After the much-needed rest day came the inevitable return to what I affectionately dubbed Endless Hell.
Okay, I was being dramatic. Obviously. But who cares? I like being dramatic. It makes life more entertaining.
Dragging my body out of bed with all the grace of a retired war veteran, I scarfed down breakfast and bolted straight for the arena. My goal today? Simple.
Slice the damn dummy with that fucking katana.
One good hit. That was all I asked for. Just a single, satisfying slash.
Fueled by spite and delusion, I marched toward the weapon racks, my eyes locking onto the familiar, curved blade like it owed me money.
I picked up the katana with something between reverence and seething hatred. Gave it a quick flourish. The sound of its motion sliced the air.
"Today's the day," I muttered like a madman. "You're going down, you straw bastard."
And then began my self-imposed idle hacking simulator. Except this version came with no power-ups, no progression bar, and certainly no gratifying level-ups. Just raw, relentless effort. Over and over again.
I slashed. And slashed. And slashed.
And the dummy? It endured. Withstood. Mocked.
Hours passed, and my "progress" consisted of slightly deeper dents. Barely even scratches in the grand scheme of things.
How is it that I can summon lightning from the sky and explode flower bombs, but I can't cut through a glorified scarecrow?
Veins popped on my forehead. My frustration peaked. My patience snapped.
With a growl of rage, I hurled the katana across the arena.
CLANG!
The blade smashed against the ground with a dramatic crash, cracking along the middle before snapping in half.
I stood there for a moment, watching the remains of the weapon, breathing heavily.
"…Tch." I clicked my tongue and shut my eyes, forcing myself to inhale deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
Once the rage simmered and the storm inside my head calmed down, I came to a decision. A simple, logical conclusion:
"Katana was bullshit."
That's it. No epiphany. No lesson. Just a firm rejection of all things curved and aesthetic.
I'm better off with a longsword anyway, I told myself. At least I can swing it without feeling like an idiot.
I wandered back to the racks and picked up a familiar double-edged longsword. It sat in my hands like a long-lost friend. Heavy but comforting. Solid and reliable. I gave it a few test swings.
'Yup. This feels right.'
The katana was a phase. A flirtation with the exotic. But the longsword? That was my weapon.
If I really wanted to look cool, I could do it with anything. Being badass doesn't come from the weapon. It comes from me.
Delusional self-assurance: fully restored.
With a grin returning to my face, I walked back to the dummies. My mood had been resurrected, and now it was time to vent every last ounce of frustration through beautiful, unrepentant violence.
I took a deep breath.
"[Flash Speed]!"
My body surged forward, momentum kicking in like a slingshot. The world blurred.
"[Lightning]!"
Electricity crackled in the air, amethyst currents trailing from my limbs as they danced over the blade.
"[Indigo Bloom]!"
The moment my blade connected with the dummy, a flower burst into existence—ethereal and glowing in deep amethyst hues. Its petals spread like fireworks, then detonated outward in a graceful but devastating slash wave.
The dummy shattered into splinters.
Then, as expected, it reformed seconds later—perfect and pristine. Ready to be destroyed again.
But that was fine. That was great, even. Because for once, it wasn't about progress.
It was about release.
I let go.
Technique? Who cared.
Backlash? Not thinking about it.
I just threw myself into the rhythm. Slashes turned to bursts. Movements bled together like a violent dance.
Afterimages of amethyst followed my blade. The air buzzed with residual mana. Glowing cuts and flower petals tore through everything in their path.
Again. And again. And again.
Each time the dummy reformed, I greeted it with another flurry. Sometimes smiling. Sometimes laughing.
It wasn't productive.
But it was cathartic.
Night eventually fell, and with it, so did my fatigue. But this time, my body felt light.
My mood had done a complete 180. Like I'd finally beaten the game boss that was living rent-free in my head.
With a smile plastered across my face, I did what any sane person with a sibling would do after hours of destructive therapy:
I went to annoy Mia again.
...
She was, as always, buried in books, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and brain whirring like an overclocked machine.
"Hey Mia," I said, sliding into the room like I owned it. "Did you know you can tell someone's intelligence by how annoyed they get when you interrupt them?"
She didn't look up.
I grinned. "You're really smart, you know that?"
Still no response. But the twitch in her eyebrow spoke volumes.
Mission accomplished.
With my soul rejuvenated and my sister mildly irritated, I went straight to bed.
Sleep welcomed me like an old friend.
Tomorrow? Who knows.
But for tonight… I was content.
...
The next day arrived in a blur—and so did I.
Blurring, literally, into the arena.
The realization had hit me like a brick wall: only a few days remained before the entrance examination of Rose Academy.
And I had no plans to fade into the background like some generic overpowered protagonist who "doesn't like attention."
Hell no.
I wasn't going to be one of those "I hate the limelight" types. That wasn't my thing. That never had been my thing.
If I had to suffer through being in this eroge-inspired semi-fantasy world, then I was going to make damn sure that everyone at that academy knew exactly who the fuck Cassius Lancaster was.
Not a pacifist. Not a pushover. But a fist-fist motherfucker who wasn't afraid to break some bones—preferably not mine.
Because knowing the template of this world, I was bound to encounter a good number of Young Master extras—those overinflated egos stuffed in noble uniforms with no real power but all the audacity in the world.
And I? I wasn't about to sit back and be treated like some mob character in their story.
'They're gonna learn.'
'Oh, they're gonna learn real fast.'
With that motivational inner monologue fueling my steps, I strode into the arena, fully expecting the familiar sight of lifeless training dummies waiting for another beating.
But instead…
I stopped.
Blinking.
It wasn't just the wooden dummies waiting for me this time.
It was her.
Isolde stood in the middle of the arena, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with amusement—and something far more dangerous.
But that wasn't the only thing different about her.
She wasn't wearing her usual battle-gown or formal noble attire today.
No, no.
She was wearing… gym clothes.
A sleek black top that hugged her frame and form-fitting leggings that moved with every slight motion.
Her aemthyst hair was tied up in a no-nonsense ponytail, and her demeanor screamed trainer mode: engaged.
My eye twitched slightly.
Semi-fantasy world, I reminded myself. 'Right. Urban clothes exist here because the devs wanted to appeal to modern aesthetics.'
Totally immersion-breaking?
Yes.
Did I mind?
Hell no.
Because deep down, I loved urban clothes. Especially hoodies. All black, of course. That was peak fashion.
And the best part? I knew the Academy had all that and more. They imported goods from all over the continent of Alaris—even from kingdoms outside its borders. Food, accessories, perfumes, enchanted gear, exotic weapons, artifacts—you name it.
Just thinking about the shopping possibilities almost made me forget the very real threat standing before me.
Almost.
A sharp voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.
"What are you brooding about, standing there like an idiot?"
Ah. There it was. Isolde's ever-graceful, soul-crushing tone of mockery and command.
I tore my eyes away from the very distracting idea of hoodies and focused on her, resisting the urge to sigh like a defeated office worker.
"Nothing," I said flatly. "Just wondering why Mia was spared from your iron claws today."
Her crimson lips curled into a smile—equal parts warmth and malice.
"She's on her own now. It's her rest day," she said, casually slipping on a pair of sleek, black gloves that shimmered with faint mana lines. "So I thought I'd spend some quality time with my son today."
I deadpanned. "I don't appreciate the thought."
She laughed. Genuinely. As if I'd just told the world's funniest joke.
"Oh, sweetie," she purred, her expression twisting into something cruelly affectionate, "I'll make sure you don't."
And that's when I felt it.
The dread.
Like someone had lit a bonfire inside my gut.
Every instinct I had screamed danger. My mana senses flared to life, warning me that if I didn't run now, I might not walk away from this.
But the other half of my brain—the logical, responsible, guilt-tripping half—whispered cold truths into my ear.
'If you run, she'll hunt you. And if she hunts you, she'll make it worse. Much worse.'
So suck it up and take the beating like a champ.
Because this was training. Necessary training. Training that could mean the difference between embarrassing myself at the entrance exam or walking in with my metaphorical—or literal—middle fingers raised.
And I had no intention of getting laughed out of Rose Academy.
So, I steeled myself. With a crooked grin on my face. And launched myself forward.
"Bring it on!!!"
"[Flash Speed]!"
My body moved at lightning-fast velocity, slicing through the air as I dashed toward her.
It was time.
Time to suffer.
Time to get stronger.