The Cursed Extra-Chapter 93: [2.41] The Art of Getting Your Ass Kicked (Strategically)

Chapter 93: [2.41] The Art of Getting Your Ass Kicked (Strategically)

"If you’re going to lose anyway, you might as well get something out of it."

***

I traced the tactical breakdown with my finger, walking Lyra through each phase.

"Three phases of combat." I tapped the first section. "Phase one: the opening display. Vance uses flashy footwork and aggressive posturing to intimidate his opponent into mental submission. Wide stances. Dramatic flourishes. Probably some verbal taunting to establish dominance. Standard bully playbook."

My finger moved down.

"Phase two: the cat and mouse. Once he’s established psychological superiority, he’ll toy with his opponent. Light strikes. Near-misses. Opportunities for surrender that he knows won’t be taken. This is where he draws the fight out and lets the crowd appreciate his skill."

"And the finale?" Lyra asked. Her tone suggested she already knew.

"Phase three: the decisive blow." I tapped the final section, where a starred notation marked the critical moment. "He finishes every match the same way. Disarms his opponent or knocks them down, then delivers his signature technique to a non-vital area. Usually the torso or shoulder. Painful enough to prove dominance. Controlled enough to avoid permanent damage."

I leaned back.

"He’s not trying to kill anyone. He’s trying to humiliate them."

"His signature technique," I continued, tapping the starred section. "[Power Strike]. E-rank skill. Brutish but effective. Channels mana through the dominant arm for enhanced force. Approximately three times normal striking power, based on my observations. He finishes every match with it. It’s become his calling card."

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. Her mind was already dissecting the information. "Simple magic. Predictable. No subtlety whatsoever. Any competent fighter should be able to counter—"

She stopped. Realization dawned.

"But you don’t intend to counter it."

"Correct."

I reached for the final document. The one that had taken longest to prepare. The one I’d redrawn three times until every detail was right.

An anatomical diagram of my torso. Rendered in careful detail that would make a healer proud.

And there, marked in red ink over the lower left ribs, a single ’X’.

"The perfect target," I explained. Clinical. Like I was discussing someone else’s body. "Far enough from vital organs to minimize danger. The liver is higher and to the right. The spleen is protected by the tenth and eleventh ribs. Close enough to the surface to guarantee visible damage."

I tapped the mark.

"The floating ribs here are designed to absorb impact. Paradoxically, that makes them more likely to break cleanly. Minimal risk of puncturing anything vital. Maximum chance of a dramatic injury that will satisfy the crowd."

I tapped the red mark again.

"The ideal location for [Skill Plunder] to trigger."

Yeah, I know. I’m literally planning where I want to get hit. This is my life now.

I’d tested the theory extensively. Used every opportunity to experiment with my unique class ability. The skill activated when struck by an opponent’s ability, but only if the attack connected meaningfully. Only if damage was dealt. A glancing blow wouldn’t suffice. A blocked strike wouldn’t work.

I needed to be genuinely hurt. To feel the impact of the skill breaking against my body before I could steal it.

"I call it ’The Perfect Beating.’"

I couldn’t quite keep the satisfaction from my voice. Probably should have tried harder. But hey, if you’re going to get your ribs broken, you might as well be smug about it.

"Vance gets his glory. A public victory over the pathetic Leone heir that will cement his reputation. The crowd gets their spectacle. The natural order affirmed, the weak put in their place."

I smiled.

"And I get [Power Strike] added to my arsenal."

Silence stretched between us. The candles hissed. Distant sounds of the academy settling into night filtered through the walls. Somewhere outside, students laughed and argued, unaware of the cold planning being made in Room 247.

Lyra studied the diagram with the intensity usually reserved for a heavily guarded vault. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, tracing my torso’s outline without touching it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"You intend to let him break you."

Not a question. A statement delivered with the flat tone of someone trying very hard not to feel.

"Two ribs," I corrected, tapping the ’X’. "Clean break. Minimal complications. The healers will have me functional within hours. The academy’s medical facilities are excellent, and rib fractures are among the most common training injuries. A small price for a permanent capability."

"A small price." She repeated the words like tasting something bitter. "Master, you speak of your bones as currency."

"Everything is currency, Lyra. Pain. Humiliation. Weakness. They’re all forms of payment." I leaned back in my chair, noting the tightening around her mouth. The flare of her nostrils. The way her hands had curled into fists. "The secret is making sure you get value for what you spend."

Her eyes moved from the diagram to my face. Searching.

She wouldn’t find hesitation. I’d made my peace with this decision days ago. The Alex who’d died on Earth had never faced a choice like this. The Kaelen I’d become understood that survival sometimes required sacrifice.

And two broken ribs are a lot better than being dead.

"The crowd will see Kaelen Leone beaten by his betters." I swept my hand through the air as if painting the scene. "They’ll see weakness. Cowardice. The natural order affirmed. Another embarrassing loss for the pathetic third son of a fallen house. Not even worth remembering by next week."

I paused for effect.

"What they won’t see is a [Lord of Stolen Tales] harvesting power from his enemy’s triumph."

"And if something goes wrong?" Her voice carried a faint tremor. The first crack in her composure. "If his aim is poor? If he strikes too hard? If he loses control in the heat of the moment?"

"He won’t."

I pointed to a specific entry in my behavioral analysis. Absolute certainty.

"Vance has never seriously injured an opponent. Seventeen recorded matches. Not a single hospitalization beyond standard healing for minor injuries. He’s a bully, not a killer. He wants to hurt people just enough to prove he’s stronger. Not enough to face consequences."

"But in front of the entire academy..." She gestured toward the window. Toward the world outside where hundreds of witnesses would gather tomorrow. "The pressure of performance. The need to impress. The adrenaline..."

"He’ll perform exactly as expected."

I gathered the papers into a neat stack. Aligned their edges. Something to do with my hands.

"Vance is a minor character, Lyra. A stepping stone. He doesn’t have the narrative weight for genuine unpredictability."

The words hung between us.

I could see her processing them. Understanding the cold logic of treating people as narrative constructs. This was the truth I’d never fully explained. That I saw this world as a story. Its inhabitants as characters bound by the roles they’d been assigned.

Vance wasn’t a person to me. He was a plot device. A source of a useful skill. A predictable obstacle to be exploited.

Is that messed up? Probably. Does it keep me alive? Also probably.

"You’re gambling with your life based on narrative convention," she said finally. Even her devotion couldn’t quite mask the disbelief in her voice.

"I’m leveraging my knowledge of how stories work."

I met her eyes. Let her see my absolute conviction.

"Every character has a role. Vance’s is clear. He’s the privileged bully who exists to be knocked down by the real hero. A stepping stone for Leo von Valerius or one of the other protagonists to demonstrate their moral superiority."

I shrugged.

"But I’m not the hero, Lyra. I’m barely even a named character. Vance has no reason to deviate from his script when dealing with someone as insignificant as me."

She stared at the red ’X’ where her Master intended to be broken. Her hands shook at her sides. The emotion she struggled to conceal leaked through anyway.

"There has to be another way." Her voice came out raw. Desperate. "Some path that doesn’t require your suffering."