Inside the training hall, the sharp clash of steel echoed through the open space.
Every student who had been training just moments ago had stopped—drawn in by the fierce exchange unfolding at the center of the hall.
They gathered along the edges, hushed and unmoving, as if an unspoken warning lingered in the air:
Don't get too close.
Our swords moved with completely different languages.
Hers — elegant, deliberate, composed. Every movement a stanza in a poem, each strike laced with artistry. Fluid. Flawless.
Mine? Raw. Reckless. Less a refined technique, more a storm of bottled frustration. Messy, but forceful. A desperate attempt to keep up with a rhythm I barely understood.
Sweat rolled down my spine. My breathing turned ragged, chest rising and falling like a drumbeat out of sync. But I didn't slow down.
Not when her gaze stayed locked on me — sharp and focused, unwavering.
Not when I knew I was still being outmatched.
She parried every strike without effort.
Crisp. Clean. Almost... bored.
I pressed harder, trying to push the tempo. Close the distance. Force a mistake.
But she was already a step ahead.
Her rapier slid across mine with a subtle twist — then flicked outward, slicing clean across my left shoulder.
Pain sparked. I barely registered it before her elbow slammed into the bridge of my nose.
A blinding flash exploded behind my eyes. I stumbled back, breath caught, blood smearing across my fingers as I reached up instinctively.
She didn't follow up. Didn't even move.
Just stood there.
Blade lowered slightly. Posture relaxed. Lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
Even still, Yelena Valeblanc was mesmerizing.
The lights overhead glinted across her midnight-black hair, cascading like silk down her back. Her ruby-red eyes sparkled with mischief — not cruel, but sharp, playful. The kind of confidence only someone who'd never once lost a duel could wear so effortlessly.
"Are you even taking this seriously, Edward?" she asked, voice smooth, almost lilting. "Or… don't tell me... you're actually enjoying this little beating I'm giving you?"
I didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
It was the fourth time she'd knocked me down.
But this time... something felt different.
I was close.
I wiped the blood from my nose with my sleeve and stepped forward again, ignoring the dull throb in my shoulder.
The match resumed.
Steel clashed once more — a relentless rhythm that echoed across the hall.
She still hadn't broken a sweat.
Her strikes came faster now. Heavier. Every block sent shudders up my arms. My fingers were starting to go numb from the repeated shock.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
I was close.
Right after she ducked beneath a swing aimed at her thigh — her footwork so crisp it made the move look effortless — I felt it.
A flicker.
A shift.
Something inside me pulled taut — a thread snapping into place.
And just like that... the rhythm returned.
My vision narrowed, focus sharpening like a blade.
Her movements didn't slow, not truly — but to me, they may as well have. The arc of her blade. The pivot of her heel. The slight hitch in her step right before she countered.
I saw it all.
It had begun.
Adaption.
That's the name of my trait.
The longer the fight, the more I learn.
Blow by blow.
Step by step.
Not strength. Not speed. Not raw talent.
But evolution.
That's what made Edward Brightwill a sword genius.
Her eyes lit up the moment it clicked — alert, electric.
And then, for the first time, her smile changed.
It wasn't smug. It wasn't teasing.
It was delighted.
Like she'd been waiting for this version of me to show up.
"Well, well…" she murmured, her voice low and eager. "So you've finally decided to make things interesting, huh?"
She shifted her stance — one foot sliding back, her rapier gleaming in the light.
"I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to fight like yourself."
We clashed again.
Steel against steel, fierce and fast — sparks flying, boots skidding across the floor.
But this time...
I didn't falter.
No stumbling. No stagger.
My footing found its mark.
My hands moved with purpose.
My instincts sharpened with every breath.
Each exchange felt more balanced.
Each movement — cleaner.
Faster.
Bit by bit, swing by swing...
I was adapting.
Not just to her.
But to this body.
This vessel I had treated like a stranger... was finally beginning to feel like mine.
And then — just when the tide began to turn—
She moved.
A blur. A whisper of motion.
Too fast.
Too perfect.
It wasn't a combo — it was choreography.
Her blade carved the air — elegant, ruthless.
I barely raised my guard. My feet were mid-shift.
And then —
My sword was gone.
Ripped from my grip, sent spinning across the floor.
And before I could even react —
Cold steel touched my throat.
Not deep.
Just enough.
A thin sting bloomed. Warm blood traced a path down my neck.
Checkmate.
Her ruby eyes met mine.
Still gleaming.
Still beautiful.
And for the first time…
I smiled, too.
Not in defeat.
But because now — I knew where I stood.
And I knew where I had to go next.
"What's with the smile?" she asked, head tilting, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. "Did you enjoy losing that much to me?"
I let the smile linger, even as I wiped the blood from my neck with two fingers.
"That's not what the smile was for," I muttered, low.
But I didn't elaborate.
Because what I really wanted to say was:
"Narcissistic bitch."
But I swallowed it.
Not out of politeness — just... survival.
Because I wasn't sure what her blade would do if I actually said it out loud.
So I said nothing more.
"So? Wanna continue?" she asked, twirling her rapier with a playful flick of her wrist.
I gave a small nod, silent, steady.
Then turned to retrieve my fallen sword — the blade still lying where it had clattered across the floor moments ago.
But just as I took a step—
We were interrupted.
A woman approached, dressed in a crisp formal uniform — polished coat, silver trim, immaculate white gloves.
She moved with practiced grace, each step silent, composed.
"Miss Yelena," she said, offering a polite bow of the head. "Lady Valeblanc has requested your presence."
Yelena's rapier lowered. Her amusement faded — not gone, just... dimmed.
"Of course she did," she murmured, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Then she turned back to me, ruby eyes still gleaming.
"Well, looks like we'll have to finish this another time."
She passed the attendant with a light, almost lazy elegance, her long dark hair swaying behind her like a silken banner.
Just before she stepped through the doors, she looked back over her shoulder.
"Don't slack off while I'm gone, Edward. I'd hate to come back and find you back at square one."
And with that — she was gone.
Her heels clicked softly down the corridor, fading into silence.
I let out a slow breath, then stepped forward and retrieved my sword.
The cool metal of the hilt grounded me.
Around me, the crowd began to quietly disperse. Back to their own routines. Training. Chatter.
I thought about staying. Training more.
But my body had other ideas.
She really did a number on me — sore all over.
Every hit had been deliberate. Painful, sure, but never enough to stop the match.
She made sure it kept going.
"Let's head to the nurse's room," I muttered.
It wasn't far — just a couple halls down.
And while we walk...
Let me share something interesting.
The top 10 students in each year get privileges — private training rooms, personal gyms, elite access.
That's why you never see the so-called "main characters" out here.
They don't need to train with the rest of us.
And the perks don't stop there.
The first rank? They get the real deal — permission to leave academy grounds whenever they want, skip classes without consequences, and even hold some level of authority over lower-ranked students and faculty.
So why does someone like Yelena even bother coming to the common training hall?
Simple.
She wanted to test my worth.
See if I could actually be of any use in the combat evaluation — which, in case you forgot, is just one day away.
---
I reached the nurse's office and slid the door open with a soft creak.
Inside, a kind-looking woman glanced up from her desk — probably mid-thirties, with an aura more 'kind aunt' than stern medic.
"Well now, what happened, my boy?" she asked, her tone filled with concern. "Did someone bully you?"
"Just a practice session," I said, managing a tired smile as I sat down.
She arched a brow as her eyes scanned me.
"What kind of practice leaves you looking like this?"
I gave her a bitter smile. The silent kind that meant: please don't press.
She sighed, catching the message immediately, shaking her head lightly.
"Ah, boys these days… always so stubborn. Always trying to carry everything on their own." She placed her clipboard aside and stood up. "Alright, alright, I won't ask anymore."
She stepped closer, pulling on a pair of gloves with practiced ease.
"Now, let me take a look at those injuries."She said nothing more as I slowly began peeling off my training gear, each movement a little stiffer than the last.
"Well, you've certainly been through a rough one, young man," she muttered as she turned to the shelf, pulling out a box and gathering supplies — ointment, sanitizer, bandages, and the usual patch-up kit.
She walked over, cotton in hand, and began with the worst spot — my left shoulder.
The moment the disinfectant touched the bruised skin, I flinched.
"It stings," I muttered through gritted teeth.
"Bear with it," she said calmly, not slowing down.
"...Yes, ma'am."
Little by little, she treated every spot — from the bruised shoulder to the side of my ribs where her knee had landed, from my scraped knuckles to the small cut along my neck.
And finally, the pièce de résistance — my broken nose.
"That one's going to be sore for a while," she warned, gently applying a healing salve and securing it with a specialized patch.
Once everything was done, she took a step back, nodding with satisfaction.
"There. All finished. You're fully patched up."
She gave me a soft smile and added, "Just make sure to rest for a day or two. Don't go pushing yourself too hard, and you'll be back on your feet good as new."
I gave her a small bow from where I sat.
"My utmost gratitude."
She returned the gesture with a gentle nod, her smile kind but knowing — like she'd seen a hundred stubborn boys just like me.
"Try not to end up here again too soon, alright?"
----
Author's Note:
aaa I wanted to write more but the chapter's already waaay too long 😭
Let me know if this kind of chapter length is still bearable for you guys — or if I should rein it in a bit next time.
(Or maybe… write more but split it into parts? 🤔)
Anyway, feel free to drop your thoughts in the comments!
I read them all — yes, even the unhinged ones. 💀