Even after I’d unexpectedly gotten a close-up look at a beautiful, fresh (hopefully…) flower in full bloom, I managed to maintain my gentlemanly composure and find my classroom. Now I was trying to calm myself before homeroom started.
This was our very first homeroom since starting at the academy. It was no exaggeration to say that depending on how well our self-introductions went, the next three years could either be filled with friendly banter and camaraderie or total isolation.
We would all be shipped off to our respective posts as soldiers after graduation, so you could argue that training should take precedence over making friends. Still, having comrades I’d been in the academy with carried a certain weight, in my opinion.
Not that I would know, mind you. I’d never been a soldier.
At the same time, though, there could be rivalries or struggles for promotion depending on faction politics, so getting too friendly could end up backfiring.
To top it off, my past memories meant that I was basically an old man on the inside, so keeping some emotional distance from everyone probably wasn’t such a bad idea.
What would happen if someone found out I have memories from my past life? Normally, people would just write it off as me being delusional, but if you factor in my reputation as a genius and unusually high magicite compatibility, there’s a chance they could launch a full-blown investigation. Heck, my Second Savior Project connection makes that pretty much certain. It’s a scary thought.
“Good. Looks like everyone’s here.”
Just as I was vowing to never let anyone find out, a woman who seemed to be our homeroom teacher walked into the room.
If I had to guess, she was probably in her late twenties or early thirties and around a hundred and sixty centimeters tall. She was slim, yet still seemed to maintain a firm center of gravity, and her posture and stance showed zero openings, so she was clearly well trained. She had short blond hair, and something about her face made me feel like I’d met her before. After a second, it hit me; she looked like a character from a certain gritty, mech-themed video game.
I didn’t know if she had a sense of humor, but she was clearly the sort of person you didn’t wanted to cross.
It’s a given that you’re not supposed to disobey your superior officers, but this woman struck me as someone you needed to be extra cautious of.
Her nickname was now officially “the Boss.” No objections allowed.
“Let’s begin homeroom. We’ll start with self-introductions. Just your name will do for now. I’m your homeroom teacher, Shizuka Kuga. My rank is major.”
The Boss wasted no time laying it out. Straightforward self-introductions only—no hobbies, no greetings, no fluff.
She was really something. Anyone who could make major at that age was seriously talented.
These brief introductions cut down on time, but she probably favored this method out of consideration for students who weren’t good at public speaking. I’d heard of first-rate teachers doing this in elite schools.
Ultimately, the important thing was whether she knew us, not whether we knew one another. Surface-level information at this point wouldn’t help anyone. At the same time, not knowing your classmates’ names would be a problem, so it made sense to keep it short and sweet. Her approach might have been blunt, but it was reasonable.
Or maybe this was just standard practice in military schools. I wouldn’t know.
“The class order is based on your entrance exam rankings, starting from the top. Let’s begin. Muto?”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
The first person called was the girl who’d given the speech at the entrance ceremony. She might have glanced at me before standing up, but maybe I was imagining things.
“Saori Muto.”
Ah. So she was top of the class.
Muto was about the same height as the teacher and had long, straight black hair down to her waist. It felt rude to stare, so I couldn’t say too much about her physical features, but she didn’t seem particularly curvy. Her perfect posture suggested she’d had martial arts training, but other than that, she seemed more like a refined young lady than a future soldier.
“Next!”
“Kazunari Fujita.”
So he was second place. Got it. Fujita was taller than me, probably around a hundred and seventy-five centimeters. Good posture, solid core—he clearly worked out. His short black hair was cut just above the ears.
These two had outperformed me fair and square despite my advantages. They were the real deal. I had no way of knowing if we would become friends, but I should at least avoid making enemies of them.
“Next! Wait—actually, skip to fourth place.”
“Huh?”
Just when I’d psyched myself up to go, I was skipped? Seriously?
Was this bullying? Teacher-initiated hazing?
“Got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am!”
I had literally just decided not to defy the Boss. And if this really was bullying, I could retaliate later. No, this wasn’t the time to lose my cool.
“All right, next.”
“Shoko Isotani.”
Wait—fourth place was Ms. White Blossom herself. She fixed me with a sharp glare, but maybe that was just because I’d beaten her in the rankings.
“Next!”
“Tatsumi Kasahara.”
Fifth place—male, slightly shorter than me, with a two-block haircut. He was glaring at me harder than Isotani was, and we hadn’t even met. If it was about grades, he only had himself to blame. He should’ve studied harder.
“Next!”
“Nana Taguchi.”
Number six was a girl, petite yet definitely well equipped in the chest region. She had brown, fluffy-looking hair and seemed easygoing—but getting into this school, and Class A no less, meant she would be no pushover.
Also, she wasn’t glaring at me. That made an instant favorable impression.
“Next!”
“Natsuki Hashimoto.”
Seventh, another girl. She was about my height and had silver hair tied in a ponytail. Her slim frame indicated she probably had some Eastern European blood in her.
In this world, World War II hadn’t gone the way I remembered it. The Soviet Union had never broken its nonaggression pact with Japan, and that along with other diplomatic differences meant we still had decent ties with various Eastern European countries.
Politics aside, her appearance was striking, so she wasn’t someone I’d soon forget.
“Next!”
“Junji Fukuhara.”
Number eight. Male. Huge. No further explanation needed.