Chapter 9: Small victory

The next day, I walked into the classroom at 7 a.m. sharp, my gaze scanning the faces of Class 3-A. They were still worn from yesterday's grueling exercise, but the moment they saw the equations scrawled across the board, their groans reached a whole new level.

"What is this?" Callan said, staring at the board like it was some form of ancient code.

"Advanced algebra and probability theory," I replied, picking up a piece of chalk. "You can't just rely on brute strength in this world. You need to think critically, anticipate your opponent's actions, and calculate risks. Today's lesson will prepare you for that."

I gestured toward the equations written in neat rows.

1. Solve for this,

How do I disprove the theory of natural selection?

2. Probability question:

"In a bag of 15 marbles, 6 are red, 5 are blue, and 4 are green. If you draw two marbles without replacement, what is the probability of drawing one red and one blue marble?"

3. Logic and combinations:

"A tournament involves 8 contestants. Each contestant will fight every other contestant exactly once. How many total matches will there be?"

4. Word problem:

"A merchant offers a discount on a rare sword. The price drops by 25% if purchased in cash, but the merchant increases the price by 10% if it's paid for in installments. If the original price of the sword is $1,200, what's the difference between the discounted price and the installment price?"

"Get started," I said, stepping back and folding my arms. "You've got an hour."

The room erupted in groans and muttered complaints.

"This isn't a math academy," Gregor muttered, staring blankly at the quadratic equation.

"I didn't sign up for this," Callan added, tapping his pencil against the desk.

"Did you sign up to fail?" I asked sharply, and the room fell silent. "No? Then get to work."

Some students, like Mira, dived into the problems with determination, their brows furrowed as they scribbled calculations onto their papers. Others, like Gregor and Elise, stared at their desks in defeat, their pencils untouched.

I walked between the rows, observing their work. Mira was struggling with the probability question, her numbers not quite adding up. I tapped her desk lightly. "Recheck your denominator. You're counting the same event twice."

Her eyes widened in realization. "Oh! Right. Thanks."

Callan, on the other hand, was stuck on the logic problem. "How am I supposed to know how many matches there are? I'm not some math genius."

"Use combinations," I said, writing a quick example on the edge of his paper. "Think of it as pairs of contestants. How many unique pairs can you form from 8 people?"

"Uh…right. Sure," he muttered, frowning at his paper.

By the end of the hour, the results were…mixed. Mira managed to complete three of the four questions correctly. Callan got two right, though he looked like he wanted to burn his paper. Gregor gave up halfway, his paper filled with doodles of swords instead of equations.

When the time was up, I stood at the front of the room and addressed them. "Some of you did well. Others…" My gaze landed on Gregor. "…need to put in more effort. The point of this exercise isn't just to solve math problems—it's to train your mind to think logically and adapt to complex situations. Combat isn't just about swinging a sword. It's about strategy. Anticipation. If you don't learn to think critically, you'll die on the battlefield."

The room was quiet, the weight of my words sinking in.

I turned back to the board and erased the equations. "Tomorrow, we'll build on this. Study these problems tonight, because you'll face something harder next time. Dismissed."

As the students filed out, Mira stopped by my desk. "Thanks for the help earlier. I didn't think math could be useful for combat, but…I see your point now."

"Good," I said. "Keep working at it."

She nodded and left, leaving me alone in the classroom.

Looking at the empty desks, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. They were far from ready, but they were starting to understand. And that was a step in the right direction.

The next week came quickly, and with it, the much-anticipated tournament between Class 3-A and Class 1-A. The students of Class 3-A buzzed with nervous energy, whispering among themselves as they gathered in the arena. Sylas stood to the side, arms crossed, observing his students. They were eager, too eager, their excitement clouding their judgment. The tournament was meant to measure not just strength, but skill, strategy, and intelligence. Yet, as he watched their animated chatter, Sylas knew that most of them lacked all three.

The first match was Callan versus Ienin.

Callan stepped into the ring, his broad frame and fiery demeanor giving him an air of confidence that Sylas found both amusing and predictable. Ienin, a wiry student from Class 1-A, smirked as he sized up his opponent. Unlike Callan, Ienin radiated a cool composure. He clearly relied on speed and technique over brute force.

The arena was spacious, roughly 50 meters in diameter, giving both combatants plenty of room to maneuver. Sylas watched carefully, his sharp gaze analyzing every step and movement even before the fight began.

As the instructor overseeing the match gave the signal to start, Ienin darted forward with surprising speed, aiming to exploit Callan's sluggish stance. His wooden training sword lashed out in a series of rapid strikes, targeting Callan's torso and legs. Callan, for all his lack of grace, blocked the attacks with raw strength, his heavier frame allowing him to endure the barrage without faltering.

Sylas observed silently, already predicting the flow of the match. Callan, as always, relied entirely on brute force. He didn't dodge or deflect; he simply absorbed the blows and swung his weapon in wide, reckless arcs. Ienin, on the other hand, was quick and calculated, sidestepping each of Callan's clumsy strikes with ease.

The fight dragged on, with Ienin landing several glancing hits while Callan struggled to close the distance. The crowd murmured, some cheering for Ienin's agility, others for Callan's persistence. Sylas could hear his students yelling from the sidelines, their voices a chaotic mix of encouragement and desperation.

But then, Callan did something unexpected. Whether by instinct or sheer stubbornness, he timed one of Ienin's sidesteps perfectly and swung his sword in a downward arc with all his might. The blow connected, striking Ienin's shoulder and sending him sprawling to the ground.

The arena erupted into gasps and cheers as Callan raised his sword triumphantly. Sylas raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he thought, "that was… surprising."

The instructor declared Callan the winner, and Class 3-A exploded into applause, their cheers echoing across the arena.

"Callan! Callan! Callan!" they chanted, their faces alight with pride.

Sylas, standing off to the side, simply gave Callan a thumbs-up. It wasn't an impressive victory by any means, but a win was a win. Callan, flushed with excitement, waved to his classmates as he stepped out of the ring.

As the applause continued, Livia approached Sylas with a sly grin. "Professor Corvus," she teased, folding her arms as she leaned slightly toward him. "You don't look too thrilled. Aren't you proud of your student?"

Sylas glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Proud of what, exactly? A victory earned by stubbornness and brute strength? I expected nothing less from him."

Livia chuckled. "You're such a hard man to please. Lighten up a little. The rest of the class is happy, at least."

Sylas didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted back to his students, who were still celebrating Callan's victory like it was the most important achievement of their lives.

"They're not talented," he said finally, his voice low but sharp. "Not strategic. Not smart. Just fools who cheer for other fools."

Livia's smile faltered, and she tilted her head, studying him. "You're too harsh on them, Sylas. They're young. Let them enjoy their small victories."

"Small victories breed vanity," Sylas replied coldly. He turned his back to the cheering crowd, his hands clasped behind him. "The less talent they have, the more pride, vanity, and arrogance they display. All of these fools, however, find other fools who applaud them."

With that, he walked away, leaving the noise of the arena behind him. The cheers of his students faded as he retreated into his thoughts, already planning how to hammer the lessons of humility, discipline, and true strength into their heads.