The Cursed Extra-Chapter 81: [2.29] The Mind Is Mightier Than The Sword

"The best armor isn’t steel. It’s everyone’s absolute certainty that you’re not worth hitting."

***

The morning sun bathed the western training yard in liquid gold. The kind of romantic light that would have inspired poets to compose verses about destiny and glory.

Too bad it was the backdrop for my carefully orchestrated public humiliation.

I stood at the edge of the packed earth circle. My wooden practice sword trembled in my grip like a leaf in a gale. My knuckles were white against the worn leather wrapping.

Which, if we’re being technical, wasn’t entirely an act. The original Kaelen Leone had never held a weapon with any competence worth mentioning. The boy had received the same martial instruction as his brothers, sure. Baron Leone was too proud to let even his least favored son embarrass the family name through complete ignorance.

But instruction without practice, without any genuine desire to improve, had produced exactly the results you’d expect.

The training yard was packed with students spread across the expanse like chess pieces on a board.

House Aurum had already claimed the premium positions near the well-maintained weapon racks. Their pristine white and gold uniforms caught the early light as they flowed through classical sword forms with the effortless confidence that only comes from private tutors and childhood instruction.

A tall young man with copper-colored hair executed a flawless overhead strike. The wood sang through the air with a sound that spoke of thousands of repetitions. Beside him, a girl with features that suggested Valerius blood practiced a complex defensive pattern. Her footwork was so smooth she might have been dancing.

House Argent had gathered in their characteristic tight clusters near the center of the yard. Their animated discussions dissected techniques and counter-techniques with the same academic intensity they brought to everything.

I caught fragments of their conversations. Something about optimal angle of attack versus expected parry response. Someone else arguing about the mathematical probability of successfully breaking an opponent’s guard with a particular feint.

Nerds. Dangerous nerds, but still nerds.

House Vermillion practiced their forms in that eerie, perfect silence they were known for. Each student moved through identical kata with the synchronization of clockwork. They occupied the shadowed corner of the yard, barely acknowledging the existence of the other students.

And then there was House Onyx.

We were scattered around the yard’s periphery like unwanted furniture shoved against the walls. Our charcoal grey uniforms made us look like shadows trying not to draw attention.

The practice dummies assigned to our House had loose stuffing spilling from poorly repaired seams. The training weapons available to us were the ones too nicked and unbalanced for the other Houses to bother with. Practice swords with warped blades. Spears with splintering shafts. Shields with straps that were more leather patch than original material.

In other words, absolutely perfect for my purposes.

I shuffled toward my designated training area. Maintained a hunch in my shoulders that spoke of defeat before I’d even begun. Eyes carefully downcast. My feet scuffed against the packed earth, raising small clouds of dust.

The wooden sword felt genuinely awkward in my hands. That part wasn’t entirely an act. The original Kaelen’s muscle memory for proper weapon handling was essentially non-existent.

It’s a strange thing, inhabiting someone else’s muscle memory. Or rather, the absence of it.

Alex had never held a sword in his life either. Engineering students at modern universities don’t typically include swordsmanship in their curriculum. But at least he’d had the coordination that came from years of typing rapidly and occasionally playing recreational sports.

The original Kaelen had spent his formative years avoiding physical activity with the same dedication other children brought to avoiding vegetables.

"Leone."

Professor Blackthorne’s bark hit the morning air like an executioner’s blade. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Another genuine reaction that served my mask beautifully. My head snapped up as I searched for the source of that gravelly voice.

The combat instructor stood perhaps ten paces away. A mountain of scarred muscle wrapped in the rumpled faculty robes he wore with obvious contempt. His massive arms were crossed over his barrel chest. The faded sunburst brand of his old knightly order was visible where his sleeves had been rolled up.

Those iron-gray eyes held the kind of disgust usually reserved for something offensive discovered on the bottom of one’s boot.

"Y-yes, Professor?" I stammered, letting my voice crack with what I hoped was convincing adolescent terror.

"Try not to kill yourself today." Each word came out like carved stone. "The paperwork required would be... irritating."

Several students nearby erupted in snickers. A girl from House Argent actually had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

I ducked my head lower. Allowed my cheeks to flush with what any observer would interpret as genuine shame. My shoulders curled inward as if I could somehow make myself smaller.

"I’ll... I’ll do my very best, sir."

The words came out in barely more than a whisper. The voice of a boy who had long since accepted that his best would never be good enough.

Blackthorne grunted. Bottomless contempt and perhaps the faintest hint of exhausted resignation. Then he moved on to torment some other unfortunate student.

Absolutely perfect.

Nothing quite like earning a professor’s public contempt to establish yourself as utterly harmless.

Blackthorne probably thought he was doing me a favor in his own brutal way. Setting expectations low enough that I might actually meet them. He couldn’t possibly know that his contempt was exactly what I needed.

A shield of perceived incompetence that would make everything else so much easier.

I shuffled my way over to the specific training dummy that Lyra’s intelligence had identified as Vance Thorne’s preferred practice target. It stood slightly apart from the others, positioned near a gnarled old oak that provided convenient shade during afternoon sessions.

The dummy itself was in better condition than most of those assigned to House Onyx. Vance had likely complained until someone from the grounds staff performed at least minimal repairs.

Good. I want him to see me here. Want him to think I’m encroaching on his territory.

Want to give him a reason to come over and assert dominance.

I raised the wooden sword with deliberately poor form. My grip too tight. My wrists at entirely the wrong angle. My elbows locked when they should have been relaxed. I let the weapon wobble unsteadily like I was attempting to lift something far too heavy for my pathetic frame.

The blade traced an uncertain, wavering arc through the air. Wandering from the proper striking line by several degrees in each direction.

Finally it connected with the dummy’s shoulder.

A soft thwap that wouldn’t have bruised overripe fruit.

"Pathetic," someone muttered behind me. Not quite quietly enough to avoid being overheard.