The Cursed Extra-Chapter 106: [2.54] Pop Quiz

"The hardest test isn’t proving what you can do. It’s proving what you can’t."

***

The word "Nonsense" hung in the air between us.

Professor De Clare pushed off from the weapon rack. Her movements contained a coiled energy that made every survival instinct I possessed start screaming warnings.

The casual slouch of her posture didn’t fool me for a second.

I’d read enough about her in the original novel to know that her apparent laziness was a mask. A way of lulling others into underestimating her until it was far too late.

She’s sizing me up. The question is: what does she suspect?

"An injury teaches you what not to do." She gestured toward the sparring area with a casual flick of her wrist. The morning light caught the faded brand on her forearm. The sunburst mark of her old mercenary company, barely visible beneath the rolled-up sleeve of her grey robes. "It shows you where your guard was weak. Where your stance failed. Where your enemy found purchase."

She paused. Let that sink in.

"Blackwood. Get over here."

Oh no.

Rhys emerged from behind a practice dummy. His father’s spear held loosely in his grip. The morning light caught on the worn metal head, revealing countless small nicks and scratches from years of use. The wooden shaft bore dark stains in places where sweat and blood had seeped into the grain over countless fights.

This wasn’t a decorative weapon meant to look battle-tested.

This was a tool that had been relied upon when lives were at stake.

He moved toward us without hesitation. His stride carried the steady confidence of someone who had learned early that showing weakness only invited more violence.

But I caught the way his grey eyes flicked between Professor De Clare and me.

He’s thinking. Assessing. And I don’t like not knowing what conclusions he’s reaching.

"Yes, Professor?" His voice carried the neutral tone of someone who’d learned not to volunteer information unless absolutely necessary. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

"You’re going to help me with a demonstration." Professor De Clare’s smile was all teeth and no warmth. Like a predator baring its fangs at something it hadn’t quite decided to kill yet. "Leone here claims he’s injured. I want to test that claim."

My stomach dropped toward my boots.

This is a trap.

She knows something. Or at least suspects it.

But which way is she testing? Does she think I’m faking the injury? Or does she suspect something else entirely?

I kept my expression carefully blank. Let just a hint of nervous sweat break out on my forehead. Let my hands tremble slightly.

The very picture of a weak student who had just realized he was in far over his head.

"Professor, I don’t think—"

"Leone." Her voice carried enough authority to stop a charging bull in its tracks.

The other students in the yard had gone silent. Conversations died mid-word as everyone turned to watch what was unfolding.

Great. An audience. Just what I needed.

"Show me a basic defensive stance against a spear thrust. If you’re really injured, you’ll know instinctively how to protect your weak side." She let the implication hang in the air like smoke. "If you’re faking..."

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t need to.

Either way, I need to play this perfectly.

I looked at Rhys. He held his spear in a relaxed grip. The worn wooden shaft rested comfortably against his callused palm as if it were an extension of his own arm.

His grey eyes met mine for a moment.

I saw something there. Not sympathy. But perhaps understanding. He knew what it was like to be tested. To have your worth questioned at every turn. To be the constant subject of someone else’s judgment.

The scar along his jawline stood out pale against his weathered skin.

"I’ll go easy," Rhys said quietly. His voice barely carried beyond the two of us. "Just need to see your form."

Thanks, buddy. Real comforting.

I nodded. Moved into position with exaggerated care.

Every step was a performance of someone fighting through genuine pain. Each movement a display of weakness that required more effort than any martial technique.

I let my left arm stay pressed against my ribs while raising my right in a basic guard position.

The stance was deliberately weak. Favoring my injured side in a way that would make any competent fighter wince in disgust.

My weight distribution was wrong. My center of gravity too high. My guard full of holes that even a novice could exploit.

Perfect incompetence. My specialty.

"Pathetic," Fen muttered from the sidelines. Her wolf ears twitched in irritation. Her tail had gone still, which I’d learned was actually more dangerous than when it was lashing. It meant she was focused. Evaluating. Deciding whether this particular prey was worth the effort.

"My grandmother could hold a better guard, and she’s been dead for three years. At least she had the dignity to die standing up."

Ouch. That one actually stung a little.

A few students snickered at her comment. They fell silent when Professor De Clare’s gaze swept over them.

The Head of House Onyx ignored the commentary. Her amber eyes fixed on my positioning with an intensity that made me wonder what she was really looking for.

What calculation is running behind those sharp eyes?

What test am I actually being subjected to?

"Blackwood, show him a basic thrust. Slow and controlled."

Rhys shifted his grip on the spear. Brought it up into an attack position.

The movement was stripped of all unnecessary flourish. This was someone who’d learned to fight because his life depended on it. Not to impress nobles at a tournament or earn points from judges who’d never faced death on a real battlefield.

His calloused fingers adjusted with unconscious familiarity. Found the balance point without conscious thought.

He stepped forward with deliberate weight. His footwork clean and economical.

The spear extended in a textbook thrust aimed directly at my chest. The well-maintained tip caught the light as it moved through the air between us.

Even moving slowly, there was a dangerous beauty to the motion. Years of practice distilled into a single movement that would punch through armor if delivered at full speed.

Here we go.

I moved to parry. The pain radiating through my side wasn’t feigned. My body’s honest response to the healing fractures.

But I deliberately exaggerated it.

Let my guard sag as I hunched to "protect" my injured flank. Threw in a small, pained gasp that was just theatrical enough without seeming forced. The sound carried clearly in the silent training yard.

The end result was a defensive posture that appeared suitably incompetent to any observers while actually maintaining enough structural integrity that I could recover if I absolutely had to.

It was a delicate balance.

Looking weak enough to be dismissed.

Retaining just enough hidden competence to survive if things went sideways.

The performance of a lifetime. And the audience doesn’t even know they’re watching a show.

Rhys’s spear stopped a few inches from my chest. He pulled back smoothly. Reset to his starting position.

His grey eyes met mine again.

And I saw it.

The flicker of recognition.

The moment of understanding.

He knows. He knows I’m holding back.

Damn it.

Professor De Clare watched the entire exchange without expression. Her amber eyes revealed nothing.

"Acceptable," she said finally. "You’re protecting your injury. Good instinct."