"Attention, everyone," Professor Esther's voice carried effortlessly across the room. "As I've just explained, tomorrow we will be putting mana trajectories into practice. You may choose to work with the person seated beside you, or, if you prefer, you may attempt it solo."
She closed her notebook with a soft snap and gave the class a final, measuring glance. "That will be all for today. You are dismissed."
Professor Esther's class had clearly left an impression.
"I've read about mana trajectories before," Vivian said, still looking awestruck, "but I always had trouble fully grasping it until now."
"Good for you, Vivian," I replied with a small smile. "What's your next class?"
"I have alchemy next, then history, and literature. What about you?" she asked.
"I've got swordsmanship, then business and economics, and finally history and literature. After that, my day's over."
She blinked. "That's… a lot of classes."
I shrugged lightly. "I'm the heir to the Florence Household. That much is expected of me." My tone was calm, but there was an edge of formality in my words that I couldn't quite help. "I'll see you back in our room later."
She gave a faint smile, as though storing away the thought, before we parted ways in the bustling corridor.
The hallway was alive with chatter and the shuffle of footsteps as students rushed to their next classes. I weaved through the crowd with practiced ease.
Nox's voice drifted lazily into my mind. "You're really making an effort with this one, huh? Talking to her like a normal person and everything."
"Barely," I thought back, "And besides, Vivian's… different."
"Different how?" he asked, though his tone carried that infuriatingly smug curiosity. He knows what I meant yet he still asked.
"She's sharp. And she can see Lux." My thoughts darkened for a moment. "That alone makes her more dangerous or more useful than most."
I pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the training grounds. The afternoon air carried the metallic tang of weapons and the faint crackle of magic. A dozen students were already there, stretching or sparring, but my gaze went straight to the far corner where Commander Cael was standing…No, now he's my instructor. I should address him by his current title.
"Gather around," Cael commanded, his voice carrying the same authority it did on the battlefield. "As you all know, this is the class where you will learn discipline and, above all, self-control. You, young ones, are the future of the knights and of this kingdom."
Tch. He still yaps the same way he did during the war. Some habits really do survive the years.
"For starters," he continued, "run a hundred laps around the training ground, then two hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups, all in sets of three."
His gaze shifted toward me, sharp and deliberate. "And there will be no use of magic to strengthen your bodies."
I almost laughed. Did he really think I'll use magic for such measly tasks? This man still underestimates me. Fine, go ahead. I'll make sure you remembers exactly what I'm capable of.
The whistle blew, and the others surged forward, their footsteps pounding the dirt track in chaotic rhythm. Some groaned before even finishing the first lap.
I took off at a steady pace, not because I needed to conserve energy, but because I wanted to watch them crumble. My breathing stayed even and my strides precise.
By the time I passed Cael on my tenth lap, sweat already dripped from the others like rain after a storm. His eyes followed me, calculating, assessing, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.
When the laps ended, I dropped into push-ups without a second thought. My form was sharp, every motion deliberate, as if I were striking an enemy with each rise and fall. Around me, groans turned into curses and shaking arms gave out.
Cael's voice cut through the air. "Pick up the pace! This isn't a tea party!"
I smirked inwardly. For me, it might as well have been.
"Instructor," I said, still in perfect push-up form, my voice steady, "why don't you make this a little more interesting?"
Cael's head tilted, his tone sharpening. "What do you mean, cadet? Are you implying this isn't enough for you?"
I let a smirk curl across my lips. "Have you seen me break a sweat yet? This is nothing. My master was more of a Spartan than you could ever dream of."
Oh, look at him already bristling just because I decided to poke the bear.
His eyes narrowed. "Fine then. If you crave a challenge so badly, Cadet… why don't you do it with ten times the weight?"
Finally, something worth my time.
The training aides scrambled to strap weighted bands to my wrists, ankles, and torso thick steel plates infused with dampening runes to make sure no mana could cheat the strain.
The others were already panting halfway through their first set, but I stood, rolled my shoulders, and dropped back down without so much as a grunt.
Each push-up felt like pressing a mountain off my back, but I welcomed it, the burn in my arms, the fire in my muscles. This was real training, not the warm-up Cael had tried to pass off as a challenge.
"Count louder, Cadet Florence!" Cael barked.
I met his eyes as I pressed up again. "One," I said, slowly, deliberately, "sir."
A few of the other cadets glanced my way, half in awe, half in fear, while Cael's expression shifted between irritation and begrudging respect.
Good. Let him watch. Let them all watch.
By the time I finished the first set, I didn't bother to hide my smirk. "That's all you've got, Instructor?"
It didn't take me more than thirty minutes to finish all three sets. Most of the others were still struggling through their first or second, gasping for air and drenched in sweat.
Only one cadet managed to complete his sets shortly after me, though he looked like he might collapse any second.
"Instructor," I called out, my tone deliberately light, "I hope I'm not too far ahead of your class."
The words were bait, and I knew it. The more I provoked him, the better my chances of seeing whether he truly remembered me from the battlefield.
"You're not," he replied, voice steady though his eyes… They told a very different story.
"Those who have completed their sets may take a fifteen-minute break," he added, but I caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Oh, he remembers me, don't he?
I strolled toward the water barrels, ignoring the glares and muttered curses from the others still slogging through their sets. Their resentment was almost amusing like puppies barking at a wolf.
I took a slow sip, deliberately letting the cool water run down my throat, and glanced back to presence he was watching me. Not openly, of course, but his gaze lingered just a second too long. Before he walked to where I was standing.
"What do you want?" I asked flatly, not bothering to hide the edge of irritation in my voice.
"You don't remember me, do you… Lady Florence?" he said, studying my face.
"I don't think you're someone worth remembering or worth my time."
He chuckled. "You really have forgotten. It's me, Cassian Aurelius, second son of Duke Aurelius."
"Oh… you mean that crybaby who used to burst into tears every time I came near? That kid?"
"Interesting way for you to remember me, but… yes, that was me. It's nice to meet again after all these years."
"The same… to you," I replied, my tone cool and distant, as if I were commenting on the weather.
"Look, the two lowborns are mingling," one voice drawled from behind, dripping with false amusement. "Tell us, how does it feel, reuniting after all these years? After all… illegitimate tend to flock together."
The snickering that followed was loud enough to draw attention, but I didn't turn. I didn't even blink. Their words were meaningless, easy to brush aside.
"Oh? Ignoring us, are we?" another voice jeered. "Didn't think the Margrave Household's precious heir was such a coward."
I kept walking, my steps steady. My fingers, however, curled slightly. Not because of what they said, it was nothing but childish noise, but because I could feel the heat rising in my chest.
They didn't stop.
A slow, sharp laugh escaped one of them, and that was the last thread holding my restraint.
I stopped mid-step. The air around me shifted cool and heavy, like a shadow falling over the sun. My hand loosened at my side, but my mana stirred, faint and cold.
I turned my head just enough for them to see my eyes.
"You seem awfully eager to test the limits of my patience," I said, my voice too calm. "If you're looking for entertainment, I can provide you with something far more memorable than your pathetic little jokes."
Their laughter faltered.
"Now," I added, a faint, razor-thin smile tugging at my lips, "say one more word. I dare you."
"You're just like your father," They still dared to utter more nonsense, voices laced with venom. "Haughty… forgetting your place. Do you think we don't know why Margrave hasn't been seen at any social events?"
Their words were barbed, deliberate, and I could feel the thread of my control fraying. My gaze slid to them, cold and unblinking.
"Why don't you enlighten me, then?" I said, my tone dripping with a mock curiosity that barely hid the malice beneath.
"Oh, gladly," another chimed in, smiling like they thought they'd won something. "The reason is simple—your father, Margrave Florence, was involved in treason. We heard the evidence wasn't conclusive… that's why he's only under house arrest."
Their smirks twisted into laughter.
A chill threaded through me, sharp and suffocating. The memory of that day slammed into my mind. The day my life changed life.
I tilted my head, smiling just enough to bare the edge of my teeth.
"How bold of you," I murmured, voice as smooth as ice, "to think you can play with a blade. But do tell me when that blade turns and cuts you instead… will you still be laughing?"
Their expressions faltered, just slightly.
I stepped closer, my shadow falling over them, my tone cold, undercut with a simmering rage that promised violence.
I closed the distance between us with a single, deliberate step. They instinctively stepped back, eyes darting, their earlier bravado bleeding away.
"Now… now," I said softly, almost sweetly, though my voice was laced with frost. "I haven't even begun yet. Do you truly think I'd let you walk away after spewing filth like that?"
Cassian who stood at my side, silent but tense, watched the tension coil tighter in the air. Without turning my gaze from my prey, I flicked him a sharp, cutting glance, a warning as clear as steel against a throat.
"Don't even think about interfering."
As the first blow landed something inside me… woke up.
Not the civilized, well-bred face they all know, but the thing buried beneath it, the thing that remembers how to hurt. How to kill mercilessly. My knuckles meet bone with a wet, satisfying crack, and he folds like paper. His gasp is sharp, strangled, beautiful. Blood spills between his fingers as he clutches his ruined face, and the sight makes something deep inside me sing.
I don't give him time to breathe. My fist drives into his gut, and the air leaves him in one long, pathetic wheeze. I feel the give in his muscles, the shock rippling through his body, the helpless curl of his spine. I feed on it.
The second one bolts. Fool. I snatch his collar and rip him backwards so violently his feet leave the ground. My smile stretches too wide, too sharp just before I ram my fist into his jaw. There's a crack, a spray of teeth and blood painting the dirt in red constellations. I drink in his howl.
They screamed, they begged, but I can't hear them anymore. Only the rhythm.
Thud. Crack. Crunch.
Each blow is a heartbeat. Mine, theirs, the fight itself it all bleeds together into one perfect cadence. My hands are red to the wrists now, the warm slickness making my grip almost glide when I hit them.
I don't need magic. Didn't need to use it. Only my fists. Only the raw, merciless strength that will remind them exactly who they thought to mock. Every hit is precise enough to cripple, not to kill… yet. But oh, how easy it would be to cross that line. My grin doesn't falter; it grows, until I feel my lips strain against my teeth as I enjoy every second of their suffering.
I didn't notice the silence around us until a hand caught my wrist mid-swing. Cael's voice cut through, sharp and commanding.
"Enough, Cadet!"
I turned my head slowly, still smiling, my knuckles slick and dripping.
"They're still breathing," I said, as if that excused everything. "Barely."
She didn't look at me.
Her eyes were locked on her prey cold, merciless, and glinting with something far more dangerous than rage. That smile… thin, predatory, fixed like it had been carved into her very bones.
She brushed me off and went right back to what she was doing, unfazed.
Her hand shot out, a blur, gripping the boy's collar so violently the fabric tore at the seams. She dragged him down like an animal like it's being dragged for slaughter, and then her fist came crashing into his mouth. The sound wasn't just a crack it was a wet, splintering crunch that turned my stomach.
A spray of blood arced through the air, speckling her cheek in a dark, glistening pattern. White shards teeth scattered across the stone floor, pinging against it with delicate, almost mocking little clinks.
She didn't pause to breathe. Her other fist drove into his face again, and again, until skin split and his lips tore open, leaving his chin slick and shining with red. The boy's head lolled, but her grip on his collar was unyielding, holding him upright like a broken doll.
She drove her fist into a cadet's temple, sending him sprawling unconscious. Then she turned, stepping toward another who was crawling away. Her boot pinned his hand to the ground, pressure building until the bones cracked and gave way like brittle twigs.
"Crawl again," she murmured, voice cold and ruthless, "and I'll make sure you never walk again."
There was no humanity in her expression, only hunger.
There was something wrong, no, familiar about the way she moved. Not like a student, not even like a trained knight. There was no hesitation. No wasted motion. Each strike was meant to end the fight, to leave nothing behind but ruin.
I've seen this before…
The memories flooded into me: the Western Front, the trenches choked with mud and blood, and a lone figure tearing through enemy lines with her bare hands. The screams had been the same. The smile had been the same.
It's her.
The battlefield phantom. The butcher in black. The demon who left trails of dead soldiers like discarded dolls.
His hand hovered over his head… and froze. He couldn't move. The weight of recognition had rooted him in place.
He finally snapped himself forward, grabbing her wrist just before she could deliver the next blow.
"Enough, Cadet Florence!"
I turned my head toward him slowly. My smile was still there, razor-edged, "Commander." I let the word drip with mock respect.
"That look" his voice dropped, almost a whisper, "I've seen it before."
She tilted her head, smile deepening.
"Have you now?"
"In the war," he said, tightening his grip.
"And?" she asked.
"It was you."
Her only answer was a faint, amused hum as she looked down at the groaning, bloodied bodies at her feet.
"They're alive," she said simply. "For now."
I pulled my arm free, straightened, and glanced down at the broken, whimpering bodies at my feet. My voice was calm, even cold, as I addressed the watching crowd.
"Let this be a lesson," I said, my tone like steel drawn from its sheath. "Speak my name with respect… or speak it at your funeral."
I stepped over them without a second glance, my smile still fixed, the metallic scent of blood clinging to me like perfume.
To be continued.