The Cursed Extra-Chapter 137: [3.10] The Professor Is Watching (And She’s Getting Bored)

"Perfect soldiers make boring corpses. It’s the messy ones who survive."

***

Professor Isolde De Clare had arranged herself in her chair with the kind of deliberate carelessness that took years to perfect.

Her body draped across the worn leather like she owned the entire academy and simply couldn’t be bothered to sit up straight. One leg hung over the armrest. Her boot tapped against nothing in particular. Her amber eyes swept across the constellation of scrying orbs that filled the faculty monitoring room from floor to ceiling.

Each translucent sphere revealed a different student team’s journey through the underground labyrinth. The surfaces pulsed with that ethereal blue glow of active divination magic. Cast strange shadows across her face as she watched.

Dozens of them. Arranged in neat rows. Each one a window into someone else’s struggle for survival.

She tilted her silver flask to her lips and swallowed. Her face contorted into a grimace that suggested the liquid inside could probably dissolve metal. Strip paint off walls. Possibly serve as an emergency fuel source in a pinch.

"Boring," she declared. Her voice flat as she watched Leo’s squad slice through another goblin pack on the largest central orb. The golden-haired hero moved like he was performing for an audience. His blade caught the light with every swing. "Perfect form, flawless coordination, and absolutely no imagination. I’ve seen corpses with more creative problem-solving skills."

She took another swig from her flask. Let the burn settle in her throat before continuing.

"Hell, I’ve commanded corpses with more creative problem-solving skills. At least the undead have the decency to shamble unpredictably now and then."

Professor Gideon Blackthorne loomed beside her like a mountain that had decided to observe the proceedings. His hulking silhouette darkened the monitoring equipment. His presence made the already cramped room feel smaller.

Those battle-scarred hands remained locked behind his back. His ice-blue eyes dissected each team’s movements. The old soldier carried himself with the cold assessment of someone who had commanded real troops in real wars. Seen real death. Found this entire exercise somewhat quaint by comparison.

"Team One is performing at peak capability," he stated. His voice scraped out like gravel against stone. Carried no hint of approval or criticism. Just observation. Just fact. "They conserve resources, maximize tactical advantage. Their formation hasn’t broken once since they entered. They’ll finish with substantial time remaining."

"That’s my entire complaint." Isolde jabbed her flask toward the orb showcasing Leo’s golden aura. The liquid inside sloshed audibly. On screen, the young hero dispatched a goblin with a single perfect thrust. His white and gold armor unmarred by so much as a speck of dirt.

"Where’s the damn challenge? The adaptation? They’re not learning anything down there. They’re just going through a rehearsed routine." 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

She sat up slightly. Gestured with her flask in a way that nearly sent its contents splashing across the monitoring equipment.

"You could replace those goblins with training dummies and Valerius wouldn’t even notice the difference. His team’s just dancing through a choreography they’ve practiced a thousand times. Very pretty. Very useless in actual combat."

Her attention shifted to another sphere. This one displayed Vance Thorne’s team as they systematically cleared their designated area. Vance moved with the smug self-assurance of someone born into privilege. His costly gear gleamed ostentatiously as he dispatched goblins with textbook strikes.

Every movement screamed of expensive tutoring. Private instructors. Equipment that cost more than most commoners made in a decade.

"Team Three’s doing fine too," she continued. Her voice took on a sardonic edge that could have peeled wallpaper. "Daddy’s money bought them the best gear, and it shows. Another sterling example of privilege trumping actual ability."

She watched as Vance executed a perfect parry. His enchanted armor absorbed a blow that would have bruised a less protected fighter. The young noble didn’t even flinch. Just followed up with a counter-strike that dropped the goblin in a single hit.

"That boy’s never had to fight for anything in his life," Isolde muttered. "Never missed a meal, never worried about whether his sister would survive the winter, never wondered if tomorrow would be the day everything fell apart."

Blackthorne’s expression didn’t change. But something in his posture suggested he was listening more carefully now. The old soldier shifted his weight slightly. His scarred hands tightened behind his back.

"You sound disappointed, Isolde."

"Disappointed?" She laughed. The sound sharp as broken glass and about as pleasant. "I’m bored out of my skull. These kids are playing it safe, following the script, doing exactly what’s expected of them. They’re checking boxes on a form someone else wrote."

She drained another mouthful from her flask. Winced at the burn.

"Where’s the fire? Where’s the desperation that breeds real innovation? Where’s the moment when everything goes wrong and they have to improvise or die?"

Her free hand drummed against the armrest. Fingers tapped out an irregular rhythm.

"I’ve seen a thousand soldiers with perfect form get cut down by someone with nothing but a rusty knife and the will to survive. These academy brats have no idea what that feels like."

Her eyes found the cluster of orbs showing the House Onyx teams.

Her expression shifted.

The boredom faded. Replaced by something hungrier. More focused. She sat up straighter. Her boot swung off the armrest as she leaned toward the screens.

"Now these," she said. Her voice dropped to something almost reverent. "These are worth watching."

Team Twelve’s orb revealed four figures navigating tunnels vastly different from the pristine passages Leo’s team enjoyed.

Their section was a claustrophobic nightmare.

Damp walls glistened with moisture that dripped from unseen cracks. Pooled in shallow puddles that reflected their dim magelight. Support beams groaned under the weight of the earth above. The wood old and stressed and making sounds that no one wanted to think about too hard.

Every few meters revealed another collapsed section that demanded careful maneuvering around debris and rubble.

Marcus Vellum pored over his manual. His fingers trembled as he flipped through pages. He muttered calculations under his breath with the desperate intensity of someone acutely aware that a single mistake meant death. His lips moved constantly. Formed numbers and formulas. As if the math itself could protect him from the darkness pressing in.

Thomlin Ashworth white-knuckled his sword so hard his fingers had gone pale. His eyes darted to every shadow. Tracked movement that probably wasn’t there. The weapon in his hands served less as a tool and more as a talisman against the darkness. A security blanket made of steel.

Seraphina Valois picked her way forward with deliberate steps. Her grey eyes constantly scanned their surroundings. Every footfall landed where she could see. Every movement controlled and careful.

She knew full well that her healing abilities would be worthless if a cave-in crushed them all. That no amount of mana could mend what collapsed stone would do to human flesh.

And then there was Kaelen Leone.