A Regressor's Guide to Hunting in the Academy

Chapter 22

A ripple of unease spread through the students the moment Carlo appeared beside Ted.

“Oh, hell... we’re doomed.”

Even Amecitia couldn’t hide her shock.

This month’s proctor was none other than Carlo Mandolin, a man whose reputation for harshness was legendary inside the Knighthood department. A former royal guardsman forced into retirement by injury, he had run the academy’s Knighthood programme ever since. Students whispered that he tolerated neither the slightest mistake nor the tiniest lapse in form; earning a passing grade in his class was borderline impossible.

“...?”

Henrik, who’d heard none of the gossip, simply watched the crowd’s reaction with mild curiosity.

He nudged Amecitia with an elbow. “What’s with the long faces?”

“Professor, you seriously don’t know? That’s Department Head Mandolin proctoring! He’s famous for being the strictest examiner in the entire academy!”

“...Right.”

Henrik stroked his chin. The name Carlo Mandolin rang a faint bell, but he knew little beyond the rumour that a once-famous knight had become a professor. Like Grimory, Carlo was one of those people whose recent whereabouts were oddly hard to pin down.

Could be something there.

A flicker of suspicion surfaced. Even if a career-ending injury had forced him out of active duty, a warrior rated Grade Four doesn’t just vanish from the news. He might be connected to whatever’s been happening at the academy.

Henrik decided to keep an eye on him and shifted his gaze to the man standing quietly behind Carlo: Oliver Mandolin. He too had come to assist his father as an examiner. Henrik remembered him refereeing the duel with Amecitia and, later, frantically searching for his missing student at the faculty meeting.

On the auditorium stage, Ted raised his voice.

“The exam will proceed in three stages.”

Swish-

A ribbon of wind magic unfurled, settling a sheet of instructions into every candidate’s hand.

“Stage One: written test. We’ll assess your grasp of strategy and basic combat theory. Questions cover standard tactics and the academy manual-nothing to panic over.”

The first line on the sheet repeated Ted’s words verbatim.

“Stage Two: practical test, mainly for those advancing from Grade Two to Three. We evaluate Aura control.”

The gap between Grades Two and Three was enormous; a practical component was unavoidable.

“Stage Three: sparring. You’ll face one of the examiners waiting at the back for an overall assessment of your skill.”

Henrik skimmed the paper and snorted.

Typical Empire.

On the surface the process looked fair, yet the final grade would hinge on an examiner’s subjective opinion. Bomb the sparring round and the first two tests became meaningless.

How many times had that crooked system screwed the army in the war to come? Ten years from now corruption would be so rife people would simply buy their ranks, turning troop deployment into a slaughterhouse.

But that was the future. For now, he wasn’t worried.

With Carlo Mandolin watching, the judging would at least be honest. A battle-scarred veteran who taught as if every lesson were real combat-students called his classes brutal and his standards impossible.

“Collect your candidate numbers and proceed in order. Good luck, all of you!”

Ted finished with a conspiratorial smile in Henrik’s direction. Henrik answered by turning his head away.

* * *

Maybe “returner” really did describe him.

The written portion was almost insultingly easy-basic strategy and field manual trivia he could have answered blindfolded after countless campaigns.

“D-did I... write the right things...?”

Amecitia, apparently, felt differently. She emerged from the hall looking shell-shocked.

Because of the large candidate pool, the tests moved at speed.

“Next! Number 36, Professor Henrik Dusk!”

A teaching assistant-armoured, probably from the Knighthood department-called his name. He followed the TA into the building and was pointed to a door stencilled 8.

Inside, five students waited, practice swords already in hand. Their bearing screamed senior; academy proditions aiming for the leap from Grade Two to Three.

Conversation died the moment Henrik stepped in. He felt the familiar mixture of resentment and curiosity knights reserved for hunters, but he ignored it, parked himself in a corner and began checking the edge of his test blade.

Soon the door creaked open again.

“I am Carlo Mandolin, proctor for this session. When I call your name, step forward and demonstrate your technique.”

“Yes, sir!”

The students snapped a crisp salute. Henrik simply ambled out with his hands in his pockets.

Carlo flicked a glance at him-sharp, appraising-then, to Henrik’s surprise, dismissed him without a word and set a training dummy in the centre of the room.

“Vincent, you’re up. Show me what you’ve got.”

A lean student advanced, sword flashing-

Shhk!

Fast, but Carlo’s frown only deepened.

“Too weak. Polish your Aura. Fail. Next.”

The boy’s sword did hold Aura, but it was so faint the weapon could barely manifest the effect.

Carlo, who had spotted that weakness at a glance, was starting to interest Henrik.

Should-slumped, the student trudged back to his seat.

One after another, as each candidate displayed a technique, Carlo grimaced and delivered the verdict.

“Fail. Disappointing.”

“Fail-are you kidding me?”

“Enough; that was a dance, not combat. Fail.”

“Fail.”

In moments all four remaining students had been dismissed.

When the last of them finished, it was Henrik’s turn.

“Henrik... Henrik Dusk.”

The moment the students cleared out, Carlo stepped up to him.

The man’s frame was nearly twice Henrik’s size, yet Henrik looked up without the slightest flinch.

“Let’s begin the exam, Department Head Carlo.”

“Confident, aren’t you, Professor.”

Both could gauge another’s strength at a glance; no long speeches were required.

“Ever studied the sword formally?”

Carlo eyed Henrik’s test blade-its edge immaculate, its balance perfect. Only someone trained in swordsmanship maintained a weapon that precisely.

“I learned in the field. When demons are trying to kill you, you pick things up whether you like it or not.”

“Combat experience at your age? Huh. Good. No wasted motion, and your body’s built right. My son could learn a thing or two.”

At that, Henrik lazily wrapped Aura around his sword and flicked it through the dummy.

The exam ended in the blink of an eye. The students stared, slack-jawed, as mist-like Aura clung to the blade-something none of them had managed.

The recent newspaper biography still listed Henrik as Grade Two, but the condensation they’d just seen belonged solidly to Grade Three.

Amid the students’ shock, the two professors kept talking as if the room had become a private lounge.

“Ever seen war?” Carlo asked.

Henrik hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head.

“I hunt demons; that’s all. Haven’t been to war.”

In truth he had stood on the bloodiest front lines-ten years from now-but for the moment he let the half-truth stand.

“Then you’re a rare breed.” Carlo snorted.

“My generation lived through one. Brutal. Strong comrades died; I survived by the skin of my teeth.”

He glanced at the arm he’d lost-severed clean below the elbow, neither prosthetic nor cosmetic cover hiding the stump.

The students swallowed, confronted with the raw aftermath of battle.

“In real combat, textbook forms are useless. Strong live, weak die. I leave the injury visible so kids remember that.”

He clapped Henrik on the shoulder.

“That’s why I like your type. Don’t overdo it-just keep doing what you do. Oliver speaks highly of you, calls you an interesting professor.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Carlo waved on his way out.

“Pass. Next up is my son-look after him.”

Henrik mulled the words. Simple curiosity about him, or a father’s request? And why, in his original timeline, had Carlo vanished?

* * *

Outside, the corridor felt half-empty; more than half the candidates had disappeared.

Those left clutched their pass certificates-only Grade One or Two examinees remained. Every Grade-Three hopeful seemed to have washed out and slipped away.

“Professor! Professor!”

A buoyant voice chased him.

“Professor, I passed!”

Amecitia bounded over; Henrik caught her by the head and stopped her short with a grin.

She waved an academy-stamped certificate.

“Grade Two-crushed it!”

She’d looked half-dead during the written exam, but her practical flight display had earned praise.

“Well done. Start preparing for Grade Three.”

“Yes, sir! Oh-you’ve got the sparring test next, right? I’ll come watch-good luck!”

She fluttered off.

Final stage of the grading exam: sparring.

Henrik headed to the arena in the Academy’s Knights Hall.

The vast floor resembled an upscale coliseum, tiered seating on the second level for spectators.

...

In the end, Henrik was the only candidate left.

“Figures.”

Manifesting Aura wasn’t easy; many students never managed it even after their bodies matured. Others could summon Aura but lacked the physique to handle more than a flicker.

For the gifted, the process often took years-sometimes decades.

Henrik had completed his in a month.

That was why Carlo had waved him straight to the final test; the Aura radiating from Henrik already screamed Grade Three.

“Professor!”

Far off on the second-floor balcony, Amecitia waved both arms overhead.

Grimory sat primly beside her, and farther back Carmine watched with legs crossed, silent.

The sight tugged a short laugh from Henrik.

“So it’s just Professor Henrik for the final?”

Oliver, the sparring examiner, walked up and asked.

“Looks that way.”

When Henrik answered evenly, Oliver glanced toward Carlo, plainly uncomfortable.

Carlo answered with a small shake of his head-no changing the ruling.

“Then let’s get on with it. Unless you’d like a breather first? You can rest, recover-”

“I’m fine. Let’s start.”

“Ah-yes, sir!”

Oliver hesitated at Henrik’s instant reply, then moved to the left side of the ring.

What’s he up to? Henrik wondered, tilting his head.

Ted popped into the commentary booth, buzzing with excitement.

“Here we go! The last candidate challenging for Grade Three-Henrik Dusk! Final test: sparring! His opponent, a fellow rookie professor from the Knighthood Department-Oliver Mandolin!”

Whoooooa!

The yell rolled through the stands, mostly female voices-probably dazzled by Oliver’s looks.

But that wasn’t the real issue.

The opponent was Oliver Mandolin.

Henrik slid a glance at Carlo.

Their eyes met; Carlo smirked.

So that’s what “take care of him” meant.

Carlo had been cozy because the man Henrik would fight was his son.

“Professor Henrik! After watching you spar Amecitia, I’ve wanted to cross blades at least once.”

Oliver spoke plainly, not taunting-just honest.

“Of course. My job’s always like that.”

Henrik lifted his practice bar and took the right side of the ring.

Second public sparring in front of the students, and this time the opponent was another rookie professor.

“Then-spar! Begin!”

At Ted’s shout, the match started.