Chapter 9
Zero
The practice grounds reeked of sunbaked dirt and crushed turf.
Rough patches of grass clung to the uneven earth, trampled flat by years of drills, duels, and egos desperate to prove themselves. Chalk lines marked the perimeter of the dueling circle — faded, cracked — but still visible enough to cage us in.
The crowd of students pressed along the edges, kicking up dust as they jostled for a better view. Their whispers crackled louder than the cicadas buzzing from the trees nearby.
"He's actually going to fight him—"
"You think he'll draw blood?"
They weren't wrong to be so curious.
I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the prickling heat crawling up my spine. Sunlight beat down on the back of my uniform, making the sharp white fabric stick to my skin. I hated this thing already. Too polished. Too unlike me, just another mask I was being forced to wear.
Across from me, the cocky student squared his stance, sword drawn, knuckles pale against the hilt. His boots scuffed against the dirt, sending little clouds of dust curling around his ankles.
His eyes flicked toward my blade.
That's right. Look at it. Not the real threat. Just the one you can see.
I tapped my fingers along the hilt, letting the sword stay sheathed, watching him sweat under the pressure. His bravado from earlier cracked like brittle glass the longer we stood here.
From the sidelines, I felt eyes burning into me.
Roxana.
I could practically feel her glare peeling layers off me from across the field. She hated this—hated the performance, the attention, probably hated that I looked halfway decent in this ridiculous uniform.
I smirked faintly, twisting the ring on my finger. Yeah, well… hate wasn't enough to hide the way her gaze lingered.
The idiot across from me cleared his throat, tightening his grip. His stance still screamed amateur — feet uneven, shoulders too tense — but his mouth? That was still working fine.
"Come on, Dusker," he sneered. "Let's see if you're worth the Empire's praise. Or if you're just another pretty face."
A few girls giggled from the crowd. Someone whispered, "He has no idea what he's gotten himself into." I let the words settle, unsheathing my blade in one clean, quiet motion. The steel glinted faintly under the sun, sharp enough to carve air.
"You sure you want to embarrass yourself publicly?" I asked, stepping into the circle, boots crunching against the dirt.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't back down.
Foolish pride. Good. This won't take long.
"You remember the rules," I continued, voice low, carrying just enough for him — and the crowd — to hear. "Same track. Challenge accepted. Winner decides how long the loser stays conscious."
Someone near Roxana audibly gulped.
It was clear that all eyes were on us, waiting desperately to see who the winner would be. And not to boost my own ego, but I was leagues ahead of this fool. He screamed amateur. He didn't even compare to the rookies I had licking my boots for a good word with the Vatican.
This was going to be a short match.
"Your move."
The second the match started, the idiot charged.
Sloppy.
I barely shifted my stance, sword angled downward, waiting—because sometimes watching them trip over their own arrogance was more entertaining than ending it outright.
He swung wide—telegraphed, desperate—and I sidestepped with the smallest pivot of my heel, my blade flicking up to meet his in a sharp clang of steel.
His momentum dragged him forward.
I didn't resist.
Instead, I rolled with it, twisting my wrist and redirecting his blade harmlessly to the side—guiding him off-balance like a dance partner with two left feet.
"Watch your footing," I said casually as he stumbled past me, nearly face-planting into the dirt.
The crowd snorted, a ripple of laughter breaking out.
He spun, eyes wild, face flushed. "Shut up!"
Another lunge, faster this time.
Better, but still not good enough.
Our swords met again with a shriek of metal. I let him press forward, feigning resistance, then peeled away at the last second, sidestepping so his own momentum carried him stumbling forward—right into the practice post behind me.
His shoulder smacked the wooden beam, the impact jarring through the air.
"Oof." I winced, twirling my blade with a flourish as he recoiled, glaring murder. "You hit that post harder than you've hit me."
More laughter.
His frustration boiled over, and that's when it got fun.
He came at me with a flurry of swings—wild, unfocused, desperation leaking from every strike. I ducked one, pivoted around the next, blade glancing off his harmlessly, guiding his arm off course until—
WHACK.
He elbowed himself in the ribs, his own momentum betraying him again.
I smirked, eyes narrowing. "You've really mastered the art of self-sabotage."
His breathing hitched, frustration unraveling what little technique he had left.
I parried the next strike with ease, sliding my blade along his, twisting it down—forcing his own sword to slam into the dirt with a jarring thunk.
He froze, wide-eyed, weapon buried halfway in the turf.
I tapped the flat of my blade against his exposed neck, not even pressing hard enough to cut.
"Checkmate," I drawled, stepping back with irritating grace. "If you're finished hitting yourself, I've got places to be." I turned away, walking with victory resting on my head like a crown.
The practice ground buzzed with whispers.
"He never even broke a sweat…"
"The Dusker's toying with him—"
"That was brutal…"
"This match has concluded! The winner is Zero!" Ellis stepped forward, raising his white gloved hand in the air signaling the end of the duel.
The idiot ripped his sword free, humiliated, chest heaving—but he didn't lunge again. His pride had already been gutted.
Or so I thought.
I turned my back on him, already sliding my sword toward its sheath, when the faintest scrape of metal behind me made every instinct flare.
Stupid mistake.
Before the blade could reach me, I spun, steel clashing as I caught his strike blindly behind my back. The impact jolted down my arm, but I barely registered it—my focus zeroed in on the bastard's wide, furious eyes.
A cheap shot. The match was over. He broke the rules—and now? He'd learn what happens when you corner something worse than him.
Without hesitation, I grabbed him by the collar, my fingers tightening like a vice. His eyes widened, mouth opening in some pathetic protest—but I didn't care.
I slammed him into the ground.
The earth cracked, dust exploding around us as the ground fractured under the force. Gasps echoed through the crowd, the courtyard falling into stunned silence.
I didn't let go.
The idiot writhed under my grip, wheezing, face pale as I pressed my blade to his chest—its edge igniting with black and purple flame, a sickly glow licking up the steel like the promise of death.
Gone was the cocky smirk, the lazy amusement.
My voice dropped, low and venomous, no trace of playfulness left. "You're lucky I'm feeling generous," I warned, blade hovering inches from his throat. "Another stunt like that, and I'll show you what happens when I stop holding back."
The flame flared hotter, darker—the temperature in the air shifted, dread rippling like a storm on the horizon.
The students whispered in stunned horror:
"What kind of magic is that?"
"It looks… evil…"
"I feel… cold… like it's crawling under my skin…"
The idiot's breath hitched, terror blooming across his features.
But before I could drive the lesson deeper, a firm hand clamped down on my wrist, halting the blade mid-air.
Ellis. His grip was unyielding, voice sharp with warning. "Easy, Zero. You've already won. Let the poor boy breathe before he wets himself."
For a moment, I didn't move.
The dark flame hissed quietly, my heart pounding—a dangerous rhythm I hadn't heard in a while.
But slowly, I exhaled, tearing my arm away with a grunt. The fire snuffed out, the oppressive chill dissipating.
The crowd stayed frozen, wide-eyed, whispers spreading like wildfire. Even Roxana stared, arms crossed, her usual sharp glare faltering with something else— hidden behind her golden eyes I could see it. Feel it. Her fear.
I stood up, brushing the dust from my uniform as the idiot scrambled away like a kicked dog.
"I've grown tired of this," I said, lowering my head. "I didn't come here to make friends. You all can whisper and gawk all you want, I couldn't give a damn."
"Zero…" Roxana whispered, stepping toward me with her arm outstretched.
My hand shot out of reflex, smacking her away before I could think. I gasped, realizing what I had done.
"I didn't mean to— I'm just… I need some space." All of a sudden, my confidence faded.
My palms grew sweaty and shaky. The stares on me, it was like I was a child again. All the judgmental looks that made me feel so small.
My feet took off while my head was all a blur. I could hear Roxana shout at me, but I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. I didn't want to look back.
Their terrified faces. Everyone always looked at me like that when they saw the real me. The beast I desperately tried to hide inside that secretly loved the carnage and the fear my presence brought to my opponents.
Why was I born like this? Why the hell was I even born at all?
Eventually, I ran out of endurance. Stopping to catch my breath behind the gymnasium. I slouched against the wall, my back sliding down until l was slumped on the ground with my head hanging between my knees.
"No, this is for the best. This is how it's always been." I looked toward the blaring sky, shading my eyes from the suns brilliance. My ring with a ruby stone glinting like a beacon.
"Yes, this is for the best," I muttered, my voice cracking under the forced chuckle. "Better to be feared than let anyone close… It's the only way to protect everyone."