The Cursed Extra-Chapter 97: [2.45] How to Lose a Fight

"Falling down is easy. Falling down convincingly is an art form."

***

The morning sun climbed higher. Sharp shadows stretched across the amphitheater’s sand. I stood in the center of the arena, every inch the terrified failure my audience expected to see.

The practice sword trembled in my grip.

Not from fear. From the careful muscle control required to make weakness look authentic. Each quiver was deliberate. Each nervous shift of my feet choreographed to look natural.

This is harder than actually fighting would be.

Vance Thorne circled me like a predator who’d cornered wounded prey. His polished leather armor gleamed in the sunlight. The blue dye shifted between dark and light as he moved. His practice sword traced lazy figure-eights through the air. Showing off technique. Building the crowd’s excitement.

Everything about his posture screamed confidence. The set of his shoulders. The smirk playing across his lips. He was strutting. Preening. Putting on a show for his admirers in the stands.

Perfect. Exactly as predicted. The arrogant bastard couldn’t resist a public execution.

"Last chance to yield, Leone." Vance’s voice carried across the amphitheater. He pitched his words for the crowd, ensuring everyone could hear his magnanimous offer. "Save yourself some dignity."

I let my shoulders hunch further. Made my voice crack when I replied.

"I... I can’t. The Prefect’s orders."

I even added a slight stammer. Watched with satisfaction as several students in the stands snickered. The sound rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.

"Then you’ll learn why third sons should know their place."

The crowd roared its approval. The sound washed over the sand like a wave. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Lyra in the servant’s gallery. A cramped space built into the arena’s eastern wall where household staff could watch their masters compete.

Her crimson eyes were fixed on me. Unblinking. Her entire being oriented toward my position. She’d placed herself perfectly. Close enough to intervene if needed. Far enough to avoid suspicion. Her hands were folded demurely in her lap. The picture of a devoted maid.

I knew she had at least three blades concealed beneath her uniform.

Trust the plan. She knows her role.

Vance raised his sword to the faculty box. Acknowledged Professor Blackthorne’s presence with a flourish that was pure showmanship. The scarred instructor gave a curt nod. His expression carved from granite.

To him, this was just another lesson in the harsh realities of combat. Another weakling about to be crushed under the heel of talent and birthright.

If only you knew what you were really about to witness, Professor. This isn’t a lesson. It’s an audition.

The bronze bell mounted above the faculty box caught the morning light. Its surface gleamed. Runes etched along its rim pulsed with subtle magic. Enchantments that would amplify its voice across the entire arena.

In moments, it would ring and the real performance would begin.

Three weeks of careful planning. Countless hours studying Vance’s fighting style. Meticulous staging of my own public humiliations to set expectations. All of it would either pay off spectacularly or end with me truly broken on the sand.

No pressure.

I adjusted my grip on the practice sword. Felt the weight of it in my hands. Inferior steel. Poorly balanced. Designed for safety rather than effectiveness. A weapon no serious fighter would choose.

Which made it the perfect prop for my charade.

The bell’s bronze voice rang out across the amphitheater. Clear and final.

Vance Thorne exploded into motion.

He came at me like a force of nature. Sword high. Leather armor gleaming. Every step showcased the perfect form they taught in the advanced combat classes. His blade swept down in a textbook overhead strike. The kind that would cleave through an amateur’s guard and leave them sprawled in the sand.

The steel sang through the air.

I stumbled backward. My heel caught on absolutely nothing.

Arms windmilling wildly, I crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and borrowed practice gear. My sword flew from my grip. Spun end over end before clattering to rest three feet away. Sand sprayed everywhere. Got in my mouth and eyes. Coated my borrowed armor in a fine layer of grit.

The impact drove the breath from my lungs in a very genuine wheeze.

Okay, that part wasn’t acting. The sand actually does taste terrible.

The crowd erupted.

Laughter rolled down from the stands like an avalanche. Started with scattered chuckles. Built into full-throated guffaws. The sound bounced off the stone walls. Amplified itself until the entire arena seemed to shake with mirth.

Someone in the Argent section shouted something about dancing lessons. Another voice called for bets on how many seconds I’d last.

The odds weren’t encouraging.

I flailed on the sand for a moment. Played up my disorientation before scrambling toward my sword on hands and knees. My borrowed bracers kept sliding down my forearms. Forced me to pause and push them back up.

Vance stood over me. His blade lowered. Staring down with an expression caught between amusement and disgust.

"Get up, Leone." His voice carried across the amphitheater. Pitched for the crowd. "I didn’t come here to watch you grovel in the dirt." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

I grabbed my sword and hauled myself upright. Swayed slightly as if the fall had rattled my skull. When I raised the blade, my grip was all wrong. Fingers too loose. Wrist cocked at an awkward angle that would make any real swordsman weep.

The tip of the blade wobbled in small circles.

"Sorry," I mumbled. Loud enough for the front rows to hear. "I’m... I’m ready now."

Said with all the confidence of a man facing a firing squad.

Vance’s smirk widened. He settled into a proper guard stance. Sword angled just so. Weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Everything about his posture screamed competence and control.

A predator toying with prey who’d wandered too far from the herd.

He lunged forward. Not with killing intent, but with the lazy confidence of someone who knew the outcome was never in doubt. His blade came in from the side. A simple cut that any first-year should be able to parry. The kind of attack designed to demonstrate skill rather than cause damage.

I swung to meet it.

And somehow managed to twist my wrist at exactly the wrong moment. Turned what should have been a basic block into a wild overhead swing. Left my entire right side exposed.

Vance’s sword slapped against my ribs with a meaty thunk that echoed through the amphitheater.

The leather padding absorbed most of the impact. But the sound was spectacular.

I yelped. Part genuine surprise at the impact. Part theatrical embellishment. Stumbled sideways. My own blade continued its wayward arc. Nearly took my head off before I jerked backward to avoid decapitating myself.

The movement sent me careening several steps to the left. Arms pinwheeling for balance.

The laughter doubled.