Chapter 315| Morning Mist At Seruni Academy
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Icy white mist blanketed the castle grounds, yet the echoing clatter of wood striking wood had already shattered the morning silence.
Raphael had been standing there since before the break of dawn. The wooden training sword in his grip cleaved through the thick air—carving out a lethal rhythm that had become his daily routine. One, two, three.
Drip. Warm sweat rolled down his temple, tracing a jawline that had grown noticeably sharper.
The youngest prince’s breathing was impeccably steady. Two years ago, he would have hurled this wooden sword to the ground and cursed if his swing missed. But now, his mind was much clearer. He understood one absolute law: the sword is never wrong. The fool at fault is always the one wielding it.
An old servant carrying a basket of firewood passed by. The hunched man paused, carving a respectful smile as he watched the youngest prince training in a pool of sweat, before silently continuing on his way.
When the sky’s hue began to shift from pale gray to a warm amber, Raphael finally halted his swings. Haaah... He let out a long exhale.
He leaned the wooden sword against a post. Snatching a small towel from the railing, he roughly wiped the sweat from his face and neck. That was enough warming up for today. It was time to head to the academy.
The Seruni Academy complex was already buzzing with life when Raphael stepped through the gates.
Basic Class students ran wildly across the grassy courtyard. Mira, a loudmouthed nine-year-old, was chasing Tom, who laughed hysterically while stealing half her wheat bread.
In another corner, a group of kids huddled on a park bench, reading history books aloud in a chaotic chorus. Meanwhile, students from the Advanced Class walked with a calmer, more dignified posture, though their expressions were no less cheerful.
Raphael strolled casually past the teakwood gates, neatly engraved with the Sudrath Wolf crest.
His eyes inadvertently caught the bed of Snow Seruni flowers lining the stone path. Their white petals were still wet, dripping with morning dew. Those flowers had been planted by Elara just a few days before Rianor left her side.
Now, those seeds had blossomed beautifully... yet the man the planter was waiting for had still not shown his face.
"Beating up that wooden post again this morning?"
Raphael stopped. Elodie stood right at the classroom doorway, hugging her notebooks to her chest. The peasant girl rarely flashed overly wide, exaggerated smiles. But for some reason, her brown eyes always possessed a magical way of radiating warmth without needing much facial expression.
"Just working up a sweat," Raphael answered briefly, adjusting his uniform collar. "Woke up too early."
Elodie didn’t press him with empty small talk. She simply gave an understanding nod, turned, and entered the classroom. Raphael followed closely behind.
The first class of the morning was Mathematics. The instructor: Lady Elara.
The headmistress was already stationed in front of the giant chalkboard when the bell rang. Her modified wheelchair was parked neatly beside the teacher’s desk. Elara never once let her disability become an obstacle, let alone complained about it. When she was in this room, she was an absolute mentor.
"Good morning, everyone. Today we are still wrestling with multivariable equations," Elara spoke, her voice flowing as smoothly as water. "Yesterday you cracked a case with two variables. Today... we’re bumping the level up to three."
Tap... tap... tap... The friction of chalk against the blackboard shattered the silence of the class. Elara’s hand moved with phenomenal stability, drafting rows of complex formulas. Her voice was crisp as she explained every step.
However... Raphael, sitting in the middle row, caught a micro-movement that likely escaped the other students’ notice.
Mid-explanation, Elara’s eyes quickly darted toward the outside window. Toward the southern horizon. Just for a second. An incredibly brief glance. Before she hastily refocused her gaze on the chalkboard.
She’s anxiously waiting for news from the Capital, Raphael noted internally.
"You have ten minutes. Work on this individually," Elara ordered, finishing her chalk strokes.
Instantly, the classroom atmosphere grew tense. The scratching of pencil tips against paper dominated the air.
Lyra Frost—an ambitious noble girl—immediately scribbled on her paper with aggressive speed. Beside her, her twin, Lyan, moved far more calmly and methodically.
In another corner, Aldric Varn Junior bit down hard on the end of his wooden pencil. Cold sweat beaded at his temple, his brow furrowed deeply, but the young man refused to give up. Kell and Barret, two former soldiers sitting in the back row, glared at their scrap paper with expressions akin to defusing a live bomb.
Raphael stared at the three variables on his paper.
Back then, when Elara first threw this kind of cursed problem at him, he felt like his brain was going to explode. But now, he knew the trick. Eliminate the first variable, then substitute the rest. The tip of his pencil began to dance across the paper.
"Time’s up," Elara’s voice interrupted. "Put your pencils down. Who wants to come to the front?"
Lyra shot to the front first. Her method was blindingly fast, but she incorrectly multiplied one crucial variable. Lyan stepped up to correct it—his steps long and slow, but his final accuracy was flawless. A minor debate and the typical banter of twins lightly erupted at the front of the class.
Elara mediated with a patient smile. "There is nothing wrong with either of your foundational logic. Both are correct. The only difference is... in which emergency situation you would choose to apply this rapid method versus this precision method."
In the midst of that pause, Aldric suddenly raised his hand high. An incredibly rare sight.
"Yes, Aldric?"
"I... I think I found the final answer, Ma’am," the young man squeaked nervously.
Aldric walked awkwardly to the front of the class. The hand holding the chalk trembled slightly. His resolution steps weren’t lightning-fast like Lyra’s, nor were they as neatly structured as Lyan’s. It was purely a hybrid method born from his own deductive reasoning. But... the final result hit the bullseye.
Elara stared at the board intently, then gave a firm nod. "Excellent. You’ve really grown, Aldric."
The young man was stunned. It was the first time Elara had called him by his first name, rather than his aristocratic title, ’Junior Varn’. An awkward smile bloomed on his face. Aldric returned to his seat with his chest puffed out slightly more than usual.
From the corner of his eye, Raphael saw Elodie hiding a small smile behind her notebook.
The bell for class transition buzzed loudly. Students spilled out into the corridors.
The next period split them into their respective specializations. Magic users grouped into Raveena’s class, while physical Aura users were dragged into Sergeant Garon’s class.
Elodie, Lyra, Lyan, and Aldric turned left toward Applied Magic. Meanwhile, Raphael, alongside Kell and Barret, split off toward the right wing, heading for the Military Strategy barracks.
Raphael and Elodie crossed paths right at the doorway intersection. They didn’t greet each other, let alone exchange words. Just a fleeting glance that locked for a fraction of a second. Then they walked in opposite directions.
The Military Strategy class was stationed in a vast hall in the west wing building.
Unlike the other classrooms, the floor here was rough natural stone, lacking a wooden finish to prevent slipping. On the wooden walls hung a giant topographical map of the Northreach territory, diagrams of infantry thrust formations, and a tactical chain-of-command chart. The scent of chalk dust and weapon lubricant lingered in the air.
Sergeant Garon was already standing firmly with his arms crossed at the front of the room. The middle-aged man’s military posture remained intimidating, despite his thinning hair.
Beside him, a nervous young cadet assistant was arranging props: miniature steel tanks, infantry pawn dolls, and a massive magnetic board.
"Get in and shut your mouths. Take your seats, fast," Garon’s voice barked through the room. No greetings. No pleasantries.
Raphael, Kell, and Barret immediately took rigid, upright seats in the very front row.
"Today we will dissect defensive formations when facing insane enemy numbers," Garon slapped the magnetic board beside him. BAM! "This isn’t some bullshit theory from a storybook! This is the exact formation we used to hold the gates at Northveil. And this formula is what will save your lives on the battlefield someday."
Garon’s hands moved in a blur. Clack, clack. He arranged the miniature pieces on the board. Steel tanks stacked on the left flank. Infantry lines stretching across the right.
"Calculate this: The enemy in front of you has double your headcount. What is your first instinctual move?"
Kell reflexively shot his hand straight up. "Fall back to a more advantageous choke point, Sergeant!"
"Good theory. But where are you going to retreat to?!" Garon pointed a calloused finger at Barret.
Barret stroked his budding beard. "To an area where it’s impossible for the enemy to execute a flanking maneuver. A narrow bridge, or a rocky canyon."
"Exactly. That’s a rookie’s basic response." Garon sneered condescendingly. "Now, here’s the death scenario: What if the terrain is an open plain? No bridges. No protective cliffs. Just endless fields of grass, and you are surrounded."
Garon’s sharp eyes instantly locked onto Raphael. "Sudrath. Use that brain of yours. Answer."
Raphael immediately stood from his chair. He walked calmly to the front of the board, scanning the pawn formation Garon had arranged for a moment. Then... his hands began shifting the pieces nimbly.
"Sacrifice the frontline infantry as bait," Raphael stated coldly. "Pull all tank units back and hide them behind a small elevation—if nature provides one. If the terrain is completely flat, we force the infantry to dig trenches. Once the enemy forces are baited into advancing to gang up on our infantry... that’s when the tanks detonate their assault from the outer flanks. Not head-to-head."
Garon crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes narrowed critically. "Give me a reason why you refuse to smash them head-on?"
"Because a frontal assault is the exact scenario the enemy predicts. Their concentration will undoubtedly be stacked on their frontlines," Raphael explained without hesitation. "Attacking from the flank means we hit the softest point of their formation. Plus... we cut off their retreat route."
Garon nodded very slowly. "Good. Your mindset is already operating like a field commander, not just a pawn ready to die a stupid death."
Kell and Barret, sitting in the back, exchanged a glance. There was a clear spark in their eyes—not envy, but absolute recognition of the prince’s intellectual capacity.
"Enough theory," Garon kicked his wooden desk and stepped into the center of the room. "Now we prove it in the mud field."
Garon’s assistant immediately rolled a metal rack into the middle of the class. They didn’t pull out blunt wooden swords.
Instead, it was replicas of the Sudrath Spear—long-barreled training rifles that fired hard rubber projectiles, specifically designed to bruise and fracture bones if not dodged.
Clack! Garon cocked his rifle.
"We are simulating the theory we just dissected. Your mission is to halt the advance of my assistant and me for ten full minutes."
Garon grinned savagely. "It’s just the two of us. But a mature formation can overturn mathematical odds. Get down to the field now and prove it to me!"
They were immediately herded to the artificial mud field behind the school building. A mini topography was already set up—mounds of dirt serving as fake hills, shallow, filthy trenches, and a few rotting wooden barricades.
Raphael instantly dictated a rapid strategy. He positioned several students at the frontline barricades as living meat shields. Meanwhile, he and a few others crawled silently, flanking around the artificial dirt mounds.
Raphael’s heart pumped blood madly, yet his grip on the rifle’s trigger was phenomenally steady.
The battle erupted. Garon and his assistant charged forward with suppressive fire.
BAM! BAM! Rubber projectiles slammed hard against the wooden barricades sheltering the frontline. Wood splinters flew.
They successfully held off the assault for five minutes—giving Garon the illusion that they were cornered, baiting the sergeant out of his position.
And right as Garon’s assistant vaulted out of cover to approach the barricade...
Raphael executed his trap.
He blurred out from the blind spot on the right flank. Clack! Vwuum! A high-speed rubber slug was spat in a straight trajectory.
THWACK! The bullet slammed dead-center into the assistant’s chest plate. The young man staggered backward, raising his hand to pat his chest with a pale face. One down. Garon reflexively spun one hundred and eighty degrees, his rifle barrel instantly spewing a barrage of fire at Raphael. But the prince had anticipated it—his body rolled nimbly, diving for cover behind a concrete trench.
Seeing Garon’s focus shifted, Kell and Barret immediately leaped from the front barricade and bombarded him. The veteran sergeant was now completely pinned in the middle of a lethal two-way crossfire.
Three minutes later, amidst a rain of projectiles, Garon finally raised his rifle barrel high into the air. "CEASE FIRE!"
The field fell abruptly silent. Their heavy pants clouded the air.
Garon walked slowly toward Raphael, who was just climbing out of the muddy trench. The sergeant’s weathered eyes stared straight into Raphael’s pupils.
"You absorbed the lesson exceptionally well," Garon said heavily. "But just so you know... you still committed one fatal sin."
Garon pointed to the flank point. "You got too eager stepping out of your protective wing. If the enemy in front of you had extra mental patience, they would have let you crawl out of your nest and then taken your head clean off."
Raphael nodded in understanding, taking the slap of evaluation in stride. "I will make sure it never happens again, Sergeant."
"Good. Remember that answer."
As they walked down the corridor back to class, Kell clapped Raphael hard on the shoulder with a soft laugh. "Hey, Prince. Did you hear that just now? Sergeant Garon just said ’Good’! I swear to whatever gods are listening, a compliment from that old geezer holds the exact same weight as a gold medal!"
Raphael didn’t bother to brag. But, the corner of his lips lifted, carving a lopsided, almost invisible smirk.
The long bell marking dismissal buzzed loudly across the entire school. Hundreds of students immediately spilled out of their classrooms, filling the air with laughter and the clatter of noisy footsteps.
Raphael strolled leisurely down the corridor all the way to the main gate courtyard.
And there she was. Elodie. The brunette girl was leaning her shoulder casually against one of the stone gate pillars, both hands hugging a thick leather notebook to her chest.
"Well now. It’s rare for you to go out of your way to wait for me," Raphael greeted softly as his boots stepped into the pillar’s shadow.
Elodie looked up. The corners of her lips lifted into a subtle, barely noticeable smile. "Just happened to be passing through at the same time. Wanna walk home together?"
Raphael halted his steps. He glanced toward the outer plaza—a luxurious horse-drawn carriage engraved with the Sudrath family crest was already parked obediently, waiting for him. The coachman sitting at the front raised a white eyebrow, awaiting the youngest prince’s command.
Without a word, Raphael raised his hand and gave a brief hand signal: Head back to the castle first.
The coachman nodded in understanding. Snap... The subtle crack of a whip echoed in the air, and the carriage wheels began to rattle, pulling away from the school grounds.
Raphael looked back at Elodie, shoving both hands into his trouser pockets. "Let’s go."
The two of them began walking side-by-side along the cobblestone streets of Northreach. The evening breeze blew gently, causing the white petals of the Snow Seruni flowers growing along the shoulder of the road to sway softly.
"I heard my dad’s fields are going to start the grand harvest next week," Elodie opened the conversation, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "This year, our family focused on planting potatoes and beets. Dad says beetroots are much stronger at withstanding the extreme freezing weather up North."
"Sister Rumina is going to be absolutely thrilled if the local farmers’ harvest is a massive success," Raphael replied softly. "That way, she has more leeway to manipulate the food import taps. Northreach won’t have to waste gold coins buying from outside merchants anymore."
Elodie’s steps slowed slightly. She turned to look at Raphael with a bewildered expression. "Whoa. Since when did you understand the politics of food imports?"
"Hahaha, I’m not that smart," Raphael chuckled, scratching the back of his ear even though it didn’t itch. "I’m just blindly quoting the conversations my sister constantly echoes at the dinner table."
They turned at the main intersection. The contour of the cobblestone road began to incline slightly toward the hills.
Raphael threw a fleeting glance at the girl beside him. "Hey... by the way, do you want to stop by my house for a bit?"
Elodie fell silent. Her footsteps abruptly halted. She looked at Raphael, her brow furrowing awkwardly. "You mean... stop by the Royal Castle?"
"Not the castle palace part. Stop by my house."
"Raphael... your house is the royal castle." Elodie scoffed softly, half-laughing.
"The point is, a house is a house," Raphael stubbornly argued.
Elodie shook her head slowly, resuming her walk. "Maybe next time. I... feel a bit out of place having to go there."
"Why should you feel out of place?"
"Just... out of place." Elodie gave a nonchalant shrug. The typical excuse of a village girl who felt too intimidated to step into high-class noble circles.