corner of the spacious university president's office, two men were doing handstand push-ups.

Faithfully obeying her stern command to use physical strength alone, without mana, Ivan and Dmitry had sweated enough to nearly form puddles on the floor.

“Stop. Stop. Stop!! Stop!!!”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Aaaaaah!! Aah... Aaaagh! Why?! Why did you do it? Why?!”

Ivan instantly steadied his slightly labored breathing, dropped to one knee with impeccable bearing, and waited for orders.

As always, he was the picture of a plain, exemplary loyal retainer. So plain she wanted to chew him up. Instead, Elizaveta raised the fountain pen with a trembling hand and bit its end.

“Did I ask too much? Is this my fault? No, it is my fault. Vanka. I bear grave responsibility for failing to teach you manners and common sense. Yes, you have lived on battlefields since childhood. Your ignorance and insolence cannot be yours alone to answer for. It is my fault. I'm the bitch who deserves to die!!”

Ivan quietly bowed his head and let Elizaveta's words wash over him.

Frankly, was an autocratic monarch of a premodern imitation Russian Empire in any position to lecture him about common sense and manners?

Ivan had entered a four-year university in South Korea, the Land of the Morning Calm: a nation of morals and etiquette, cultivated through more than five hundred years of rigorous Confucian culture. (He was practically a living ethics textbook, even boasting a top-band score in Ethics on the social-studies section of the college entrance exam.)

But Ivan was a reasonable man, so he did not bother elaborating on matters he could not explain. He merely bowed his head in silence.

At the sight, Elizaveta clawed at her chest.

“I... merely... ordered you to come and report to me why on earth you had carried out a purge of all the great nobles and restructured the domestic power blocs during the tournament without consulting me. Did I not?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And yet, in the name of acting first and reporting later, you took the students... without even the headmaster's authorization, dragged them off for a ‘special class,’ and trained them in the wilderness.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Don't you ‘Yes, Your Highness’ me!!”

Elizaveta seethed, then covered her face.

“Training... That they need training... I understand. I do. I understand.”

She looked at Ivan through her fingers. His impassive face sent frustration and anger surging through her, yet suddenly her heart ached.

Yes. That man was still living on the battlefield.

That must be why, even in this peaceful age, he had insisted on taking students away for brutal survival training. His methods might have been excessively harsh, but she could understand.

These were no ordinary students. They were the descendants of the Hero's Party. For anyone seeking to sow chaos—demons, ambitious schemers, or treasonous nobles—they were ideal targets.

In the end, then, he must have acted to minimize the harm that would fall upon Krasilof.

As he always had. He must have done it for this country.

That might be true.

But still.

“Aaaaaah!!”

Elizaveta simply refused to believe that she now had to send official letters to distinguished figures abroad saying, ‘Your precious child has been wrecked, but is fortunately receiving treatment and will suffer no lasting damage. Sadly, returning home during this term's break seems unlikely.’ (Hard as it might be to believe, Krasilof never held foreign dignitaries hostage.)

She groaned and finally managed to stammer out a few words.

“Miss Isabelle had a message she insisted be conveyed to me the moment she woke.”

“I'm listening, Your Highness.”

A course evaluation.

Ivan raised his head in satisfaction. He was fairly confident, too. After all, he had put tremendous care into conducting his course in an environment where every variable was controlled.

“She asked permission to make independent attempts on your life. I granted it.”

“... Yes, Your Highness.”

Ivan nodded expressionlessly, feeling somewhat crestfallen.

“You are now confined to... No, just. Just...”

You moron.

Elizaveta barely swallowed that last word and waved the two idiots out. (Dmitry felt wronged.)

The first week of summer break had just passed.