The Duke's Worthless Daughter Awakens an SSS+ Guide Core

The deafening echo of Major Garrick Holt’s spear striking the arena floor lingered long after the sharp sound itself had faded. The heavy vibration traveled through the reinforced metal beneath the cadets’ boots, reminding them that this historic hall had witnessed countless battles before they had ever set foot inside.

No one dared to speak, the silence of the room stretching thin as the echo died away. The broad-shouldered officer slowly surveyed the assembled freshmen, his scarred face revealing nothing but stern, militaristic indifference. He stood with absolute poise, a physical testament to a lifetime spent surviving on the brutal borders of the Empire.

"My job," he repeated, resting the heavy spear upright beside him, "is to determine who still knows how to stand after being knocked down."

His sharp gaze swept across every face in the ranks until it settled briefly on several students whose postures radiated unearned confidence.

These were the high-ranking examinees who believed their previous achievements secured their place within these walls. He looked at them not with admiration, but with the critical eye of a butcher inspecting livestock.

"I am not interested in your victories," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly register.

The blunt statement caught many of the freshmen by surprise, their defensive guards rising instantly. They had spent their entire youth being praised by family tutors and regional commanders for their natural talents. Hearing their accomplishments dismissed so easily was a bitter pill to swallow.

"I am interested in your response to failure," he added, letting the words hang heavily over the silent assembly.

A quiet murmur rippled through the formation before immediately dying under his unwavering, predatory stare. Major Garrick began walking slowly along the front rank, his massive presence dominating the physical space of the hall. Each step he took was slow and deliberate, carrying the weight of a man who had walked through valleys of corpses.

"Strength is temporary," he said, his eyes locking onto a particularly broad-shouldered cadet.

He passed one cadet after another, his heavy combat boots making no sound on the reinforced metal. He was testing their resolve, searching for the slightest tremor of fear in their posture.

"Talent is unreliable," he continued, his voice echoing off the high stone arches of the ceiling.

He took another measured pace, his shadow falling over the students like a physical weight. He stopped near the center of the formation, towering over the front row with a grim expression.

"Even courage can disappear when enough blood is spilled," he noted, his tone flat and chillingly realistic.

He paused, letting them absorb the harsh truth of his words before continuing. He wanted them to understand that the academy was not a playground for the wealthy or the naturally gifted.

"But discipline," his deep voice hardened, "is a choice you make every single day."

Merianah listened silently from her position in the ranks, her face remaining a mask of perfect calm.

Unlike Professor Voss, who dissected invisible, high-level causes behind military defeat, Garrick’s lessons seemed rooted in the individual rather than the grand tactical battlefield. One taught the art of command, while the other forged the physical tool expected to execute those commands.

These were entirely different philosophies, born of different experiences. Still, they clearly pointed toward the same destination of absolute military survival.

Without another word, Major Garrick activated the arena’s central console with a swift tap of his leather-clad hand. The polished floor immediately shifted beneath their feet, the thick metal plates sliding apart with a low mechanical rumble that vibrated through their shins.

Metallic panels separated before rising into waist-high partitions that segmented the vast room into distinct zones. Weapon racks emerged from concealed compartments below, while dozens of circular combat platforms ascended independently around the arena.

The entire training hall transformed within seconds into a complex, segmented battlefield designed for individual combat. Several freshmen exchanged uneasy looks, their initial confidence beginning to waver under the sudden shift in environment.

"This isn’t a lecture," one cadet whispered to his neighbor, his eyes wide.

"It is an evaluation," another answered quietly, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists.

Major Garrick folded his arms, watching their anxious reactions with cold, detached amusement. He had seen thousands of recruits react the exact same way over his years of service.

"You have already proven that you possess enough potential to enter this academy," he said.

He looked across the newly formed platforms, his eyes challenging them to step forward. He had thrown down a challenge and was waiting to see who would answer.

"Now prove your bodies deserve to keep up with your ambitions," he commanded.

A series of training weapons rose from the nearest rack, their dull surfaces catching the overhead artificial light. There were wooden swords, practice spears, combat staffs, blunted combat knives, and even heavy, weighted shields.

Each weapon was crafted from a specialized, reinforced composite material. They were built to withstand repeated high-velocity impacts without shattering or causing lethal injuries.

"You may choose any weapon," the major announced, stepping back to give them space.

Several cadets immediately stepped forward, reaching instinctively for the gleaming practice swords that resembled the sidearms of the imperial nobility. Others selected long spears or heavy staffs with varying degrees of confidence, trying to find some sense of security in length.

Merianah remained where she was, refusing to rush forward with the desperate crowd. She quietly studied the rack instead of pushing toward the popular choices, analyzing the weight distribution of each piece.

Her gaze traveled across every available option before settling on something resting neglected near the far end of the rack. It was a plain, unadorned combat staff made of dark composite wood, completely devoid of any decorative elements.

There was no metal blade attached to its tip, nor any elaborate ornamentation to draw attention. It was simply a utilitarian weapon designed for impact rather than spectacle.

Several nearby students noticed her choice and exchanged puzzled, condescending expressions. They whispered among themselves, pointing at the simple weapon she had selected.

"A staff?" one asked, scoffing quietly.

"I thought she would choose a sword," another muttered, shaking his head.

"Didn’t she rank first in the entrance exam?" a third questioned, sounding disappointed.

Merianah ignored them completely, her focus entirely locked on the physical properties of the weapon in her hand. In her past life on Earth, she had learned an important lesson during desperate resource shortages.

A commander did not always fight with the weapon they preferred. They fought with whatever weapon was available to them in the dirt.

The staff represented ultimate adaptability in a fluid, unpredictable combat situation. It could strike, defend, disarm, restrain, and keep an enemy at a distance without relying on a sharp edge that could dull or chip.

It was simple, reliable, and highly efficient in the hands of someone who understood leverage. She lifted it with one hand, testing its weight and balance with a brief, subtle rotation.

Its balance was excellent, the center of gravity resting perfectly in the geometric middle of the shaft. Major Garrick noticed her selection from his position by the console, but he offered no verbal comment, merely nodding once in silent approval.

Instead, he activated another sequence on the console. The overhead lights dimmed slightly as heavy mechanical doors opened around the circular walls of the arena.

From each dark doorway emerged a humanoid training automaton clad in dull gray, dented armor. Their crimson optical sensors illuminated simultaneously with a harsh click, casting thin red beams of light across the metallic floor.

The arena became eerily quiet except for the low, predatory hum of the machines’ internal engines. Major Garrick’s deep voice echoed across the chamber, cutting through the mechanical noise like a whip.

"Forget everything you learned from tournaments," he warned, his voice cold.

The machines lowered themselves into basic combat stances, their movements perfectly synchronized and terrifyingly precise.

"They will not stop because you are tired," he said.

One automaton stepped onto every active platform, locking its cold, red optical gaze on its assigned student.

"They will not hesitate because you are injured," the major continued, his eyes scanning the room.

Metal fingers slowly tightened around practice weapons, the hydraulic joints clicking into place with mechanical finality.

"And they certainly," Major Garrick’s scarred face remained expressionless, "will not care about your academy ranking."

A sharp, high-pitched electronic tone rang through the arena, signaling the start of the trial. The first combat lesson had officially begun, and the training machines lunged forward without a shred of mercy.