The Cursed Extra-Chapter 68: [2.16] The Pieces Start Moving

"Nobility is just poverty with better PR. Strip away the titles and you’ll find the same ugly instincts underneath."

***

Rhys’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His green eyes held Blackthorne’s gaze with a steadiness most nobles twice his age couldn’t manage.

"My father worked the border villages, sir. Blackwood Glade. Sometimes the monsters came too close to home. Sometimes they breached the palisade."

Simple words. Delivered like he was talking about the weather. But those of us close enough could hear what lurked underneath. The memories. The sounds. The screams that words couldn’t capture.

Blackthorne nodded. Slow. Heavy. "Good. Real violence teaches lessons these practice yards can’t. The fear. The desperation. The moment you realize it’s your life or theirs and there’s no third option."

He reached out and adjusted Rhys’s grip on the practice sword. Those massive hands, big enough to crush the boy’s fingers like dry twigs, moved with surprising care. Almost gentle.

"Remember that feeling when the soft nobles start preaching about honor and fair play. Remember what it’s like when there are no rules and no one’s coming to save you."

The nod of approval lasted maybe two seconds. In an environment where Blackthorne’s praise was rarer than dragon’s gold, it might as well have been a royal decree.

And standing three spots to Rhys’s left, partially blocked by another student but with a clear view I’d positioned myself for, I watched Vance Thorne’s face go dark.

Right on schedule. Let the games begin.

Vance was everything the novel described. Sandy hair styled to look effortlessly tousled, like the wind had arranged each strand. Brown eyes that held the specific brand of entitlement unique to people who grew up hearing "no" only in reference to others.

His jaw could’ve been carved from marble. Generations of selective breeding, producing exactly this sort of specimen. His stance was textbook, a living illustration from the expensive combat primers noble families kept in their libraries.

His equipment gleamed with master craftsmanship. The perfect balance of a sword that cost more than most families earned in a decade. The discreet maker’s mark of a legendary weaponsmith near the pommel.

None of it mattered to Blackthorne.

The professor had given Vance approximately the same attention he’d spare an unremarkable pebble. A dismissive grunt that somehow conveyed both contempt and boredom before he moved on.

If anything, Blackthorne’s gaze had looked through him. Like Vance was slightly annoying air between the professor and something worth his time.

"Commoner trash."

Vance’s voice pitched just loud enough to carry to those nearby. Just quiet enough to deny later. A skill that took years of practice. His lips barely moved.

"Probably learned to fight by brawling with pigs in some backwater mud pit. Though I suppose that’s an insult to the pigs. At least they have the excuse of being livestock."

Casual cruelty. The kind that came from someone who’d never considered commoners might have feelings worth acknowledging.

Rhys’s shoulders stiffened. The muscles beneath his worn uniform, cloth that had been mended more than once with visible stitching along the seams, went taut. The anger of someone who’d heard "pig" and "trash" and "dirt" so many times that each new insult landed on old scar tissue.

But he didn’t respond. Didn’t turn. Didn’t give Vance the satisfaction.

His jaw just tightened another fraction. His hands clenched at his sides for a moment before he forced them open.

There it is. The opening move in a game that ends with Rhys dead in eighteen days.

Just like the novel described. Right down to the pig comment.

These characters are so predictable it’s almost disappointing.

Though I suppose that’s the point. Protagonists and antagonists locked into their roles, reading from a script they don’t know exists. Dancing to a tune composed by an author who saw them as nothing more than plot devices.

Blackthorne finished his circuit with a disgusted snort. The kind that conveyed his opinion of us more clearly than words ever could.

He returned to the front, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the training yard.

"Pathetic. Utterly pathetic."

His voice carried easily. Rough as gravel. Each word landing like a physical blow against the collective ego of everyone present.

"Half of you stand like scarecrows stuffed with incompetent straw. The other half like you’re posing for a family portrait that’ll be hung in some gilded hallway where your ancestors can spin in their graves at what their bloodlines have become."

He started pacing. Slow. Heavy.

"Let me be clear. Combat is not an art form. It’s not a dance. It’s not an opportunity to show off the pretty techniques your expensive tutors drilled into your soft heads while servants brought you refreshments."

His pale eyes swept across us.

"Combat is about one thing. Making the other person stop moving before they do the same to you. Everything else is decoration. And decoration gets you killed."

He’s not wrong. But he’s also not accounting for the fact that some of us have abilities that make ’stop them from moving’ a lot more complicated than it sounds.

Still. Good advice for the cannon fodder.

I kept my expression appropriately nervous. Let my gaze dart around like I was looking for an escape route. Hunched my shoulders just a little more.

Three spots away, Vance was still glaring at the back of Rhys’s head with undisguised hatred.

Eighteen days. That’s how long Rhys survives in the original novel before Vance’s cronies corner him in a hallway. The protagonist arrives too late to save him. Uses the death as motivation for his character development. Classic tragic backstory fuel.

The question is: do I intervene?

Keeping Rhys alive would change the plot significantly. Remove a death flag. Possibly earn some loyalty from someone who turns out to be important.

But it would also draw attention. Make me a target. Put me on Vance’s radar.

And I’ve worked very hard to stay off everyone’s radar.

Blackthorne clapped his hands together. The sound cracked across the training yard like thunder.

"Pair up! I want to see what passes for combat skills among you sorry lot. And if anyone throws up on my training ground, they’re cleaning the stables for a month!"