Chapter 21 – The Fool’s Sword (3)

Honestly.

The Demon King had expected the boy to crumble emotionally, to fall into despair countless times in that hellish, not-quite-hell environment.

He would rise again, eventually, but the process wouldn’t be easy. That much she was sure of.

And yet…

Not once did he falter.

Though never outwardly expressed, despair must have gnawed at him constantly. He must have shuddered through endless waves of loneliness and self-doubt.

Had he shown any sign of struggle, the Demon King would have relented, sending him back to reality sooner.

Even his willing confessions of hardship, his complaints, were understandable.

But resentment? Surrender? Never.

The boy remained relentlessly focused.

In this respect, he’s the Hero’s spitting image.

Not entirely, of course, but those amber eyes, shimmering like molten gold, were strikingly similar.

Physically, Cariel favored Ermina more. The fine, silky black hair and delicate features gave him an almost ethereal beauty.

But his spirit? His tenacity? His sheer willpower?

These were the core attributes of a hero, and Cariel shared them with Luelde.

…Though dulled and worn now, Cariel possessed an intrinsic innocence, an inability to readily blame or curse others. He internalized everything, letting it fester and curdle into self-loathing and melancholy. That, undeniably, was Ermina’s legacy.

However.

It was too early to draw conclusions.

The Demon King still knew surprisingly little about Cariel.

Others might assume she’d deciphered ninety percent of him—close enough, wouldn’t it be?

But unanswered questions lingered. Mysteries remained.

Perhaps he is my final amusement. A vintage I intend to savor.

Like a fine cheese or wine, aged to perfection.

====

Logically.

For true teaching to occur, the teacher must surpass the student, and often by a significant margin.

Especially at the Imperial Academy, a prestigious institution among the continent’s finest. To be an instructor there signified not only exceptional teaching ability but also remarkable skill.

And yet.

They were only human.

Each had their own motivations, swayed by power, reputation, or the pursuit of recognition and ambition. Some were truly dedicated educators, filled with a sense of responsibility and pride. Others were unwillingly thrust into the position, or saw it merely as a stepping stone.

Lambert, nearing thirty, was often deemed mediocre and unremarkable.

His only acknowledged strengths? Swordsmanship and physical prowess.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. But the walls of talent and effort were insurmountable. While he toiled for eight hours, the truly gifted spent even longer honing their skills, sacrificing rest and leisure to refine their craft.

Why live like that?

What was the point?

The Demon King was dead. What need was there for such relentless dedication?

Lambert had no regrets.

But as years passed, the gap between him and them widened into a chasm.

Perhaps it was because he’d never had the chance to truly shine. To prove himself.

If only he’d been given the opportunity. A holy sword, a sacred relic—if he’d been chosen…

He vacillated between blaming his family and his past self for not trying harder.

But reality remained unchanged, growing only harsher.

And so, he became just another adult.

Which is why…

A boy born to a hero, a boy whose childhood echoed with grand tales…

To be so utterly incompetent?

And without even trying?

If that were the case, why bother with a sword at all? Why not stick to a pen?

Was it because he thought it would be easy?

What had he learned from Luelde?

If only he had a father like Luelde… perhaps he too could have been a hero.

“Stop it! Stop, please―!”

The desperate cry jolted Lambert back to reality.

A student lay sprawled on the floor, face down, wailing.

He wasn’t bad for his age. Solid fundamentals, decent talent.

He reminded Lambert of himself.

But since becoming an instructor, Lambert had seen countless students with similar potential. What he’d once considered special, unique, turned out to be commonplace. Acceptance into the Imperial Academy was proof enough, wasn’t it?

Which meant… they shouldn’t be crumpling like this.

Even in a sparring match, such a disparity was unacceptable.

Especially not against him. Cariel Brendiar. The disgrace of a hero. A dragon’s discarded tail. The toothless fool.

This was… unthinkable.

The onlookers were visibly unsettled, unsure how to process the scene.

“Next.”

Cariel’s wooden sword rested on his shoulder. His face was impassive.

His gaze, dry and indifferent, swept over those who had sneered and mocked him.

Lambert felt a cold sweat.

Why was he nervous?

Cariel was still just a student. Nothing remarkable or outstanding about him. His mana control was sloppy, his aura weak and flickering. His movements were clumsy, like a wooden puppet’s.

Then how… had he won?

Technically, Cariel hadn’t used his swordsmanship at all.

He’d countered the incoming attack with a swift backhand to the jaw, deflected the frantic follow-up, tripped his opponent, and then, with brutal efficiency, twisted his arm behind his back.

…What had he done with the wooden sword?

Nothing. He’d simply held it. Not a single block, swing, or even a feint.

So the rumors… were true.

The unbelievable story of Patina, youngest female member of the Golden Dragon Knights, taken down by him.

If she’d simply gone easy on a childhood friend, it would be one thing. But for it to become a rumor? It meant either the feat was genuinely surprising, or Cariel’s reputation was so low that even this minor victory seemed noteworthy. Either way, it was another subtle insult.

“Getting cocky after a lucky win? Fine! I’ll take you on!”

Another student stepped forward, brimming with bravado. Ranked at least twenty places higher than the previous one. The viscount’s son, radiating confidence.

And yet…

“??”

Cariel held his sword in a reverse grip and swung.

The wooden pommel connected with the boy’s throat. He crumpled, clutching his neck, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips.

Cariel looked down at him, his expression unchanged.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Is he… wary?

No. Not wariness.

It was the gaze of a predator, calculating. Deciding.

The prey was still alive. The hunt wasn’t over.

“Next.”

His foot twitched, but the movement didn’t continue.

Just now…

He could have easily stomped on the boy’s head, face, neck.

But he hadn’t.

He was acting purely on logic, maintaining absolute control.

Everything so far had proved it.

Cariel’s eyes locked onto Lambert.

Those murky, hollow pupils seemed to pierce him, dissect him.

A shiver ran down Lambert’s spine.

“Shall we continue?”

Continue what?

“Next.”

Only two down.

Why wasn’t anyone stepping forward?

This was Cariel, the one they’d mocked so readily, dismissed so easily. He still looked unsteady on his feet.

So why had these confident, boisterous students been defeated like children?

“U-Using bare hands in a swordsmanship duel…”

Even the student who voiced the objection sounded hesitant, aware of how weak it sounded.

His words trailed off when no one echoed his sentiment.

“Then step up and prove otherwise.”

Or rather, under Cariel’s unwavering gaze, the student simply crumbled.

“I can use a sword, if you prefer. But be prepared for injuries. I haven’t mastered control yet.”

No malice in his voice. A simple, factual warning.

That very calmness made the situation more unsettling.

If I had power… Lambert thought. If I had been powerless, mocked, scorned, and bullied unjustly… could I have remained so composed? So utterly detached?

The room was filled with those who had wronged him without provocation. That fact, and Cariel’s unnatural calm, bred a disquieting unease.

Where was the arrow of retribution aimed?

When would the bowstring be released?

And most importantly… what was he thinking?

The more they observed him, the less they understood.

The unease blossomed into fear. The fear of the unknown.

Like the phantom pressure of fangs against the nape of their necks. The sharp edges grazing their skin, a prelude to the bite.

“Gasp!”

A female student inhaled sharply, collapsing to her knees as Cariel’s gaze fell upon her.

“What will you do?”

Cariel’s eyes fixed on Lambert.

A teacher could spar with a student, but only to a point. To be on equal footing? Disgraceful. Even to dominate while allowing a few openings was a stain on one’s honor. Unless victory was absolute and overwhelming, there was nothing to be gained.

But that wasn’t the issue, was it?

Had he ever considered such things before?

Against Cariel?

Against this… pathetic excuse for a hero?

“I can’t very well slit everyone’s throats and stab them through the heart, can I?”

The words, spoken with the same flat affect, were chilling.

“It’s time you realized.”

This was…

“Unavoidable.”

As a swordsman. As a knight.

“This is your last warning. Choose.”

Risk his life?

Or…

“Settle for a simple spar?”

“C-Cariel! How dare you speak to a teacher…”

“Don’t play word games. Isn’t that what you always lecture me about? One more word…”

And I’ll kill you.

The words were unspoken, a silent movement of his lips. But the meaning was clear. Crystal clear.

“You… insolent…”

Why?

Why was this boy, threatening to kill him, so devoid of emotion? Shouldn’t there be… something?

And yet, his words held weight. A terrifying weight.

Lambert couldn’t comprehend it.

Cariel advanced, wooden sword raised, as if he’d given Lambert ample time to decide.

“I await your instruction.”

Cariel felt a flicker of pity.

For his own foolishness, his ignorance. His weakness and incompetence. For allowing them to prey on him so easily.

If that had led to this…

Then perhaps it was his fault.

Even if I didn’t start this, he thought, if it all began because of me…

Then ending it is my responsibility.