The Return of the Iron-blood Sword Hound

Chapter 134: Test Your Skills (3)

Chapter 134: Test Your Skills (3)

Wide-open eyes. Half-open mouth.

"...."

Professor Morg Banshee wore an expression he hadn't worn in years.

If you didn't know him, you might think he was a little surprised, but if you did, you'd have a different opinion.

For Professor Banshee, who was so expressionless that he was often nicknamed "the wax figure," to be wearing this expression was an expression of sheer astonishment.

Everyone in the room was stunned and speechless.

Professor Banshee was the first to break the silence.

"... Hmm. Correct."

But then he added

"However, your answer seems to contain a number of controversial and unreported points that have not yet been vetted by the academic community."

To be sure, there were some things in Vikir's answer that even Professor Banshee hadn't heard before.

But Professor Banshee didn't think he could dismiss Vikir's answers out of hand, because they were eerily accurate.

How does he know about the 14th and 27th battles, battles that no graduate student, let alone a professor, should have to learn and study in the first place?

And the Battle of the 306th Parallel is a historical fact that has only recently been discovered by academics and is just beginning to be studied.

'... Isn't this the kind of information that only senior officers in the active Imperial Army, or even a member of the House of Baskerville, would know?'

Professor Banshee swiped a hand across his forehead, finding it difficult to control his expression.

In truth, the question was far beyond the ability of the freshmen to answer.

Tudor and Bianca of the Cold Class could be called outstanding freshmen if they knew only the first, seventh, eighth, seventy-fifth, and twenty-seventh battles.

Here, Sinclair of the Hot Class was memorizing the battles of the 4th, 5th, and 30th heights, which was beyond the level of an undergraduate student.

However, how was he supposed to explain this freshman in front of him?

That's where Professor Banshee's confusion comes in.

"How do you know something that hasn't been reported in the literature and why are you answering as if it's true?"

Prof. Banshee asked Vikir.

Meanwhile, Vikir remained nonchalant.

'I can't say I've lived it. It's too much trouble.'

When it comes to enemies and the Balak of the Black Mountains, Vikir knows more than anyone. Perhaps no one in the Empire knows more about the Balak than Vikir.

Vikir sidestepped Professor Banshee's question with a good reason.

"Recently, trade between barbarians on the Western Front and the Empire has begun. Many merchants are vying for trade. In the meantime, Do is just a common stock market slob. Sorry if I sounded assertive."

Vikir took a step back, and even as Professor Banshee, it was hard to press him further.

After all, he'd gotten more answers than he'd asked anyway.

But the way Professor Banshee looked at Vikir was a little more intense.

"...."

The difference was that the intent in his gaze shifted from disdain to curiosity.

"You're quite interested in economics, aren't you?"

"It's not that big of a deal, I'm just a little guy with a sensitive side."

"How modest."

Professor Banshee narrowed his eyes and studied Vikir's face.

He opened the attendance book and flipped through the pages, taking in the student's personal details.

After a moment, Professor Banshee salivated.

".... I see. Perfect score on the handwriting."

Professor Banshee muttered under her breath, and the entire classroom fell silent.

"Oh, so that's the one with the perfect handwriting?"

"But he got a perfect score in handwriting, is that possible?"

"The handwriting difficulty in the academy is really terrible."

"It's crazy, I was fourth overall in this handwriting, and I flunked it."

Everyone looked at Vikir like they were looking at a monster.

But there was one person who was most surprised.

"... ... A perfect score?"

The girl stares at Vikir with rabbit eyes.

She was Sinclair, the runner-up on the handwriting test.

An honors student with a score of 931 out of 990.

It was a long way from the 700s in third place and the 500s in fourth.

But just when she thought it was weird to be in second place, Sinclair got a little dazed when she heard the difference between her score and the first place score.

His opponent's perfect score meant that he could have scored much more.

He only scored 990 because the limit was 990, but no one knows where his skill lies.

That's what a perfect score is.

Meanwhile. Professor Banshee looked away from Vikir.

"Vikir. I'm going to give you 10 points for your excellent answer, but I can't condone the fact that you had your eyes closed in my class, so I'm going to deduct 10 points from your attitude again, and I'm also going to add one point to the attitude score of the entire Cold Class."

Prof. Banshee then went back to teaching as usual.

Vikir was able to move on quietly, with neither extra credit nor a penalty.

The faces of the Cold class students brightened.

But that didn't mean that their reaction to Vikir was particularly favorable.

"What an arrogant bastard. You're sleeping in class just because you ace the written exam?"

"You could have flunked the whole class."

"I was afraid I was going to get a failing grade for attitude. I'm glad I got extra credit in the end."

"When I see sandals like that studying, I want to punch them for nothing."

All the students, hot and cold, gossiped.

Many students didn't recognize Vikir, as the academy's academic style emphasizes practical skills over written work.

This was especially true for the cold-class students.

This is because students in the hot class, represented by "mages" tend to put a lot of emphasis on handwriting, while students in the cold class, represented by "warriors" put less emphasis on handwriting.

Next. Several of the cold students began to discuss their devious plans amongst themselves.

"He seems like a study bug, so let's see if he can be as cocky in his afternoon class."

"Maybe there's a physical education lab in the afternoon liberal arts requirement?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, 'Naphtali' is a real physical education class. It's even an anti-war concept."

"It's a great way to break the snout of an arrogant asshole."

"Everybody hold still, I got him."

And so began a fierce battle of nerves between the freshmen.

* * *

Don Quixote Tudor.

The head of the Cold Warrior A class, he was currently in the center of the academy for physical education.

"...This class is for me!"

This afternoon's lesson was practical 'Naphtali'.

Naphtali is a type of sport that is categorized as a ball game.

A total of forty people, divided into two sides, try to score points by throwing the ball into the opponent's goal.

There are goals at each end of a large field, 50 meters long and 100 meters wide, and players from both teams have to carry the ball in any way they can to get it into the other team's goal.

It can be kicked, thrown, or picked up and thrown.

In the middle of the game, you can try to body slam your opponent or attack them with your fists and feet.

Either way.

Whether you dodge, fight, or pass the ball into the other team's goal is entirely up to you.

Only two things are prohibited: using mana and using weapons.

"Hahaha, Naphtali is what I do best. Let's go somewhere!"

Tudor stepped forward to represent Class A. Despite having no mana and no weapons, he was confident.

And there were three members of Class B standing in his way.

"What are you talking about, I'll kill you."

"I'll kill you."

"Kill him."

They were the Baskerville triplets.

And so began the back-and-forth between the A and B teams.

"Pass! My ball!"

Tudor waved enthusiastically at his classmates from the start of the game.

Soon, a leather oval-shaped ball flew out and landed in Tudor's hands.

Tudor picked it up and started sprinting forward.

'That's it. This is the real deal!'

What's the point of memorizing theories for a written exam?

A true dragon, a true knight, must be able to run like the wind to blow past his enemies and reach his target.

Tudor was in the Runner position, and he was running fast.

And then.

There were three linesmen in his way.

"Cocky bastard. How dare you try to break through."

"How dare you."

"Dare."

Highbrow, Midbrow, and Lowbrow stand in Tudor's way.

No mana, no weapons, just pure physical combat.

The iron-blooded Baskerville and the spear-wielding Don Quixote were about to go head-to-head.

...But.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I have no intention of going toe-to-toe with the monsters of the Iron-Blooded."

Tudor whirled in place.

In the blink of an eye, he sliced through Midbrow and Lowbrow and slipped through the gap between them.

It was a ghostly dodge and an all-out charge.

The rest of the class cheered at Tudor's super play.

"Wow, that's Tudor? That's amazing!"

"I can't believe he has no mana and no weapons."

"I heard Don Quixote had a genius in his family."

"That's what you get for being the head of the Cold Warriors Class!"

The cheers didn't last long, though.

"I'm going somewhere."

A shadowy figure followed Tudor as he ran.

Higthbrow Les Baskervilles.

The strongest of Baskerville's tridents, he blocked Tudor again.

"The ball. Give it to me."

And with that, Higthbrow hand and Tudor's hand met, and the result was....

Poof!

Surprisingly, Higthbrow lost.

Tudor dodged a flying Highbrow's hand and left a deep palm print on his chest arm.

"Boom!"

Highbrow stumbled back half a step, and Tudor spun him around at the same speed he'd been running.

"Hahaha, block him if you can!"

There was no stopping Tudor once he had outrun even Baskerville's Trident, the ace of the B class.

Pow! Boom, boom, boom, boom!

No one is taller, no one is heavier, and no one is bigger than Tudor.

With the waist of a leopard and the back of a bear, Tudor ran fast and stamped on everyone in his path.

Speed to speed, strength to strength.

Don Quixote Tudor is the most powerful runner and lineman in the world.

After smashing through or past every obstacle in his path, Tudor finds himself in front of the B Class goal.

The goal is a large Y-shaped iron hoop, and if you throw the ball through it, you'll score a point.

Tudor pulls his arm back, ready to score, when something catches his eye.

"...!"

It was Vikir, standing off to the side near the goal.

Apparently, he hadn't been assigned a particularly important position and was playing a modest backup defender.

For a moment, Tudor's grim smile widened.

'Isn't that the boy from Professor Banshee's lecture this morning?'

He remembers Vikir rambling on and on about the theory.

It made his first response sound like a dumb answer.

'Let me give you a little poke.'

Tudor stopped throwing the ball and lunged forward a bit more.

He was going to bump into Vikir's shoulder and send him sprawling to the ground.

'Hey, buddy, I hope this inspires you to work out and not just study!'

And then.

...puck!

That was Tudor's last thought.

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T/N: I know this is like American football / rugby but in raw like this '???(Naphtali)'