"I see the problem," I said, leaning back in my chair and considering the logistics. "I have to juggle being an active adventurer alongside this teaching position. I realize asking for more flexibility would be excessive at this point." I paused, then added, "Being an 'assistant instructor' doesn't quite suit the arrangement anyway. The title sounds subordinate, beneath the actual scope of what I'll be doing. Let's just make it 'instructor' outright."
Doran nodded slowly, already making a note on the paper before him. "Agreed. The distinction is largely ceremonial anyway."
"And if we're truly aiming for practical combat training," Doran continued, his mind clearly working through the problems, "we'd need the cooperation of the clergy to secure priests as medical support. Then we could simply throw the cadets into situations and let them learn through experience…"
"No, wait," Roland interjected, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Knights actually deal with monster subjugation quite frequently as part of their duties, so perhaps we should structure the training around—"
"For actual substance and realism," I cut in, "it would be better to use equipment owned by the cadets themselves rather than practice weapons. Real weight, real balance. They need to feel what they'll actually be carrying into battle."
The conversation flowed like that for hours.
Three men from completely different fields—backgrounds that should have made collaboration nearly impossible—gathered around a table covered in papers, writing furiously, crossing out ideas, rebuilding concepts from scratch.
An elderly knight who spent decades grinding through front-line combat, who understood warfare not as theory but as a brutal, messy reality.
A mage who, though he didn't know the specific details of physical training, instinctively understood that anything involving bodily exertion was better the harder it was pushed.
An adventurer who eliminated everything from bandits to ancient monsters, using any method available, caring only about results and survival.
The three of us represented opposite ends of multiple spectrums—noble versus common, academic versus practical, honorable versus pragmatic.
And yet, as we debated deep into the night, something was being created. Something that felt almost dangerous in its potential effectiveness.
"Hoo…" Doran finally set down his pen and flexed his left hand, which had cramped from writing such a considerable volume. Despite having lost his dominant hand, he had developed remarkable skill with his remaining one—his calligraphy was still masterful.
"Finally, the educational draft is set."
He looked down at the pages spread before us with something approaching satisfaction.
"It might seem too simple on the surface," Roland said, reading through the curriculum we designed, for what must have been the tenth time. He nodded approvingly. "But this should be more than enough to whip today's spoiled brats into shape. Frankly, if they can't pass this program, they have no business standing on any battlefield!!!"
His voice rose with passion, drawing a few curious glances from other late-night tavern patrons.
"But these are noble children," I pointed out, playing devil's advocate. "Raised like greenhouse flowers in protected estates. Pampered their entire lives. Will their parents really stand by and allow these kinds of classes to happen?"
It was a legitimate concern. What we designed wasn't gentle at all. It wasn't accommodating. It was brutal by design—meant to break down the cadets' illusions about warfare and rebuild them with practical knowledge.
Noble parents wouldn't like it.
At my words, something shifted in Doran's expression. His eyes gleamed with an almost manic light, and he chuckled—a sound that held no humor, only grim satisfaction.
The emotion behind that laugh didn't seem particularly pure.
"In the end," Doran said quietly, his voice carrying dark amusement, "this entire curriculum exists because of an imperial decree handed directly down to the Academy. Those who refuse to participate—who withdraw their children or protest too loudly—are essentially defying His Majesty the Emperor himself."
He let that hang in the air for a moment.
"So before this training program is officially implemented, I plan to require signed consent forms from both the cadets and their parents. Legal documents enforced by mana contracts. Once they've agreed, there's no backing out without facing severe consequences."
'Ruthless,' I thought with genuine respect. 'He has learned from his mistakes. No more room for error, no more chances for things to go wrong due to parental interference.'
As we continued drinking and talking long into the night—though not quite matching the volume Roland and I could consume—I found myself speaking with surprising comfort around Doran. He was easier to talk to than Roland in many ways. Roland followed rules but could be wildly unpredictable within those boundaries. Doran was more consistent, more methodical.
"Even if it costs additional funds," I suggested, "it would be best to use contracts enforced through mana rather than simple paper agreements. Making them legally binding on a magical level."
"Naturally." Doran nodded firmly. "First, we'll start with the 100th batch new students as the experimental group. It would be valuable to compare their progress with the 99th batch as a control." His expression turned somewhat pitying. "The 99th batch… they're essentially screwed. I feel sorry that they'll be used for unflattering comparisons, but there's no better way to demonstrate concrete results to skeptical nobles."
As an instructor—with the 'assistant' qualifier officially dropped—my contract period was set at one year.
Doran had been frank about his reasoning: "I can only guess at how powerful you are based on reputation—I don't know for certain through personal observation. I was a mage who pursued academic excellence rather than front-line combat. I'm truly sorry to you, who volunteered out of genuine goodwill, but I don't believe that being the strongest automatically makes someone a great teacher."
It was entirely reasonable. Being the most skilled practitioner of a craft didn't automatically translate to teaching ability. History was full of masters who couldn't explain their expertise to students.
'For one year, I simply needed to prove myself through measurable results.
And honestly? Just being able to freely enter and exit the Academy grounds for an entire year was valuable enough for me. Everything else was bonus.
Plus, I genuinely liked the educational curriculum the three of us had hammered out over hours of debate. It was practical, uncompromising, and would actually prepare students for real combat.
And best of all? I could legally observe the protagonist and heroines, study them up close, based purely on my duties as their instructor.
It was perfect.'