The incident that shattered their pristine honor was, in itself, almost laughably trivial.
A group of bandits—low-quality thugs, barely organized—had appeared near the capital, preying on nameless villages at the edge of imperial territory. They attacked slash-and-burn farmers. They robbed peasants traveling between markets. They burned a few hovels and stole livestock.
Such incidents occurred several times every quarter. Banditry was a constant, low-level problem in any empire this vast. Normally, mobilizing a few adventurers or dispatching a squad of regular soldiers would be sufficient to resolve the matter. The bandits would be killed or scattered, and life would return to normal.
However, Sir Gareth—the instructor teaching the Knight Department—had a different idea.
An innovative idea, as he enthusiastically described it.
The current cohort of cadets, having grown up as children of privilege, eating the finest foods and sleeping in the softest beds, were absolutely bursting with mana and theoretical knowledge. They could recite the Twelve Codes of Chivalry even in their sleep. They could perform parade drills with mechanical precision.
But they were sorely, painfully lacking in actual combat experience.
So why not use this opportunity—these pathetic bandits who posed virtually no real threat—to give the cadets some light practical experience? A controlled environment. A chance to bloody their blades against enemies who wouldn't actually endanger them.
It seemed, on the surface, like reasonable logic.
"Instructor—have you finally lost your mind?"
Upon hearing this proposal, Dean Escaro's expression turned serious immediately, all traces of his usual diplomatic smile vanishing. He leaned forward across his desk, fixing the instructor with a hard stare.
His objection was simple and absolute: No.
Why? Because among the current Knight Department cadets were individuals who could not—under any circumstances—be placed in danger.
The Third Prince, for instance. Prince Aldric, a young man missing more than a few screws in his head, had developed an obsessive fascination with chivalric Ryance. Despite the Emperor's preference that he study administration or magic, the prince had insisted on enrolling in the Knight Department. He was training to become a warrior, of all things.
Beyond the prince, several children of high-ranking nobles—Dukes, Marquesses, Counts whose families controlled vast swaths of imperial territory—were also enrolled.
What would happen if someone got hurt? If a Duke's heir came home with a scar? If a prince lost even a finger?
The political fallout would be catastrophic.
"Absolutely not," the Dean had said firmly.
"This proposal is rejected."
But Sir Gareth was nothing if not persistent.
He returned the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Each time, he would prostrate himself before the Dean's desk, forehead pressed to the floor, and make his case with the fervor of a religious zealot.
"I will protect them even if it costs me my life!"
"Please grant permission!! This is for the future of the Empire! These children will one day lead our armies! They need to know what real combat feels like!"
"If we protect them forever, they'll crumble the first time they face actual danger! Please, Dean Escaro, I beg you!"
No matter how many times the Dean reprimanded him, threatened disciplinary action, or simply tried to ignore him, the instructor kept returning. Kept banging on his door. Kept pleading with that sincere, maddening passion.
"I really…" Dean Escaro finally sighed, rubbing his temples.
"I can't win against you."
It happened on a particularly emotional day. The Dean had been feeling nostalgic, thinking about his own youth as a battle-mage, remembering the mentor who had pushed him beyond his limits. The instructor's genuine passion for education, his obvious love for his students, his sincerity—it had moved something in the Dean's chest.
Perhaps he was going through a midlife crisis.
Perhaps he was simply tired of saying No.
Whatever the reason, as if possessed by temporary insanity, Dean Escaro had reached for his official seal and stamped the approval document.
The moment the seal touched paper, he felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.
What had he just done?
The anxiety gnawed at him immediately. He couldn't sleep that night. Or the night after. As the departure date approached, he summoned the instructor dozens of times, issuing warning after warning until his voice went hoarse.
"Absolutely—absolutely—ABSOLUTELY—not a single person must get hurt."
"I'm assigning combat mages to accompany you. And priests. I've already made the request with the clergy. Stop by the temple district before you leave and link up with the support troops."
"Do you understand me? Not. One. Injury."
The instructor bowed deeply each time, swearing on his honor as a knight, on his ancestors' graves, on the Empire itself.
"I understand completely, Dean. You can trust me."
And then, despite the Dean's earnest pleas, despite the support troops being prepared, despite everything—the instructor had charged straight ahead with just the cadets.
'They're just bandits', he'd thought dismissively. 'I killed dozens of bandit groups during my younger days as a wandering knight. Using excessive force would actually diminish the Academy's prestige. The cadets need to do this on their own to truly learn.'
So he left the mages and priests behind, telling them they'd "catch up later" once the main group "softened up the enemy."
And the result?
The result was a complete disaster.
Prince Aldric, third in line to the imperial throne, lost his left index finger. The precious children of high noble families—heirs to dukedoms and marquisates—suffered injuries both major and minor. Broken bones. Deep lacerations. Concussions.
The eldest son of Baronet Faltier was stabbed with a rusty sword and fell into critical condition, his body wracked with infection and fever.
Some might argue that the instructor was simply unlucky. That no one could have predicted what happened.
Because these weren't ordinary bandits.
They were a mercenary company—hardened veterans who had fought in border wars—disguised as bandits to avoid military prosecution. They were conducting organized raids, and the Empire's intelligence network had catastrophically failed to identify them.
The man claiming to be their leader wasn't some common thug. He was a former knight himself, stripped of his title for war crimes but still possessing considerable skill. When Sir Gareth had engaged him in a duel, expecting an easy victory, he found himself locked in a prolonged, exhausting duel.
The cadets, trained in parade drills and ceremonial combat, suddenly found themselves without their commander. They couldn't properly respond to the chaos of actual battle.
The mercenary-bandits didn't fight with honor. They threw dirt in eyes. They used concealed weapons—poisoned daggers tucked in boots, wire garrotes, alchemical flash-bombs. They grabbed noble ladies by their hair and held knives to their throats, using them as human shields.
The cadets, who were taught that such tactics were beneath contempt, that true warriors fought face-to-face with honor and dignity, simply didn't know how to respond.
They froze. They hesitated. They died.
Well, not died. But they came close.
Knights who were escorting Prince Aldric from a distance—maintaining a wide perimeter at the prince's insistence that he didn't want "babysitters ruining his battle style"—finally realized something was wrong when they heard screaming. They charged in towards the prince, cutting through the mercenaries with brutal efficiency.
But it was too late.
The damage was already done.
Prince Aldric's severed finger lay in the dirt. Blood soaked the ground. Young nobles who had never known pain wept openly.
And watching from the treeline, taking notes, were adventurers. Information guild scouts. Common-born citizens who despised the nobility and their privileges.
By sunset, the story had spread to every tavern in the capital.
##Starcrest Academy cadets—the so-called elite—defeated by bandits.
The Knight Department lost to common thugs.
Is this what our tax money pays for?##
The Academy's prestige, which had stood at an untouchable peak for generations, plummeted to the bottom in just one day.
It was a devastating blow not only to current students but to every active knight who had graduated from the department. How could they hold their heads high now? How could they withstand the mockery from the Sword Arts Department—their natural rivals—who would never let them forget this humiliation?
"Heo, heo-eok…!"
Kung!
Upon hearing the news, Dean Escaro fainted on the spot, his consciousness simply shutting down rather than process the magnitude of the catastrophe.
He collapsed behind his desk, striking his head on the corner as he fell. Blood had pooled beneath him.
The medical staff had barely finished treating his head wound and reviving him when an Imperial envoy burst into his office—not even waiting for him to fully regain consciousness.
The envoy, a stern-faced woman in military dress, looked down at him with cold eyes.
"In two days," she said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, "an official envoy will arrive to convey the Imperial will. Be prepared."
The implication was clear: Get your shit in order. Say your goodbyes.
"…I… I shall obey your command," Dean Escaro had whispered, his voice hoarse.
From that moment on, he couldn't eat. Couldn't drink. Food turned to ash in his mouth. Water felt like poison sliding down his throat.
After all, he was the one who had given the final approval. His seal was on the document. His responsibility.
His head would surely roll.
'