I Enrolled as the Villain

Chapter 18

As I stepped onto the academy's green field, leaving Lucia behind, the usual noise thinned into quiet.

Three figures moved across the green field. No casting. No flares. Just motion.

Feet slid across grass with intent one ducking, the other guarding. A clean hook, a sharp pivot. Pure form.

I paused at the edge of the sparring circle, just far enough not to be noticed.

Or so I thought.

The coach stood off to the side. Black hoodie, pale skin, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it belonged in a different century of war. His eyes flicked to me once then back to the fight.

I followed his gaze.

Two students.

The girl ducked low, then buried a shot into the boy's ribs.

He staggered, nearly toppling over the chalk line.

She straightened.

Pixie-cut purple hair caught the light, a jagged fringe slipping over one eye.

Silver chain at her neck. Old gloves. Fingers taped with care.

Then she turned. Her eyes met mine not hostile or impressed. Just… sizing me up.

"Pretty boy with pretty eyes," she muttered, brushing sweat from her lip. "You sure this is your elective?"

She stepped closer, eyes flicking to my gloves still unused.

"Let me guess. Signed up to hit something 'cause spellwork got boring?"

I said nothing.

Her lip twitched not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer.

"Thought so."

She turned away and for a second, I thought she was done.

Then over her shoulder:

"Name's Riva. Don't bleed too fast. It's a pain cleaning up grass stains."

The coach's voice broke in low

"You'll spar her. Now."

I blinked. "Wait—"

But before I could argue, the boy she'd been fighting stumbled off the field, clutching his ribs.

Riva cracked her knuckles, rolled her neck, and stepped back into stance.

I glanced at the coach. He nodded once.

"Rule one: No Eye. No mana. Just you."

Riva grinned.

"Let's see if glass eyes bruise like the rest."

She stood loose and ready, gloves down, like she'd already won.

Her stance was casual. Gloves loose. Shoulders relaxed.

"What?" she said. "You thought there'd be an intro? This is boxing, not theater class."

She rolled her neck, letting her short purple hair fall over one eye.

"C'mon, Mythrigan. Show me those 'divine instincts' everyone's wetting themselves over."

She winked.

And she raised her fists again.

Ugh. Crap. Why did I sign up for this again?

I raised my arms clumsy, awkward and tried to mimic the boxing stance I remembered from TV back when I was Adrian.

"So you do know something," Riva said, amused. "Well… some of it."

Then she lunged.

Fast.

I barely had time to react.

Her jab came straight for my head. I snapped my arms up to block—

—and pain exploded in my forearm.

Felt like I'd tried to catch a falling tree.

The impact rocked me. I stumbled back, legs scraping through the grass, still upright… barely.

This academy is insane.

She didn't wait.

No dramatic pause. No casting delay.

Just movement a pure brutal momentum

I saw her shift her weight, launching herself at me again.

And I could tell—

This one was going to hurt.

"Slow down, will you?!"

Riva grinned like a wolf.

"Oh? Is the glassy-eyed myth about to whine?"

I grit my teeth and threw a jab.

It didn't land.

She ducked under it — fast — and drove a fist straight into my face.

My head snapped sideways. Stars bloomed.

I staggered, blinked, and swung again. Another jab. Then another.

None of them hit.

Every time I lunged forward, it was like punching air.

And every time?

She used it to hit me.

First a shot to my ribs. Then another to my shoulder. Then-

"Ugh—!"

—straight to my face again.

Each impact rattled something important. Probably my pride. Possibly a tooth.

Okay. Note to self: Never fight a girl with purple hair and a chain necklace.

She didn't stop.

Didn't gloat or pause.

Just kept testing angles like this was her class and I was the dummy someone forgot to bolt down.

Damnit.

I backed off, stumbling a few steps, my breath ragged.

She kept advancing. Like this was a warm-up.

My fists weren't doing much.

But then I glanced down — at the grass.

Oh.

Right.

We're not in a ring.

We're outside.

I dropped low, dug my hand into the dirt, and flung it straight at her face.

A cloud of grass and soil hit her square in the eyes.

"…Did you just throw dirt at me?"

I shrugged, already stepping back.

"Ask my sister!"

Riva was still blinking out dirt, grass clinging to her lashes.

"The hell…" she muttered, not angry more surprised. "Who throws dirt in a spar?"

Before I could answer, a shadow cut between us.

The coach stepped in, hands still in his hoodie pockets.

He didn't look at her. Just at me.

"Smart move," he said quietly. "Wrong place."

I stayed silent, breathing hard.

He tilted his head.

"That trick'll save your life one day. Just not here."

Then a beat passed like he was measuring whether to say more.

"You're in, Kael Valery. But next time? Learn to tell the difference between sparring and survival."

He turned, nodding toward the sidelines.

"That's it for now. Cool down."

Riva stepped back, tugging at the wrap around her glove. Her voice, when she spoke again, was softer. Curious.

"…So that's what fighting outside the bloodlines looks like."

"Follow me to class."

The coach's voice left no room for argument.

I stood, limbs aching, and followed as the other two students trailed behind him. We walked in silence away from the sparring field, down a quiet corridor that felt colder with each step.

The classroom was tucked away at the far end of the academy.

When I stepped inside, I paused.

Wooden floors. A few punching bags hung from reinforced beams. A worn boxing ring took up most of the room. Mats rolled along one side. Gear racks against the wall.

But something was… off.

No desks. No chairs. No tablets. No screens.

I looked around again.

The two students were already seated on the floor, backs straight, gloves beside them like folded hands.

I hesitated.

Then I followed suit.

I sat on the floor. Silent.

Still catching my breath.

Then suddenly the coach checked his wrist a plain, scratched-up syncband with the screen half-cracked.

A beat.

"Class is over," he said, voice flat.

He didn't elaborate. Just gave us a glance like he'd already seen what he needed to.

Then, turning away, he tossed a towel over his shoulder and headed for the exit.

"Clean up. Show up tomorrow. Or don't."

The door clicked behind him.

No one moved for a while.

The room smelled like effort and quiet pain.

As the coach left, Riva and the other boy stood up, brushing off sweat and grass.

No words.

They grabbed their bags, slung them over their shoulders, and left without looking back.

I moved slower.

Stiff. Sore. Still a little disoriented.

As I turned to leave, something caught my eye — a bottle of water sitting on the bench where their bags had been.

That wasn't there earlier.

I picked it up.

There was a folded note tucked under the cap, scribbled in uneven handwriting:

"Good instincts. Still soft."

I stared at it for a moment.

Then quietly pocketed the note.

And drank the water.

I checked my SyncWatch.

Next class: Combat Theory & Application.

Of course. Combat class.

Not this again…

Still aching from the sparring, I cleaned up as best I could and made my way toward the central arena — the one used for ranked sparring and formal drills.

Something felt off.

The air was quieter than usual. Focused. And the class… had already started?

I stepped through the entrance just in time to see a figure on the ground limbs sprawled, breath shallow.

Someone had already been floored.

At the center of the arena stood Lucia, posture rigid, arm still lightly bandaged from before.

She wasn't gloating.

She was just watching.

I moved closer, eyes narrowing on the collapsed figure.

Renan.

Rank 5.

The quiet believer. The calm voice. The one who told me I was harder to follow than any god.

Now lying flat on the floor, lips bloodied, chest rising unevenly.

What the hell happened here?

Lucia didn't look proud. Or triumphant. Just… waiting.

And when her eyes found mine

it felt like this wasn't about Renan at all.