Chapter 10: The Entrance Ceremony

  The grand hall of the academy was filled with the best and brightest of noble and knightly lineage, the elite class gathered in reserved seats near the front, while the rest of the first-year students sat in neat, orderly rows further back. The faculty stood along the perimeter, assessing their newest students with a mixture of pride and scrutiny.

  At the very front of the hall, four students stood on the raised ceremonial platform—each of them representing the peak of this year’s entrants. Among them was the top-ranked student, Lucien von Hohenfeld, the golden-haired prodigy whose overwhelming talent in both swordplay and magic had already solidified him as the best of the new generation.

  Lucien stepped forward, the hall silencing in anticipation of his speech.

  “As the finest of this generation, it is our duty to uphold the honor of knighthood and magic,” he began, his voice carrying the perfect mix of charisma and arrogance. “Only the strongest, the most disciplined, and the most worthy will rise above the rest. This academy does not cater to the weak, nor should it. Those who cannot stand at the top must recognize their place beneath those who can.”

  The words themselves were typical noble rhetoric, but there was something pointed about the way he said it—something dismissive, as if making it clear that certain individuals didn’t belong here.

  Jessica sat beside her brother, watching the room more than the stage. Tobias stiffened, jaw clenched, hand gripping the armrest of his chair tightly.

  “Tch. He’s a pompous ass,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

  Despite the aching in her body, despite the residual soreness from both the dire wolf encounter and the combat evaluation, Jessica managed a small, amused smile.

  “You’re just noticing now?” she murmured back.

  Tobias shot her an annoyed look but said nothing. The speech continued, but Jessica barely listened. Her attention drifted to her surroundings, particularly to her designated seat.

  While the other elite students sat in elegant, well-maintained chairs befitting their status, her chair was... different.

  Old. Unpolished. The legs were rusted, the wood splintered. It was a mockery—a blatant message.

  A magic cripple didn’t belong among them.

  She stared at it for a long moment before sitting down without a word. It was a minor inconvenience at best, but the intent behind it was laughable. Were they expecting her to cry? To be humiliated? If anything, it was more amusing than offensive.

  The whispers around her were relentless.

  “That’s the Moran girl...”

  “She lasted five seconds and got into the elite class? What a joke.”

  “Did you see her in the exam? Fighting like some back-alley brawler—disgraceful.”

  “She’s barely even a noble. If she weren’t a cripple, she’d still be an embarrassment.”

  “She’s lucky her brother is competent. Otherwise, she’d be tossed out immediately.”

  It was... exhausting. Not because their words hurt, but because they truly believed she wanted this attention.

  Her five-second duel had caused an uproar, not because it was impressive, but because it stole their spotlight. They were used to predictable hierarchies, where talent and noble lineage dictated worth. And yet, here she was—a magic cripple with no respectable standing—placed among them, disrupting the natural order.

  They weren’t mocking her because she was weak.

  They were mad because she didn’t act like she was.

  Beside her, Tobias was getting more irritated by the second. Jessica could practically hear his teeth grinding. His usual aloof expression was nowhere to be seen—he looked indignant, openly glaring at the nobles whispering around them.

  “Disrespectful bastards,” he muttered. “You lasted five seconds against a full-ranked knight and still humiliated him. They should be shutting up and learning something.”

  Jessica glanced at him in mild surprise.

  “Hah. So you were impressed.”

  He shot her a glare. “Shut up.”

  The ceremony continued, but she already knew how this year would play out. The elite students would sneer. The instructors would scrutinize. The nobles would whisper.

  And she?

  She’d endure it all the same way she always did.

  With a smile.

  Chapter 11: A Fitting Sword

  The days passed, and despite the rigorous endurance training forced upon her by an ever-irritated brother, one thing remained constant: Jessica’s endless complaints about that godforsaken sword.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  It was too heavy.

  It was unwieldy.

  It was ugly.

  It was a lump of iron better suited for a blacksmith’s anvil than a knight’s hand.

  She complained before training.

  She complained during training.

  She complained after training, while eating, before bed, and sometimes even in her sleep.

  Tobias endured it for the first few days, hoping she’d eventually tire herself out. But by the end of the week, as she once again lamented how barbaric and stupid the family’s signature blade was, he finally snapped.

  “FINE! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT! DISGRACE THE FAMILY! WHAT DO I CARE?!”

  His voice echoed through the training hall, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. The other trainees stopped mid-swing, instructors turned their heads, and even the academy staff walking by outside hesitated for a moment.

  Jessica simply blinked at him.

  “...So that’s a yes to getting rid of it?” she asked, just to be sure.

  Tobias’s eye twitched so hard it looked like he was about to explode. He turned on his heel and stormed off, muttering about “ungrateful, insufferable little sisters” and “family shame.”

  That should’ve been the end of it.

  But unfortunately, her persistent complaining had caught another person’s attention.

  It happened near the dueling halls the following afternoon.

  Seraphina von Aurelius, the princess of the realm, was not known for her patience.

  She had endured much in her short life—tedious diplomatic meetings, suffocating noble expectations, and, most of all, the insufferable arrogance of lesser nobles trying to earn her favor.

  And yet nothing had tested her patience quite like Jessica Moran’s endless sword complaints.

  Day after day, she had been forced to listen to the lowliest noble in the elite class whine, moan, and lament about her sword.

  At first, Seraphina ignored it.

  Then she tolerated it.

  But by the end of the week, when Jessica had begun complaining in class, during mealtimes, and even between duels, the princess finally had enough.

  “By the gods, shut up!”

  Her voice cut through the air like a blade, silencing the room instantly. Every noble within earshot went rigid, terrified of having angered the princess.

  Jessica, on the other hand, just looked at her blankly.

  Seraphina exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “I am tired of hearing your pathetic, incessant complaints,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have heard you more in the last five days than I have heard some of my own retainers in years. Even I cannot tolerate this much whining.”

  Jessica tilted her head. “So...?”

  The princess closed her eyes, as if debating whether or not it was worth wasting her energy. Then, with a sigh of exasperation, she pulled something from her inventory—a sword.

  Not just any sword.

  A rapier of royal craftsmanship.

  Slender. Balanced. Beautiful. The steel gleamed with an expert polish, the hilt adorned with subtle yet intricate engravings. It wasn’t just functional—it was elegant.

  And she tossed it like a piece of trash.

  Jessica caught it easily, blinking in mild surprise.

  “This was a backup to my backup to my backup sword,” Seraphina said dryly. “It is so beneath me that I would rather give it away than keep it.”

  The nobles gasped. To gift a weapon—even a backup—was still a gesture of immense significance. Yet Seraphina spoke as if tossing her leftovers to a stray.

  “You are a gutter rat among nobles,” she continued, staring Jessica down. “A disgrace to both your family and this academy. But at the very least, you are so pitiful that even I can grant you this much charity.”

  She crossed her arms, expecting groveling.

  Instead, Jessica grinned, holding up the rapier and giving it a few testing swings.

  “Oh?”

  The balance was perfect. It was light, sharp, and effortless in her grip. This was her kind of sword.

  “Well, well, well,” she mused, smirking as she turned back to Seraphina. “Looks like I finally found a sword fit for me.”

  Seraphina’s eye twitched.

  The nobles in the elite class had no idea how to react.

  Some were offended that Jessica had accepted the weapon so casually.

  Some were appalled that the princess had acknowledged her at all.

  And some were just baffled that Seraphina herself had essentially been goaded into giving away a personal weapon.

  Tobias, meanwhile, stared at the rapier in Jessica’s hands with a mix of resignation and exhaustion.

  “You got an elite-tier weapon... by complaining?” he muttered in disbelief.

  Jessica turned to him with a smug smile. “I win.”

  He groaned, rubbing his temples.

  Seraphina, meanwhile, regretted everything.

  Chapter 12: The Sprinting Gutter Rat

  Jessica’s endurance training was starting to pay off.

  The first few days had left her feeling like she was dying—like her muscles were screaming in protest, like her very bones wanted to shatter under the strain.

  But now? She was getting faster.

  And the more she trained, the more she realized something strange.

  Her instincts were... brutal.

  When she held her new rapier in her hands, it felt natural. Too natural. The movements that wanted to come out weren’t the elegant, honorable strikes of a knight—they were vicious, efficient, and terrifyingly precise. She wanted to thrust at joints, flick the blade through exposed flesh, move in ways that had nothing to do with proper swordsmanship.

  So she suppressed it.

  Even when training, she forced herself to fight in a way that felt acceptable—quick, agile, and overwhelming, but not monstrous.

  But even while holding back... she humiliated the squiring students.

  The other students hadn’t even gotten used to their weapons yet, still struggling to refine their forms. Meanwhile, Jessica moved like a mosquito flitting around their heads—darting in and out of their reach, dodging and weaving with ease.

  One poor squire swung his sword, and she was already behind him before he realized he missed. She tapped his back with her knuckles.

  “Dead,” she said cheerfully.

  Another tried to block her thrust. She stopped her rapier just before his throat.

  “Checkmate,” she added, flicking his weapon aside effortlessly.

  And when a frustrated squire rushed her, hoping to overwhelm her with brute force—

  She punched him.

  Right in the jaw.

  Not a refined knightly strike. Not an elegant counter.

  A full-on street brawl punch.

  He dropped instantly.

  The training hall went silent.

  These squires weren’t weak. They were the most promising trainees of their generation, carefully selected and trained for years. And yet Jessica—magic cripple, unwanted outlier—was making them look like fumbling children.

  They hated it.

  They hated that someone like her was outpacing them in raw skill.

  They hated that she wasn’t using magic, wasn’t using proper knightly techniques—and was still winning.

  They hated that no matter what they did, she dodged.

  Her reflexes were inhuman.

  Her movements were obnoxious.

  She was a disgrace to proper swordplay.

  But worst of all?

  She was winning.

  Jessica wasn’t provisional anymore.

  Her skill was undeniable. She had humiliated too many squires, dodged too many attacks, and outpaced too many knights-in-training for anyone to pretend otherwise.

  And that made things worse.

  Because now, instead of dismissing her, they had to acknowledge her.

  Not as an equal. Never as an equal.

  She was still a magic cripple. Still a gutter rat.

  They whispered among themselves, murmuring behind her back.

  “She’s fast, but that’s all she has.”

  “Once we get better with magic, she won’t stand a chance.”

  “A magicless knight is just a joke. She’ll lose eventually.”

  “She’s just sprinting at the start. She’ll never win the marathon.”

  “Worthless, worthless, worthless.”

  Jessica ignored them.

  Her body was still sore, her endurance still growing, her limits still being tested.

  She had five seconds of brilliance in her last duel.

  Next time?

  She’d make it ten.