The morning sun cast long shadows across the academy’s training grounds, its golden light doing little to warm the chill that had settled in Claude’s bones.

The thought surfaced unbidden, carrying with it the weight of 347 lifetimes of disappointment. He pushed it down, focusing instead on the approaching footsteps of the sixth-year students.

Their formation was already flawed—too tight, too predictable. Alex’s memories stirred within the iron rod at his side, the incarnation’s cynical assessment bleeding into Claude’s consciousness.

“Same mistake every year. They think numbers equal victory.”

“Today, we abandon the waiting game,” announced their apparent leader, a stocky boy whose sword stance betrayed noble training but lacked battlefield experience. “No elaborate strategies, no defensive positioning. We overwhelm him with direct assault.”

Claude almost smiled. Almost.

The sixth years moved with the confidence of youth and the coordination of academy drilling. They had clearly practiced this—their movements flowing like a rehearsed dance as they surrounded him in a perfect circle.

Swords gleamed in the morning light, and he could feel the familiar tingle of mana gathering as several students prepared basic offensive spells.

How many times have I seen this exact formation? Thirty? Forty?

The first attacker came from his left—a girl with auburn hair whose blade work showed promise but lacked the commitment that separated training from survival.

Claude sidestepped, allowing her momentum to carry her past him, and caught the wrist of the second attacker with his free hand. A basic application of Touki sent the boy stumbling backward into his companions.

“Fire Bolt!”

“Stone Spear!”

“Wind Blade!”

The spells came in a rapid succession, their casters clearly hoping to catch me off-guard while engaged in melee.

It was a sound tactical decision, one that might have worked against a conventional opponent. Unfortunately for them, I had died to similar tactics seventeen times across various incarnations, and survival had taught me to never engage an enemy without understanding their full capabilities.

Water Magic: Blizzard.

The intermediate-level spell erupted around me in a controlled burst, flash-freezing the incoming projectiles and sending a wave of frigid air across the training ground. Several students stumbled as their footing became treacherous, and I used their momentary disorientation to begin my counterattack.

What followed was not so much a battle as a carefully orchestrated lesson in humility.

I moved through their formation like water through a sieve, using the minimum force necessary to disable each opponent.

A precise strike to render a sword arm numb.

A basic Earth spell to trip an overconfident attacker. Nothing permanent, nothing that would cause lasting harm, but each action served to demonstrate the vast gulf between their skill and the reality of combat.

The problem, as always, was friendly fire.

“Idiots never learn to watch their spacing,” Alex’s voice whispered through our connection. “Too focused on the target, not enough on their teammates.”

He was right. As the sixth years grew more desperate, their attacks became more reckless. A poorly aimed Fire Bolt singed the hair of a fellow student.

A Wild Earth Spike caught an ally in the shin rather than my intended position. Burns, lacerations, and one unfortunate piercing wound from a mishandled sword thrust—all self-inflicted damage that could have been avoided with proper coordination and communication.

This is why Fred insists on theoretical foundations before practical application. These children don’t understand that magic is a tool, not a weapon of desperation.

I ended the engagement by creating a small earth wall between the injured students and their still-fighting companions, then systematically disabled the remaining combatants with basic restraint spells.

The entire affair took perhaps twenty minutes, and by the end, more than half the sixth years were nursing wounds inflicted by their own allies.

“Combat is not a performance,” I said, my voice carrying across the suddenly quiet training ground. “Your enemies will not wait for you to coordinate your attacks or provide you with opportunities to showcase individual skill. Today, you learned that undisciplined teamwork is more dangerous than no teamwork at all.”

As the medical staff tended to the injured students, I felt the familiar weight of observation.

The fifth years had been watching from the academy’s upper windows, no doubt formulating their own strategies based on what they had witnessed.

They’ll make the same mistakes. They always do.

“Barrier formation, just like we discussed,” I whispered to the gathered fifth-year students as we descended to the training grounds. “Pursena, Linia—you two stay back with the mages. We can’t afford any of your… enthusiasm today.”

The beast-kin girls nodded reluctantly, though I could see the predatory gleam in their eyes that always appeared before a fight.

They had wanted to volunteer for the distraction team, but after watching the sixth years tear themselves apart with poor coordination, I wasn’t about to risk our two most unpredictable fighters in close quarters.

The plan was simple, elegant, and—if I was being honest with myself—probably doomed to failure. We would form a collective barrier using every student capable of defensive magic, creating an impenetrable shell that would force Professor Claude to exhaust his mana reserves trying to break through.

Meanwhile, those without barrier magic would conserve their strength for the inevitable counterattack.

It has to work. The alternative is another year of humiliation.

“Remember,” I addressed the group as we took our positions on the training ground, “this isn’t about winning. It’s about lasting longer than the sixth years did. Show him that the fifth years have discipline they lack.”

Professor Claude stood in the center of the field, his posture relaxed but alert. There was something unsettlingly patient about his demeanor, like a predator that knew exactly when and how its prey would make their fatal mistake.

His pale eyes swept across our formation, and I swore I saw the ghost of a disappointed sigh cross his features.

“Begin whenever you’re ready,” he called out, his voice carrying easily across the distance between us.

I raised my hand, and eighty students simultaneously began weaving the complex spell matrix required for a collective barrier.

The amount of mana required was enormous—far beyond what any individual student could maintain—but distributed across our entire year, it should have been manageable for at least an hour.

Should have been.

The barrier crystallized around us like a translucent dome, its surface shimmering with protective enchantments.

Inside our protected space, the temperature dropped noticeably as our combined magical auras created a localized climate effect.

I could hear the excited whispers of my classmates, the collective belief that we had finally found a solution to the Professor Claude problem.

Outside the barrier, our instructor walked a slow circle around our formation, his hands clasped behind his back like a scholar examining an interesting specimen.

He made no immediate move to attack, no visible preparation for a magical assault. He simply… waited.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes.

Why isn’t he doing anything?

“Princess,” Fitts whispered beside me, her voice tight with concentration as she helped maintain our defensive spell, “something’s wrong. This is too easy.”

She was right. Professor Claude had defeated the seventh years with overwhelming magical superiority, had dismantled the sixth years through superior tactics and positioning.

For him to simply wait while we exhausted our mana reserves seemed… disappointing.

He’s disappointed in us. He wanted us to attack.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. We weren’t learning combat or strategy or magical application.

We were learning about the fundamental failure of purely defensive thinking.

A barrier was only useful if you had a plan for what came after the barrier failed.

Twenty minutes in, I could feel the strain beginning to tell on our mana reserves. Thirty minutes, and several of the weaker students were visibly sweating from the effort.

By forty minutes, the barrier itself had begun to flicker at the edges as our collective focus wavered.

“He’s not going to attack the barrier,” I realized aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. “He’s going to wait for us to collapse from exhaustion.”

And then what? We’ll be helpless, unable to fight back, unable to even run.

The first sign of our impending defeat came when Marcus Clearwater, a boy whose magical reserves had never been particularly impressive, stumbled and fell to one knee.

The section of barrier he had been maintaining immediately dimmed, creating a visible weak point in our defenses.

That was when Professor Claude finally moved.

The icicles formed in the air above our barrier like crystalline stalactites, their number matching exactly the count of students within our protective dome.

They hung there for a moment, catching the afternoon sunlight and casting prismatic reflections across the training ground.

Beautiful and terrifying.

When our barrier finally failed—not from external assault but from simple magical exhaustion—the ice fell like rain.

The screams were expected, but they still twisted something uncomfortable in my chest. These were children, after all, barely adults by most reasonable standards.

The icicles I had conjured were designed to be painful rather than permanently damaging, but fear and pain often felt identical to those experiencing them for the first time.

“Soft,” Alex criticized from within the iron rod. “In my day, students who made tactical errors this fundamental would have been dead within the first week of actual combat.”

“Your day involved significantly more warfare and significantly less formal education,” Fred’s voice countered through the thin staff at my waist. “These children are here to learn, not to die for their mistakes.”

The argument between my incarnations was a familiar one, played out across dozens of similar scenarios.

Alex favored harsh lessons that created survivors. Fred preferred structured learning that minimized casualties.

Both approaches had merit, and both had led to disaster in different lifetimes.

I ended the icicle shower after the second wave, watching as eighty fifth-year students cowered on the training ground with their hands protecting their heads.

They remained in that position even after the attack stopped, too terrified or too traumatized to immediately realize the danger had passed.

“Using barrier magic as a pure defensive measure may seem logical when you possess superior numbers,” I said, my voice cutting through their whimpers and quiet sobs. “But you forgot the most fundamental principle of magical combat: every spell has a duration, and every mage has limits. You created a prison for yourselves and handed me the key.”

I walked away from the training ground without dismissing them, leaving the fifth years to recover on their own timeline.

Tomorrow, they would remember this lesson. In a year, they might understand it. In five years, if they were lucky enough to live that long, they might even thank me for it.

The fourth years will be different. They have to be.

The meeting room in the fourth-year dormitory was packed beyond capacity, with students sitting on windowsills and standing against the walls.

Word of the fifth years’ humiliation had spread quickly through the academy, and everyone wanted to hear what Princess Ariel Anemoi Asura had planned for tomorrow’s inevitable confrontation.

“That new teacher is insanely strong,” I began, allowing my royal authority to settle the room into focused silence. “I’ve gathered you all here to assist me in deciding how to deal with him in some way. The best method might be to follow the seventh years’ example and attempt to match his magical superiority, but we won’t survive such an approach on our own.”

I gestured toward the two most notable students in our year—Fitts, whose magical prowess had earned recognition even from the academy’s most demanding instructors, and Luke Greyrat, whose family name alone carried weight in any discussion of magical combat.

“While Fitts is unquestionably the most skilled mage in our year, and Luke brings both talent and tactical knowledge from his family’s reputation, even they cannot match what we witnessed from Professor Claude. So the question becomes: how do we survive long enough to learn whatever lesson he’s trying to teach us?”

Because there’s always a lesson. He’s not sadistic, just… thorough.

“We could try the sixth years’ approach,” suggested Leber, one of the boys from the lower nobility. “Overwhelming force, close quarters combat, deny him the space he needs for large-scale magic.”

“And end up burning each other with misfired spells like they did?” Fitts shook her head. “No, that’s exactly what he expects us to try. He’s already demonstrated that he can handle multiple attackers while minimizing collateral damage to the academy grounds.”

Luke raised his hand, his expression thoughtful. “What if we combine approaches? Use the seventh years’ strategy of magical bombardment, but from a fortified position like the fifth years attempted?”

Not a barrier. Something more permanent, more tactical.

“Earth magic,” I said, the idea crystallizing as I spoke. “We build a fortress. Not a temporary barrier that drains our mana, but actual physical fortifications that we can attack from while maintaining defensive positions.”

The room buzzed with excited whispers as students began to see the potential in the strategy. It addressed the fundamental flaws in both previous approaches: it provided defense without the continuous mana drain of barrier magic, and it allowed for coordinated attacks without the friendly fire risks of close quarters combat.

“Pursena, Linia,” I called to the beast-kin girls who had been unusually quiet during the discussion. “Your people’s magic could be useful for disruption and distraction while the rest of us construct our fortifications.”

The cat-girl’s ears perked up at the mention of actual combat. “Nya! Finally, something interesting! We won’t let you down, Princess!”

Linia nodded enthusiastically beside her, her tail swishing with barely contained excitement. “We’ll keep him busy while you build your human fort, nano!”

This might actually work. It addresses all the previous failures: no friendly fire, no mana exhaustion, actual tactical advantage.

But even as I outlined the plan to the assembled students, a nagging voice in the back of my mind wondered if Professor Claude was already anticipating our strategy.

He had seemed almost bored during the previous confrontations, as if he were watching children play games whose outcomes he had already determined.

What if that’s exactly what we’re doing?

The next morning, the fourth years had clearly spent considerable time preparing for their encounter with Claude.

As they took their positions on the training ground, he could see the careful coordination in their movements, the way they had assigned specific roles to each participant.

Even their formation showed more tactical awareness than he had seen from the previous years.

Interesting. They actually learned from watching the others fail.

Ariel Anemoi Asura stood at the center of her classmates, her royal bearing evident even in the academy’s standard training attire.

Beside her, the enigmatic Fitts maintained a ready stance that spoke of serious magical training, while Luke Greyrat’s positioning suggested he understood the basics of battlefield coordination.

But it was the two beast-kin girls at the front of the formation that drew my attention. Pursena and Linia had positioned themselves as obvious distractions, their aggressive stances and predatory grins broadcasting their intentions to anyone with combat experience.

They’re going to use Howl magic. Probably hoping to disorient me while the others establish their fortifications.

Fred’s analytical voice whispered through our connection: “Sound tactical thinking, actually. Create chaos to mask their true strategy, then consolidate defensive positions while maintaining offensive capability.”

“It would work against most opponents,” Alex added grudgingly. “But they’re still thinking like academy students rather than warriors.”

I had to agree with Alex’s assessment.

The plan showed promise, but it suffered from the same fundamental flaw as all academic approaches to combat: it assumed their opponent would react predictably to their tactics.

“Begin when ready,” I called out, settling into a comfortable stance that would allow me to respond to attacks from multiple directions.

The beast-kin girls exchanged a quick glance, then opened their mouths to release the distinctive magical howl of their people.

The sound waves rippled across the training ground with enough force to make nearby windows rattle, and I felt the familiar disorienting effect that made Howl magic so effective in close combat.

They’ve been practicing. The harmonics are much better than I expected.

Unfortunately for them, seventeen of my incarnations had died to various forms of sonic magic, and the survivors had developed several effective countermeasures.

I opened my own mouth and released an answering Howl, my human vocal cords channeling the beast magic with a precision that should have been impossible for someone without their racial heritage.

The competing sound waves crashed into each other with enough force to shatter several practice weapons that had been left scattered around the training ground.

But where the beast-kin girls’ magic was instinctive and emotional, mine was calculated and controlled.

“No, No way nya! How can you use Howl!” Pursena’s shocked exclamation was barely audible over the magical cacophony.

“Wa wa wa wa, I’m stuck-nano!” Linia’s distress was even more apparent as she found herself locked in place by the competing magical frequencies.

Perfect positioning.

I closed the distance between us in three quick strides, using basic reinforcement magic to enhance my speed without relying on advanced techniques.

Two precise strikes to the back of their legs sent both girls crashing to the ground, their magical howling cut short by pain and surprise.

Not permanent damage, but enough to prevent them from interfering with the rest of the lesson.

“Four years have passed, and what have you learned?” I asked, looking down at the injured beast-kin girls. “You bring shame to the people of the Great Forest; accept this as retribution for your carelessness.”

The harsh words were necessary. In the Great Forest, such tactical failures would have resulted in death rather than temporary injury.

By allowing them to learn from their mistakes in a controlled environment, I was providing a mercy their own people would never have offered.

Behind me, I could hear the frantic chanting of Earth magic as the fourth years implemented the second phase of their plan.

Stone and soil flowed like water under their combined efforts, rising from the training ground to form walls, towers, and defensive positions with impressive speed and coordination.

Now this is more interesting.

Within minutes, they had constructed a functional fortress complete with arrow slits, elevated firing positions, and multiple defensive layers.

It was crude compared to actual military fortifications, but as an academy exercise, it demonstrated genuine tactical innovation.

“They’re actually thinking like soldiers now,” Alex observed with grudging approval. “Create strong defensive positions, maintain offensive capability, force the enemy to come to them.”

The first arrows began falling around my position before the construction was even complete, their trajectory and timing suggesting genuine coordination between the archers and the earth mages.

I deflected them with basic wind magic, but the volume and accuracy were impressive for academy students.

This is going to take a while.

For the first time in three years of teaching, I found myself genuinely engaged by my students’ tactics.

They had identified the weaknesses in previous approaches, developed a strategy that addressed those flaws, and executed it with a level of coordination that spoke to serious preparation and leadership.

They might actually last longer than the teachers did.

The thought brought with it a familiar mixture of pride and melancholy. These children were learning, growing, becoming the kind of people who might survive what was coming.

But they were also reminding me of how much had been lost, how many similar groups of promising young people had died because of my failures in previous incarnations.

I pushed the dark thoughts aside and focused on the immediate challenge. The fourth years had earned a proper response to their efforts.

Time to show them what real fortress warfare looks like.

Two and a half hours later…

The improvised fortress lay in ruins around us, its walls cracked and scattered by a combination of advanced earth magic and precisely applied force.

The fourth-year students sat or lay among the debris, exhausted but oddly triumphant despite their obvious defeat.

“Two hours and thirty minutes,” I announced, my voice carrying easily across the destroyed training ground. “You have exceeded every previous year’s performance, including the faculty team that lasted only one hour and twenty minutes against me.”

Ariel raised her head from where she sat against a fallen wall section, her royal composure intact despite the obvious exhaustion. “We still lost.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But you lost while learning. You identified the flaws in previous strategies, developed a solution that addressed those weaknesses, and executed it with discipline and coordination. Most importantly, you lasted long enough to force me to use techniques and magic that I have not needed in previous years.”

They made me work for it. That’s worth something.

I looked around at the gathered students, seeing not just academy pupils but the seeds of future leaders, soldiers, and protectors.

In five years, some of them would be dead. In ten years, most of them would face challenges that would make today’s lesson seem like a pleasant afternoon exercise.

But today, they had proven they could learn, adapt, and endure.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all any teacher can really hope for.

“Class dismissed,” I said, turning to walk away from the training ground. “Medical staff will tend to any injuries. Tomorrow, we begin actual combat instruction.”

Behind me, I heard Ariel’s voice rise above the excited chatter of her classmates: “Did he just say ‘actual’ combat instruction? What have we been doing for the past three years?”

I smiled despite myself. Perhaps there was hope for this generation after all.

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