I stepped through the War Department's main entrance into a courtyard filled with students - some rushing between buildings, others clustered in groups enjoying the break between classes. The morning sun caught my face, warm without being oppressive, and a light breeze flowed through my hair as I closed my eyes for a moment.

  Much better.

  A bell rang somewhere in the distance - marking the end of one period and the start of another. The sound echoed across the Academy grounds, mixing with the chatter of hundreds of students.

  I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and drew smoke deep into my lungs.

  The file under my arm crinkled slightly as I shifted it, mentally reviewing what Ashcroft had included. Leonard's schedule showed he'd be attending Advanced Swordsmanship - a class reserved for nobles and the occasional talented commoner - after morning break.

  West wing of the War Department. Building C-2, fourth floor.

  I'd arrive well into their class, but it didn't matter much to me.

  I started walking, weaving between clusters of students with practiced ease. None of them paid me much attention - just another brown - uniformed first year. Though I got a couple disdainful looks for the smell of ash that accompanied me.

  Smoking wasn't inherently banned, but smoking cigarettes was considered cheap and boorish. Something I was reminded of whenever I saw the look of disdain of those with their head held a bit too high.

  I merely shrugged it off and took another hit.

  The walk took less time than expected. The War Department's layout was designed for efficiency - straight corridors, clearly marked wings, minimal decoration. I found the west wing gymnasium easily enough, following signs and the general flow of students carrying practice weapons.

  The hallway leading to the training arena resembled every other military facility I'd seen - polished floors, high ceilings, walls lined with plaques commemorating past champions and tournament winners. Photographs of young men in formal poses, holding trophies, looking proud and serious in equal measure.

  Smiling in photos seems to be out of fashion.

  Most of the names under the plaques sounded French. Most were, of course, of Noble descent.

  I reached the door at the corridor's end and pushed it open.

  The arena opened before me - smaller than I'd expected, maybe thirty meters across, with tiered seating rising on three sides like a miniature coliseum. The fighting space itself was marked by white lines on dark wood flooring, well-worn from countless practice bouts.

  A match was already in progress.

  And much to my amusement, I arrived just in time to see someone get knocked flat on his ass.

  The victor - a young man with messy snow-white hair and an absolutely deadpan expression - stood over his fallen opponent with the casual disinterest of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. His uniform was plain brown, no decorations or embellishments. Low-born, clearly. And from the way he held himself, completely unbothered by the fact.

  The one on the ground...

  I had to suppress a smile.

  Convenient timing.

  Leonard.

  He pushed himself upright slowly, clearly winded, and performed a formal bow to his opponent before retreating to the seating area. His movements were precise despite his defeat - every gesture measured, controlled, maintaining dignity even in loss.

  Very noble of him.

  I made my way down the steps as quietly as possible, timing my descent to blend with the general shuffling of students between matches. Leonard settled into a seat about three rows from the bottom, back straight, hands clasped in his lap.

  I slid into the seat directly behind him and tapped his shoulder.

  He turned with visible annoyance - probably expecting another student looking to mock his loss.

  Then his eyes widened in shock.

  "What-"

  I smiled. "Yeah, I'm as shocked as you are."

  Leonard stared at me for a long moment, then smiled wryly - the expression looking strange on his usually stern face as he turned back to face the arena..

  "You're a bit creepy, you know that?"

  I smiled in response.

  "I'll try not to take it to heart."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I glanced around the seating area. Students clustered in small groups - all male, all watching the arena with varying degrees of interest. A few gave me odd looks, probably wondering who I was and why I'd sat with Leonard. A couple of eyes lit up in recognition, for reasons I was pretty sure I didn't want to know.

  "Why don't you hang out with some of your friends?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the groups.

  Leonard's expression didn't change. "I prefer to keep my normal life peaceful and monotone. The fewer connections I maintain outside of duty, the simpler things remain."

  I looked down at the arena floor, where the white-haired student still stood, waiting for his next opponent with the patience of a statue. The same one who'd beaten Leonard.

  "Is that why you let him win?"

  Leonard shook his head. "Even if I desired victory, I would not be able to achieve it in a battle of pure sword skill. Not against him."

  That caught my attention, a bit surprised.

  "What do you mean?"

  Leonard nodded towards the arena.

  "See for yourself."

  A new opponent stepped onto the floor.

  This one was everything the white-haired student wasn't - polished, decorated, clearly noble. Blonde hair styled with what must have been expensive oils. A golden necklace hung around his neck, bearing a small mask worked in intricate detail. His uniform had been tailored to fit perfectly, with subtle embroidery along the collar that spoke of wealth and status. In all measures, he seemed like the exemplification of what the Empire would consider a 'proper Noble'.

  In my opinion, he looked a bit like an ass though.

  He faced the white-haired student with an expression of cold determination.

  The contrast was almost comical. Wealth versus poverty. Noble versus commoner. Perfectly groomed versus clearly unbothered by appearance.

  "That's Arman Beaufort," Leonard said quietly, still watching the arena. "Son of Marquis Beaufort. One of many nobles who have a... vendetta against the other one."

  "The white-haired guy?"

  "Lucien. A commoner who's beaten Arman multiple times. Along with most of the other noble students in this class." Leonard's tone carried something that might have been respect. "He's becoming something of a messiah among the commoner students. Living proof that skill matters more than birth."

  I smiled. "Oh? Careful, I might start to like this guy."

  The match began.

  Arman moved first - a textbook lunge, perfectly executed, the kind of attack you'd see in fencing manuals written by masters of the art. His form was flawless. Blade extended, back leg driving forward, weight distribution precise.

  Lucien sidestepped.

  Not dramatically. Just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly by his shoulder. A basic evasion any first-year student could perform.

  Except Arman had predicted it.

  The lunge transformed mid-motion - what should have been full extension became a pivot, the thrust becoming a horizontal slash aimed at Lucien's exposed neck. The kind of advanced technique that took years to master, hidden inside a basic attack.

  Clever.

  If Lucien was surprised, his face didn't show it. He darted backward, creating distance, but the movement cost him balance - weight shifted wrong, stance compromised.

  Armand capitalized immediately. He surged forward with both hands on his sword, using the momentum from his pivot to drive into a powerful thrust aimed at Lucien's chest. No wasted movement. No hesitation. The kind of aggressive follow-through that won tournaments.

  Lucien couldn't dodge this time. His weight was still settling from the retreat. His sword remained at his side, out of position to block.

  For half a heartbeat, I thought this was over.

  I thought Lucien had gotten arrogant. Sloppy. That his string of victories had made him predictable.

  I was wrong.

  Lucien's grip shifted.

  Not just adjusted - completely reversed. His hand flipped, turning his blade into a backhanded grip in the space between one breath and the next. The wooden sword swept upward in an arc so fast my eyes barely tracked it.

  By the time my brain processed what I'd seen, Armand's weapon was already flying through the air.

  It spun end over end before clattering to the floor several meters away.

  The sound echoed in sudden, absolute silence.

  Lucien stood exactly where he'd been, sword now held casually at his side in a normal grip again. As if the backhanded maneuver had never happened. As if disarming a charging opponent with perfect form was simply routine.

  His expression hadn't changed. Still that same cold, disinterested neutrality.

  Armand stared at his empty hand, mouth opening slightly in shock.

  I understood Leonard's words now. Even if I desired victory, I would not be able to achieve it in a battle of pure sword skill.

  This wasn't about divine blood or enhanced formulas or Inquisitorial training.

  This was just skill.

  Pure, undiluted, terrifying skill.

  Arman stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at his empty hand in apparent disbelief.

  Then his face twisted with rage.

  He swung his fist at Lucien's face - no technique, no control, just pure aristocratic fury at being embarrassed in front of witnesses.

  Lucien moved.

  A simple sidestep. The punch missed by inches.

  Then Lucien's knee came up, driving into Armand's ribs with the kind of precision that suggested he knew exactly where to hit for maximum effect without causing permanent damage.

  Arman collapsed, clutching his side, gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

  "MATCH!" The instructor's voice cut through the arena. "Disqualification! Beaufort, you are dismissed for the remainder of class!"

  Two students hurried onto the floor, helping the wheezing noble to his feet and half-carrying him toward the exit. Glaring at Lucien and the instructor on the way out.

  In the silence that followed, a single sound rang out.

  Clapping.

  My hands came together in slow, deliberate applause.

  Every head in the arena turned to look at me.

  Leonard twisted around in his seat, expression caught somewhere between surprise and horror.

  I kept clapping, then called out with a genuine smile.

  "Good job!"

  Lucien's cold gaze found me. His expression didn't change - still that same deadpan neutrality - but he inclined his head in a slight bow.

  The instructor stepped forward, face slightly red with irritation.

  "And who exactly are you?"

  I stood, adopting my most polite smile - the one reserved for authority figures I needed to placate. "Dean Ashcroft wished for me to deliver a message to this young man here." I patted Leonard's shoulder as I spoke, feeling the folded note slip from my palm into the gap between his collar and uniform. "I apologize for the disruption."

  The instructor's scowl deepened. "If you're finished, please leave. You've taken enough of this class's time already."

  I bowed low, hand over my heart. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

  I turned and walked toward the exit, keeping my pace measured and respectful.

  Behind me, I heard the instructor calling for the next match.

  The door closed, muffling the sounds of the arena.

  I allowed myself a small smile.

  I pulled out the file again, scanning Alice's schedule as I started walking.

  Free practice period. Conservatory, Studio 7.

  Academy of Aesthetic Arts. Western campus, North Wing.

  I checked my pocket watch as I felt the breeze of the outside flow through my hair yet again.

  Plenty of time left.

  I lit another cigarette and started walking.

  Now... Alice.