The Cursed Extra-Chapter 71: [2.19] Losing on Purpose (And Learning Everything)

Chapter 71: [2.19] Losing on Purpose (And Learning Everything)

"The best way to study someone is to let them beat you. They’ll show you everything while thinking they’re showing you nothing."

***

The courtyard filled with the sounds of combat. Wooden weapons smacked together with hollow thuds. Students grunted with effort. Feet scraped across packed earth.

Morning sunlight came through the oak trees along the eastern wall, throwing shadows across the training grounds. The air smelled like sweat, crushed grass, and the faint metal tang of blood where someone’s practice blade had landed too hard.

"That’s not a proper guard, Marquis Hereford! That’s an invitation to have your intestines on the ground! Lower your elbow before I break it!"

"Begin!" Blackthorne roared. The word bounced off the walls. "Show me what passes for combat in your soft little worlds! Show me you’re at least capable of hitting each other!"

I raised my practice sword.

The guard was wrong on purpose. Too high. Lower body completely exposed. Weight distributed badly. Grip loose enough that a strong parry would knock the weapon from my hands.

The wooden blade shook in my grasp. A few nearby students snickered. I caught Duke Valaras’s son rolling his eyes and whispering something to his partner.

Perfect.

Rhys settled into his own stance. His back foot sat a bit too far back. His shoulders carried tension from old injuries. But there was real experience in how he held that wooden sword. Like it was an extension of his arm instead of a clumsy tool.

His calloused hands didn’t fidget on the grip. They knew where they belonged.

"Shall we?" I asked.

Then I swung at him like a drunken windmill.

My footwork was a disaster. A chaotic shuffle that sent me crashing into his space with zero control, then backpedaling wildly when he responded. I tripped over nothing twice. Nearly ate dirt. At one point I managed to tangle myself in my own robes during what should’ve been a simple sidestep.

The aristocratic kids around us could barely contain themselves. Distinct laughter came from a group of House Sapphire students at the edge of the yard.

"Leone!" Blackthorne’s voice boomed across the courtyard. "What in the seventeen hells are you doing? Are you fighting or having some kind of seizure?"

I flinched. Made sure my next swing was even worse. A telegraphed overhead chop that Rhys could’ve dodged in his sleep.

He didn’t dodge. He met it with a gentle parry. Guided my blade to the side instead of knocking it away hard enough to embarrass me further.

Interesting.

He’s being kind. That’s useful information.

Every clumsy parry I threw was a test. Every stumble was a new angle of observation.

His reflexes were faster than expected. Honed by necessity. His preferred angles of attack were conservative, defensive. Designed to minimize risk.

He favored his left side ever so slightly. Protecting something. Old injury to his ribs or shoulder, probably from defending that border village he’d mentioned.

Every time his body tensed to deliver a harder blow, I watched the calculations cross his face. Competitive instinct immediately tempered by social awareness.

A commoner couldn’t humiliate a noble without consequences. Even one as pathetic as me.

So he pulled his strikes. Moderated his responses. Maintained the illusion that this was actual training instead of glorified babysitting.

And I learned everything.

When he lunged, his weight shifted to his right leg first. An infinitesimal tell that could be exploited with the right timing. His grip tightened a fraction before each counter-attack. Another giveaway.

When forced to retreat, he never gave more than two steps before resetting. A border village habit, maybe. Where giving ground meant letting monsters past your defense line.

Every parry. Every pulled counter. Every micro-adjustment in his stance. All of it was data.

Information that might be the difference between life and death when Chapter fourteen arrived in eighteen days.

"You’re holding back," I gasped out between exaggerated pants. Added a wince as I rotated my shoulder. "I don’t mind if you actually hit me. That’s the point of sparring."

Surprise flickered across Rhys’s face. Or maybe amusement. "I’m following the exercise parameters," he said evenly. "Control is as important as power."

A diplomatic lie. I respected that.

Filed away for later.

Blackthorne’s whistle finally pierced the air.

I was appropriately winded. Covered in sweat that spoke to genuine exertion rather than skill. My hair stuck to my forehead. I wheezed dramatically as I lowered my practice sword.

Rhys looked barely affected. Breathing steady. Uniform still relatively neat.

"Better than expected, Leone." Blackthorne planted himself in front of me. Arms folded across his barrel chest. Pale blue eyes scrutinizing me like a disappointing weapons shipment. "Still terrible, mind you. Comprehensively, impressively terrible. But I’ve seen worse. Barely."

He turned to Rhys. "Blackwood. Decent defensive work, but you’re too cautious. In a real fight, hesitation kills. Your opponent won’t always be..." He gestured vaguely at me. "...this."

The dismissal stung exactly as much as it was supposed to.

I ducked my head. Half-feigned embarrassment. Playing the chastened student while my mind ran through everything I’d observed.

Around us, other students nursed bruises and wounded pride. Lady Velasquez pressed a cloth to her bleeding lip. The Belmonte twins argued over whether a disarming move had been legal, their identical faces flushed with competitive rage.

And across the courtyard, Fen was laughing.

Genuine delight. Her opponent limped away looking like he’d survived a natural disaster. That wild red hair whipped around as she spun to look for another victim. Golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Her tail lashed with excitement. Sharp teeth visible even from this distance.

Several students suddenly found their equipment extremely interesting.

Note to self: never, ever spar with the wolf-girl.

"You should ice that shoulder," Rhys said quietly.

I blinked. Realized I’d been rubbing my right shoulder without thinking. A genuine ache. Not part of the act.

He’d noticed.

Of course he did. Border village kid. Trained to watch for injuries in his people. Probably helped tend wounds after monster attacks.

That kind of awareness doesn’t go away just because you moved to an academy.

"Oh, it’s nothing," I stammered. "Just old... you know. Thank you for the practice. I learned a lot."

More than he realized. Way more.

Rhys studied me for a moment. That same look from earlier. The one that said he wasn’t quite buying what I was selling.

"Sure," he said finally. "Any time."

He walked off toward the water barrels. I watched him go.

Eighteen days. That’s how long the original story gave him.

But I’ve got data now. I know how he fights. How he thinks. What his tells are.

When Vance makes his move, I’ll be ready.

I let out a breath and started the slow shuffle toward the dormitory. Every muscle ached. Some of that was the act. Most of it wasn’t.

Turns out pretending to be terrible at fighting is almost as exhausting as actually fighting.

Who knew?