Clara remained silent, even though she felt a sense of dread. She did not expect anything good to come from Sam and Edmund being together, yet she had no right to order them to stay away from each other.
She maintained her silence, gripped her long whip once more, and returned to her training, attempting to ignore the situation.
Meanwhile, Edmund, Sam, and Professor Jeff had already reached the area where Class 1-C was conducting their training.
Edmund was the first to speak. The three of them approached the professor, who possessed eternal silver hair that swayed downward, with a ribbon tied around her neck featuring a heart pendant.
Her blue eyes were the color of crystal beads, and her straight, white neck was covered by the collar.
She wore clothes that covered her entire body, yet her curves nearly strained against the fabric due to her figure. She was the near-perfect image of a MILF, which Sam admired at first glance.
However, he reminded himself that this type was not to his preference. He immediately dismissed her appearance and turned his attention toward Clara, who looked extremely tense as she practiced.
"Lady Marianne... I have come at the recommendation of Professor—" he motioned toward Professor Jeff as he spoke, "—Professor Jeff, who says you possess the highest expertise in sword training for the first-year students."
Jeff was utterly bewildered by Edmund's bizarre claims, pointing at himself in confusion for a fleeting moment. However, he quickly composed himself as Professor Marianne's gaze intensified, her eyes narrowing as if she were dissecting his very soul.
"And what exactly is required of me?" she asked coldly.
Edmund was orchestrating a subtle play to draw Professor Jeff closer to Marianne. He believed that if a spark ignited between them—if Jeff could somehow win her heart—the professor would be forever indebted to him. Such were the schemes of a Regressor: always searching for the smallest loophole to exploit.
"It's simple," Edmund replied smoothly. "We wish to train here, alongside you."
Professor Marianne shook her head without a moment's hesitation. "I decline. The session is practically over, I am not compensated for overtime, and you are certainly not on my schedule for today."
Damn it, she's trying to brush me off, Edmund thought, his pride stinging. He couldn't allow this. "The remaining time is of no consequence. We are seeking the Lady's invaluable guidance. Sam and I have decided to dedicate our lives to the sword. We are cubs of the blade; how can you leave us without direction?"
A look of pure astonishment crossed Sam's face. Dedicate our lives to the sword? Does he mean a barbecue skewer loaded with kebab? (Because it resembles a sword
)
Sam was on the verge of protesting, but Marianne spoke first. "Dedicating yourselves to the sword, is it? You are far too green and immature for such words. And as for this 'Sam'... are you referring to this midget? He doesn't look like he has the strength to wave a stick, let alone a blade."
The insult hit Sam like a physical blow, and his blood began to boil. 'bitch... watch your tongue...' Of course, he kept his thoughts far from his lips; he wasn't suicidal. But to his surprise, Edmund was the one to reclaim his dignity.
"Who says he cannot wave a stick? Despite being a servant, Sam possesses a talent for the blade that far outshines anyone in this room."
'Damn you! Who told you to say that?!' Sam screamed internally.
Edmund's bold claim instantly drew the venomous glares of the surrounding students. Clara felt a cold shiver run down her spine; she was about to step in and pull Sam away before the situation spiraled out of control, but Marianne's voice cut through the air.
She directed her gaze at Edmund, whose face was masked with a confident, unwavering grin. "Are you certain of your words, boy?"
"One hundred percent."
Marianne let out a light, mocking laugh. Then, she suddenly beckoned toward the back of the crowd, calling out in a loud voice.
"Old Max! Come here for a moment."
Old Max... Sam thought. That sounds more like a brand of beer than a person's name.
Suddenly, from the midst of the students, a figure emerged—one who hadn't been noticed before. His steps were heavy and stiff, as if his joints were rusted gears in desperate need of oil.
He possessed remarkably aged features and an incredibly short stature. For the first time, Sam had found a man who stood at his own height. The old man was very short, with a slightly protruding belly, wearing a worn and tattered cotton jacket.
When the man finally reached them, Marianne spoke.
"This will be your test. You will face Old Max in a sword match, and the rules are—"
Pffft—!
Marianne's words were abruptly cut off by a deep, loud, and very audible fart from Old Max.
Marianne tried to ignore it and continued speaking.
"The rules are as follows—"
RRR-Ppppffft!
Another loud fart followed, strong enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear clearly.
Marianne gritted her teeth, struggling to maintain a shred of her dignity.
"The rules are: no cheating, and—"
Pffft-t-t!
The symphony of farts resumed its rhythmic beat.
Yet, Marianne pushed forward, ignoring the foul melody and the stench that began to saturate the air.
"—and no using weapons other than the sword. No outside interference or assistance is permitted. If you win, and only then, will I accept you as my student."
The moment Marianne stopped speaking, the flatulence ceased as well—a punctuating finale to her speech, as if confirming the professor's every word.
'This is the first time I've experienced speech that actually has a smell,' Sam thought.
It reminded him of those edited videos of politicians' promises, where people add these kinds of sound effects to imply that everything being said is total "shit."
"Very well, Lady Marianne," Sam said, bracing himself. "I am ready whenever you are."
Sam was handed a wooden sword.
Edmund and Jeff offered him encouraging looks, while Clara waited for any opportunity to intervene. Sam stood there, staring at the wooden weapon in his hand.
In every anime, wooden swords always snap, he thought. To avoid losing, I have to stick to a piercing style.
In other words, instead of swinging and gambling on the durability of a wooden stick, he would rely on thrusts. Surely his young body could lunge faster than this old man, couldn't it?
Old Max gripped his wooden sword as well, and the two were moved to a wider area for the duel.
"One... two... three... Begin!"
The command was given. Sam took a stance he had seen in martial arts comics—a dedicated piercing posture.
First rule: don't make the rookie mistake of charging in first. This was the "ADC" logic of fighting; usually, the one who initiates the attack is the one who loses.
Both stood their ground, waiting for the other to strike. Sam rooted himself, decided not to take any risks. He knew this scenario well: he wouldn't move, no matter what.
Seeing that Sam wasn't budging, Old Max began to move, walking forward with agonizing slowness. Once he reached a suitable distance, he stopped. Then, without warning, he lunged, throwing his entire body at Sam.
Pffft-t!
The old man was trying to bite Sam's neck with his toothless gums.
"Get off me! Get away!" Sam yelled. It felt as if he were being licked, a sensation that was beyond repulsive.
With all his might, Sam shoved the old man away, clutching his neck in disgust. As he regained his footing while the old man stumbled on the ground, Sam thought he had won.
But then...
Swish!
A thrust.
The old man moved as if he had slipped through the void itself, his speed so terrifying that the tip of the wooden sword was already resting against Sam's surprised throat.
"Wait, you're insane, old man! Are you upset because the 'Hermit Master' trope failed to defeat the arrogant kid in one hit?" Sam began to ramble, spewing nonsense.
"You lost. Leave now..." Marianne's voice cut in.
But Sam protested, "No, I didn't lose! This old man used illegal moves!"
Pffft!
The old man responded with another fart.