The Cursed Extra-Chapter 67: [2.15] The One Who Doesn’t Belong

"In a room full of trained fighters, the most dangerous person is the one who learned to survive on the streets."

***

"Excuse me, Professor." A girl in the second row raised her hand. Honey-blonde hair pulled back in a practical braid. The kind of voice that said she’d been trained since childhood never to speak out of turn. "Where is Professor De Clare? We were told she would be—"

"Professor De Clare," Blackthorne cut her off, those pale eyes locking on like targeting systems, "is handling a faculty dispute. Something about jurisdiction and teaching methodologies. Above your station, girl."

He took a step forward. His shadow swallowed half the formation. The morning sun vanished behind his bulk like it wanted no part of whatever came next.

"I’ll be overseeing your physical conditioning until she deems you worthy of her direct attention."

The way he said ’worthy’ made it sound like a fever dream. Something that might happen in another lifetime if you were lucky enough to survive this one.

"Now." He rolled his shoulders. The joints popped loud enough to hear three rows back. "Let’s see what sorry collection the academy scraped together this year."

He started down the first line. His eyes took apart each student like a surgeon examining a terminal patient.

"Vellum! What the hell are you doing? Plant your feet like you mean to keep them!"

Marcus stumbled as Blackthorne’s boot shoved his stance wider. The stocky kid caught himself at the last second, face going red from collar to hairline.

"Von Richter! Stop trying to disappear into the ground! If you’re going to die, at least make them work for it!"

Mira went scarlet but forced her spine straight. Her eyes said she was imagining the professor’s head on a pike somewhere.

Blackthorne moved down the line like a natural disaster with a personal grudge against posture. A slap to the back of a knee sent one kid staggering. A shove tested another’s balance and nearly put her on the ground. Each student got their moment of terrible attention, their flaws exposed for everyone to see.

Then he reached me.

I braced for impact while trying to look like I wasn’t bracing at all.

Those ice-chip eyes took in every detail. I could practically see him running through the list. Stance too wide. Posture too relaxed. Arms positioned like I wanted a hug instead of a fight. Shoulders slumped like I’d given up on standing straight around age four.

"Leone!" My name sounded like a curse in his mouth. "Are you trying to court the training dummy or fight it? Fix your posture before I fix it for you."

I fumbled with my stance. Overcorrected in the wrong direction with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on ice. My left foot slid too far forward. My shoulders twisted the opposite way. I probably looked like I was attempting some experimental dance move.

"S-sorry, Professor. I’m still learning—"

"Learning requires a functioning brain. Jury’s still out on whether you possess one."

He moved on without another glance. Dismissed me completely. His attention was already fixed on the next target.

Perfect. Exactly where I need to be. Beneath notice. Beneath contempt. Just another failure in a long line of mediocrity.

Another forgettable extra in a world that only has eyes for heroes.

But then he reached Rhys Blackwood.

Everything changed.

Rhys stood near the end of the second line. Earth-brown hair fell across green eyes that held depths I recognized from the novel’s descriptions. Eyes that had seen things no eighteen-year-old should see. That had learned to watch for threats the way other boys watched for pretty girls at parties.

Commoner-born. Carrying the weight of family expectations and a sick sister’s medical bills on shoulders that seemed too narrow for the burden. But anyone who looked close would notice those shoulders were corded with lean muscle. The kind that came from real work, not expensive gymnasium memberships.

His uniform was clean but old. The fabric had worn thin at the elbows and collar. Patches of grey showed where there should have been charcoal.

His stance was wrong in all the technical ways. Grip too loose on his practice weapon. Fingers wrapped around the handle like it was a farming tool. Feet positioned with his weight too far forward. Shoulders too high and tense.

But there was something else.

Blackthorne stopped dead. Like a charging bull that suddenly reconsidered its life choices.

The professor circled Rhys. Those pale eyes narrowed, catching details invisible to the rest of us. Decades of combat experience let him read things in the space between heartbeats.

The set of the jaw. Angled like someone familiar with getting hit.

The knuckles. Already scarred and callused from impacts that had nothing to do with padded practice weapons.

The unconscious way Rhys’s weight shifted when Blackthorne moved. Tracking the threat automatically. The kind of awareness you couldn’t teach. Only learn through bitter experience.

"Grip is wrong," Blackthorne said finally. His voice carried a note I hadn’t heard before. Not approval. But something close to interest. Like a collector spotting an unexpected treasure mixed in with worthless junk. "Stance is too wide. Shoulders are fighting you instead of working with you."

He paused. Head tilting.

"But the balance. The intent."

Oh. Oh no.

I know this scene.

This is where Rhys Blackwood gets noticed. Where the protagonist’s future rival catches the attention of someone who matters.

In the original novel, this moment is a footnote. A brief mention that Blackthorne took special interest in one commoner student during early training. Nobody cared because Rhys was just background noise for the first arc.

But I’m standing here watching it happen in real time.

And I’m realizing something the original author never bothered to explain.

Rhys didn’t flinch under Blackthorne’s scrutiny. His stance stayed wrong. His grip stayed loose. But his eyes never wavered from the professor’s face.

That was the thing about kids who grew up hard. They learned to hold eye contact with people who scared them. Because looking away got you hurt worse.

"Where did you learn to fight, boy?"