Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Still, I did what I could. It had been a month and a half since the entrance ceremony, roughly a month since I’d possessed this body. I wasn’t the novel’s protagonist. In the body of a third-rate villain who’d bungle around obnoxiously and die later, I couldn’t achieve miraculous growth in just one month. At least I hadn’t given up midway. The demonic 300 steps of Wisteria Dormitory climbed every day on the way to and from school, interspersed with bodyweight exercises after classes to build stamina
I’d swing my sword whenever boredom struck in the overgrown inner courtyard of Wisteria Dormitory, and spar with Charlotte too. Clang! That’s how I’d honed my swordsmanship and body. One month. Still woefully short. But enough time to temper body and mind sufficiently to face Gideon—and swing a sword for those five-odd minutes. Skreech—! “Urk!” Gideon barely deflected the blade and staggered back with a shallow groan. I stood firm, gripping my sword. I raised it over my shoulder, tip proudly aimed at Gideon
Gideon adjusted his stance and bit his lip. He was getting anxious. About two minutes had passed since the spar began. Each bout was allotted five minutes. Still a little under three minutes left, but Gideon’s momentum was already waning bit by bit. “Damn……!” Gideon swallowed his frustration and tightened his grip. I watched him steadily with sunken eyes. Counterattack. Up close, it was clear. Gideon’s swordsmanship centered on counters. The Pembroke Baron Family had been bankers for generations, never a martial house, so Gideon’s style lacked any profound depth or subtlety
Just counters leveraging his innate sense. And that talent was impressively sharp. That’s how he’d made it to Kingswell Royal Academy’s Swordsmanship Department A-Class. I underestimated you too much, man. Countering a prestigious martial house’s inherited swordsmanship was impossible from the start. Especially a textbook counter-style anyone could pick up from a decent instructor. Whoosh! Clang—! “Ngh!” Blackmere-style swordsmanship left no room for counters—just desperate defense. After one thrust, I shifted stance again
Last time my left foot led; now right foot forward, left back. Each attack changed my posture, leaving counter-hardened Gideon unable to find his rhythm. Sometimes feinting a counter, then striking an unexpected spot to expose his flaws. Thwack! “Kuhk!” It looked like blades would clash, but the trajectory curved, slapping his side. Traditional Blackmere swordsmanship. Relentless, unpredictable strikes that whittled down the foe. The more I swung, the heavier my body grew. Sweat soaked my nape, pouring like rain down my jaw
Yet my mind cleared in contrast. The subtleties of the swordsmanship Leonard had drilled ruthlessly as a child began to emerge. ‘Attacks on unpredictable paths are the fastest, safest way to break an opponent. Never get hasty. Patience and composure are the virtues of Blackmere swordsmanship.’ I thrust. Gideon gritted his teeth to block. I shifted instantly. Right foot, extended forward, snapped sideways; left foot surged ahead. No clash—instead, the blade slammed his opposite shoulder. Crack! “Ugh……! Damn it! Damn you!” A counter-style unable to counter
I stepped back slowly, reset, and charged again. Clang! Clang! Skreech! Metal screamed on metal. Vibrations from the clash traveled down the blade to my fingertips, up to my shoulders. ‘Keep chipping away. Force their flaws to show. No need to exert much against a crumbling foe.’ Like a Jenga tower slowly built and pulled apart. The higher it stacked, the hollower the base—shaking at the slightest jolt. No need to kick or shove. ‘Just a little force.’ Simply pluck the bottom block
Clang—! And the painstaking tower collapses. “……” Gideon’s sword flew from his hand. It spun a couple turns, scraped the hard training ground dirt, and stopped five or six paces away. Gideon’s weakness was his wrist. Counters demanded flexibility there, but he overthought it, flicking unnecessarily often. Excess moves meant neglecting attack, defense, or counter—one inevitably. Focused on incoming counters up top, ironically missing the blade slipping at his wrist. A breathless silence blanketed the training ground
The clanging had faded; even breaths went unheard amid total focus on the duel. Those eyes shifted to Gideon’s sword on the ground, then to my blade at his throat. I met the glare of Gideon clutching his wrist, swordless. His eyes burned with resentment. Right. Leonard’s entrance scores had barely scraped mid-tier A-Class—effectively lower mid. Gideon, solid foundation, comfortably mid A-Class. Textbook swordsman. In short, Gideon’s scores beat mine. “First bout! 4 minutes 38 seconds! Winner: Leonard Percival Blackmere!” So what? The last one standing wins
You just suck. If it stings, win next time.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ When Leonard’s strike sent Gideon’s sword flying. “……” Edwin stared blankly at his swordsmanship. Gideon’s form had few flaws. Worthy of Kingswell A-Class. Seemingly raw still, but only an expert like Edwin could nitpick. First-years like Gideon were just eighteen. Even at elite Kingswell, their youth meant limited experience and training—Gideon was top-tier for his age. And that Gideon had been steadily pushed back to defeat. By no other than Leonard Percival Blackmere
Edwin’s pathetic late-born brother. How……. Edwin’s gaze drifted from Gideon’s resentful face to Leonard opposite. Near-expressionless, icy as frost. Lips pressed tight. Sweat dripping along his jaw, legs subtly trembling—stamina still sorely lacking. Yet the clumsy swordsmanship he’d shown was unmistakably Blackmere-style, as Edwin had seen from their father. The style Edwin had bled for to reach his current level. But lacking that speck of talent, he’d fallen agonizingly short of the pinnacle he craved
Why glimpse fragments of that unreachable realm in his talentless brother’s blade—the one who’d abandoned effort? “First bout! 4 minutes 38 seconds! Winner: Leonard Percival Blackmere!” Professor William’s shout snapped Edwin back. He followed Leonard bowing to Gideon and returning to his seat. Drenched in sweat, weary expression. But beneath, unmistakable fruit of effort. Effort over talent—Edwin knew it well. Memories surged: rivalry with his more gifted brother fueling his bone-grinding diligence
Just over a month. Since the suspension rumor from academy antics—not even two months. Growth like this in so short a time. Why hadn’t he tried before? Deception. Arrogant idleness despite capability. A cheetah scoffing at sprinting dogs. The talented one’s deceit. ‘Edwin. You lack talent.’‘……Father.’‘If no talent, then grind your bones in effort. Pathetic.’ And the talentless one’s misery. Pathetic. Crunch—! Edwin clenched his fist unwittingly. Sweat soaked his gripped pants
“Next bout……” Through the remaining duels, Edwin couldn’t focus. His eyes fixed on Leonard’s head ahead. What expression hid before that nape? Scoffing at his belittling brother? Snickering at the other bouts? Until the final duel, Edwin couldn’t look away. “Thank you, esteemed guests, for observing. Class dismissed.” Class ended; Edwin shot up. “Chief Edwin. Your brother’s better than rumored……” “My, Chief Edwin. Blackmeres are different, indeed.” The voices beside him didn’t matter. He strode after Leonard leaving the grounds
Strides lengthened, hurried. “Leonard!” Leonard, far ahead, drew near; Edwin seized and spun him roughly. Leonard’s face matched none of Edwin’s grim predictions. “Brother?” Leonard looked up indifferently with blood-red eyes. Edwin stared back, bloodshot whites blazing. Words choked his throat, maddening. How……. How can you look so calm? Don’t you resent me? Why no effort before? Scorning unpolished jade, untapped talent? While some strive lifetimes without reaching it. Despairing inches away
“Leonard Percival Blackmere.” “Yes, brother. What—” “Do you find the Blackmere name a joke?” “……” Damn talented, indolent Leonard. The one who could effortlessly outpace sweat-drenched, daily-grinding Edwin. Bearing the talent Edwin envied as a child, yet squandering it—evoking disgust. How far would he mock this wretched, limited brother? Slap—!! His rough hand struck Leonard’s cheek. Leonard’s head snapped aside, silent, eyes averted. “Don’t get arrogant, Leonard.” “……” “That recklessness will drive you off a cliff someday.” Edwin spat it and fled
Palm stung. Fingers numb from the blow. Guts twisting nauseously. Edwin recalled he didn’t hate only Leonard. He loathed himself—his pathetic body forced to despair for lack of talent. And the jealousy hating his brother for glimpsing what he couldn’t, with mere effort. Hating him for not shining despite potential—yet still his brother. Edwin clenched his fist. The smarting palm faded. “……Damn.” Bitter as chewed herbs.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Slap—!! The sound echoed across the grounds. Amelia Hill froze in place ……Blackmere? Ahead, near-identical Blackmere brothers. Striker Edwin, struck Leonard. Edwin slapped upward coldly, spat something, and turned away. Leonard stood stunned, head bowed, clutching his cheek. Charlotte approached cautiously, took his hand; he didn’t lift his head. Amelia stared blankly at his slumped back. What on earth……. Leonard Percival Blackmere. What kind of life have you lived?
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ I clutched my cheek, head bowed low. “Leonard. You okay?” Charlotte approached worriedly, but I couldn’t look up
So damn embarrassing, fuck. RP of getting smacked by big bro in public. Fine at home, but letting everyone see? Could it get worse? I glared at Edwin’s retreating back, vowing revenge. You’re dead when we get home. A little brother lives to trample his big bro. Edwin, I’ll strip you to your undies and humiliate you.
