The Deadly Bloom of the Rose
Coach Setina's words had barely fallen when the massive lecture hall erupted into a tense game of musical partners. Everyone hunting for an opponent who could showcase their full strength—or better yet, a pushover who’d make their own skills shine like a gem.
A short guy with bright brown hair and sparkling eyes zeroed in on a noble lady he’d picked out and boldly stepped up. "If it's alright... how about me as your opponent, milady?"
"Oh my. A commoner against me? How amusing. I'll give you a proper lesson."
The little guy charged at the noble lady and got laughed off. Pairs were forming all over the hall.
I stroked my chin, scanning the room. And bam—there he was. Slicked-back blond hair greased to perfection. The marquis's eldest son from the debutante ball before enrollment. The stiff prick who’d blocked our path to the private room. The slimy bastard whose jaw I’d wanted to dislocate at least once.
His lecherous gaze was locked straight on Rozalia. Those barely concealed cleavage and upper swells wrapped in a flimsy lavender scrap of fabric. The juicy honey thighs peeking out from a dress that was basically bottomless. It was obvious: snag an easy win against the pitiful beauty in that outrageous outfit, and maybe charm her while he was at it. Shallow, disgusting intentions written all over his face.
I shook my head. This guy's gonna end up dead for real at this rate.
Rozalia remembered the debutante ball incident too. She’d probably want to smash his jaw just like I did. And Rozalia? Her emotional control had been busted since her past life. She looked endlessly sweet and harmless on the outside, but flip the switch and there were no brakes. The type to casually chuck morality and conscience in the trash when it suited her.
Back in middle school. There was this classmate who confessed to me. Next morning, Rozalia was silently snapping off cutter knife blades one by one with pliers. Her eyes blank and emotionless.
Bad vibes hit me hard, so I tailed her at lunch. She was meticulously stuffing the shattered blade bits under the rice in that classmate's bento. And get this—the girl was Rozalia's bestie, always glued to her side.
If I hadn't body-slammed the bento over, we'd have been in a police station that day.
I was about to step away when a massive shadow engulfed the marquis's son's shoulder.
"Hold up. You're with me."
Berga Silverstein. The northern mad dog grinned as he crushed the guy's shoulder. "Guh...! What the hell kind of strength...!"
"Ho ho. That was just a tap, and your bulk's already buckling? Let's see if it's all show from here on out."
The battle maniac needed the biggest sandbag in our year. Berga grabbed the flailing prick by the scruff and dragged him kicking to Coach Setina like a ragdoll.
I let out a sigh of relief. Saved me the trouble of intervening.
"Hey. You a commoner?"
A voice called out. Perfect timing—someone decent spoke up. Buzzcut, dark skin. If I had to add, he looked straight out of some netorare doujin as the bald brute.
"Nah. Just a shabby baron who bought his title with cash."
"Phew...! Good thing. Same difference as a commoner, though. Wanna pair up?"
He stuck out his hand. The type who quakes a bit at nobles but picks easy marks for points. Barely scraped into the academy, no doubt.
"Sure. Karn von Mercier."
We shook. "I'm Taylor Becker! Call me Taylor, easy does it."
Smack... I smacked my lips eyeing him. Decent candidate for Rozalia's master material. He didn't know yet, but now I had Vulgar Netoright too... Time to roll her out.
He sidled up beside me, launching into dumb small talk. Rating the knight faculty girls' figures. And that slimy, low-rent stare raking over Rozalia's unreal tits and hips.
First meeting and he's already flapping that filthy trap. Okay. He passes.
Not a bad play partner prospect. But no reason to chat up this low-tier ape and tank my own rep. I could already feel the girls' gazes cooling off.
I quick-marched to the arena. Coach Setina propped her chin irritably.
"Karn von Mercier. Taylor Becker. Begin."
"Raaagh—!"
Taylor raised his wooden sword high and charged with a goofy kiai. Eyes turned our way.
But slow. Way too slow. My body had already adapted to academy genius Kirian's blade and the Bloomhart's spine-chilling petal lethality.
My insight pierced the essence, reading the trajectory. Crude linear thrust. Yawn-worthy.
I didn't dodge. Minimal motion. Hip snap. Flicked my wooden sword diagonally upward.
Clang—! Explosive crack. Taylor's sword spun wildly through the air before slamming into the dirt far off.
His breath stopped. Only his trembling hands hung in the void.
That was me holding back plenty.
I casually lowered my sword when a sharp voice cut from Rozalia's front.
"Duel me. Lady Bloomhart."
Rachel von Carsio, gripping her wooden sword tight. The one Rozalia had totally ignored earlier, pride scraped raw. Eyes bloodshot with revenge.
"That vulgar, arrogant attitude of yours! I'll break it right here in the arena today!"
Pure venomous taunt. That's when Rozalia's gaze, which had been chasing me, slowly swiveled to Rachel.
Instantly, the air froze.
Those honey-dripping rapeseed eyes that melted for me? The warmth vanished. Absolute zero glacier. Cold, mechanical stare at an annoying bug.
Rozalia rose slowly. Slender wrist clutching the wooden sword. Overwhelming cleavage swelled lazily over her lavender dress.
She murmured low. "Do whatever."
Dry voice. "Just... be careful not to die."
Chin in hand, I fixed on the central arena. Rozalia on one side. Rachel opposite.
Rare for Coach Setina to stand from her chair. Razor-sharp readiness to jump in if shit hit the fan.
I was curious about Rozalia's skills too. Her aura screamed transcendent power.
My kink? Watching a beautiful goddess at the peak crash down. How hard had Rozalia worked to fit that?
I eyed her with expectant anticipation.
"……!"
Our gazes met—those dreamy golden rapeseed eyes. Did she catch my vibe? They widened.
She slipped her arm back, secretly flashing me a V-sign with index and middle fingers toward me.
"Rachel von Carsio. And... Rozalia von Bloomhart. Begin."
Setina directed, sword at her side, dead serious.
The south boasts a dazzling flower city of breathtaking beauty. But beneath lies a blood-soaked frontier etched deep in brutal history.
No demon kings or demonkin in this world. Just the sultan lording over the barren southern deserts beyond—the Rahman Empire, masters of the sands.
They always coveted our fertile flower city. The war front was endless defeats. Their light garb and razor scimitars were chillingly swift; our empire's heavy plate couldn't even chase shadows.
Mysterious sorcery, sand-adapted archers. Even our trusted cavalry got utterly ravaged.
The empire's one overwhelming edge? Magic. Miracles made real, the arcane alone.
In desperate defeat, flowers wilting, knights and mages—who'd sneered at each other as "sword nerds" and "spell nerds"—finally joined hands.
To survive, to win somehow, they forged a single sword art by force. That birthed the Bloomhart secret: Rose Swordsmanship.
But when the lid popped off? It wasn't for winning wars. Just prideful sword nerds and spell nerds flexing: "Theoretically possible!" "Then stack this spell!" Piling on till the bar skyrocketed impossibly high.
They birthed a technique even they couldn't demo—entry barrier a nightmare.
Direction shifted. Sword art for one to dominate the field. Intricate weave of countless spells and techs, for genius alone.
As flowers crushed under sand grains, a youth miraculously mastered it. Alone, he repelled the Rahman Empire. That monster: Bloomhart's founder.
Origin as "sword for one genius" meant later heads layered on, growing ever more labyrinthine.
Thus, the family secret sharpened: "Someday a monstrous genius will complete this unfinished Rose Swordsmanship."
One line: Clean up the mess yourself, you talent freak.
And I knew that genius already. Kirian von Bloomhart. Academy third-year. Never lost top spot since enrollment—a monster.
I beat him because he went easy, and I lucked into countering the basics: pre-enchanted sword. He let his guard down.
True Rose Swordsmanship? Real-time enchanting sword aura with labyrinthine forbidden magic. Instant calc of hundreds of shifting coordinates, imprinting words to bloom flowers in the aura. Synesthesia fusing senses. Precision trajectories. Normies nosebleed just imagining it—demonic art.
Boil it down: Arrogant spell nerds and sword nerds ego-dueling till difficulty exploded into the gaudiest, shittiest value trash sword art ever.
Thoughts were brief. Next duel kicked off.
Arena center. Rachel von Carsio raised her wooden sword into stance. Flawless defense hinting family legacy—no gaps.
She'd swung that thing thousands of times till her palms bled, honing that rigid form. Tricky to pierce.
Perfect defensive swordplay. Confident Rachel spoke. "I yield first strike. Come at me with all you've got. I'll brush it off like nothing."
Blatant taunt. But Rozalia ignored her entirely.
"Yeah. Thanks... Nice stance."
Her eyes were on me, not Rachel. Thrilled my gaze was all hers? Her cheeks flushed faint, golden eyes blooming with heated smile.
That overwhelming, poignant, erotic smile. Male students watching choked on gasps everywhere.
"Lowbies gotta stay put like that... to learn from the master."
Rozalia's low mockery twitched Rachel's fine brows.
"Endure. Just endure, and you win."
With that, Rozalia lightly raised her wooden sword.
And danced an illusory sword dance in the air.
1st exchange. Horizontal slice cleaved space gracefully. Sword aura scattered, leaving afterimages in a blink.
2nd. Ankle pivot, body half-turn. Another horizontal sweep. Like a maiden dancing under moonlight—effortlessly light, intimate.
Trajectory so beautiful it melted watchers' hearts. Arm-crossed Berga beside me flashed battle-lust in red eyes. Itching to jump in.
Final 3rd. Diagonal upward thrust halted in midair. Done.
Everyone holding breath shook. Rozalia turned away without a glance. Striding off like a lead actress exiting stage.
Rachel blinked in stunned confusion. Setina couldn't hold back.
"What? Forfeit, Bloomhart?"
Rozalia paused.
"No. She couldn't endure anyway. Obvious."
Rachel's face burned crimson. "What nonsense...!! Know your place, you—!"
Humiliation exploded in a shriek. Rozalia's eyes stayed locked on me. Finger to plump wet lips, shushing with a cute smile.
"The rose... will bloom."
Her whisper dropped, and seductive, thick fragrance whooshed over the area.
The faint sword aura scattered in air? The afterimages—thought gone—erupted pale pink.
Thousands. Tens of thousands. Pink roses bloomed across the whole space.
Petals rained like a storm. Arena turned ethereal rose garden. Even illusory birdsong trilled in ears.
Beautiful. And spine-chilling goosebumps.
I was too shocked to blink. If those were Rose Swordsmanship blooms, every petal could be a bomb—carving flesh on touch, words unknown etched in.
Thorns on those aura-born roses? All poisoned. Touch means death. Guaranteed.
Overwhelming rose tempest. Rachel isolated at center—one twitch from Rozalia, and she'd be minced meat.
How the hell...?
Rose Swordsmanship. Simultaneous calc of magic coordinates and sword trajectories in instants.
Three swings covering the whole arena? Impossible even for geniuses. Physically, realistically no.
Then my body, sucking in the space's dissonance, delivered answers via cheat adaptation.
Fantasy. Reverie. And delusion.
I inhaled sharply. She didn't calculate. No computations from the start.
She overwrote that grueling process with her own world of imagination.
Forcibly dragged delusion into reality. Probably via some busted hidden piece.
Rozalia von Bloomhart. Before girl who loves delusion and Karn, she was the world's most dangerous, lovable Sword of the Dreamer.