Chapter 17: A Battlefield Without Witnesses

  The students stood in uneasy silence, their bodies aching, their minds heavy with exhaustion.

  The battle had left them battered, their numbers reduced, their arrogance shattered.

  For the first time in their privileged lives, they had fought a battle where magic had failed them.

  And they had barely survived.

  Seraphina von Aurelius exhaled slowly, sheathing her bloodstained rapier.

  “We need to regroup,” she said, her voice steady despite the weariness in her bones. “There’s still one thing left to do.”

  Lucien von Hohenfeld turned his crimson gaze toward her.

  “You mean checking for survivors?”

  She hesitated.

  Then, quietly—

  “Jessica.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the group.

  Reynard Falkenrath let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You really think she’s alive?”

  “Dead or not,” Magnus Reinhardt said, his voice grim, “we need to confirm it.”

  No one argued, but the reluctance was palpable.

  It wasn’t just that they assumed Jessica was dead.

  It was the wicked curiosity clawing at their chests—the need to know.

  Had she died screaming? Had she been torn apart like the trainees?

  Or—

  No.

  That wasn’t possible.

  The group hesitated, reluctant. They had just survived hell. Going back, even with magic slowly returning, felt reckless.

  But curiosity, sick and undeniable, overrode their hesitation.

  They had to know.

  And so, bloodied and limping, the remains of the elite class made their way toward the battlefield they had abandoned.

  _

  They returned to a battlefield that was wrong.

  It was still. Too still.

  No one spoke at first.

  The exhaustion was too deep. The losses too fresh.

  But the silence itself became unbearable.

  Seraphina was the first to break it.

  “...There’s no destruction.”

  A pause. A long, uneasy pause.

  Lucien exhaled slowly, his crimson eyes flickering over the perfect, clinical slaughter before them.

  Magnus ran a hand through his blood-matted hair, his expression unreadable.

  Gareth swallowed. “This isn’t normal.”

  No one disagreed.

  No one wanted to say what they were all thinking.

  Because the alternative was impossible.

  And at the center of it all—Jessica Moran stood alone.

  Shaking.

  Shuddering.

  Her uniform was torn. Not in a way that suggested injury—her skin remained untouched—but in ways that shouldn’t have made sense.

  Certain seams had split, as if pulled too sharply. The edges of her sleeves were frayed, her collar slightly stretched. Her pant legs were scuffed where they had dragged too hard against the earth.

  As if she had been moving too fast for her own clothes to keep up.

  But there were no wounds.

  And her grip—her grip had not loosened.

  Her fingers curled too tightly around the hilt of her sword. Knuckles white, trembling from the sheer strain of not letting go.

  She wasn’t holding onto it for survival.

  She was holding onto it like she had forgotten how to let go.

  And then—Lucien was moving.

  _

  Lucien moved first.

  Not because he wanted to.

  Not because it was rational.

  But because something about this was wrong, and his body refused to wait for an answer.

  He reached her first.

  Jessica barely reacted as his shadow fell over her.

  Lucien’s gaze swept over her—too sharp, too precise, too focused.

  Her breath was too erratic.

  Her fingers would not let go of the sword.

  Lucien’s jaw tightened.

  Then—he reached out.

  His hand closed over her wrist.

  Not harsh. Not forceful.

  A grounding touch.

  Jessica stiffened. Not because of him—but because she hadn’t realized how badly she was shaking.

  Lucien’s grip tightened slightly. Testing. Feeling. Confirming.

  Her pulse was too fast.

  Her skin was too cold.

  Her fingers—still locked around the hilt—would not loosen.

  Lucien exhaled slowly, a quiet, measured breath.

  Then—he pried her fingers open.

  Jessica blinked. Finally, she looked at him.

  Lucien didn’t look back. He was still focused on her hand, on the way her fingers resisted, on the way her grip had turned into something unnatural.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She let go before she could think about it.

  And his fingers—**without hesitation—**curled around the hilt instead.

  Jessica’s breath hitched.

  Lucien’s gaze flickered.

  And something inside him uncoiled.

  She’s alive.

  _

  The others caught up.

  Seraphina von Aurelius stared at the battlefield. Her blue eyes swept over the scene—over the bodies, over the lack of struggle, over Jessica.

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  Lucien exhaled through his nose, not letting go of Jessica’s wrist. “No. It doesn’t.”

  The nobles, already shaken from their own losses, desperately tried to process what they were seeing.

  Reynard Falkenrath swallowed thickly. “She’s barely injured.”

  That wasn’t true.

  Jessica’s arms, legs, and ribs were covered in deep bruising, her uniform torn in places where her movements had been too fast, too sharp.

  But her skin was untouched.

  That shouldn’t have been possible.

  Seraphina forced herself to speak. “She wasn’t affected by the surge.”

  Lucien’s grip twitched slightly.

  Seraphina’s voice was quieter now, controlled, as if saying it out loud would help her believe it. “She doesn’t have a mana network. There was nothing for the surge to disrupt.”

  A pause.

  Then Reynard let out a short, bitter laugh. “Of course. Of course it’s that simple.”

  The nobles latched onto the explanation instantly.

  She hadn’t been affected. She had no magic. That’s why she lived. It was just luck.

  A perfect, logical answer.

  Then why didn’t it feel right?

  _

  Magnus exhaled sharply through his nose.

  “...Bullshit.”

  Heads turned.

  Magnus’ gaze didn’t leave Jessica.

  “She didn’t just survive.” His voice was cold now. Flat. Unyielding.

  His fingers twitched as he gestured toward the battlefield—toward the neatly butchered remains of monsters surrounding her.

  “She butchered them.”

  The nobles flinched.

  Because he was right.

  There was no panic in this slaughter. No reckless survival instinct. No sloppy, desperate injuries.

  Every stab was in a fatal point. Every cut, every strike—precise. Measured. Calculated.

  She had fought like someone who had done this a thousand times before.

  Magnus looked around at them, scoffing. “You’re all full of shit.”

  Reynard bristled. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”

  Magnus tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. “I’m saying you’re all trying really hard to pretend you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”

  _

  Jessica, still shaking, still caught between the last fading traces of adrenaline and exhaustion, smiled faintly.

  Lucien, still watching her too closely, noted that the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  His fingers tensed at his sides.

  Jessica met his gaze. Then Seraphina’s. Then Magnus’.

  And in a voice hoarse, exhausted, but light—

  “...Lucky me.”

  Lucien’s jaw locked.

  He didn’t like that answer.

  Not at all.

  _

  The official report was filed within the next hour.

  It stated the following:

  The elite class fought bravely.

  The battle was won through strategy and teamwork.

  Jessica Moran was separated briefly but survived.

  Nowhere did it say that she had fought alone.

  Nowhere did it say that she had killed more than the rest of them combined.

  Nowhere did it acknowledge that she had come out of that battlefield cleaner than the ones who had fled.

  Jessica was erased from their victory.

  Because they could not allow the alternative.

  Because the alternative was too terrifying to comprehend.

  And yet—

  Jessica, seated in the infirmary, watched them lie with that same unreadable smile.

  She did not argue.

  She did not correct them.

  Because this?

  This was exactly what she wanted.

  Chapter 18: The Weight of Survival

  Lucien carried Jessica into the makeshift camp infirmary, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

  The moment they stepped inside, the group healer, a first-year noble-born with an affinity for Water magic, rushed to meet them. Her face was pale, her hands trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer number of injured students she had already tended to.

  Lucien set Jessica down more carefully than he wanted to, his instincts screaming that she was barely holding herself together.

  But then—

  “...She’s fine.”

  Silence.

  Lucien’s red eyes flickered with something unreadable. “Excuse me?”

  The healer, visibly exhausted, adjusted her gloves and repeated, “Her vitals are stable. No internal injuries. No broken bones.”

  Jessica, still slumped forward slightly, exhaled through her nose in something resembling a laugh. She didn’t correct the healer.

  Lucien felt something ugly coil in his chest.

  He knew what he saw.

  ? The tremor in Jessica’s fingers when she tried to adjust her seating.

  ? The deepening bruises blooming across her abdomen.

  ? The way her shoulders sat too stiffly, as if she couldn’t relax them without something locking up.

  This wasn’t fine.

  His teeth ground together as his hands curled into fists.

  Why does this make me so angry?

  Jessica turned her head toward him—just slightly. The corners of her lips curved into something unreadable.

  “See?” she murmured. “I’m alive.”

  Lucien’s jaw locked so tight he could hear his own teeth creak.

  Alive.

  That wasn’t the same as fine.

  _

  The camp was a mess of exhaustion and quiet grief. The students were alive—but six were not.

  For the first time, the lesser nobles and commoners looked hollow.

  They weren’t used to this. To death.

  ? A noble-born girl sat against a tree, staring at nothing, her hands still shaking from where she had tried—and failed—to cast a spell that could have saved her partner.

  ? A knight-blooded boy, barely conscious, whispered the names of his fallen comrades under his breath as if keeping them alive by force of will.

  ? Even the arrogant ones—those who had scoffed at lesser ranks—had stopped talking.

  This was their first real battle.

  And reality was settling in.

  _

  Magnus Reinhardt had seen this before.

  When he was younger, before his magic meant anything, before the academy, he had traveled with mercenaries.

  Not the honorable kind.

  The kind that got paid to clear monster nests after entire villages had been wiped out.

  He had seen men ripped apart.

  He had seen young warriors hesitate—only to be devoured.

  He had seen people sob over bodies while the enemy was still coming.

  So when he saw the elite class falling apart, when he saw students breaking under the weight of their first real battle, he felt...

  Nothing.

  Not because he was cold.

  Not because he was heartless.

  Because this is what war was.

  And they had been sheltered from it their whole lives.

  _

  The march back to the academy was long. Grueling.

  One by one, students collapsed.

  The First Wave – True Injuries

  The first to fall were the ones who had taken real injuries.

  ? A boy with a cracked rib struggled at first—until the pain finally overtook him, and he crumpled to his knees.

  ? A girl with a gash across her leg made it halfway before she sank into the mud, unable to go further.

  ? Another, his arm wrapped tightly in a bloodied bandage, slowed down until he simply fell forward, unable to lift himself back up.

  Magnus moved immediately.

  “You, carry him.” He pointed at a noble-born squire.

  The boy hesitated, panting. “I—”

  Magnus grabbed him by the collar. “I don’t give a damn if you’re tired. Pick him up.”

  The squire stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the wounded boy. He swallowed hard—then bent down, hauling him onto his back.

  No one argued.

  Because Magnus was right.

  Another student—a girl barely standing—wavered, gripping her injured ribs.

  Magnus gestured sharply. “Help her.”

  A nearby knight-blooded trainee moved without hesitation.

  Magnus didn’t wait. He didn’t ask. He commanded.

  And the students obeyed.

  _The Second Wave – The Mind Breaks First

  Then came the next wave of collapses.

  The ones who looked fine, but weren’t.

  ? A noble girl suddenly clutched her chest, unable to breathe, hyperventilating from the delayed shock.

  ? A squire stumbled, not from injury, but from sheer mental exhaustion—his eyes dull, his body barely responding.

  ? Another girl, perfectly unscathed, suddenly sat down and refused to move. She just—stopped.

  Magnus assessed fast.

  The real injuries got carried.

  The mental ones?

  Magnus stopped in front of the girl who refused to move.

  She was shaking, staring blankly at the ground.

  “Up.” His voice was flat. Unyielding.

  She shook her head. “I— I can’t—”

  SLAP.

  The sound cracked like a whip.

  Her eyes shot wide, her breath catching.

  Magnus stared down at her, gaze sharp, voice cold. “I don’t care how you feel. Move or die.”

  She gasped for air, hands trembling—then, with ragged, unsteady movements, she stood.

  Not because she was ready.

  Because Magnus didn’t give her a choice.

  _The Final Wave – Redirecting the Remaining Strength

  More students began to stagger, to falter.

  Magnus didn’t let them.

  “You’re strong enough to walk? Then help someone who isn’t.”

  Some resisted.

  “I— I can barely keep going myself—”

  Magnus turned on them. “Then you’ve got two choices: Keep moving, or collapse and make someone else carry you.”

  No one chose the second option.

  He pushed. He ordered. He commanded.

  And in that moment—Magnus Reinhardt wasn’t just another commoner among nobles.

  He was the leader that the weak needed to survive.

  He was the one keeping them from falling apart.

  _

  Seraphina’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t fragile.

  But the sight of so many suffering—so many noble and common-born alike, breaking under the weight of this loss—

  She couldn’t just walk past them.

  She knelt beside a sobbing girl, one who had just realized that her best friend hadn’t made it.

  And for the first time, Seraphina did something her brother never would.

  She wrapped her arms around her.

  And let herself cry.

  “They deserved better.”

  Seraphina wiped her face, her grip tightening around the girl.

  “They deserved better.” She repeated it, softer this time.

  The girl nodded into her shoulder.

  No one else would cry for them.

  So she would.

  _

  Later, as they walked side by side, Seraphina turned to her brother.

  Her face was still wet with tears.

  Alistair’s wasn’t.

  “...Do you even care?” Her voice was quiet. Bitter.

  Alistair didn’t look at her.

  “I care.”

  She clenched her fists. “You don’t act like it.”

  His steps didn’t break. “A ruler can’t cry, Seraphina.”

  She scoffed, shaking her head.

  “No. You can’t cry.”

  And then, her voice dropped.

  “That’s why they’ll love me more.”

  Alistair stopped walking.

  For a moment—**just a moment—**his jaw clenched.

  And Seraphina knew she had struck a nerve.

  But he didn’t respond.

  Didn’t argue.

  Didn’t even correct her.

  Because maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t sure she was wrong.

  _

  As the students continued marching, as the weak fell, as the strong endured—

  Lucien still carried Jessica.

  Magnus still pushed people forward.

  Seraphina still comforted the fallen.

  And Alistair still said nothing.

  Because this was the cost of being a knight.

  Because this was the cost of being a ruler.

  Because this was the cost of survival.

  And no one would leave this battlefield as the same person they were before.