If gambling were allowed in this academy, betting on me would be like throwing cash into a wishing well. If I somehow won, you'd be rich enough to retire. If I lost, well… congratulations, you just invested in a human pancake.
The crowd already decided my fate. Every single pair of eyes glittered with anticipation of how creatively I was about to get folded.
"How long you think he lasts?"
"Lasts? Bro, he should be praying to get the least broken bones."
"Trash baron family blood, what did you expect? He's basically cannon fodder with tuition fees."
Did I argue? Of course not. They were right. Even I wouldn't bet on me.
I turned to my opponent — just a girl doing warm-ups, but to me? She was a thirty-foot anaconda preparing to swallow me whole. If you swapped me for a mouse, the mouse might actually put up more of a fight.
Still, I had one thing. My ace card. My life raft. My… highly questionable insurance plan:
[ Skill: Last Resort ] [ Category: ??? ]
[ Temporarily boosts all stats when facing life-threatening danger. The lower your chance of survival, the stronger the effect. ]
Sounds cool, right? Except my stats are so trash that "life-threatening danger" includes tripping over a chair.
One hit from her and I'll be making friends with the floor tiles. But hey — that means the skill should activate at full power, right? Right?!
…
Okay, this could either be the most glorious comeback in academy history, or the fastest obituary ever written.
'Ah, screw it. Worst case, I die. Best case, I don't. That's… technically a 50/50 chance.'
I squared my shoulders, trying to look brave. Spoiler: I wasn't.
I'm not exactly in a position to be picky when my official appointment with Death is only two days away.
So yeah. Screw it. Go big or die small.
What's the strategy?
Step one: survive.
Step two: see step one.
The sparring match after the entrance ceremony isn't just a warm-up — it's the academy's equivalent of a circus. Nobles, professors, big shots who probably have assassins on speed dial — they're all here, judging us like it's free entertainment. Which, technically, it is.
Translation: villains are watching. Villains who could squash me like a bug.
So the plan is simple — don't win, don't shine, just… not die. If I crawl out of the arena looking "kinda pitiful but plucky," maybe I'll catch a villain's interest. Which is the next best thing to catching their mercy.
At least I've got my trump card.
[ Skill: Last Resort ] [ Category: ??? ]
[ Temporarily boosts all stats when facing life-threatening danger. The lower your chance of survival, the stronger the effect. ]
Yeah. Basically: "The closer you are to being a corpse, the stronger you get."
Which is great… if you enjoy playing chicken with the Grim Reaper.
"Excuse me."
Oh, perfect. Here comes Elize, my opponent, sword already drawn while I'm still debating how I want my funeral flowers arranged. She leaned close and whispered, voice soft enough the crowd couldn't hear.
"Tell me honestly. You're absurdly weak, aren't you?"
…Wow. Straight to the jugular.
No warm-up. No small talk. Just: Hi, nice to meet you, you suck.
"..." (Translation: yes, but please don't say it out loud.)
She gave a little laugh. "I was originally planning to hit you once, but…"
My stomach sank. That pause did not feel healthy.
"…but what?"
"You were in the same cabin as Princess Lirielle, weren't you?"
"Yes?"
"I hate her. Actually, I hate the whole Caldwell family. They're devils."
…Lady, you can't just say the d-word out loud. That's like screaming "bomb" on an airship.
If Duke Caldwell were here, she'd already be a red smear on the carpet.
I tried to smile. "Uh, small clarification: I was just sitting in the cabin. Pure coincidence. No family discount involved."
She ignored me. "You remind me of them, which annoys me. So I was going to make you suffer a little."
Ah. Great. So I'm not fighting Elize, I'm fighting Generational Blood Feud: The Sequel.
But then she did the weirdest thing. She smirked, tilted her head, and said:
"…But looking at you, I changed my mind. You're too pathetic. How about we just pretend to fight? Fake some swings, roll around a bit, and call it even. You don't want to get hurt, right?"
And she winked.
I blinked. She just… offered me mercy? In front of an arena full of nobles? This had to be a trap. Right? RIGHT?
But then again, survival was on the table. And survival is sexy.
So I nodded. "Deal."
She chuckled. "Good. Don't die before I get bored."
…Which is possibly the least comforting "good luck" I've ever received.
Still, I'll take it. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?
(Spoiler: everything.)
My life had forty-eight hours left to grind stats, and apparently the only way to do that was by getting beaten like a practice dummy. In other words: no growth without pain, no power without humiliation.
So I did the logical thing any sane extra would do.
"I think you should just hit me. As painfully as you want."
"…Huh?"
Elize blinked at me, her sword hand pausing mid-stretch. For a second, she looked like I had suggested she juggle fireballs in a nun's habit.
"I mean it," I pressed, trying to look heroic but probably just looking suicidal. "Go ahead. Swing like you hate me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
I took a breath and lied like a man begging to be hospitalized. "Because I like her."
"…Excuse me?"
"Princess Lirielle," I clarified, straight-faced. "I like her."
There was no going back now. If I wanted to attract villains, I needed them to see me as reckless enough to stand against someone untouchable. And nothing screams "target me, I'm interesting" like openly choosing pain.
Elize's eyes lingered on me, calculating. Then she scoffed softly. "She has a good public image. Too good. That kind of thing fools a lot of people."
"Facade," I finished for her, nodding along. "I know. I've… got a rough idea of what she's really like."
For a beat, silence. Then Elize smirked — not the cute kind of smirk, the kind that makes you wonder if she's about to test how flexible your spine is.
"You're absurd."
"Absurd is just another word for genius," I said, trying not to sweat through my shirt.
"…Fine," she said at last, raising her blade. "I'll hit you. But don't blame me when you regret asking for it."
I forced a grin, trying not to look like I was writing my will with my eyes. Inside, I was already imagining my obituary: Here lies Adrian Merrick. He died doing what he did best — making terrible life choices.