The following day started without an excessive amount of problems, at least for the soft Roberto Frontolli. Well, if we want to be completely honest, the little man had to deal with a registered letter sent by express military mail just a few minutes after he opened his eyes.

The sun had yet to fully rise and he, as one could easily imagine, was still halfway between realizing where he was and enjoying the last shreds he could remember of the dream that had accompanied him until just a moment before, whose main themes were beautiful women, good food, and excellent alcohol.

"We have a letter for Instructor Frontolli!" came a voice from the other side of the door, while a pair of certainly youthful hands with little strength left in their bodies knocked. "Instructor Frontolli, please respond!" the postman repeated, raising his voice even more less than three seconds from his previous call.

Having reached the end of the night shift, the poor soul was even struggling to distinguish right from left, let alone worry about waking up some low-ranking Instructor in the staff dormitories of the Academy.

"Eh?" was the first thing dear Roberto replied, swaying through the room in a dance that, poorly, managed to transport him to the doorstep. However, he did not open it right away. First, with due calmness, the young man stared at the slightly damaged wood in front of him without knowing why he had made it there without even changing robes.

Then, following another call from the postman, Frontolli gripped the doorknob and pulled towards himself, achieving nothing but a loud noise. The imbecile took a few seconds to understand what the problem was. "Ah..." he thought, his mind slightly clearer, before turning the key and trying again.

"Good morning, Instructor Frontolli." Immediately, as if it were a recorded voice, the young postman greeted him without the slightest hint of enthusiasm, diligently handing him the sealed envelope with the attention of a machine. Roberto grabbed the other side of the envelope with his fingertips, then looked up at the poor soul towards whom he felt a hint of malice. But after seeing the genuine tiredness that marked his face, even the annoyance inside him began to fade.

"Thanks for the delivery," he ended up saying a few moments later. "Thank you, too," the postman replied automatically, before nodding goodbye and continuing on his way.

Frontolli remained there, watching him take the stairs and disappear from view. The other doors on the same floor were still closed and the corridor was silent, leaving our soft hero only in the company of the Mana lamps that illuminated the structure with a clear and slightly subdued light, so as not to disturb anyone's sleep.

Regaining his senses, he returned to his room, closing the door behind him. "For this job, I have to wake up before dawn, but at least I earn well and only work half a day. I couldn't handle an eight or nine-hour night shift wandering around the city in the cold... Are we crazy?" he said to himself with a slight sense of superiority ingrained in his bones. Undeserved, of course, but not too overwhelming to go to his head.

Not to mention the fact that as soon as he opened the letter, all the good mood derived from comparing himself to the poor night shift postman vanished in an instant. "What have I done wrong? Why me?" he whimpered through clenched teeth, falling onto the bed with a thud, clutching the two sheets he had pulled out of the envelope in his hands.

The first was a list of furniture, jewelry, and various other items that his wife intended to buy or had already purchased. It was easy to see which was which from the heart drawn with a pen next to the item's name. The other sheet, much heavier on his heart than the first, was yet another request for a loan from one of the private banks in Asparetto. His wife had already signed her part and filled out everything else, leaving her husband with the task of writing his full name in legible calligraphy.

Roberto cried.

And he cried a little more.

And a little bit more, until the alarm on his nightstand lit up again, marking the maximum limit until which he could afford to waste time and, at the same time, arrive at the training camp on time.

Upon hearing the alarm, despite his heavy heart, the man had to find the strength to get up again. He sat at his desk for a brief moment to sign that damned document. Every trace of ink seemed thicker than blood and denser than rock to him. Even the poor pen could barely withstand the force with which its owner was holding it between his fingers. Yet, some herculean effort later, the request was signed and ready to be delivered.

Immediately after, the man began to change his clothes to start his day as a respected instructor at the Academy of Asparetto. However, as the daily procedures went on, a multitude of mostly negative thoughts continued to clash in his head.

Sure, the wife he had ended up with several years earlier had always been much more attractive than him. She didn't come from a renowned family, but despite the limitations, she had still managed to obtain an education worthy of her name. She wasn't a Cultivator, but thanks to the medicine she sometimes demanded with a certain maliciousness, she thought she would remain beautiful and young for many more years... So, well. Apart from the fact that she didn't respect him, spent enormous amounts of money on mostly frivolous things, and perhaps had already cheated on him a couple of times, well, she still remained a good deal.

Mostly because Roberto strongly doubted that he could do better than that. That's why he might as well continue on the path he had already decided to take. Then, oh; horns or not, crazy spending or not; all of this didn't mean that poor Roberto couldn't enjoy the nightly company of a beautiful piece of tail, who incredibly, was also his wife.

Poor soul, from his point of view, life wasn't that bad.

That said, the rotund Instructor finished his preparations and left the dormitory, heading to the staff cafeteria, which was smaller but much better maintained than the mess that was the student’s hall. In his adventure for breakfast, strictly made of hot cow's milk, chocolate from a continent further south of Coa, and pastries made fresh that day with sugar or honey or both if one didn't fear diabetes, our hero met some of his fellow Instructors with the same desire to live in their eyes.

For the most part, almost no one wanted to exchange a few words at that hour. Except for the usual two or three subjects who didn't even seem to realize that the sun outside was still slowly rising above the horizon. Weird people, better to move on.

After breakfast and cleaning the little bit of sugar left all over his golden mouth, Roberto said goodbye to his colleagues and headed to the first-year students' training field, the year he had always taken care of. The simplest and most malleable in several ways, which is why he was the one in charge and not others.

"Good morning Instructor!" The boys greeted him with a shout. He, before answering, remained a few seconds to observe them. A little to lose that minimal amount of time that made him feel like he had to work less, and a little to check that the students had already divided themselves into their respective platoons. According to the Academy's directives, in fact, getting the students used to staying in well-divided but relatively cohesive groups was a fundamental quality for forming good soldiers.

In battle, especially if it lasts for multiple days, it is unlikely that a single individual would be powerful enough to sweep away the enemy army without any help. Realistically, various groups, large or small, from both armies would clash in various points of the battlefield multiple times, seeking temporary shelter in the more numerous wing of allies or launching a combined attack where the opponent's numbers may be lacking.

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In other words, knowing how to move not as an individual but as part of a group improved both the chances of survival and the chances of breaking through enemy lines with a single blow. However, setting aside theory and considerations of efficiency or effectiveness, I would say that it is also time to put it into practice.

"Good morning, guys!" Roberto broke out when he decided he had thought enough, raising an arm to indicate a direction to his left. "Let's begin with the training! The enemy army is charging from this side, get ready in position!"

In response, the recruits turned to their right side, holding their weapons tightly in their hands. Their movement was slightly chaotic and not particularly elegant, but it worked well enough not to cause any damage between platoons, considering the distance that separated them. In fact, positioned as they were in a simple rectangular formation that was slightly open, where the spaces between units were not consolidated to increase the formation's compactness, it was certainly more difficult than easy to accidentally hit a comrade.

However, thanks to a mixture of inexperience and non-standardization of the recruits' weapons, it was also understandable that, for example, the tip of a student's spear left a small wound on someone's shoulder, or that a shield larger than usual slammed into the side of an unfortunate person who was one or two steps too close.

However, the training served precisely to iron out the problems and improve the recruits' capabilities, which is why accidents like the ones just described happened less and less frequently.

"Very good!" Roberto raised his voice again, relatively satisfied with the maneuver, immediately preparing to give another order: "The enemy's front lines have separated from the main body! The first and second line platoons begin to advance, spreading out in an arc! The rest of the platoons move to the sides, ready to support the front lines or surround the enemy! Quick! Quick! Quick, the enemy doesn't wait for your convenience!" Bringing out that authoritarian side of his personality that would never surface in the presence of his wife or a superior.

The recruits moved accordingly, using their imagination to get a rough idea of the position of the enemies and their movements. The front lines in particular had to improvise more than anyone else, compacting the center and widening the flanks, as they had been taught before.

"Forward! Forward!" Giorgio shouted during those movements, leading his platoon positioned on the right side of the front lines while pointing his sword up and holding his shield close to himself. Theoretically, he should not have had the authority to give orders to recruits near him who were not part of his platoon, but probably thanks to his physical prowess, the platoons on the same side still followed his directives. And so, a bit like an arm slowly closing around the chest, the right side of the formation began to tighten the, imaginary, enemy front lines in a vice.

Roberto observed the events from afar, remaining quite satisfied with the results. Although confusing, the movements of the formation had not yet left too many empty spaces where the enemies could easily attack. In particular, on the right side, the rear ranks were being led by another recruit as famous as Giorgio, known as 'The Big One'; without her knowing, however.

"As a character, she already reminds me too much of my wife and she's still young... But she certainly has talent to show," commented Roberto as the scene unfolded before his eyes, unable to shake off the feeling of unease that came over him every time he looked at the girl named Jessica.

Physically speaking, aside from her short hair of a fiery color, she didn't have much to boast about. She wasn't even gifted with a particularly refined or feminine face. On the contrary, from a certain point of view, she seemed to bear features that could be described as sharp, similar to those that could be seen on a snake's face. However, certainly because of her character, there were few people who would have had the courage to say anything about it.

Furthermore, the combat skills she was developing made her commands even more difficult to disobey, allowing that entire wing of the rear to circumnavigate the entire battlefield from the side in order to build both a second clamp to make enemy soldiers' escape definitively impossible and to form a defensive line where the recruits had their backs to the rest of their companions.

A transformation that, if improved enough to actually be used in a real battle, would allow a large number of soldiers to dart through the battlefield like a snake that slithers quickly on the ground before splitting on their vertical axis and forming two different lines able to attack and defend at the same time.

Obviously, this wasn't entirely her own doing. Jessica had learned most of the movements and ideas from Roberto's lessons and from other instructors' afternoon classes, but she mixed them together on her own initiative and formed a new tactic ready to be tested on the battlefield.

On the other hand, on the left side of the formation, two other recruits had taken command of that flank. Although, since they were both in the front lines, their commands ended up creating more friction between the various parts than anything else. That said, even with much less precision or reasoning, having two commanders in the eye of the storm allowed them to generate a direct and impetuous advance that, in a real situation, might have allowed for extremely concrete results.

"Considering everything," Roberto began to reflect, scratching his chin with a mixture of laziness and drowsiness. "They're not doing badly for only being in their first year. Facing real soldiers is another thing, but at least the basic idea always remains the same. Well, maybe it's time to pit them against each other. Just as long as the most idiotic ones don't end up getting themselves killed again. Last year, I sprained my wrist from signing papers so much..."

After finishing his complaint, the little man changed the orders for the recruits, quickly modifying the flow of the imaginary battle. "The enemy's first line has collapsed, prepare for the impact of the rear guard! Left flank! Soldiers incoming towards you! Protect the flank! Right flank! What remains of the enemy's first lines has gone into rout and is trying to retreat, don't let them escape!"

And, as before, the recruits had to organize themselves accordingly, creating the opponents they would have to fight in their heads. "Spread out! Spread out!" Jessica immediately yelled, extending her right arm to its full length and using the tip of her sword to indicate the direction to move. Then, once she saw the recruits move obliquely towards the side, she urged them on again, saying, "Fast! Faster! Don't let anyone get away!"

Giorgio found himself giving his orders late, missing the opportunity to gain ground on the right side. In fact, as he thought to himself: "She's already taken up all the space on the side, damn it!", he said bluntly without censorship. So, much to his chagrin, he found himself forced to advance forward with a compact formation and high shields, so that he could withstand the impact of the enemy's rear that would engage them shortly.

The left side also had its problems to think about, but for the most part, the problems were solved with aggression and violence, using logic very little. In a real clash, the losses on their side would surely have been much greater, but at the same time, the damage to men and morale that the enemy army would have had to endure would have been, in all likelihood, enormous.

Roberto watched everything as before, giving some other orders from time to time, forcing the boys to make big and small changes to their formation. The training continued like this for about two or three hours, with a few minutes of break given by Roberto at his discretion. Nothing new under the sun in short. Most of his morning lessons were like this.

At least until, out of the blue, the chubby man felt the voice of a boy close to him. There was a scent of sweetness that had just accompanied those words, a scent, so to speak, almost alcoholic. "Are they doing well?" the boy asked a second time, not having heard a response.

Roberto turned his head and saw a wild Carlo appearing out of nowhere. It wasn't an exaggerated surprise, since there had been other times when that boy who needed to be treated with kid gloves had quietly watched the morning training as if it were a show. However, almost as if it were a sort of natural talent, Roberto immediately changed both his expression and his way of speaking, saying to the dear visitor, "Mr. Carlo! Of course, they are moving very well this morning, if we ignore some errors created by inexperience." He rubbed his hands together and displayed a merchant's smile.

"Not bad," Carlo replied, finishing chewing on the sweet he had brought with him, a sort of sweet sandwich whose heart was made of a slightly anise-flavored cream, lightly alcoholic. A small delicacy if there ever was one.

"But I don't like the risks they take every time the scenario changes. In a real situation, it would be like asking the opponent to decapitate you on the spot," he said again as he finished chewing, enjoying the good taste that had filled his mouth. "Roberto, right?" He asked again, making the chubby instructor nod more than once. "Do you mind if I teach them something today?"