The Cursed Extra-Chapter 66: [2.14] The Art of Being Unremarkable

"Anyone can pretend to be strong. Real talent is convincing everyone you’re weak."

***

The academy bells hit six times. Bronze on stone, bouncing off walls that had heard the same sound a thousand mornings before this one.

I dragged myself out of bed.

Everything hurt. My back screamed from a mattress that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be too soft or too hard. My shoulders ached. My neck felt like someone had welded the bones together overnight.

The pain helped, though. Reminded me this wasn’t a dream. Wasn’t some elaborate fever trip my brain had cooked up.

This was real. Flesh and blood and consequences.

Time to become Kaelen Leone.

I stood in front of the mirror and got to work. The transformation wasn’t just acting. It was a complete psychological rewiring. I had to dim the sharpness behind my eyes. Let my shoulders slump forward. Adopt the posture of someone who’d already given up before breakfast.

The mirror showed me exactly what I needed. A boy who looked like he’d rather crawl back under the covers. Dark circles under tired eyes. Hair left uncombed in strategic spots. I fumbled with my uniform buttons on purpose, missed one halfway down, then fixed it with a dramatic sigh.

The tie went crooked. Just slightly left of center on my charcoal House Onyx uniform. I adjusted it twice, then left it imperfect. Subtle enough to avoid mockery. Obvious enough to register as sloppy to anyone who bothered looking.

The art of mediocrity requires serious attention to detail. Which is hilarious when you think about it. Too bad my life depends on getting it right.

Lyra had already left for the servant quarters before I woke up. She moved like smoke. The only proof she’d been there at all was a single black hair on my pillow and a cup of tea on the desk, still warm enough to steam.

I took a sip. Perfectly brewed. Exactly the right temperature.

The girl was terrifyingly good at her job. Which made her fanatic devotion useful. And dangerous.

I made my way through the Bastion’s corridors. Students passed me without a second glance. I descended into the western courtyard.

The training ground was packed earth, stained dark in spots. Sweat or blood or both, ground so deep no rain would ever wash it clean. Morning mist hung low, giving the place an almost ghostly look that would burn off the second anyone started swinging weapons.

The stone walls rose fifteen feet on all sides. Chips and gouges marked the surface where spells and strikes had gone wide over the years.

Twenty-five House Onyx students stood in something that almost resembled formation. Their breath fogged in the cold morning air. Some were already stretching, rolling shoulders with the easy confidence of people who’d had private tutors since childhood. Others fiddled with equipment. Adjusted sword belts. Tested buckles. The nervous energy ran through the whole group like static.

I picked my spot with care.

Not the back, where a coward would naturally hide. Not the front, where an eager idiot would volunteer for extra punishment. Third row. Slightly left of center.

The perfect position to be forgotten. Just another face in the crowd. None of them suspect there’s a wolf standing right here.

Then he arrived.

Professor Gideon Blackthorne walked like a battering ram that had learned human movement. Each step hit the packed earth with a heavy thud I could feel in my chest. His bald head was covered in old scars, silvery crosshatches that caught the early light. His beard was iron-grey, kept trimmed with military exactness.

When he looked at us, those pale blue eyes didn’t see students. They saw raw materials. Ore to be smelted.

Conversations died. Stretching stopped. Even Fen seemed to pay attention, and that girl feared nothing.

"Form ranks!" His voice could’ve cracked stone. My ears rang from the parade-ground bellow. "Three lines, arm’s length apart. Move like you have a purpose, or I’ll give you one!"

We scrambled into position.

I made sure to bump into Theron Ashworth while I moved. My target. The boy whose death I was here to prevent because keeping him alive would derail a major plot point and buy me room to breathe.

"S-sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"

He winced. Not from the collision. From the secondhand embarrassment of watching me stammer. His green eyes flicked to me with pity and mild annoyance before he shifted away, putting distance between us like incompetence might be contagious.

Perfect. Keep underestimating me. Please.

Behind us, Marcus muttered something about proper military formation protocol. His tone suggested he’d read about it extensively but never actually done it. Fen stood at the front with her chin raised, golden eyes locked on Blackthorne like a predator sizing up prey. Mira tried to disappear into the back row, hunching her shoulders to make herself smaller.

"Basic combat stance!" Blackthorne’s command bounced off the walls. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Dominant foot back. Knees bent. Guard up. If you don’t know which foot is dominant, you’re about to learn the hard way."

I wobbled too. On purpose.

My stance was technically correct, but I made it look uncertain. Shaky. Like I’d read about fighting in a book but never actually tried it. I let my guard drift too high, then overcorrected too low.

Blackthorne’s eyes swept the formation. They lingered on certain students. Fen. A tall boy near the front who’d snapped into perfect form. A girl with scarred knuckles who looked like she’d been in real fights.

His gaze passed over me without pause.

Good. Invisible is good. Invisible keeps you alive.

"Pathetic." The professor’s lip curled. "I’ve seen scarecrows with better form. But we’ll fix that. One way or another."

He began walking the lines, hands clasped behind his back. When he stopped in front of a student, they flinched like he might hit them. Which, knowing military instructors, was probably the point.

"The next three months will be the hardest of your miserable lives." His voice carried across the whole courtyard without him raising it. Years of practice. "You will bleed. You will cry. Some of you will wash out entirely."

He stopped in front of Fen. Their eyes met. Neither looked away.

"But those who survive will be warriors."

His smile wasn’t friendly.

"Let’s begin."