A day later, while Syme was still recuperating, Sue barged in once again.

"What now," he grumbled. "Are they crucifying someone this time?"

"No," she said, "someone's here to meet you."

"Meet me? Who?"

She pulled in a girl on the younger side, first or second year at most. 

"Oh? What do you wa—I mean, I'm grateful for the visit, how can I help you?" Syme asked, correcting himself. He had to work on creating an courteous image.

The girl took a deep breath. "H-hello, m-my name is M-mina, I-I use to do f-fencing and r-recreational s-sword fighting, I t-though m-maybe if y-you needed someone to maybe h-help... b-but I'm sure y-you already have s-someone and I-I'm just bothering y-you and—"

"Wait, no, please, come back," Syme said. "How good were you?"

"N-not that good, m-my family pressured me into it..." she replied.

"Could you be... a little more specific?" Syme asked, trying to be as gentle as possible.

"I-It's not much. At r-regionals, I was s-second, f-first last year, and f-f-first the year before," she said in a small voice.

"...is it gender split?" Syme asked, his eyes widening.

"N-no..."

"So you're actually really good at this."

"Well, no, maybe..." she said, faintly blushing.

"We'd love to have your help, then. None of us know how to sword fight, after all. Here," he said, taking something off of the table next to him and handing it to her, "this is our weapon. It's a stabbing spear, not a sword, but you're still the expert."

She took it carefully and made a few jabs into the air. "C-could you tell me w-what went into the design? N-not that it's bad or anything! It's great! Really! ...just that I want to know what fighting style you want, that kind of thing. Oh! S-sorry, should I c-call you sir?"

"Don't worry about it, it's not that official, just use my name." He thought for a moment. "Viz is the one who did most of the design. You should talk to him about it." He took another look at her. "Actually, maybe you shouldn't..."

"I'll go with her, make sure Viz doesn't do anything too scary," Sue said.

"Is that alright with you?" he asked.

"It's fine. I feel bad about Owar and San's deaths too."

A moment later they left, leaving Syme to sleep. Afterwards, once he had recovered to the point where he could walk with no issue, he took a quick check at his would-be soldiers. They had finally begun to train in earnest, with their regular arms in tow now.

They were propelled by fear, by anger, but even moreso by social pressure. They would try their hardest to avoid being seen as the one who defiled Owar and San's deaths. Ellen and Nier, who felt the greatest guilt, worked nonstop, either drilling or training themselves. Ky and Ally, though a bit more reserved, followed in tow.

It was an interesting sight to see the petite Mina instruct the rather large boys, but she was no doubt the best in terms of technique. Viz worked with her to create their current style—bash upwards with the shield and fatally stab into the ribcage. It was, like the weapon itself, based off of Zulu warcraft. They borrowed Cily for a while to create a proper proportioned model.

His army was building, the first piece of power. He could only hope that they would be attacked soon, while morale is so high. No, no hoping; you have to make your own luck if you want to succeed. He had momentum; now he had to keep it, at all costs.

They were holding a funeral for the two deceased students. Syme slipped the idea of burning pyres in their honor, careful that it could never be traced back to him. If the Imps would not come after this, then would never come. 

Unknowingly, however, Syme was being watched by pair of sharp eyes backed with an even sharper mind.

Even if some students found it dangerous to do something that would so obviously reveal their location, anything related to the duo's deaths were so taboo that they held their tongues.

Except Saul, that is, who loudly protested against it on the grounds that it would attract unwanted attention. But he was one voice amongst many, voicing an unpopular opinion. Syme let him be. He was only hurting himself; if Saul wanted to be their Demosthenes, then he would get Demosthenes' welcome.

His wish was granted in a few days. Whether it was the smoke from the pyres or just dumb luck he would never know, but nonetheless, a few foragers came flying into the school one day—guarded, this time—screaming that they saw a group coming their way.

A wave of panic spread throughout the school at first, but they had a plan now. Obviously a few days worth of amateur military training would not turn highschoolers into soldiers, but they had a footing now; something to anchor them. And Syme knew that he didn't need a professional army in a closed, defensible area like this. Nor could they rout. There's no way out. They must fight or die. 

They blocked the windows, barricaded the doors—except one, that is. Syme left the front door open. With narrow corridors, most of the troops could be kept in reserve. Most units were concentrated at the front, with a few at the other entrances as insurance. But Syme was pretty certain that the open front door would draw all the Imps in. 

He kept himself on the roof, where he had both the best vantage and the most safety. The youngest students he had as couriers, to relay commands and information, though he doubted that it would matter much in this case.

The Captains were on the ground. Their job was to stay back and make orders: to advance, to retreat, for the lines to swap. Though, Syme did instructed them to keep things simple, as the troops were yet undisciplined.

From his view a mass of white and black rose in the horizon. He counted twenty or so—it was a mid-sized hunting band. He'd wagered that with a trained force he could get away with zero casualties, but likely at least one will die, but that was okay. He'd estimated his margin of error to be between 1 and 5 deaths. Any more and he'd have issues.

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The Imps, surely enough, headed directly towards the front gate, where two lines of nervous amateurs faced them. Syme had the troops aligned in a funnel-like shape from the entrance. It was Viz's idea, evidently used by the Romans in some siege. The shape not only optimized the total attacking surface area, but it made it awkward for the attackers to position themselves.

They would collide soon, he could see that. The soldiers at the front were no doubt terrified at the jumping, scrambling, hooting mass that went against them. But they had each other, and they had their shields.

He head screams and grunts from below. It had begun. Sat in his perch, he could only observe the battle with his ears. Anxiety bit a little at his heart, but his mind was set on victory. This must be an overwhelming victory; it must be. 

An indeterminable amount of time later, the grunts and cries turned to cheers, and he could see some small black and white figures running—and some students running after them. 

He ran down, screaming, "Don't chase! Stop! Do not chase!" but it was difficult to hear with noisy celebration around him. He noticed that Ellen was looking at him. He made an X with his hands and hoped she would get the message.

She slammed her shield against a wall. "Everyone shut the hell up!"

Everyone shut up.

"What do you want to say, General?" she continued. Everyone looked towards Syme.

"Well, er, I was saying not to chase, but I think everyone's stopped now." He coughed. "What's the casualty count?"

"Cas got bumped on the head good, and few others got some scratches, but that's it," Nier replied happily. A small cheer rose up.

Well, damn. Maybe he'd struck gold. "Good—good! You all did great. San and Owar'd be proud. But it's not over! Gear up, everyone. We're marching out!" He tapped a young student on the shoulder. "Tell Ellen and everyone to be ready in an hour. A can of preserves and a full bottle for everyone."

Another technique, or rather principle Viz brought up. Legionaries after the Marian reforms were often nicknamed "Marian's Mules" because of the amount of supplies they hauled with them at all times. Each soldier was his own temporary logistics train. They could outrun their supplies in order to maneuver, moving much faster than anyone would expect them to, something Caesar himself used to great effect in his conquests in Gaul.

The Captains set to work, and everyone began to filter out to the cafeteria, where their remaining food supplies were held.

Syme saw someone muscle through the crowd angrily. It was Saul.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed. "Marching? Marching where?"

"After the Imps, of course. We must weed out the threat at its root."

"There are dead bodies still warm on the ground," Saul said.

"I'll have some people clean them up, but we need to strike while we have the opportunity. Their tracks will be gone if we wait too long."

"Clean them up! As if they're just trash!" Saul yelled. "Look at them! Look at that damn girl that follows you around! They're basically human! You're treating them like animals to be hunted!"

"And so what if I was?," Syme asked carefully.

"You damn warmonger," Saul yelled, grabbing Syme by the collar. "We won't have a choice after you destroyed their damn homes!"

Immediately a passing by soldier grabbed Saul by the shoulder and pulled him away. "The hell you doing? What's the General ever done to you?" he said.

More people gathered as they noticed the commotion.

"Ever since we've been here I've just seen you whine, Saul," someone said.

"Saul, you ass, you don't get to insult anyone until you actually do something," another said. 

"We won 'cause he came," another said.

"Are you all blind!? He's turned you into murderers! He's going to get us all killed!" Saul angrily rebutted.

"Now, now, everyone," Syme said, "Saul has good intentions and I can understand him. I'm an outsider. I would be suspicious of myself if I was him."

"Look, Saul, you're all pissy and he's calm. That's how you act," someone said.

"I-I-" Saul sputtered, growing red with anger. He screamed, then stomped away, people staring curiously at him.

"Don't let him get to ya," a student said.

"It's okay, I won't," Syme replied, giving his most pleasant smile. Saul had the right ideas, just the wrong execution.

"Tell him to stop," Saul demanded. He had gone to talk to Eran alone.

"I can't," Eran said helplessly. "C'mon, Saul, you can read the atmosphere, can't you?" He shook his head. "Too much momentum."

Saul pounded his fist on a desk. "Damn it! This is your fault. I warned you!"

Eran sighed. "It all slipped out of control when those two died. I can't predict that, and you can't blame them for being angry over it. I'd be angry over that."

"What are we going to do now? He wants to march over and start attacking some village. And people agree!"

"Nothing. People told me of your, er, 'outburst'. You do understand that it makes you look like a fool? Anything you do right now only reflects poorly on you—and me. Wait for a better opportunity. He'll slip eventually, do something the public doesn't like. That's when you strike."

Saul took a few deep breaths, calming himself. "You're right, you're right. It's just... alright, I'll do as you say." He turned to leave. "Remain vigilant, Eran."

"Of course, we can't be waging war," Eran said, see him out.