"If you don't fix your uniform and your attitude by tomorrow, then be ready to face the consequences."
With that, Lenira turned on her heel and strode away, her heels clicking like a closing sentence.
The door opened with silent rage. Class dismissed.
Elaria remained standing.
She didn't speak. But her fists were clenched, nails digging into her palms. Her teeth pressed hard into her lip. Pride—shredded.
The next subject was Swordsmanship.
Students rose, murmuring, the atmosphere thick with what they'd just witnessed. They filtered toward the exit, bound for the training yard.
But Julien had other intentions.
He stood. Then moved—fast.
Straight to the front row. Straight to her.
Before anyone could react—
He pinned Elaria to the wall.
His right hand caught both of hers and slammed them above her head, wrists pinned to stone.
His left knee drove between her thighs—high. Forced her legs apart, lifted her slightly off balance.
Her skirt hiked. Her breath caught.
Gasps rippled.
A voice—female, sharp, uncertain.
"W-What are you doing?"
A red-haired girl stepped forward. Average height. Average face. Average figure. The typical noble daughter: proper, plain, forgettable.
She took another step, hand outstretched. "Get away from her—"
Julien turned his head.
Violet eyes gleamed.
Not with light. With contempt.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes lowering as if staring at something beneath him. An insect.
"This is between Rothvale and Reinhart." His voice was smooth. Even.
But every word carried weight—sharp, precise.
He raised his voice—clear enough for all.
"Speak again... and I'll make sure no one remembers your name."
The girl froze. Mouth opened. Then shut.
She stepped back. Slowly.
No one else moved.
Murmurs trickled. But the crowd shifted toward the exit—quiet, cautious, eyes averted.
Elaria twisted. No use.
Wrists didn't budge. Thighs flexed around his knee, only driving it deeper.
He leaned in.
Close.
Too close.
His face inches from hers. Her breath hitched.
'What is he doing?'
His eyes bore into hers—smoldering, amused. Then his left hand slid down.
To her thigh.
Fingers traced up.
She flinched.
He lifted her leg. Rested it over his raised knee. Forced her open. Locked her in place.
'Wh…What—'
Their faces—one inch apart.
Her eyes fluttered half-closed. Not desire. Reflex.
His breath brushed her lips.
And then—
He kissed her.
Not soft.
A hard, deep press. Mouth open. Heat shared. Breath stolen.
Wet. Slow. Full of spit and dominance.
A sound escaped her. Not a moan. Not a protest. Just… shock.
He didn't stop immediately. Only when he was sure she couldn't breathe.
Then he pulled back.
His gaze shifted.
First—to Tristina. Still seated. Still watching. Gray eyes locked on his.
Expression unreadable.
Then—to the red-haired boy.
Shaking. Jaw locked. Fists clenched. Blood dripping from palms.
Face a storm of rage.
But behind it— Helplessness.
He could do nothing.
Julien knew it.
He met the boy's gaze directly.
And smiled.
That quiet, satisfied smile of a man who knew he'd carved something irreparable.
Then—he leaned in again.
And kissed her deeper.
This time, never breaking eye contact with the boy.
When the kiss ended, he pulled back. Slow. Unhurried.
His grip loosened.
Elaria slid against the wall, catching herself on trembling legs. Skirt rumpled. Breathless.
The silence lingered. Heavy.
Then—Julien turned.
And walked off.
Like nothing had happened.
One by one, the others moved again. Stiff. Quiet. Avoiding his eyes.
Julien walked leisurely. Boots clicking against polished stone. Hands in his pockets.
The Sword Hall waited.
Reinforced marble. Aged wood. Worn smooth from decades of combat.
Sunlight streamed through arched windows. Training blades lined the walls.
No banners. No flair. Just steel. Space. Silence.
Discipline—made manifest.
Students filed in. Formed rows. No one spoke.
Then—
The doors slammed open.
A woman strode in.
Massive. Broad-shouldered. Towering in her black instructor's coat.
Midnight-black hair fell in a thick, braided rope down her back—long enough to brush the curve of her rear with each stride.
Her skin was sun-bronzed and scarred, smooth where it wasn't hardened by battle.
Eyes like polished obsidian swept the room—sharp, bottomless, utterly unimpressed.
Her coat was left partly unbuttoned, exposing a tight, cleavage-baring corset beneath.
Her chest—full and commanding—pressed high against the leather, the line of her breasts deep and unforgiving. Each breath made the swell rise like it was challenging the fabric to contain her.
Her waist tapered hard into broad hips, the lines of muscle giving way to the heavy, brutal curve of her rear that flexed under every step.
Her thighs were thick and powerful, wrapped in dark leather cut high to expose battle-scars along the outer skin.
Her boots were scuffed and heavy, the kind that had crushed ribs before.
She didn't walk. She marched.
A force of nature in the shape of a woman—blunt, brutal, and breathtaking.
She walked to the front. Climbed the raised stone platform.
Unsheathed the sword.
And slammed it down.
The blade cracked marble.
Both hands on the hilt. Feet planted. Back straight.
Then—
"My name is Eleanor von Thronveil." "I'll be taking your Swordsmanship class."
Her gaze swept the room.
"If any of you think I'll go easy on you because of your bloodlines—" A pause. "Or your physical condition—"
She smiled.
Not kind.
"Leave now, before I break something that can't be healed."
She shoved the sword deeper. Crunch.
No one moved.
'Like anyone can leave a mandatory class,'
Julien thought, dryly.
He shifted—just slightly.
It was enough.
Her eyes locked on him.
"You." Chin jerked. "Up here."
He exhaled. Walked forward. Unhurried.
Climbed the stage.
She eyed him. "Name."
"Julien."
"Full name."
Head tilted. "Julien de Rothvale."
A twitch in her eyes. Then—blank.
She turned to the class.
"Anyone willing to spar with him?"
Silence.
"No one?" she said louder. "What are you—cowards?"
The word coward hit hard.
Julien couldn't help but smile slightly.
Then—
"I'll do it."
The voice cut like a blade.
The red-haired boy stepped forward. Climbed the stage. Stood opposite.
"But I want it to be a duel." "I place the honor of House Reincrest on the line."
Gasps.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
"You sure?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"You know what that means." "No matter what happens—you accept it."
"I do."
His jaw twitched.
Reincrest—technically a branch family of the Reinhart Royal family—was once eligible for ducal status. But Rothvale and Draker influence had blocked the elevation. Demoted to counts. Forgotten.
Resentment festered in their blood like rust.
But this was more than politics—
Personal.
"Name and rank," she said.
"Apprentice Darian de Reincrest. I request a duel."
Julien stepped forward.
"Aspirant Julien de Rothvale. I accept."
They took stances.
Eleanor raised her hand—then dropped it.
"Begin."
Julien didn't move.
Instead, he tilted his head, voice calm, casual.
"Before we start…"
"Mind if I ask something?"
Darian narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Julien smiled.
"How did it feel…" "Watching me kiss your love?"
Darian flinched.
"You're in love with your cousin, right?"
"Incest retard."
Detonation.
Darian exhaled slowly. His smile twisted—not pleasant. Not sane.
"Talking's useless." "I should've just shut you up the moment you opened that mouth."
And with that—
He moved.
Fast. Blurred.
Sword raised, feet skimming across the stone as he circled behind Julien in one clean arc.
"For bastards like you—violence is the only language that works."
Julien's lips parted, almost amused.
Then came the whisper:
"Memorize. Gale Step."
Wind exploded around his boots.
A burst of invisible pressure launched him forward—faster than Darian's blade.
He blurred—then disappeared from Darian's line of sight.
The swing missed air.
And Darian—barely regained balance—turned just in time to see a blur behind him.
Too late.
Julien was already there.
A gloved hand grabbed Darian's collar from behind—
And yanked.
Darian stumbled—off balance—
And then—
CRACK.
Julien slammed him down.
Sword in hand, he planted a foot between Darian's shoulder blades—pressing with full weight—pinning him.
The tip of Julien's sword found flesh.
And slid in.
First—the left thigh.
Steel sank deep.
Darian screamed.
Julien grinned.
Then the right.
The scream choked.
Then—the left hand.
Followed by the right.
Then the elbow.
Then the shoulders.
Strike after strike.
Not sloppy. Not savage.
Precise. Controlled. Cruel.
Darian writhed, blood pooling beneath him—his limbs stabbed through one by one. Like a puppet being disassembled. One joint at a time.
Gasps. Gags.
A few students turned away.
Others stared in horror.
Elaria stood frozen.
Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. No words.
Just the sight—Julien above Darian like a butcher mid-carve.
At the edge of the hall, the red-haired girl shoved her way toward the instructor's platform.
She rushed Eleanor's side. Breathless.
"Please—stop the duel."
"It's over. He clearly won. He's going to kill him!"
Eleanor didn't turn.
"They both accepted."
"It continues until one yields."
"I'm Ava de Reincrest. His sister. I—"
Eleanor's voice turned hard.
"I don't care if you're his sister. Or his mother."
"Unless one of them concedes, this duel stands."
Ava's expression cracked.
Tears welled in her eyes as Darian's next scream rang out across the hall.
She turned toward the stage.
"Brother—stop!"
"Concede, please!"
"You won't even be able to hold a sword if he stabs you more!"
On the ground, Darian's eyes blinked open.
Foggy. But still conscious.
He heard her voice.
His sister.
The pain was blinding.
His limbs felt like fire.
But the shame—the shame was worse.
He gritted his teeth.
'I can't… I can't let it end like this…'
'But…'
His jaw trembled.
'I… can't move anymore…'
And then, with a broken breath—
"I conce—"
SHLICK.
Bone cracked. Flesh tore.
Blood sprayed across the stage.
His arm dropped onto the marble.
Severed.