But then in came the idiot himself—Owen Hargreaves, strutting in all his glory. The moment our eyes met, his own widened in gleeful surprise before he strode over to my seat with practiced swagger. "As expected of my best friend—I knew you'd pull through!" he boomed, seating himself beside me and instantly captivating the entire class with his flamboyant entrance.
Fortunately, instructor Cornwell chose the perfect moment to enter. "Hello, class. I hope you had a productive weekend," she chirped, her glance lingering on me ever so slightly before sweeping over the assembled cadets. After rolling through attendance with clinical precision, she continued, "Since you're all so excited for the mock trial, let me tell you a little about it."
"What trial!?" I thought, utterly astounded. I had no clue that any trial was even on the agenda.
Surveying the room, I realized in dismay that no one else shared my shock; every cadet seemed intimately familiar with the exercise. It then struck me—I was the only one completely in the dark.
"You'll be holding the trial in the virtual world," she explained. The class burst into a chorus of murmurs and excited chatter until her stern "Enough!" quickly silenced them. I'd never used VR before, but from everything I'd heard, it was fully immersive—basically indistinguishable from the real world.
By the time class ended, I had a rough grasp of the concept. The other cadets had known about the mock trial since last week while I was blissfully adrift in my own dreamland. It was designed for the entire first year—the faculty had orchestrated it to mimic the true chaos and strategy of real battles. Survival, it seemed, meant that every man and every woman would have to rely solely on themselves I guess.
Oh, and did I mention—Levi was, well… dead. I was taken aback when I failed to see him in class, so I nudged Owen for an explanation. Apparently, he had been counted among the fallen cadets during our last outing. He was a chill kid that one, though we were only mere acquaintances. There was no point in crying over spilled milk.
If their deaths taught me anything, it was the brutal truth in Aurora's words: "You are pathetically weak." And that hit me hard—I needed to get stronger, no, I *must* become stronger. En route to the combat grounds, I heard the parasite who clung to me ask, "So, what was it like being asleep for two weeks?"
"Like being asleep," I replied with a shrug.
"Really? I thought it would be like you were paralyzed but still hearing everything."
"No—I couldn't feel a damn thing, Owen. Just like sleep." He peppered me with his inane questions until we reached the grounds, where instructor Blake awaited. He had become even more intimidating than I remembered, his presence sharpened by the fresh scar that ran down his face. Soon enough, the entire cadre had assembled.
That's when I noticed everyone clutching their weapons—"Great, another thing I missed," I muttered. "Just like last week, I'll now randomly pair cadets to duel using their chosen weapons," boomed the instructor as an arena erupted from the floor at the center of the combat grounds.
With a theatrical gesture, he pointed to two remarkably handsome cadets. Were there any bloodline holders who weren't strikingly beautiful? I doubted it—the higher their rank, the more unnaturally pleasing they appeared. One of the boys was a pale figure with obsidian hair and eyes, while the other sported inky black hair contrasted with sharp emerald eyes. They were Quinn Darkheart and Hori Tokito, ranked second and eighth respectively. Both wielded mid-range weapons: Quinn with a sinuous scythe and Hori with a finely crafted lance. They ascended to the arena and took their positions at opposite ends.
Quinn exuded a gloomy, almost ominous aura, while Hori appeared calm, even confident. When the order "Start" rang out, they converged at the center of the ring, their blades clashing in a flash of steel. They initially pressed against each other, locked in a struggle of raw power, then leapt back in unison to create space for the next explosive exchange.
What followed was a breathtaking flurry of attacks that showcased their honed skills and battle-hardened experience. The reverberating clang of metal against metal and the shower of sparks from each collision filled the arena with a musical intensity. Hori lunged with a swift thrust of his lance, only for Quinn to deftly deflect it with the shaft of his scythe, countering with a slicing horizontal arc. Hori, his body arching low in a graceful dodge, narrowly evaded the scythe's edge, and the relentless pace of their duel resumed.
"Do they even think before they attack?" I mused, unable to comprehend how anyone could coordinate such rapid strikes and parries without apparent calculation. I couldn't tell who was gaining the upper hand; their fluid, near-superhuman motions left my amateur skills in stark contrast.
"I've watched them fight all week, and I still question if they're even human," someone in the crowd remarked.
"They're monsters in human skin."
"If I could fight even half as well, I'd confess to my crush," another cadet chimed in.
The buzzing crowd's comments rang painfully true—these two were operating on an entirely different level. Turning to the idiot beside me, I queried, "Can you fight as well as that?"
"Heh," he smirked. "Just wait until you see me take the stage."
So the top ten fighters were veritable monsters, and I mentally recalculated my ranking, begrudgingly thanking my past self for agreeing to be Aurora's "sidekick." Partly, it was because she had threatened me—and partly, I couldn't resist the lure of those all-important juicy training points.
"Enough!" After several more minutes of relentless combat with no clear winner, the instructor abruptly ended the duel. Quinn offered a curt nod while Hori smiled in quiet acknowledgment as they left the arena, a mutual recognition of each other's prowess.
Then the instructor's gaze swept over the assembled cadets. "You—" he pointed at Victor, then paused, scanning the crowd before his finger landed on me. "You—get on the stage."
'Is it just me, or is he pointing at me? No, it must be Owen,' I thought.
"He's pointing at you," I whispered to Owen.
"Nah, bro, he's pointing at you," he retorted with a laugh.
"You with the blue hair, stop wasting my time and get over here, twerp!" bellowed the instructor. It was unmistakable—he was summoning me. I retrieved my sword from storage and strode toward the arena, where the red-haired bastard already stood waiting. Facing him, his subtle smirk hinted at the inevitable beating awaiting me—I didn't yet know how to truly wield a weapon.
The red-haired bastard held his sword with an effortless style mirroring mine, a fact that only elicited a further smirk from him.
"START!" The order rang out, and I expected him to charge immediately, yet he hesitated, perhaps waiting for me to make the first move. But if he wasn't initiating, neither would I. A minute passed, and a cadet murmured, "Aren't they going to move?"
"It's been more than a minute," another noted, while a third speculated, "Maybe they're just sizing each other up."
"As if—a clash between rank 5 and rank 178," someone scoffed.
Finally, the red-haired bastard broke the silence, "I gave you the grace to attack first, but since you're hesitating, I'll strike!" In the blink of an eye, he vanished from view, only to reappear directly in front of me.
The clash of steel resounded as I barely managed to parry his sword slicing for my neck. The force behind the blow made the bones in my hand tremble, rattling under the strain. The chatter of the cadets faded into nothingness as I honed every fiber of my attention on deflecting his ferocity.
He retreated briefly, then smirked, "You actually blocked that? I was prepared to take you out in one move. Guess I'll have to get serious."
The low, dramatic lights over the combat grounds cast long, foreboding shadows across the even terrain. Victor assumed a precise, measured stance as he gripped his blade—the weapon's edge catching the light with lethal brilliance. He was the embodiment of controlled menace, every motion deliberate and brimming with deadly intent.
I recognized that things were about to get grim. Wearing suppressors meant that while his speed and power were only marginally superior to mine, his refined technique utterly dwarfed my amateur attempts. My sword felt clumsy in my grip, my posture hopelessly off-kilter compared to the fluid grace of my opponent.
"Move quickly, or you'll regret it," he growled in a low, bored tone. "You're wasting my time."
My throat went dry as I swallowed hard, realizing there was no turning back. With a resigned sigh, I lunged forward in a wide arc aimed at his chest. Victor easily sidestepped, his sword slicing through the air in an elegant, almost mocking arc as he deflected my clumsy swing with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Too slow," he sneered, the smug tone in his voice slicing deeper than his blade.
I staggered but managed to regain my footing, my heart pounding thunderously in my ears. I attacked again with a rapid jab aimed at his side, but he deflected it as effortlessly as before, nearly dislodging my sword from my grasp. Then, with a vicious low kick to my side, he sent me reeling through the arena.
'Damn, I think I broke my ribs,' I thought, pain searing through my left side where his foot connected. He paused his assault, clearly waiting for me to recover.
The moment I managed to rise, he launched himself forward once more—as if his sword had vanished into thin air. I only glimpsed it again as it inflicted a brutal diagonal gash stretching from my right chest to my left abdomen. I gritted my teeth fiercely to stifle even a hint of a cry; my stoic expression contorted into a grimace of pure constipation. I barely managed to block his next savage swing as he aimed a final strike at my neck, when—
"Enough!" The instructor had arrived at our side, his strong fingers seizing the red-haired bastard's blade and forcing a pause in the relentless duel.
*******
A/N:
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