027. Demonstration Lesson (5)
‘Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.’
Zeke readjusted his grip on the baguette and fixed his gaze on the Second Prince.
The swordsmanship that had compelled him to write a 5,700-character comment was about to unfold right before his eyes.
But Zeke wasn’t letting his guard down.
Yeah, maybe the Second Prince is actually amazing, and the author just described him like an idiot. Even in that swordplay scene, it said he had incredible skill.
Reading about it and seeing it in person were two different things.
If descriptions alone explained everything, the blind wouldn’t need to open their eyes.
The author might have simply failed to capture his movements properly due to lack of skill.
So, he needed to stay a bit tense.
Zeke couldn’t use mana right now anyway.
All he had was a slightly tougher-than-average body.
If he got owned by the Second Prince here, what greater humiliation could there be?
Come on, Second Prince. Show me what you’ve got.
*
The Second Prince readjusted his grip on his sword with both hands and lowered his center of gravity.
Suuu…
He exhaled thinly and scanned his opponent.
Zeke was full of openings—any attack would probably send him flying.
With a weapon that barely qualified as one, even defense seemed impossible.
Don’t blame the weapon later when your arm gets lopped off. That’ll just be the mistake of your own arrogance.
“Haaaaah!”
With a shout, he kicked off the ground and charged at Zeke.
The first form.
The most basic strike.
A straight downward slash from sky to earth.
But Zeke twisted his body half a step faster.
Halt.
Rosnante’s sword stopped midway, then abruptly changed trajectory into a horizontal sweep.
Zeke took one more step back.
The blade grazed his chin but never quite touched.
Sweat trickled down Rosnante’s forehead.
Okay, so he’s got skill. This is still just probing.
In truth, from the first attack, Rosnante had used one of the Imperial Knights’ secret techniques: Trajectory Cleave.
But he hid his feigned surprise. The joint-straining move left his wrist tingling.
This time, he locked both wrists firmly on the hilt, pulled the sword back into a thrusting stance.
He focused all his nerves on his forefoot and toes.
Thwack!
He kicked off and thrust the sword forward like an arrow straight at Zeke.
But Zeke stood motionless, arms at his sides.
The blade aimed straight for his shoulder, piercing forward in a line.
Then—
Thwack!
Suddenly, his vision flashed and shook.
His body was flying sideways before he knew it.
Even tumbling through the air, Rosnante couldn’t comprehend.
What… what the hell?! When did I…?! He didn’t even move!
Thud.
He hit the ground, a ringing shock to his temple.
Stagger…
His balance shattered; he tried to stand, but his legs buckled repeatedly.
Poke. He stabbed his sword into the ground and leaned on it to rise.
Rosnante glared at Zeke with trembling eyes.
“Do it properly. Stop messing around.”
The words from that stoic face were enough to provoke him.
Grind.
His sword hand clenched with fury.
This… this fucking bastard! Fine! You asked for it. Behold the Imperial secret swordsmanship: Lotus Bloom.
He’d trained it diligently, but never used it in sparring.
Even with wooden swords, it was too dangerous to unleash.
Yet deploying it here, in a real-sword duel—
It was tantamount to declaring he had no intention of letting his opponent live.
Rosnante reset his stance, sunlight shattering off his blade in a sparkle.
“Secret swordsmanship. Lotus Bloom.”
His mind sank deep, body lowering further, pulse slowing.
He etched his opponent’s weaknesses across his vision.
First, let’s deal with that ridiculous baguette.
Rosnante charged Zeke again.
Mid and low strikes alternated rapidly, targeting the baguette.
One clash, and it’d shatter.
Slash!
Slash!
Thrust!
Spin and slash!
At an unexpected moment, he whipped it from low to high.
Ultimate secret technique: Flying Dragon Ascension!
Whoosh.
Swish.
Whoom!
Killing intent swirled in the sword wind.
Wha… what the hell is this… no, no way! It can’t be!
The Second Prince unleashed another secret technique.
But Zeke toyed with him, sticking the baguette to the blade and moving in sync with his thrusts.
Swing.
Swing.
Swing!
Desperately, with everything he’d learned, he swung wildly.
Yet not a single clash—the blade sliced only air.
Blood trickled from his bitten lip.
Sweat soaked his body.
“Don’t run! Fight me head-on!”
He screamed in rage, but fury churned in his chest.
Hot tears welled up.
His sword—his sword couldn’t lose like this!
Fine, this guy might be better than him.
The Empire was vast; a genius or two like him wasn’t unusual.
But his sword shouldn’t be toyed with like this, rendered utterly ineffective!
His blade was meant to command the Empire’s future!
To a fool who doesn’t even grasp its weight! Like this!!
But—
It felt like swinging a sword underwater.
His grip grew heavier and heavier.
Like sandbags tied to it.
No feedback from the tip.
*
Zeke had been dancing along the prince’s sword paths to gauge all his moves,
but a sudden wave of pity hit him.
Is this how Serena felt dancing with me?
He glanced at the students. Silver hair clenched her lips, watching intently.
Now the swings were total crap.
He grimaced involuntarily.
Shit. Right. What an idiot. Not just any idiot—a top-tier moron.
Of course, better than Serena’s display back then.
But better didn’t mean good.
It was like trash with a single decorative flower on top.
Who’d want that?
The novel descriptions had actually made it sound better.
Seeing it live exposed the utter mess.
He could rant 5,700—no, 11,400 characters on the swordplay itself right here, but that aside.
Announcing the technique name out loud before using it? He actually does that shit?
Ridiculous. He could’ve swung once more in that time. For real.
No!! Why does your gaze keep following your own blade tip when you swing?!
Not even tracking the opponent’s—just his own like a moron.
He wouldn’t demand reading feet for prediction,
but at least keep your eyes on the enemy.
And this fucker. Does swinging once have a cooldown?
Combos should follow immediately,
but swing, pause, swing, pause.
Invincible like a magical girl transforming during breaks.
Twitch.
And the thing Zeke hated most.
The itch to backseat coach finally exploded.
Agh!!! Fuck!! Stop flashing your back! Your back!!! You goddamn fag!!!
Serena’s shy glimpses were cute,
but this sweaty, musty golden boy’s damp back? Hell no.
What’s with this unwanted supply…
Agh, no more.
Really.
Zeke looked at Rosnante and spoke.
“No need to watch anymore. Rosnante. Time to drill some manners into you first.”
Then, Zeke’s purely defensive baguette began to swing.
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Zeke swung with gusto, thinking,
The principal said no visible wounds. Didn’t peg him for cruel, but damn, he hates this kid too?
The baguette massaged Rosnante’s entire body: head, shoulders, arms, legs, chest, gut, and back! Back!
Each hearty smack echoed, but no bruises showed.
From outside, it looked like playfully tapping with a big cotton swab.
Seeing the Second Prince, handled like a child, get one-sidedly smacked,
the students gaped in shock.
“H-Hey, what the hell is this?”
“A j-joke, right…? I sparred the Second Prince earlier and got wrecked…”
“Y-You see that baguette moving?”
“N-No. B-But it probably doesn’t hurt!”
“I got hit by it. Hurts like hell. That thing… ugh…”
But they didn’t know Rosnante’s agony.
It hurts! It fucking hurts! Damn it!!!! Aaaagh!
The baguette wasn’t just painful.
Not a skin cut or wooden sword thud.
It burrowed deep, rattling bones with dull throbs.
Relentlessly! Nonstop!
When had the Empire’s noble blood ever been beaten like this, rain or shine?
Even in early lessons with invited instructors, they’d stop short—proper etiquette.
But this guy knew no restraint.
In pain, Rosnante desperately thrust his sword to block.
But the baguette was already gone.
Slippery as an eel, striking from impossible angles across his body.
“Waist.”
Pain flared at his waist.
“Shoulder.”
Poke. Sharp stab in the shoulder.
“Head.”
Thud. Brain rattled.
“Back. Back. Back, get rid of it.”
He hammered the back hardest, longest—like it owed him money.
Every joint screamed.
He might actually die from the pain.
“Pl… pl… Zeke—gah!”
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
“P-Please… guh!”
Smack!
“Please… stop… urk!”
Smack!
Rosnante couldn’t endure; he tried to surrender,
but Zeke didn’t let him speak, swinging relentlessly.
Finally, he curled up on the ground.
Hardly fitting for the Empire’s noblest blood, the Second Prince,
but survival demanded it.
Smack!
Even then, Zeke didn’t stop.
With the back exposed, the baguette swung fiercer.
In waist-splitting agony, Rosnante screamed.
“I-I surrender!!!”
Smack!
“Got it.”
Zeke nodded.
Shit… got… why the last one… I said… you bastard…
Only then did Zeke lower his arm and inspect the baguette.
The white-flagged Second Prince wept from humiliation and pain.
He sobbed, shoulders heaving.
It hurt like hell. Bones might be shattered.
Sniff!
He blew his nose, then lifted his head.
Locking eyes with Zeke, who was checking his baguette.
That emotionless, deep black gaze pierced him.
Terror shot through his spine; his body shuddered.
Trickle…
Yellow liquid pooled beneath the prone prince, soaking the training ground.
Thud.
He collapsed sideways, unconscious.
Silence.
The principal, mouth agape from watching, blinked back to reality and rushed to Zeke.
“You! What the hell do you think you’re doing!!!”
“Any problem?”
“Problem!? The Second Prince is out cold!”
“Principal, I left no wounds, as instructed.”
Zeke pointed at the fallen prince.
The principal hurried to Rosnante, nose wrinkling.
Whiff of piss… ahem. Potent…
He grimaced, checked closely.
True enough.
No wounds on the unconscious prince.
Not even the expected bruises.
His skin was baby-smooth, proving his noble birth.
Just a torn hand from gripping the sword, bleeding slightly.
Well, it was just a baguette.
But the prince knocked out by it…
“…What the hell is that guy…”
Muttering, the principal called the dazed Alec.
“Alec!”
“Y-Yes!”
“Hurry, take the Second Prince to the infirmary!”
“…Yes.”
Alec grimaced at the urine smell too.
To avoid contact, he scooped him up princess-style.
And headed out.
“I won. Declare the victory.”
The principal narrowed his eyes at Zeke.
That calm face pissed him off now.
Haa. What’s academy life gonna be like…? Damn. Never thought it peaceful, but looking back, it was paradise.
But a duel was a duel. Victory was victory.
And he’d spared wounds—honorable, even.
Honorable my ass.
First time that blank face looked so gleeful.
“…This duel is Zeke Clayman’s victory.”
No one clapped.
Zeke nodded.
“Mm. Then let’s continue the lesson.”
“….?????”