4

“Now then, the next two… that’s what I’d like to say,”

Instructor Gazul scratched his head vigorously, pointing at the machine Faras was riding.

“Just as you saw a moment ago, this one can’t do anything but basic maneuvers. So we’ll go one by one with the remaining unit. It’ll take a bit of time, but there aren’t many left, so we’ll manage somehow. Next should be—”

One of the students was called by name and climbed into the machine. I watched them go, arms crossed, fingers tapping lightly.

Then the usual three showed up.

“Eld, calm down.”

“I’m calm.”

“Your eyes are dead serious… more like someone who hasn’t slept than the usual sleepy look.”

Rayla and Leon chided me.

I’m sitting right on the grass, eyes dropping down to check my feet. There they are—mine, bouncing up and down like they’re trying to dig a hole in the earth.

How much longer do I have to wait…?

Just a bit more, probably. One person’s usually ten to fifteen minutes. Three left, not counting Eld. Even if it drags, won’t take more than an hour.

Ah… my feet are already scratching at the ground.

The three of them—Batis included—let out a shared sigh.

Ah, something to distract me… I glance around, trying to find anything to focus on. Then I spot it: Faras getting scolded nonstop by three instructors. Papers in their hands, reading them as they talk.

"Hey, what about Rayla’s results? You hear them already?"

I asked Rayla, just to distract myself from the storm of feelings building up inside. She’d been poring over the data the instructors had gathered, figuring out the next training plan just a moment ago.

“Overall, it’s solid—no real flaws to point out. If I had to pick one thing, though, you might want to make your dodging motions a bit tighter. Something like that. From now on, we’ll be practicing weird little moves while on the machine—crouching, sliding sideways, twisting just the upper body. Check out the operational stats? Want to see?”

Rayla pulled a folded sheet from her pocket.

I took it, unfolded it.

Three sheets total. All of them were the same machine data we’d just collected. That’s what the instructors had been reading.

How much Hyimagia Liquid was used, fuel consumption, joint operation rates, how the load was distributed—everything down to what kind of piloting was done was written in detail.

Fuel consumption and efficiency were a bit higher than usual, probably because of Faras’s interference, but the joint operation rates all exceeded eighty percent, clearly showing they’d used their whole body well. To prove it, even though the load was low—under ten percent.

Only one area had a load over ten percent: the back, which had taken the brunt of Faras’s magic. Still, thanks to solid machine control, the impact had been smoothly absorbed—didn’t even reach twenty percent.

Yeah, with this, the instructors couldn’t have a single thing to say.

“Diving sword dodge—couldn’t help but laugh at that one.”

That one was pretty desperate, though. Magic’s got limits on how many times you can cast it, but you can keep spitting it out—could’ve predicted that. Swords? Only two of ‘em. Tossing one away like that? Normal person think about that?

That’s why you mess with ‘em. Depending on how things went, they might’ve charged straight at us.

If it were me, I’d have goaded ‘em on, made ‘em come at me. Then cracked ‘em good.

“Really dumb, huh.”

“Totally.”

“Yeah, totally.”

“Yeah.”

We nodded along, same as each other, watching the instructors start giving their lecture.

“So how’d Batis and Leon do? Looked like they weren’t too bad.”

“I got told I pushed it too hard. Max load hit over forty at the ankle. Said I’d be done for on the battlefield.”

“Forty’s definitely too high. Forced maneuver, maybe?”

Yeah, that’d fit Batis’s style—never much for fine adjustments, always pushing the machine hard.

Auto-gyros and balance systems make it possible to obey even reckless commands, but that just overloads the frame.

“S-something went wrong during the forest zone—trying to dodge trees, I guess. Gonna focus on leg control, especially in forests from now on.”

“Gotta learn it by feel. Leon?”

“I was the opposite. Went too easy on the machine. Never pushed it to its limits. Kept getting told I wasn’t using it enough—fuel efficiency was terrible.”

“Ah, right. If you don’t commit, balance just… slips right out from under you.”

The more unstable it gets, the more the machine fights to keep its balance—whirring gyroscopes, auto-stabilizers kicking in. Naturally, that eats up concentrated mana fluid—Hyimagia Liquid. So fuel efficiency takes a nosedive.

Like the difference between a car driving straight at the same speed… and one that’s always speeding up and slowing down.

I thought about how a pilot’s personality shows up in how they handle the controls. Wondered what kind of habits my own would develop… and suddenly, the training session felt even more exciting.

Ah, come on, let me get in already!

Waited another thirty minutes. Finally—finally—my turn came!

"Alright, then, last one—Eld… where’d Eld go?"

"Eld’s already on the machine."

Rayla pointed, and there he was—on the Armunale’s cockpit. I stood at the entrance, waiting for the instructor’s signal. No way I was climbing in without permission. That’d be asking for trouble.

“Hah… you can get in now. Just let me get it moving.”

“Got it!”

I dive into the seat, yanking the harness tight.

Check the pedals and levers—nothing funny. Hatch sealed. Start-up sequence engaged.

Generator’s online. Output stable in the first phase. Monitors lit up. All gauges normal. Concentrated mana fluid—Hyimagia Liquid—down to thirty percent. Guess that’s what you get after a full day’s use. Still, should be enough for a lap or two.

Alright—

Press the output pedal, ramp up the generator.

Second stable phase confirmed. Armunale mobility—confirmed. Microphone and sound-recording magic active. Confirmed. Head-mounted monitor—no glitches. Operating range at one forty degrees—normal. Display the sub-camera feed from the lower hemisphere, last panel.

One of the four bottommost monitors showed the rear view of Armunale. There they were—Rayla and the other two.

Start operational test. Shoulders, elbows, wrists, finger joints—no anomalies. Legs—functioning normally. Balancer—no issues.

Gear check. Magic—only one shock burst on the index finger lever. Sword—one on each hip. Noticed minor chipping on the blade during continuous use. But no problem with the test itself.

“How’s it feel? Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll begin the drill.”

“One sec—can I ask something?”

“Only if I can answer.”

Forgot to ask the important thing.

“This course—do you run it every year?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what’s the best time on record?”

“…Five minutes, twenty-one seconds.”

“Got it. One minute more.”

“Call me when you’re ready. I’ll give the start signal.”

“Thank you.”

Hmm, five minutes twenty-one seconds. Rayla’s time was five forty, Batis five thirty-two, Leon exactly six minutes. If you think about it, breaking five twenty under normal mobility seems physically impossible.

Then there’s only one thing to do.

I press the upper switches and buttons, tweaking the machine’s settings.

Set the remaining three lower displays to constantly show unit status—pressure, balance, output, all of it. Turn off the magic targeting function. Fix the aiming focus to monitor 2.C (center slightly left) and 4.C (center slightly right), maxed out. Make it so the switches let you choose which one to aim at. Disable the balancer function and link each pressure adjustment directly to the foot pedals. Keep the sword on the left hip locked in place—never let it come loose. Only the one on the right hip should be switchable via the upper switch. To maximize the mobility processor (sense board)'s performance, shave off as much processing capacity as possible. Sometimes it’s faster just to do it by hand, you know.

Good. All systems green.

“Instructor, if you’d please.”

“Right. Then—Eld Unit—start!”

At the signal, I slam the pedals down with everything I’ve got.

The machine lunged forward, fully committed to the throttle, like it had a mind of its own.

I leaned the lever, tipping my upper body ahead. Left hand on the button, foot adjusting output—keeping the balance just right.

Four monitors flickered, always showing the machine’s state. I tweaked the output distribution on the fly, and off I went, racing across the grass.

"Fast…"

The sound-absorbing magic caught someone’s voice. Of course. Armunale, with the balancer cut, didn’t hesitate. No thought for center of gravity, no concern for stability.

It was up to me—hand by hand, step by step—to set it all, to squeeze out the best performance.

I bounced between the foot pedals and generator pedals, quick and sharp. My left hand never left the top button.

Then—just a moment later—the first target came into view.

Left side, coming in. Normally I’d use lock-on, fire the moment the aim’s tight—but my rig’s lock-on’s off, so I’m cutting straight to the chase.

The designated monitor still glows white with the lock-on cursor, shrunk down to the smallest size. As soon as the target appears, I hit the trigger.

*Zudon!*—a jolt through the frame, nearly throws me off balance. But I catch it, steady the machine, and it’s tearing across the grass again.

By the time my rig whips past the target, it’s already shattered from the shockwave, crumbling into pieces.

Twenty seconds. Faster than Batis’s best time—twenty-two seconds.

Guess it’s true. You gotta steer it yourself. Not everything should be automated. Not everything’s better that way, you know?

Just two minutes after tearing through every target on the plain. The turnaround’s through the woods—cutting down targets with the blade.

Unlatch the lock at my right hip. The Armunale sword’s easy to grip once the lock’s off—no scabbard, so I don’t need to twist my body to draw from the opposite side.

Everyone’s stuck on this knight stereotype.

Twist the mech’s wrist—just a flick—and slice the first target in the forest.

Next one’s right in the shortest path. I slide the blade back into its hip lock, just drawn, and close in on the target.

Dodge the branches. Sidestep the trees. Mind the balance when I step on roots. The second target comes into view.

I shoot my right hand straight out, grabbing the target. The machine whips past it—its momentum snaps the frame holding the target clean in half.

After it passes, the target’s gone. But now it’s in my hand.

Didn’t think much before tearing it apart. This one’s needed later.

The next target’s off the shortest path. Gotta take a detour to hit it. This stretch here—this is where I can shave the most time.

I go straight for the shortcut anyway. Keep this pace, and I’ll be drifting from the goal in two seconds. That’s why I ripped the last one apart.

Just a flick of power—push it into my feet.

The Armunale kicked hard beneath me—shot up high, clearing the trees whole. The folks on the grass must’ve blinked in shock. I mean, one second it was hidden in the woods, the next—boom, up in the sky.

But I’ve done this before. First battle, I jumped up from the valley to get out.

If that old model could leap like that, this one—decades newer—sure as hell can.

So I’m up high, steering steady, checking the target’s position. Then I swing my arm—flick it—send the dummy flying straight at the mark.

The bent pipe’s sharp as a blade now. Cracks the next target clean in half.

And that’s fine. No magic. Just breaking forest targets. Rules say it’s clean. If it weren’t? I’d just whine about it till they let me try again.

Wait—no. Gotta focus. Landing’s coming.

Keep the output up, brace for the impact.

The机身 thuds down—right as the monitor flashes red, joints screaming under strain.

I spread the weight across my whole body, letting it flow through me.

Two legs alone? The joints would’ve howled. But I plant my feet, then slap my hands down too—push the load into the ground.

No more screams from the joints. Smooth, steady, within the expected limits.

Reset. Mimic Rayla—crouch, then sprint.

The last two forest targets lie straight ahead. No detours. Slice through them, careful, no mistakes. I break through the forest.

Time: four minutes and five seconds. Fastest yet. Definitely.

A smirk tugs at my lips. I pour on the speed toward the finish.

And there—the final target comes into view.

Slicing through the target with the blade still drawn. No slowing down—straight into the finish.

But can’t let my guard down now. I’ve got every function on manual control. So of course, I’ve gotta manually cut the output when stopping.

Lowering the output while slowly lifting the foot pedal.

Lock the sword back into place, sit up straight, switch to a walking gait. Keep walking—just like that—until I reach the schoolhouse, where the instructors are waiting.

In the meantime, turn on the balancer, reset the other systems. Otherwise, next time someone tries to get in, even the instructors’ll be in for a rough ride.

Manual control’s fun, though. Still, damn tiring.

Stop the machine. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. Unbuckle the seatbelt. Open the hatch.

The cold air outside feels good on my hot skin.

So, how’d my time turn out? I’m pretty sure I beat the fastest lap, no doubt about it.

Stepping down from the generator-off machine, I returned to the stunned student and instructor, mouth still hanging open.

The moment my feet hit the grass, I was instantly surrounded by the three girls rushing over—Rayla and the others.

“Wait a minute! What was that?!”

“That move was weird, wasn’t it?! How’d you even get that speed?!”

“Speed’s one thing—but the magic launch timing was way too early. How’d you pull that off?”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I’ll explain.”

I held them off with a chuckle, then moved toward the instructor.

Gazul instructor finally snapped out of it when we approached, stepping forward to greet me.

“Seriously—what the hell did you just do? That’s the fastest time in seven years.”

“Thank you. How fast was it, exactly?”

"Three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. You think anyone’s gonna beat that?"

"Someone who can, can, I reckon."

I mean, sure, it’s manual control, but it’s not all that different from driving an MT car. You’ve just gotta shift gears and fiddle with the wipers and lights—same as always. If you can do it, you can do it. I did, didn’t I?

Gazul instructor hums thoughtfully, nodding to himself as I explain the technique. Probably mulling whether to add it to the training plan. Maybe I should’ve let him test it first, but that’ll come later.

"Got the reason for the speed. Well done. I’ll gather the data and pass it on—just wait a moment."

"Understood."

Gazul walks toward the machine I just came in. Already, other instructors are elbow-deep in data extraction.

I watch him go, then turn back to the three of them.

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Cutting the balancer like that…?”

“Who the hell even tries to control that kind of thing by hand!? You gotta be outta your mind!”

“Honestly, I don’t even see how it’s possible.”

The reactions were mostly the same.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been messing with it off and on since the start. Now I’ve got free time to practice, so in a year, I’ll be able to handle it. But damn, it’s exhausting.”

Reaching into the pack, I pull out a canteen and gulp it down. Dry as dust from nerves.

“Then I’ll practice. Can’t stand losing all the time like this.”

“Hey, me too! Sounds tough, but if I can do it, I’ll get stronger, right?”

“If we can pull off that move, survival odds on the battlefield go way up. Whether it’s for the test or not, better to practice now than regret later.”

Everyone’s gotta practice manual control. That means the final exam in three years is gonna be even tougher. Hell, anyone who can’t pull it off is definitely getting cut.

I’ve gone and made a mess of things, haven’t I?

Letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, the sweat cooling on my skin—then the instructors called me over.

“Alright, I’ll be off for a bit.”

“Wonder what they’ll say. Kinda looking forward to it.”

“Gonna end with some fancy praise, I bet.”

“Go on, say it.”

Jesting as I went, I walked toward the instructors.

The air here felt… thick. Not like a funeral, exactly. More like when a subordinate screws up on an important job. You know—quiet, heavy, like someone just dropped a stone in a well.

Whatever. Either way, it’s not exactly cozy.

“Is something wrong?”

I asked, voice tight, cautious.

“Ah, yes. We’re pulling data from Eld right now… and the numbers just don’t add up.”

“Strange? How so?”

“The left hand of the unit’s readings are way off. Probably didn’t log properly. Can’t make a proper call like this. Sorry—might have to go around again, at a different time.”

He showed me the data. Sure enough, my unit’s left hand activity rate was abnormally low.

Control time? Nearly a hundred percent elsewhere—left hand barely fifteen percent. During drills, from start to finish, it didn’t even hit ten percent.

But everything else seemed fine.

Overall unit efficiency? Ninety-seven percent—except for the left arm. Max load probably at landing, around thirty-five percent, but average load was under ten. Should be fine, joints shouldn’t be the issue.

Fuel efficiency? Thanks to fine-tuning the generator, even the judge said it was top-tier.

Well, yeah—left-hand numbers’d look off, I’ll grant you that. But I had one thing nailed down.

“Probably correct, this data.”

“What’re you on about? Left arm’s clearly still attached. Not running at full, not even fifteen percent? That’s not normal.”

“But I didn’t grip the left stick much during drills.”

Right—my left hand was busy flipping buttons and switches nonstop. So holding the stick? Almost never.

Just barely, when I had to brace for landing impact.

Everything else? Purely right hand and feet.

The instructors just stared, eyes wide as if I’d grown a second head.

“Why’d you even fly like that?”

I was doing all the control myself—anything I could manage, I handled on my own. Took the load off the senseboard as much as possible. Unlocked the lock function, fixed the screen to the tightest possible point, like I said before. And the balancer? I turned that off too. No balancer means faster movement. I mean, sure, I couldn’t ditch the gyro—wouldn’t stay stable otherwise—but everything else? Generator output, pressure adjustments—every single thing, I tweaked it right there, on the spot. So naturally, I didn’t have time to even grip the stick.

Hmm… from what I’ve heard, this data seems to check out.

Gazul instructor muttered, and the other instructors shot back with protest.

“You can’t be serious. Even we couldn’t handle control like that.”

“That’s right. I’ve ridden a broken balancer before—nothing like a stubborn horse. It was all springs, leaping around like a mad thing. Hard to stop, I tell you. And he just… did it like it was nothing.”

“But the data matches. The control logs too, don’t they?”

Gazul turned to the instructor from the mobility computation (senseboard) department, the only one who hadn’t spoken. The man nodded slowly.

“No anomalies in the collection machinery or the mobility computation. His words… they’re proven by this machine.”

“But—!”

“Or is it our mistake?”

Words aren’t needed. A sharp glare flies toward the instructor. Unlike the flight cadet instructors, this one’s slender—more like a scholar wrapped in a white coat. But the gaze from those thin eyes? No less piercing than any instructor’s.

No...

Leave it at that. Captain Calon’s been insulted enough.

No, it’s true I’d start doubting the data if I were you.

So, with this data below, I’m thinking about what kind of practice routine to plan for the future—any thoughts?

Gazul’s asking the other instructors for their take—though, really, they’re not gonna answer, are they?

Honestly, I’ve never flown one before—so outperforming everyone else? There’s no advice to give.

Hmm, then shall I ask one thing, hm?

The one who raised a hand was Professor Caron from the Mobility Calculation Device (Senseboard) department.

“Eld-kun, you switched to manual control when the Mobility Calculation Device’s processing power started to dip, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I figured the device would slow down under heavy load, just like any other system.”

Even with a top-tier OS, the more operational data piles up, the more the capacity stretches—eventually, it drags, just like anything else. That’s what I thought.

You’re right about that. If you’re handling a mobile calculation device—what we call a senseboard—like Eld, you can cram in more magic and operational methods within its limited space. But things like sword locks, climate control in the cockpit, or simple light spells? Those fit in the gaps just fine. Scrap them, and you won’t see any effect. Later, I’ll hand you a book that breaks down the senseboard’s content ratios. You can use that to decide what to keep, what to cut. Climate control, for instance, is part of the system that monitors the pilot’s condition. If you’re messing with that kind of control, you might as well make the cockpit a little more comfortable, don’t you think?

Thank you

“Hmph, so from now on, Eld’s going to use that manual to rethink his piloting style to fit himself, right?”

“Yes.”

Seeing me nod, Gazul instructor turned to the other students.

“Alright, then. Combat drill’s over. That’s all for today’s lesson—feel free to do whatever you like now.”

“Thank you for the lesson!”

And with that, my first combat drill came to a close.