Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Having a Torturer as a Minion Means...
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"Iiyaaaackk...!"
The scream was raw, a jagged tear in the stunned silence of the arena that echoed with the resonance of shattered pride.
Blever, the man who loomed like a hulking bear over his peers—a renowned powerhouse whose magical combat was considered a wall none could scale—was now showing his back to Ras in a display of utter, gut-wrenching humiliation.
The entire class was frozen, gripped by a disbelief so heavy it felt physical.
Even Prince Leontidas, a man who wore a mask of regal indifference as naturally as his skin, looked genuinely shocked.
His eyes, usually clouded with boredom, were wide with a sudden, predatory curiosity.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Ras Etgard was a mediocrity.
His skills were decent enough on average, the kind that filled the middle of the roster without ever challenging the top.
But Blever? Blever was a top-tier bully, a force of nature who outclassed Ras by miles in every measurable way.
In the magical combat spars and the basic swordsmanship duels that defined their status, Blever had always beaten Ras senseless, turning him into a canvas for his violence.
Everyone at the academy was well aware of this dynamic.
They knew Blever openly despised Ras, and his creepy, persistent advances toward Rizli were the subject of countless whispers among the first-years.
But because of the massive gap in their abilities, the idea of Ras ever dishing out justice or thrashing the creep was a fat chance—a joke told in the dorms.
Yet today, the impossible had manifested.
Blever's undefeated streak against Ras hadn't just been broken; it had been obliterated.
And it didn't happen in some heroic, drawn-out struggle of wills.
It happened in a single, lightning-fast exchange, a clash so brief there wasn't even enough dramatic footage to speak of.
For context, everyone remembered their last spar.
Ras had scurried around the arena like a panicked squirrel, his uniform drenched in sweat as he spent the entire match desperately dodging fireballs.
Eventually, he’d taken a direct hit from a fireball, sent rolling across the stone floor, only to be systematically pummeled by Blever's mana-charged fists and feet until the world went dark.
To his credit, he hadn't groveled or shed tears in the midst of that brutal beating.
Though, to be fair and brutally honest, he’d passed out midway through the assault, so there wasn't exactly time for his spirit to break before his body did.
"Winner: Ras Etgard. Ras, let Blever go now..."
Amid the sea of stunned faces, Professor Isera was the first to reclaim her composure.
Her voice was steady, but it carried the weight of her own surprise as she declared the victor and urged Ras to release Blever's arm, which was still held in a twisted, agonizing lock.
"Sure thing," I replied.
Of course, I made the motion look casual, as if I were simply complying with a teacher's request.
I eased up just enough to maintain the illusion of obedience while actually delivering a final, brutal wrench that sent Blever's shoulder fully and violently out of its socket.
The technique was so deftly subtle, so perfectly timed, that even Isera and the eagle-eyed students missed the deliberate malice entirely.
"Gaaahhh...!!!!"
Blever, the victim of his own arrogance, clutched his dislocated shoulder and let out a wail that sounded like a wounded animal as he writhed on the ground.
Yet, despite his status, no one rushed to his side. The room remained cold.
Isera merely sighed deeply at the sight of the sniveling mess before her.
Any seasoned soldier, anyone who had tasted the iron of the battlefield, knew the rule: if you're badly injured but not yet drawing your last breath, you use your mana for self-first-aid immediately.
Even these promising talents from high noble houses are still just coddled brats, Isera thought, her frustration mounting.
"Blever, dislocated shoulders and severed arms are things that happen all the time on the battlefield. Instead of wailing like a lost child, use your mana to initiate some self-aid," she commanded.
She couldn't resist the subtle jab, savoring the rare sight of Blever—a boy who had always sneered at her commoner roots—finally getting his comeuppance.
Deep down, Isera figured this was nothing more than karmic payback. If he learned today that what goes around truly comes around, it would be a cheap, necessary lesson in the harsh truths of life.
What Blever had done to Ras in their last spar, using the match as an excuse for cruelty, was brutal by any measure of the word.
Isera remembered the time she’d been unavoidably late due to an emergency, and a substitute instructor had taken her place. What had happened then was a disgrace.
A brain-dead professor, backed by the influence of the Stifula family, had let a clearly decided match drag on without calling it, standing by as Blever nearly turned Ras into actual roadkill.
Even in a practical combat class, to ignore a student who is clearly out cold? I wanted to deck that idiot professor myself, she recalled.
That day, Isera had exhausted every ounce of her patience to avoid striking the negligent substitute.
She had dashed into the arena herself, flooring the rampaging Blever as if he were a wild boar.
Later, the dean and everyone else had begged her not to file for a disciplinary hearing, and Ras himself had pleaded that it was fine. The event blew over, but the grudge had simmered in her heart ever since.
Isera Bernstein was a woman who lived by her principles and despised the noble abuse of power.
So, seeing Ras handsomely avenge that humiliation today? It was utterly, profoundly satisfying.
Did he grind through blood, sweat, and tears in secret to pay back that shame? she wondered. Pretty boy or not, the kid has some real grit.
She had no clue his explosive growth was a gift from a future of suffering, but the results were all she needed to see.
Shhhk!
As Isera quietly admired his transformation, the academy's ever-ready assistant squad—a group that remained on permanent standby—sprang into action.
They scrambled onto the arena with practiced speed. No questions were asked; they delivered swift, precise first aid, casting quick healing spells followed by the infamous 'hellish bandaging'—painful, tight emergency knots that were as effective as they were agonizing. The assistants worked like clockwork.
Soon, they hoisted the whimpering Blever—who was still making pathetic, high-pitched noises—onto a stretcher and whisked him off toward the infirmary. The show was over for him.
"Everyone...! Behold...!! Ra~s Etga~rd triumphs!!!"
Meanwhile, I was clearly thrilled, thrusting both my arms sky-high and boisterously flaunting the win to anyone who would look.
I wanted every eye in that room to see the change.
Whack.
The cocky show was a tad too much for the classroom environment, and to remind me to behave, Isera flicked my forehead with a sharp sting.
"Cut the racket and get down from there. Come to my office after class—I have questions that need answering."
"Ow..."
I scratched my head as I descended the steps, but Isera didn't truly mind my theatrics.
If anything, she now felt a surge of motivation to nurture this talented kid properly. With a warm inner glow, she prepared to debrief the class on the match.
"Professor—"
A shrill, accusatory voice—the exact type of sound Isera disliked most—rang out from the edge of the arena. It was Emma Agnelri, her face twisted in a mask of indignation.
"Emma, do you have a question? I was just about to explain the mechanics of the fight..."
"It was supposed to be a magical duel... Did Ras really fight using proper magic? Or did he just time a lucky misfire? Shouldn't magical duels mean actually fighting with magic, rather than... whatever that was?"
To Isera, the question was bafflingly ignorant, but one glance at the asker made it click.
Emma's magical combat grades had been dismal all semester; she was a total pushover in every spar she participated in. Still, the low bar of the question irked her.
"For starters... Ras used his magic brilliantly. Emma, what do you even think magic is? Do you think it's only spewing fire from your palms or conjuring shards of ice? That is only the surface."
Isera sighed and pressed on. "Did anyone actually catch what spell Ras used? Speak up, and I'll give you two bonus points toward your final grade."
In her estimation, perhaps only one or two students in this entire class could grasp even a glimpse of that split-second clash.
One was Prince Leontidas, whose cheat-code royal blood granted him an elite level of prowess. The other...
"I saw Ras wrap both of his hands in a shield spell. I couldn't make out exactly what came after that, though."
The quiet, measured voice belonged to Marisa Adelaide von Valencia, the top student of the year.
Daughter of the Sephiros Empire's mightiest ducal house—ranked right under the imperial family—and she was also Leontidas's fiancée.
Unlike her roguish partner, the poised and proper Marisa excelled in every subject across the board.
"Correct. Marisa gets two bonus points. Ras used his Mana Shield-wrapped hands to 'directly' disrupt and displace Blever's flame spell at the moment of impact."
The rest of the class showed no reaction—not even feigned interest or surprise.
Only Leontidas and Marisa understood. The rest were first-year noobs who couldn't even register how absurdly difficult that was.
Ras's technique was a form of Dispel—something only battle-hardened veterans in the Kashimir Kingdom frontlines might whisper about. It was sloppy, yes, but for a kid to attempt it—and succeed? It was mind-boggling.
"One of the most vital spells you will ever use on a battlefield is the shield. Hone those first—shields and Magic Missiles—rather than chasing flashy elemental stuff... And..."
The explanations continued, followed by more spars.
And I—the sudden star of the day—watched the other kids' earnest duels with a sense of detached amusement, occasionally muttering my own commentary under my breath.
"Heh... Too much mana in that strike. You have to sprinkle it in, like a dash of salt... otherwise it's just wasted effort."
"That...!!! Your mana squeeze game is all sloppy!! Where's the oomph?! Where's the power?!"
"......."
Rizli hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of confusion.
She wondered if she should say something—maybe offer some praise—but his bizarre antics and the way he was acting froze the words in her throat.
She’d hated watching her fiancé get dogpiled by people she considered slackers, yet the moment she offered to grant his "wish," he’d turned it around with a spectacular display of power.
Is he playing hard to get? Fine, did my distance really bother you that much? I suppose I'll loosen up from now on. Sigh...
She was actually feeling a genuine flicker of fondness for Ras's rare display of talent.
But the victorious Ras had completely ditched his lovesick sunflower routine, standing there with his arms outstretched like he was demanding applause and spouting nonsense.
Is he pulling some clever push-pull game on me? Did he take secret dating lessons? It's so obvious, but...
She tried to deny the fact that she was actually fidgeting over his obvious ploys, blissfully unaware that the train of his devotion had left the station a decade ago.
"Final match of the day. Irha, Rizli. You're up."
Isera's call fatefully paired the orphan girl and the noble queen. "Ugh... I really have to nail this for my grades today..." Irha whined, looking like she wanted to melt into the floor.
Rizli flashed a subtly venomous smirk at the girl—a look that went unseen by everyone else.
This was her perfect outlet to vent all the stress I had caused her without leaving a trace of her malice.
"Ras, watch closely. Me winning's a given, of course," she said, teasing in an uncharacteristic way before hopping into the arena with grace.
Irha trailed after her with her head bowed, drooping like a bowl of moldy rice.
"....This... I can't have my minion getting thrashed out there... My minions have to be strong, or my reputation will tank," I muttered, my brow furrowing.
It was time to forge this lame minion into steel through some brutal coaching.
Oh yeah, I remember now. Irha and Rizli dueled at this point in the year, didn't they?
Even I don't remember every single detail from ten years ago down to the last eyelash.
This was right after I’d learned about Rizli's affair, so aside from the blinding rage, everything else from that time is a bit fuzzy.
There's a high chance I got pummeled by Blever and was blacked out in the infirmary while this was happening.
Anyway, those two clashing in this class? Rizli stomps her, no question about it.
An orphanage kid who scarfs down mint-choco bread like it's gourmet? There's no way she beats that vicious witch.
It's not that Irha lacks talent; it's that she has no access to the expensive materials and tutors that magic requires, so she's been lapped from the starting line.
Rizli is a total bitch personality-wise, but she's got elite skills—her magic is top-tier for our year.
Not quite at Valencia's level, but she's among the best. Plus, she's been stressed by me lately, so she's going to vent all that fury on Irha today... and that’s a problem.
Bullying Irha is my job. My minion has to be tough, or it reflects poorly on me.
From my battle-hardened perspective, Irha has raw talent in a brawl, at least. Her situation is garbage now, but with the right training? She could shine.
I decided to lend a hand and test her talent properly. I swiftly manipulated and compressed my mana, crafting a tiny, stealthy mana thread that I threaded through the air straight to Irha’s ear.
[Hey, minion. Don't look at me—just listen up.]
"...???????"
But the dummy Irha heard my voice, panicked, and started looking around before staring right at me.
Argh, this girl is such an airhead... no wonder she giggles over that toothpaste-tasting bread.
This spell is a secret voice-transmission trick I picked up in the Kashimir Kingdom called Telepathy.
It has a shorter range than true telepathy and carries a risk of eavesdropping, but it's much easier to cast.
True telepathy is an ultra-advanced nightmare; this is solid mid-to-high tier magic that is incredibly mana-hungry.
At my current level, it’s overkill, and my body is already starting to protest the strain.
[Eyes front or I'll give you 500 forehead flicks. We have no time—just listen. Don't start with long-range magic; she'll tear you apart. Circle her and probe for an opening. Focus your mana into your legs and feet. And for the love of god, only reply in your head!]
"...In... my head... Probe fight...! Legs... feet... Got it...!!!"
No...! Her sheer stupidity is making my head ache.
I’m already tasting blood from the mana strain, and she’s out here whispering out loud! I have to hold it together.
Up front, Professor Isera was giving the standard coaching for a mismatched fight, telling them to make it good practice.
Rizli was playing her usual fake-nice saintly self, but that hidden venom in her eyes told a different story.
[The opportunity will only last a split-second. Worst case scenario, roll on the ground like a donkey to dodge. To land even one hit, you must close the gap. Don't reply, just do it.]
"...Mmph!!!"
Steering this minion was going to be more exhausting than the fight with Blever.