I Enrolled as the Villain

I stood in the archway of the Valery quarter's training yard arms crossed, breath steady in the crisp morning air.

The courtyard was quiet except for the muted sounds of boots against tile. A few early risers from Class A and B were already practicing stances, their uniforms sharp, hair tied, expressions tense.

I glanced at my syncwatch.

5:00 A.M.

"Where is Kael?" I muttered, frowning slightly.

He was never punctual. Not like the rest of them.

I didn't expect perfection from him — not anymore — but still.

Then a voice called out, hesitant but clear.

"Vice Leader?"

I turned.

It was Jessa, a younger Valery from Class A. Her bangs stuck to her forehead, clearly from rushing here too fast. She clutched a towel awkwardly to her chest.

"Will Lord Kael… be joining morning drills today?"

I didn't answer immediately.

But i could hear the subtext in the girl's voice:

Are we still expected to follow him? Is he really one of us?

My gaze swept the courtyard once more before returning to the girl.

"No. But he trains."

My voice was calm.

"Just not always where you can see him."

The girl hesitated. "I just thought… he beat you. In a duel. Is that okay?"

My eyes narrowed just slightly — not in anger, but assessment.

"You think the Eye must always be stronger than the sword beside it?"

Jessa swallowed. "I… don't know."

I stepped closer, placing a gloved hand gently on the girl's shoulder — just firm enough to remind her who she was.

"Then learn. Your loyalty isn't to pride. It's to Valery's future."

The girl nodded quickly.

I let her go.

————-

The air was still cold in the private Valery grounds.

No audience. No orders. Just breath. Just silence.

I stood in the middle of the stone-floored training circle, shirt clinging to me with sweat.

I raised my fists again.

Jab. Step. Pivot.

The Mythrigan Eye flickered on.

The world bent into precision. Micro-movements, angles, tension points. Every failed habit i ignored was now visible.

I jabbed again — but this time, adjusted mid-throw. Looser shoulder. Firmer base.

Cleaner.

I exhaled, then stepped in with a right hook.

But halfway through the motion, my extended two fingers from my offhand — not to strike, just to move.

Something pulsed outward.

Soft. Invisible. But i felt it.

The training dummy anchored to the floor shifted slightly. Not from the blow. But from the air before it.

I froze.

"…What was that?"

I blinked, deactivated the Eye, then reignited it.

Again, i stepped forward, twisted my torso, and with a simple flick of my offhand—

The air pulled. Just enough to move dust. Just enough to stir cloth.

The dummy tilted half an inch backward.

I lowered my hands.

"Is that… gravity?"

It wasn't heavy. It wasn't crushing. It was directional. Like i had briefly bent the world's tilt with a thought.

No chant. No casting. No weight. Just pull.

I frowned. Then smiled faintly.

"No. Not gravity."

I closed my fist again and punched slow.

"Intent."

The Mythrigan pulsed.

Something was shifting.

Not the world.

Me.

My body gave out. I dropped to the training floor, legs folding under me, sweat dripping down my jaw.

I closed my left eye — not out of exhaustion, but shame.

"Still too slow…" I muttered.

The tiles beneath my palm felt cold.

"How am I supposed to stop it all like this?"

My voice barely reached past my breath.

"The Invasion"

That name alone pulled something from my spine. A chill I couldn't train away.

I had seen it — in broken flashes from the Eye.

Crimson alarms. Screams under steel. Arthur bleeding out beside someone I couldn't name. Lucia standing alone, surrounded, her blade dull with blood and regret.

Too many bodies. Too many wrong turns.

I had seen it.

And I wasn't ready.

Not yet.

————

The morning mist hadn't cleared yet.

I stood just beyond the courtyard arch, hidden in the shadows between marble columns.

I hadn't meant to linger.

I had come to observe drills, correct form, remind the younger Valery why their name still mattered. But now…

I watched him.

Kael.

Sitting alone at the center of the training floor — breath ragged, head down, one hand clenched over his left eye.

Sweat clung to his skin. Not from lack of strength.

But from trying too hard.

From something deeper.

He muttered something, low and hoarse. I couldn't make it all out.

"Still too slow…"

A pause. Then softer.

"How am I supposed to stop it…"

I felt a cold trace climb my spine.

Stop what?

Kael's shoulders tensed again. He wasn't moving. Not anymore. Just breathing hard, like every breath was a weight.

Then he whispered it.

"The Invasion…"

My breath caught in my throat.

I didn't move. Didn't dare interrupt.

Because in that single word — Invasion — was a truth that didn't belong to this moment. A memory that hadn't happened yet.

Not here.

Not now.

And yet… the fear in his voice wasn't confusion.

It was recognition.

I looked at him again — Kael Valery, myth-walker, god-eyed tyrant-turned-stranger — and for the first time…

I realized something terrifying:

He wasn't preparing for battle.

He was preparing for something he'd already knows towards the end.

And whatever was coming…

It wasn't waiting for permission.

It wasn't following the timeline.

It was coming early.

My boots struck the stone floor harder with every step. Fast. Focused. I didn't care who stared. I didn't care that I hadn't sent a notice.

I turned the corner into the training grounds. The Valery quarter's private field — polished stone, ringed with banners of our House.

Dozens of our own were here already. Some mid-spar. Others stretching. A few lounging too comfortably.

They froze when they saw me.

I walked into the center of the yard and spoke without raising my voice.

"Form up."

They moved. Quickly. Valery always listened when it mattered.

I scanned them every pair of eyes, every stance, every breath.

"From today on," I said, letting my voice carry,

"Morning drills are doubled.

Evening rotations extended until nightfall. And if you're applying for Stronghold—"

I paused, letting silence sharpen the words.

"—then you start training like you're already on the battlefield."

A few students glanced at each other. Confused. Tense.

One girl Class B, smaller frame, unsure eyes raised her hand, voice uncertain.

"Vice Leader… what's changed?"

I looked at her.

And for a moment, I thought of Kael.

The way he sat on that training floor, sweat on his jaw, fists clenched in frustration.

The pulse of the Mythrigan.

The look in his eye.

The invasion that wasn't supposed to come yet.

My grip tightened behind my back.

"…Because what's waiting for us isn't waiting anymore."

And just like that… they understood enough.

I didn't explain. I didn't need to.

Because whatever Kael had seen whatever was rushing toward us I wouldn't let Valery be unprepared.

Not again.

As the sun rose, I glanced down at my syncwatch.

"06:00."

Time for them to prepare.

I exhaled, wiped the sweat from my palm, and turned toward the training ground.

"Session dismissed," I called out.

the students dispersed, some glancing at each other in silent unease, I felt it settle in my chest that familiar, gnawing fear.

Am I making the right call? Or just reacting to his fear?

But then I saw Jessa again eyes sharper now, less afraid.

And for a brief second, I believed in it.

———-

Combat class, huh.

I rolled my shoulders as Instructor Elsin entered, her coat swaying behind her like a flag of war. She was strict, fair, and impossible to ignore.

She clapped once, sharply.

"Today is sparring rotation. I've assigned partners. No swaps."

With a flick of her wrist, a blue hologram flared to life above us a scroll of names and matchups.

My eyes scanned the list.

There.

Rank 19: Arthur Valeheart

Rank 20: Kael Valery

A breath caught in my throat. Not fear. Just inevitability.

Across the room, I saw Arthur tense.

His back stiffened. His jaw locked. He didn't say anything not yet but I could see it.

He was going to ask for a change.

And honestly?

He had every right to.

I didn't blame him. Not after what Lucia did. Not after what I used to be.

But still…

I stood up and walked toward him before he could speak.

He noticed me and his eyes narrowed, unsure if I was here to gloat, provoke, or worse.

But I didn't let him speak.

I rested a hand gently on his shoulder. Just enough for him to feel that this wasn't a trick.

I leaned in slightly and said quietly, so only he could hear:

"Trust me. Just once."

His eyes widened a fraction. But he didn't shrug me off.

He just… looked at me.

Not with anger.

Not even with hope.

Just confusion.

And maybe — barely — something else.

I stepped back and waited.

The moment held.

And then he nodded.

Just once.

As Arthur and I walked toward our designated sparring ring, the hallway seemed quieter than before.

Not in sound — but in attention.

Every step we took echoed beneath watchful eyes.

Lucia stood near the edge of the training zone, arms crossed, unreadable.

Around her, several Valery students from Elite class tracked our movements like hawks. But they weren't watching Arthur.

They were watching me.

Or more specifically—

Watching for a reason.

If Arthur so much as raised his voice the wrong way… I could see it in their eyes.

They'd stab first and apologize later.

I exhaled slowly.

Then I glanced at Lucia.

She met my eyes cool, observant waiting for a signal.

I raised my hand slightly. Not stiff. Not formal. Just a subtle gesture.

Don't interfere.

Her eyes flicked from me, to my hand, back again.

A pause.

Then a single nod.

The message passed like a quiet ripple. Other Valery students, catching her nod, began to relax their stance, sheathing judgment just enough to let this play out.

Arthur stood across from me now.

His posture wasn't perfect. Still too tense in the shoulders. Still too hesitant in his heel placement.

But it was straighter than before.

Less like prey. More like someone preparing to earn his name back.

In the story, Arthur would one day carve a legend from that same resolve.

A sword art born not from bloodlines or prophecy,

But from something harder to kill —

Refusal.

They called it a divine art by the end.

Some said it wasn't even a technique anymore

but a verdict.

When Light Refuses to Die Sword Art

A sword that could sever anything, even fate itself.

A divine sword art not forged through rage or vengeance, but clarity. A sword that brings absolute finality. One that could cut through the source of all evil, stand against the last dragon, and even… no. Not that thing.

Not yet.

But the seed was already here.

And maybe… just maybe…

I could help him water it.

"I have something I want you to remember, Arthur," I said, my voice quiet.

"This technique… it fits you."

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"And why should I follow you?"

I didn't flinch.

"Because I know what it's like to move wrong. And I know what it's like to be told you never will move right."

He didn't answer immediately.

So I added,

"You're strong. But strength without clarity is waste. Let me help you sharpen that."

Arthur stared at me for a long second looking at me as if i am crazy for saying he is strong. But then slowly… he nodded. Just once.

"Fine.."

"This technique… whatever you want to call it," I said as I took my stance — slowly, carefully. Trying to mimic what I remembered. What felt right.

Arthur eyed me with suspicion, but said nothing. He followed, mirroring the movement with the sword I had given him — the faint V etched into the steel catching a sliver of light.

"It's a sword that doesn't move with dominance," I said.

"It moves with… understanding."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "Understanding?"

I nodded. "A deep one. Of rejection."

His face twitched.

"What are you talking about?"

"Just do as I say."

He hesitated, blade still raised.

"Remember," I said quietly,

"try to feel it. That moment when the world said no. When they looked at you like you didn't belong. When even your own blood turned away."

His fingers tightened on the hilt.

"Channel that. The refusal. The weight of not being accepted — and the choice to stand anyway."

Silence stretched between us.

Then Arthur took one breath… and moved.

Not perfectly. Not with power.

But with purpose.

And for the first time, the sword didn't look like it belonged to a fallen heir.

It looked like it was waiting to rise.