The Cursed Extra-Chapter 100: [2.48] Rome Wasn’t Built In A Day

"Luck is just preparation wearing a disguise."

***

I hit the sand hard. My body folded like a broken marionette. Dust filled my mouth and nose, but I barely noticed. The pain had evolved beyond mere sensation into something approaching religious experience.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m just dying a little bit.

"Leone!" Vance dropped his sword and fell to one knee beside me. His face went pale beneath his perfect tan. His hands hovered over my body. Uncertain where to touch. What to do. "Leone, can you hear me?"

I tried to respond. All that emerged was a wet, rattling sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Blood filled my mouth. Not enough to indicate internal bleeding. Just the copper taste of violence well-executed.

Tastes like victory. Victory tastes terrible.

"Get a medic!" someone shouted from the stands. Probably Leo. The voice carried that particular quality of command that came naturally to heroes.

"What happened?" Professor Blackthorne’s voice sliced through the arena’s sudden chaos. "I saw the strike. It should have been a simple disarm."

"He moved into it." Vance’s words came out strangled. Horrified. "He deliberately moved into the blow. Why would he—"

"BECAUSE HE’S AN IDIOT!" Fen’s voice roared across the arena, but even her usual fury sounded shaken. "WHAT KIND OF MORON WALKS INTO A POWER STRIKE?"

A moron with a plan, wolf-girl. A moron with a plan.

Footsteps pounded across the sand. Multiple sets converged on my position. Through the forest of legs surrounding me, I caught a glimpse of black fabric and white apron.

Lyra.

She moved like a shadow given form. Her face a perfect mask of worried servitude as she shouldered her way through the crowd. The onlookers parted before her. Not from any conscious decision. But from something in her bearing that commanded space despite her station.

"Young Master!" Her voice carried just the right note of panic. Not so much as to seem hysterical. But enough to convey genuine concern. "Oh, Young Master, what have they done to you?"

The tremor in her words was masterfully executed. Several onlookers shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly aware of their voyeuristic interest in my suffering.

That’s my girl.

She dropped to her knees beside me in a rustle of starched fabric. Her hands moved over my chest with gentle touches. Checking for injuries. To the watching crowd, it looked like a devoted servant tending her wounded master. The picture of appropriate concern.

But when her fingers pressed against the spot where bone had separated from bone. When she felt the unnatural give of my ribs beneath her palm. Her dark eyes met mine for the briefest instant.

In that momentary connection, I saw something hungry lurking behind her concern. A predator’s satisfaction at a successful hunt.

I managed the faintest nod. Barely a twitch of my chin. But enough for her to read my approval.

Her lips curved in what might have been relief or satisfaction. The expression gone so quickly that anyone watching would have dismissed it as a trick of the light.

Only I knew it for what it was.

Acknowledgment. Shared victory. We did it.

"The medic’s coming," she whispered. Loud enough for others to hear but soft enough to seem private. Her fingers lingered on my chest a heartbeat longer than necessary. Possessive in their touch.

She leaned closer. Ostensibly to check my breathing. Her long black hair fell around us like a curtain.

"Hold on, Young Master. You’re going to be fine."

The scent of lavender from her hair mixed with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Through the haze of pain, I felt a strange comfort in her presence.

My most devoted weapon. My first true ally in this world that wanted me dead.

Fine. The word tasted like victory despite everything.

"Move aside, all of you. Give me room to work."

The medic was a thin man with gray hair and steady hands. His Academy robes marked with the silver caduceus symbol of the healing arts. He knelt beside me and began his examination. Fingers probing along my ribs with professional detachment.

"What’s the damage, Healer Aldric?" Professor Blackthorne’s voice carried a note of genuine concern beneath its usual gruffness. He loomed over us. His massive frame blocked out the sunlight.

"Two ribs, lower left side." The medic’s hands continued their exploration. "Clean breaks, both of them. Nothing vital damaged. The lung’s intact. No sign of internal bleeding."

He prodded another spot that sent daggers of pain through my chest.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Professional detachment my ass.

He sat back on his heels. Wiped blood from his fingers with a clean cloth.

"He’s lucky. A few inches higher and we’d be looking at a punctured lung. A bit lower and he might have caught the liver." He shook his head. "For someone with such poor combat skills, he somehow managed to take the blow in the least damaging way possible."

Lucky.

Lucky.

The word echoed in my mind as consciousness began to slip away. Lucky. As if any part of this had been left to chance. As if I hadn’t spent hours studying anatomical diagrams. Mapping out exactly where and how to take the blow for maximum effect with minimum risk.

Luck had nothing to do with it.

The pain was fading now. Not because it was lessening but because my mind was finally allowing itself to disconnect from my body’s protests. I could hear voices around me.

Vance explaining what had happened. His tone defensive and frustrated.

Professor Blackthorne ordering students back to their dormitories with the bark of a career soldier.

Lyra’s continued performance of devoted concern. Her soft pleas for space and care.

But beneath it all, beneath the chaos and confusion and carefully orchestrated theater, I felt the new presence in my mind.

[Power Strike] sat in my consciousness like a perfectly cut gem. Its facets gleamed with potential. E-rank, certainly. Barely more than a party trick compared to what the real powerhouses could do.

But it was mine now.

Stolen fair and square according to the rules of my class. Plucked from Vance’s arsenal at the moment of impact.

The first of many.

As the world faded to black around the edges, I allowed myself a moment of genuine satisfaction.

Phase one was complete. The weakling act had served its purpose. Vance had been thoroughly humiliated despite his technical victory. And most importantly, I now possessed my first stolen combat skill. A small but essential piece in the puzzle of my survival.

The medic was calling for a stretcher. Discussing treatment options and recovery times in the clipped tones of a busy professional. Lyra maintained her worried vigil. Occasionally dabbed blood from my lips with a cloth that smelled faintly of lavender. Her fingers lingered just a fraction too long each time.

The crowd was beginning to disperse. Their entertainment concluded. Their gossip material secured for weeks to come.

None of that mattered now.

What mattered was the cool weight of new power settling into my consciousness. The knowledge that my gamble had paid off exactly as planned.

The last thing I heard before unconsciousness took hold was Fen’s voice. Carrying clearly across the arena in a tone of disgusted resignation:

"Well, that’s the most pathetic victory I’ve ever seen. And the most pathetic defeat. Congratulations, you’re both idiots."

Even in my fading state, I had to admit she had a point.

Though not for the reasons she believed.