Trapped like an extra in a blatant cliche

"With every blow I take, I'll return ten times stronger! Today, I don't fight alone, for I carry the power of my fallen comrades in every heartbeat, and with every cut, every step, and every cry, I'll make my enemies feel the weight of my fury!" —Excerpt from The Reborn Hero, Volume 1.

Emma's Point of View

With the morning chill and the sun barely peeking over the horizon, her footsteps echoed along the silent path. The solitude of that moment enveloped her, and Emma closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the cold air to fill her lungs. A white mist escaped her mouth with each breath, forming small clouds that quickly dissipated into the air. She stifled a yawn. She hadn't slept well the night before, but the day wouldn't wait for her fatigue.

The week had been endless, with each day feeling longer and more exhausting than the last. Her muscles were heavy, and a part of her longed to stay in bed, far from the day's fencing lessons, away from any responsibility. But, as always, she ignored the temptation and moved forward, letting her feet guide her along the path lined with fine stones, leading her towards the Academy.

On both sides, trees flanked her, adorning the path with their foliage as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the stones. In the distance, the imposing Seraphim Academy loomed, a structure that resembled an ancient, eloquent castle, majestic and almost intimidating.

Its towers and walls rose against the sky, a symbol of power and prestige. There… only the nobility, those with the necessary wealth, talented young people with resources and connections, and lastly... the best of the best could enter.

Seraphim Academy prided itself on its teachings in Magic and Fencing, but beyond the combat disciplines, a myriad of other subjects were offered. After all, a society couldn't sustain itself with swords and spells alone. It was a cycle in which, regardless of the outcome, the Academy always won. If their students succeeded, their achievements became the Academy's, the emblem of Seraphim, and with each successful generation, they secured more renown, more income, and more prestige.

Emma shook her head, pushing those thoughts aside. She knew all of that, of course, but it didn't interest her. She wasn't there for prestige or glory. She was there to become stronger, to become the best swordswoman.

The cold woke her a little more, despite her loose clothing, which was barely enough to keep her warm. But she didn't mind; soon she'd be training, and the heat of exercise would replace the morning chill.

As she walked, she could feel her muscles protesting with every step. The marks of the previous day's training still pulsed in her body, a constant reminder of what she had to do, day after day, without respite. Today, like all week, she'd focus solely on physical training. Her routine was relentless, but she didn't complain. She didn't allow herself the luxury of stopping, of taking a break, for she knew that fatigue was only a small part of the price she had to pay.

"Those demons," she thought, the memory still fresh. Those creatures had taken everything she'd ever known. Her home, her family, her peace… all of it had vanished in a single night of horror. The Academy was just a temporary refuge, a place where she could grow stronger. Each day brought her one step closer to her goal, to the revenge she longed for against that damned race of beasts. Unconsciously, her fists clenched, knuckles white, until she noticed the pain in her hands and released them.

Lost in her reflections, she had almost forgotten to pay attention to her surroundings. She sighed, feeling the weight of her thoughts anchoring her. Her eyes, cold and determined, rose toward the Academy entrance. The imposing façade of the doors seemed to mock her, a reminder of the barrier between her past and the uncertain future that awaited her.

"A new day, a new problem," she muttered, her voice rough, and moved forward with determined steps. Each day, she thought, was just one more battle she had to win, for she had already lost one, and it would mark her forever.

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"Alright, cadets! Grab a sword and form ranks!" The shout thundered through the room like a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. The deep, authoritative voice belonged to none other than Professor Lockworn, a living legend of forty-two years, a nine-star bearer, a monster in a category of his own.

His imposing figure stood like a monument of war—tall, muscular, with a military bearing that seemed carved by blows and scars. His thick beard and the horizontal scar across his nose were visible warnings, marks of a man who had known the brutality of the battlefield.

The students hurried to follow his orders, the sound of their shoes echoing against the polished wooden floor. A hundred and two students had been selected for this class, the best of their generation, the top freshmen, handpicked by Lockworn himself. The Academy had thousands of students, but only "the chosen herds of each generation" had the privilege of learning under the veteran swordmaster.

Among them was Emma Tarkard. Her face bore the same indifferent look as always, but her eyes concealed deep thoughts. She grabbed a wooden sword from the racks against the smooth stone wall and, as her fingers brushed the hilt, she glanced around the room. It was a vast space bathed in natural light thanks to the large windows adorning one of the walls, cooled by mana stones hidden within the walls.

Her gaze landed on a familiar figure: Thalion Astaroth, the prodigy of her class and the third son of the powerful ruler of Astaroth City. His flawless appearance, with perfect skin and hair black as midnight, made him stand out, but what truly defined him was the arrogance that radiated from his dark, almost empty gaze. It was as if he could sense anyone's stare, and he returned Emma's with a coldness that cut like an invisible blade.

"Now that we've reached the halfway point of the school term and exams are over, it's time to evaluate your progress," Lockworn announced, walking slowly in front of his students like a predator sizing up his prey. "Some of you have exceeded my expectations, others... have disappointed me." His gaze lingered momentarily on Emma and Thalion, as if he had already made a decision.

"As always, after the exams, we'll have a demonstration duel," he declared with a gravity that made everyone hold their breath. "Emma Tarkard, seventh-ranked student, step forward," he ordered. All eyes in the room turned to Emma, who stepped forward without hesitation, though inwardly she cursed the situation. "Thalion Astaroth, first-ranked student, step forward." Another figure moved with the same confidence, and suddenly, the atmosphere felt charged with electricity.

Emma felt the weight of her classmates' stares, and the floor beneath her seemed to grow heavier. "You're allowed to use your Traits, but remember—no lethal force, and no other forms of magic. Prepare yourselves and begin on my signal," the professor said.

She clicked her tongue. Damn… This was going to be hell. She knew facing Thalion wouldn't be easy, especially with his Traits: Recessive Latency and Impact Accumulation. It was a cursed combination, a perfect synergy that gave him a brutal advantage in any prolonged fight. And on top of that, the arrogant bastard was the son of a ruler, born with fortune on his side and blessed with more than one trait.

She sighed and tensed her muscles. What a bastard, she thought. She planted herself in front of Thalion, who looked at her with that superior gaze, his dark eyes shining with palpable arrogance. The professor's arm dropped, and without warning, the battle began.

The sound of impact was deafening; Thalion had taken the initiative. The very air seemed to explode when their wooden swords collided. Emma felt the force of the blow travel up her arm, nearly sliding down her bones to her legs. Damn it, it's like fighting a wall. Thalion hadn't changed his style. He was all-out attack, pure aggression. And the worst part was, it suited him perfectly. With his defensive Traits, every second of combat worked in his favor.

Emma stepped back, her feet sliding across the smooth floor, almost splintering it. She took a deep breath and then dropped to the ground, ducking under the next sword strike by a hair's breadth as the air whistled over her head. Her fingers danced, tracing an intricate, dangerous pattern against the fabric of reality itself. It was time for the counterattack.

Suddenly, the space between them filled with fine threads that sliced through the air with surgical precision. Thalion was thrown back, a muffled roar escaping his lips as his clothes were torn by the cuts, but his skin remained as intact as ever. For him, those were just invisible scratches. That was the worst of it. Emma didn't delude herself into thinking she had won; she had merely bought herself a bit of time to strategize.

She hurled her sword with all her might, aiming it straight between Thalion's eyes. He blocked the weapon with a swift movement, and it flew away, but by then, Emma was already behind the piece of wood, using the blind spot she'd created to close the distance and launch a direct attack.

The room's atmosphere shifted in an instant. A low, metallic sound began to fill the space, a hollow, menacing rumble that sounded like the shriek of birds or the forced condensation of metal itself.

"A Thousand Cuts," Emma murmured, her voice shaking from the effort. The air between them filled with threads. They were nearly invisible, but they glowed faintly with a dangerous light. With the force of tons, they struck Thalion, who was thrown back again, this time against the stone wall reinforced by spells and mana stones.

The impact was devastating. The wall dented under the pressure, the echo of the collision reverberating through the entire room. A murmur of astonishment rippled through the spectators. Could someone really push Thalion that far? Nothing like this had ever happened, and here, right before their stunned eyes, it had just occurred.

But Thalion wasn't someone to fall so easily. Emerging from the rubble, or rather launching himself from it, his clothes in tatters and his body marked by superficial cuts that bled, the arrogance in his face had vanished, replaced by cold focus. He now knew Emma wasn't just any rival.

"I'll return the favor," he said icily, his Traits activating at full force. The pressure in the air changed, and Emma barely had time to react. But her threads instinctively deployed in front of her, blocking the devastating attack that would have been dangerous to take head-on. The impact was brutal, but her defenses held, just barely.

And so, the dance resumed. She recovered her sword, thanks to the threads she wielded with mastery. Weapons clashed, bodies moved at such a dizzying speed they seemed to vanish and reappear like distorted shadows. Sweat covered both combatants, the pressure mounting with every passing second. Neither was willing to yield.

With a mind cold as steel, Emma tilted her head to one side at the last second, narrowly avoiding the fierce slash from her opponent. Her reflexes were nearly perfect, and without wasting time, she twisted her body with feline grace, enveloping herself in a thin layer of threads weaving around her, forming an ethereal but firm barrier. Thalion didn't stop; his Traits were fully charged, ready to unleash another devastating assault.

The attack was swift. It sent her flying backward as if struck by an invisible blow, but right in midair, a delicate, almost imperceptible web appeared as if by magic. The threads, as thin as spider silk, materialized to catch her. The net absorbed all the impact of her flight, halting her momentum elegantly. In the blink of an eye, the trap vanished as if it had never existed, letting her fall gently to the ground, like a leaf caught by the wind.

Emma got back up, her muscles tense and her breathing heavy, but the spark of determination burned brightly in her eyes. In one final, desperate effort, her threads began to glow a vivid blue.

"Thorn Dance," she whispered with trembling lips. Out of nowhere, a storm of shining threads erupted around her, enveloping Thalion in an inescapable trap. The threads closed in, and in an instant, Emma's sword stopped just at her opponent's neck.

"Emma Tarkard, wins," Lockworn declared, his voice so firm it left no room for argument.

The murmurs of the crowd exploded in a mixture of astonishment and overwhelming excitement, but she didn't care. She had won, but she was at her limit. Her threads vanished into the air, and with them, all her energy. She fell to her knees, her breathing ragged, her body trembling, her vision blurred.

And damn… that bastard really had pushed her to the edge.

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Brian Morningstar's Point of View

"The winner is... Luke," exclaimed a young yet firm female voice from the other end of the courtyard. Dressed in light leather armor designed for combat that seemed to mold to her slender, athletic frame, a woman in her early twenties raised her arm in approval. Her brown hair swayed in the morning breeze, while her green eyes sparkled with an emotion that seemed disconnected from what was actually happening. This woman was Nina Listair, the black sheep of the Listair family and a seven-star swordswoman.

After clashing with her family and seeking a more stable life, away from the daily risks of adventurers, Nina had secured a job as an instructor at the prestigious Seraphim Academy.

But who could have predicted that her flock would be so... disappointing? She sighed, trying to suppress the bitterness rising up her throat like slow poison. Of the 102 students assigned to her, not even the top two stood out. To her, they all moved like snails, and those who showed a hint of skill barely saved themselves from ridicule.

But a job was a job. And at least the pay was enough to keep her from quitting just yet. "Alright, you two can rest for the remainder of the class if you wish," she said to the two boys who had just sparred in a demonstration duel. Without waiting for a response, she turned her gaze to the rest of the group and forced a smile.

"Now I want everyone to find a partner and start training," she declared with enthusiasm as fake as her expressions. "I'll be watching and correcting your mistakes," she added at the end to avoid coming off as careless. Although, in truth, the only thing she cared about was maintaining appearances. After all, who could say Nina Listair wasn't earning her keep? If anyone dared, she'd punch them in the face.

She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh morning air as her green eyes scanned the courtyard, which, to her frustration, was nothing more than a section of the academy's outdoor area. They hadn't even had the decency to assign her one of the famous training halls. "Pathetic," she thought, biting the inside of her lip. Wait, did that make her pathetic too? she wondered, a flash of panic sparking in her eyes.

Brian... or Aiden, or whatever his name was now, wasn't having a good day either. In fact, "bad" was too mild a word to describe what was happening. The morning had been torture from the start.

He had hardly slept, tormented by that terrible dream. And when he finally gave up on trying to get some rest, wide awake and without the handy tool called the internet, the best he could do to keep his mind occupied was to explore the room. He spent hours browsing incomprehensible books, with scribbles in an unknown language that, strangely enough, he could somehow understand.

However, understanding it didn't solve the fundamental problem he discovered: he couldn't write in that damned language. Every attempt to put something on paper resulted in an archaeological disaster. Frustrated, he massaged his forehead, trying to shake off the question tormenting him: Why the hell was he going through this? But, as usual, he found no answer.

He hadn't learned much about Brian, the boy whose body he now occupied, either. No embarrassing diaries, no photos, no clues about who he really was. It was like he was inhabiting a ghost, and that ghost was making his life hell.

His fingers traced the hilt of the wooden sword he held—a tool he was familiar with, a tool for physical development and training. But what were these lunatics thinking, training kids as if they were soldiers? "What twisted, backward mind decided this was appropriate?" he thought, as his annoyance grew by the second.

"Hey, idiot, didn't you hear the teacher?!" a sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head, meeting the face of an annoying brat. For a moment, he thought he recognized him, but indifference quickly took over, and he stopped paying attention. "Ah, right, I need a training partner," he reasoned, as his eyes scanned the area. He wasn't great at socializing, but he didn't want to stand out as the odd one no one wanted to pick either.

The problem was... everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Those who did glance at him did so with barely concealed disdain and mockery, only to quickly look away. "What... what the hell is wrong with me?" he wondered, incredulous. He knew he didn't look his best and probably looked awful, but was it really bad enough to make others not even want to come near him?

"Trash! I'm talking to you!" The brat charged back in, his voice shrill, his face red with anger. He observed him for another second, this time bothering to register his presence. But his patience had limits, and this kid was pushing them. "You're a nuisance," he murmured, his tone flat. "Don't talk to me, and go to hell."

The boy's reaction was immediate. His face, already red, turned nearly purple with fury. But he had no time to deal with the exaggerated reactions of a spoiled brat. He continued searching for a partner, ignoring the growing discomfort he felt watching the other kids practice with their wooden swords. It all seemed like madness, as if he were in a Nike factory in China or something.

Suddenly, he heard quick footsteps—a light trot that quickly turned into a run. "I'll make you pay for yesterday, you damn idiot!" The brat's voice rang out behind him. He didn't even bother to fully turn around, as, in his mind, everything was happening in slow motion. The kid raised his wooden sword above his head, and when he was close enough, he launched a clumsy downward strike.

He simply sidestepped with his entire body, as if dodging was the most natural thing in the world—and of course, it was. Who the hell would want to get hit? And in one fluid motion, he raised his own wooden sword and gently rested it against the back of the kid's neck.

"Does that count as a point?" he asked dryly, without a hint of emotion in his voice. He was tired, mentally and physically, but at least he wasn't going to take out his frustration on kids. That was something he had decided, no matter how stupid he thought the situation was.

The brat was left speechless, unable to process what had just happened. "What... what the hell was that?" he stammered, as astonished as he was terrified.

Nina Listair, along with the rest of those present, was surprised. No one had expected Brian, the "class deadweight," to do something so unexpected. Nina, in particular, smiled brazenly. Had she perhaps found a tortoise among her snails?