The Third Prince's Challenge
As long as my relationship with Sylvia didn't crumble, I didn't care what else happened. I'd enrolled in the Academy for her sake from the start. They might call me a girl-obsessed lunatic, but with no real worries in life, it was fine.
"……It's a duel."
But I couldn't tolerate these idiots flipping their lids like this.
"Sigh."
Letting out the sigh bubbling up inside, I gripped my sword.
Okay. Let's take a few hits.
The Academy's A Class gathered the top students from every department into one room. Barely twenty kids per class. Being the cream of the crop, everyone burned with a vicious hunger for self-improvement.
There were always a few oddballs in the mix, though.
I'm not all that interested.
I'd harbored those dreams too, right after awakening to my past life. Become a Swordmaster. Reach the pinnacle of the blade. Draw a Aura Blade and cleave heaven and earth.
One of the two fantasies every modern guy nurses—the other being grand archmage. But with zero magic talent, that was off the table.
Anyway. Point is, I'd been sword-obsessed once. Decent talent, perfect stage to shine.
The issue? It wasn't exceptional.
I realized it learning from that one old man.
"Cluck cluck, worthless. A futile talent."
"Don't swing on instinct like that, you fool."
"Empty. Your whole body's riddled with openings."
"Swordmaster? Don't settle for that—gaze wider."
I figured it was some cliche hidden empire Swordmaster, but nope.
Disillusioned, I eased off the sword and started looking around.
In a way, that kept me from drowning in blades alone.
So yeah, my self-awareness was razor-sharp. Sword skills: subpar. No amount of grind gets me to master.
Ditching it entirely? I'd be exiled from the family, let alone lose Sylvia. So I swung moderately to scrape by.
Family forced me into the Academy; swordsmanship was all I knew anyway.
Knowing Sylvia gunning for A Class, I dialed in just enough skill—plus luck—to join her.
Thus, improvement? Not my jam.
"Duel."
A male student tossed a practice iron sword my way with haughty flair. I blinked lazily at him.
Same class, same age.
Why the high-and-mighty vibe? Oh, right—empire's third prince.
Royalty's unchecked power? Arrogance tracks. A-Class sword skills, handsome face—genes or rofan tropes? Checks out.
Yeah. Grew up unslapped, environment's fault.
"Not sparring time yet."
Glanced at the dropped sword, then back to him.
The blond prince twitched, face twisting.
"Know who I am?"
"……Yeah? Jeron von Leonhardt, the empire's mighty third prince."
"You know, and that attitude?"
……Bingo. Early-game arrogant type, gets fact-checked by Selena, turns humble.
Subculture vet like me? Relatable character.
Thus.
"This is the Academy. Equals here—no status binds."
Ready to enlighten him.
Protagonist duty, sure—but this hassle? Generous heart covers it.
No incident needed; Selena's looks would hook him anyway. Already has, hence picking on me.
"Anyway. Duel."
No logic to counter? Defaults to main point.
Dodge weakness, hammer strength. Classic.
One oversight, though.
"Sure."
I nodded coolly.
"During sparring time?"
Thinks he's sword-superior.
Calm nod, accept—he hesitated, then mirrored.
"……Fine. We'll do it then."
Sense equipped, surprisingly. Shrugged at his retreating back.
Still getting wrecked, though?
Modern soul, zero imperial awe. Not future emperor anyway.
But empire royalty—our empire, my house's—acting like that? Infuriating.
Time to personally recalibrate.
Absolutely not 'cause a way-younger punk's tossing swords with banmal attitude bugs me.
……For real.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Garen, your swordsmanship practice instructor."
Oh. Greatsword dude, spins it slick. Solid stride.
"……Ian."
"Hm?"
Spar time nearing, I watched the instructor ramble from the front.
Chin on arm, blank stare—Sylvia mirrored, spoke up.
"You good?"
"Huh? Oh…… Don't worry."
"Not that."
Thought it was Jeron duel nerves. Nope.
Slow blink. "Then?"
"……Beat him just enough."
"They'd think you're gonna devour him."
She hesitated, then that. I chuckled, shrugged to reassure.
Sylvia sparred with me most—knew my level ballpark.
Knew that lunatic elder taught me enough to not get owned anywhere.
Why skip her, teach only me? Mystery.
……Picky type like that, not a Swordmaster? Kinda unfair.
No power to elevate him anyway.
Just, oh well.
Anyway.
"Real duel now."
I had the chops not to fold to this prince.
Dunno his exact caliber, though.
"If you're getting smacked everywhere, I'd look the fool."
Grinning grandpa's clucks surfaced—skull throbbed from old whacks.
Not his league, then.
Grateful for those damn lessons now.
Jeron drew his practice iron sword, faced off.
I calmly unsheathed mine, mirrored.
He spoke, resolute.
"I win, you stay away from Selena."
Oh, yeah—that.
Wondered when.
Zero deviation from prediction. Inner applause.
Classic rofan—cliches locked in.
Rough nod. He exhaled steady, tuned breath, eased into stance.
Sword opposed, I scanned him top to bottom.
Opening. There too. Everywhere.
Grandpa'd smirk nasty—riddled with gaps.
Waited for the lunge.
Finally—he stepped, swung.
Watched trajectory end to end, slotted my blade in.
Clang!!
One.
Blocked—recoiled, swung again. Same block.
Clang!!
Two.
Clashed this time—used the shove to spin back, parried flat, spoke.
Clack!!
"Three."
Looked like early dominance: Jeron hammering, me scrambling defense. Three strikes landed, no counter.
But truth? Different.
"Three moves—yielded?"
Strong yields three to weak. Tradition...!
Grinned sly—his face crumpled, uncomprehending.
I settled low, gripped firm.
Now then.
Time for mental reeducation…!!!