I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 85: A Training in Fury

"Lower! If your shield drops another inch, a Frost-Drake won’t just kill you, it’ll thank you for the snack!"

The roar that ripped through the morning air didn’t sound like a man giving an instruction. It sounded like a landslide. In the heart of the arena, Zarius loomed, a dark presence against the pale Northern light. He wasn’t wearing his ceremonial furs or the fine silks of a Duke. No, today he was draped in sweat-stained leather and battered practice plate, looking every bit like the god of war the legends claimed he was.

There was a barely contained ferocity in him, like a flame ready to flare at any moment.

The knights, men who had seen literal hell and walked back out of it, were pale. They were gasping in uneven, ragged breaths, eyes flicking nervously toward their commander. Zarius had been at it since sunrise, hammering them through the drill until their arms felt heavy as stone and their lungs on fire.

Every time a spear-tip wavered, Zarius was there. He didn’t just correct them, he collided with them. The ring of swords, the thud of bodies hitting the frozen ground, and that terrifying voice, it was honestly a lot to take on this beautiful morning.. He was barking orders with a harshness that bordered on the sadistic. He demanded perfection, then demanded it again, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood.

He was trying to drown it out. The memory of the dawn. The way the light had hit Cherion’s throat. And that name. Yerel.

The name felt like a splinter buried deep under his fingernail. The more he worked, the more it throbbed. He’d seen the way Cherion had looked when he woke up, dazed, vulnerable, his eyes glassy with a grief that didn’t belong in the North. To think he’d spent the night watching the boy sleep, thinking about how that red sapphire suited him, only to be slapped in the face with that name slipping out of his mouth.

"Again!" Zarius bellowed, his voice echoing off the granite walls of the fortress. "If you can’t hold a formation in a courtyard, how the hell do you expect to hold the line out there?"

"My Lord, they’re going to drop dead before we even reach the gates."

The voice was calm, dripping with a sort of weary amusement that only a handful of people in the Duchy could get away with. Elios stepped into the ring, his own longsword resting casually against his shoulder. He looked at the trembling knights and then at Zarius, whose knuckles were white where he gripped his practice claymore.

One of the knights, face as pale as frostbite, stumbled forward and grabbed Elios’s arm like he was clutching a lifeline. "Please," he gasped, "we can’t... we just can’t, my arms feel like they’re made of bricks! The snow, the mud, the..."

"...the screaming?" Elios finished, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes! That too!" the knight nearly yelled, collapsing onto one knee. "We’re going to die before noon!"

Elios crouched, resting his longsword lazily on his shoulder. He reached out and lightly tapped the nearest knight on the shoulder. "See? Still alive. Well done." He tapped the next one. "Breathing still optional, but tolerated." He moved down the line like some mischievous, invisible fairy, sprinkling small touches of reassurance where panic threatened.

By the time he straightened, the knights were blinking, half-confused, half-relieved. Elios leaned toward the first one, voice soft, teasing. "Whining is allowed. Just... keep it under control, alright?"

The knight coughed, trying to argue before Elios stepped back, smiling, eyes flicking to Zarius.

"They’re soft, Elios," Zarius snapped, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, golden light.

"They’re exhausted," Elios countered, signaling for the men to take a breather. The knights didn’t wait as they collapsed where they stood, some of them not even bothered by the muddy snow. Elios turned back to the Duke, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "And you’re restless. You’re fighting like you’ve got a personal grudge against the air itself."

"I am preparing for a subjugation," Zarius growled, his jaw set in a line so hard it looked like it might snap. "There is no room for restlessness."

"Right. Of course." Elios didn’t buy it. He never did. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frost. "Square up then. If you’ve got this much energy to burn, stop picking on them and try someone who can actually hit back."

The spar that followed was the kind of thing that stories were made of. It was high-velocity, brutal, and utterly lacking in the usual etiquette of a practice match. Zarius moved like a predator, his strikes coming with a weight that made Elios’s teeth rattle every time he parried. It was more like an exorcism. Zarius was moving too fast, thinking too much, his mind a chaotic mess of anger and responsibility.

Zarius pulled back for a moment, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes. Every strike, every parry, every thud of steel on steel rattled something inside him loose. Sparring like this, brutal, fast, relentless, was one of the few things that let him shove the weight of his thoughts aside, even if only for a little while.

Each clash was a release, each dodge a reminder that he could still control something, even if his thoughts were scattered. He would never admit it, never confess the turmoil that clawed at him when the swords were put away.

Finally, after a particularly nasty exchange that left a furrow in the snow, Elios caught Zarius’s blade on his hilt, twisted, and stepped back, raising a hand.

"Enough! I yield! My wrists aren’t made of iron, even if yours are." Elios was panting, his chest heaving as he wiped a smear of grime from his cheek. He leaned on his sword, watching the way Zarius stood there, his chest barely moving, his eyes still fixed on some invisible enemy.

"You’re a mess today, Your Grace," Elios said, his tone dropping the teasing edge for something more sincere. "What’s eating at you? Is it the march? The supply lines?" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Or is it... someone? Say..."

"I’m not thinking about that Omega," Zarius cut in fast.

The silence hung between them. Elios blinked, his eyebrows inching up, a small, almost pitying smile tugging at his lips.

"Your Grace," Elios said softly, "Oh... so you are thinking about him?"

The heat from the effort turned cold all of a sudden, crawling down his spine. He’d walked right into it, shouted the thought he’d been trying so hard to bury.

Zarius spun and started walking away, trying to look casual, though every step was stiff with lingering adrenaline. Elios, of course, fell into step beside him, grin teasing, eyes sparkling with mischief. Every step Zarius took, Elios matched.

He stopped and looked at Elios, his gaze dark enough to suggest he might actually follow through on a death threat, but before he could find the words to lie his way out of it, the heavy iron gates of the training ground creaked open.

"Your Grace!"

It was Flio. The man was sprinting across the arena, his face flushed and his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, or perhaps something worse.

"The... the envoy," Flio wheezed, coming to a halt and bracing his hands on his knees. "From the Capital. The King’s envoy is at the main hall. They brought the subjugation contributions."