The Cursed Extra-Chapter 128: [3.1] Watching the Protagonist Get All the Plot Armor

Chapter 128: [3.1] Watching the Protagonist Get All the Plot Armor

"The difference between a hero and a statistic is usually just narrative convenience."

***

The portal hung in the air like a wound in reality itself.

Its edges crackled with unstable energy that made my teeth ache. Twenty teams clustered before the tear in space. I could taste the ozone on my tongue. Sharp. Metallic. Wrong in a way that set every nerve ending on fire.

The containment field around the entrance flickered every few seconds. Revealed hairline fractures in the magical framework that held this gateway stable. Each flicker lasted maybe half a second.

But that was enough.

More than enough for someone who knew what to look for.

One good surge and this thing could collapse. Taking half the hillside with it. And everyone standing on it. Maybe the whole staging area if we’re really unlucky.

The professors didn’t seem concerned. Or maybe they just hid it better than the students.

Either way, it wasn’t my problem. Not today. Today I had exactly one job. And it didn’t involve worrying about catastrophic magical infrastructure failures.

I hunched my shoulders and let my hands shake as I clutched the strap of my pack. Played the part of the nervous third son who’d rather be anywhere else.

The performance came easier now. Three weeks of practice had worn the mask smooth. Like a well-used tool that fit perfectly in the palm. The tremor in my fingers was just convincing enough to be noticed but not so dramatic that it drew mockery. The slight hunch in my posture suggested defeat without screaming it.

Every detail mattered. Every single one.

Around me, conversations hummed with false bravado and genuine terror. Depending on which house the speakers called home. Students checked weapons. Adjusted armor. Whispered last-minute strategies to teammates who looked just as frightened as they felt.

Some of them were going to die today.

That was a statistical certainty that the Academy’s pamphlets conveniently neglected to mention. The warrens had a way of culling the weak, the unprepared, and the unlucky in equal measure.

Twenty teams. Eighty students total. If the historical average holds, we’ll lose somewhere between four and seven before the assessment ends. More if someone does something stupid.

And someone always did something stupid.

"Leone."

Professor Isolde De Clare’s voice sliced through the chatter. She approached the portal with her characteristic swagger. That confident stride that spoke of battlefields survived and enemies broken.

Her silver flask was already in hand despite the early hour. The morning sun glinted off its dented surface. Those amber eyes swept the assembled students with the same expression a butcher might wear while selecting cuts of meat.

The scar through her eyebrow seemed more pronounced in the harsh morning light. A permanent reminder of battles these students couldn’t begin to comprehend.

I watched her approach from beneath lowered lashes. Careful to keep my expression appropriately cowed. Professor De Clare was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her combat abilities.

That tactical mind of hers missed very little.

The last thing I needed was the Head of House Onyx taking a personal interest in my affairs.

"Listen up, you disappointments." She took a long pull from her flask. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Most of you are cannon fodder. The goal of this assessment is to see which of you are useful cannon fodder."

A few nervous laughs rippled through the crowd. They weren’t sure if she was joking.

Neither was I, honestly.

Isolde’s smile turned predatory. All teeth and no warmth. It was the kind of smile that made small animals freeze in place. Hope the predator would pass them by.

"Don’t die stupidly. The paperwork is a nightmare. I’m talking mountains of forms. Requisition reports. Next-of-kin notifications. Incident summaries that have to go through three different administrative departments. It takes weeks."

She paused to let that sink in. Her expression suggested this was somehow worse than the actual dying.

"Don’t die heroically either. I’m not writing recommendation letters for corpses. If you’re going to die, at least make it educational for the survivors. Give them something to learn from. ’Don’t do what Cadet Whatever did’ is a perfectly acceptable legacy."

Her gaze found mine across the crowd. Lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Something unreadable flickered in those amber depths. Curiosity? Suspicion? Or maybe just the professional interest of an instructor cataloging her charges?

I forced my expression to remain blank. Let a hint of nausea creep into my features. My stomach clenched in what looked like fear but was actually something else entirely.

Don’t see me. Don’t look too closely. I’m just another disappointment. Just another piece of cannon fodder waiting to fail.

"The warrens are older than this academy. Older than most of your bloodlines. They were here before the first stone was laid for Solamere’s foundations. The things that live down there have been hunting prey since before your great-great-grandparents were born."

Her voice dropped. Lost some of its theatrical edge.

"They’ve claimed better students than you. And they’ll claim some of you today. The question is whether you’ll learn anything useful before they do."

She gestured toward the portal with her flask. The motion somehow both dismissive and ceremonial.

"Teams One through Ten enter first. The rest of you get to watch and learn from their mistakes. And trust me, there will be mistakes. There are always mistakes."

Perfect.

That gave me time to observe. Catalog the competition. Assess the threats. The first wave would clear the initial chambers. Trigger whatever traps or ambushes waited near the entrance. Generally soften up the opposition for those who followed.

It wasn’t a kind arrangement.

But it was a practical one.

The strong went first. The weak got to see what killed the strong.

I watched as Leo’s golden hair caught the morning light. His team gathered around him like moths to flame. They stood taller in his presence. Drew strength from his confidence like plants soaking up sunlight.

Almost nauseating, how naturally he draws people in. How effortlessly he commands loyalty just by existing.

"Remember," Leo said. His voice carried that natural authority that made people want to follow him into hell. "We protect each other. No glory is worth a teammate’s life."

How noble. How perfectly, predictably noble.

Elena Morgenthorne nodded. Ice already formed around her fingertips as she tested her magic. The frost crystals caught the light. Scattered it into a thousand tiny rainbows that danced across her pale skin.

Her silver-blue hair was pulled back in a severe style that emphasized her flawless features and ice-cold eyes. The massive sapphire on her engagement ring glinted with each subtle movement of her hand.

That ring was basically a magical amplifier disguised as jewelry. Trust the nobility to turn even their chains into weapons.

Gareth Stoneheart adjusted his massive shield. The metal groaned slightly under the weight of its enchantments. The thing was probably worth more than my family’s remaining assets combined.

Lysander Ashford checked his bow for the third time. Ran his fingers along the string with the obsessive care of someone who knew his life depended on that tension being perfect.

They moved like a unit. Like they’d been fighting together for years instead of weeks.

The protagonist and his party.

Blessed by plot armor and narrative convenience. The golden boy and his faithful companions. Marching toward their preordained victory.

Everything will go right for them. Every challenge will be perfectly calibrated to test but not break them. Every setback will be a learning experience that makes them stronger.

It wasn’t fair.

But then, nothing about this world was fair.

That was kind of the point.