The doors closed behind me.
My steps echoed faintly through the corridor.
Three days until the duel.
I need to think clearly.
Strength in this world isn't abstract.
It's ranked.
F.
E.
D.
C.
B.
A.
S.
SS.
SS+.
That's the known ladder.
Most common soldiers never rise above D.
Knights of prestige sit comfortably in C.
True elites reach B.
A-rankers are rare.
S-rankers are legends.
And SS+…
National weapons.
Living disasters.
And beyond that—
A theoretical level scholars debate but no one has ever confirmed.
A rank that doesn't officially exist.
Yet.
I exhaled slowly.
Where am I?
Lucian Vale.
F+.
Not the weakest.
But barely above ordinary.
In a house known for sword prodigies…
That's embarrassing.
Seraphine Ardent?
E+.
One full tier above me.
In practical terms, that means:
Better aura circulation.
Cleaner form.
Sharper reaction speed.
Higher stamina ceiling.
It's not an overwhelming difference.
But in a duel?
It matters.
Especially when reputation is on the line.
I clenched my jaw.
And then there's him.
The protagonist.
At the start of the academy arc—
E rank.
Within months, D.
Then C.
By the mid arcs, B.
And by the end…
He climbs beyond SS+.
The novel never officially labeled it.
But readers knew.
SSS.
A level the world doesn't even know exists.
And he reaches it.
Of course he does.
Meanwhile, I'm standing at F+.
Three days from now, I face E+.
Three years from now, I'm supposed to survive someone who becomes SSS.
I let out a dry laugh.
No system.
No hidden UI.
No stat boosts for breathing.
Just a body that was never trained hard enough.
F+.
Pathetic.
But F+ isn't zero.
And E+ isn't untouchable.
The difference between us isn't destiny.
It's preparation.
Three days.
If I can't overpower her…
Then I'll have to outmaneuver her.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The training grounds of House Vale were never quiet.
Steel clashed.
Boots scraped against stone.
Orders were barked with military precision.
Lucian stepped onto the sand-covered field and immediately felt it.
Eyes.
Some curious.
Most amused.
He walked toward the weapon rack and picked up a standard iron practice sword.
Heavier than he remembered.
No — not heavier.
His body was weaker than he'd imagined.
"Isn't that the young master?"
A chuckle.
"Thought nobles preferred banquets to sweat."
Another laugh.
Lucian didn't look at them.
In the original novel, Lucian rarely trained with the soldiers. He relied on talent and arrogance. Avoided environments where he'd look ordinary.
Which meant this—
This was new.
He rolled his shoulders.
Adjusted his grip.
And began.
One swing.
Clean.
Second swing.
Slightly off balance.
By the tenth, his breathing had already changed.
Pathetic.
The soldiers weren't even trying to hide their reactions now.
"He'll be done in five minutes."
"Place your bets."
Someone snorted.
Lucian kept swinging.
Form first.
Ignore power.
Ignore speed.
His stamina was the real issue.
At F+, his aura capacity was shallow — barely enough to reinforce his muscles for sustained combat. If he exhausted it too early in the duel against Seraphine, he'd lose before technique even mattered.
So he didn't circulate aura.
He trained raw.
Fifteen swings.
Twenty.
Thirty.
His arms began to tremble.
His lungs burned.
Sweat slid down his back.
The laughter grew quieter.
Not because they respected him.
But because he hadn't stopped.
Forty-five.
Fifty.
His grip slipped.
The sword nearly fell.
Someone scoffed. "That's enough, young master. You'll injure yourself."
Lucian finally lowered the blade.
His chest rose and fell sharply.
They were right.
He was weak.
F+ wasn't just a letter.
It was endurance.
Reaction time.
Muscle memory.
Aura density.
Everything below average in a house famous for sword prodigies.
But strength wasn't magic.
It was accumulation.
And for the first time in either life—
He wasn't waiting for tomorrow.
He walked to the edge of the field, grabbed a weighted vest used for conditioning drills, and strapped it on.
The laughter returned.
Now louder.
Lucian exhaled slowly.
Good.
Let them laugh.
Three days until the duel.
Three years until his execution.
If humiliation is the price of survival—
He'll pay it in full.
He raised the sword again.
And started from one.