"Again."
The word echoed across the dusty arena as Renard Valtierre picked himself off the ground for the third time that morning. Dirt smeared across his tunic. His borrowed training sword—blunt, iron, and slightly bent—clattered somewhere behind him, knocked from his grip again.
From the stands, polite laughter bubbled like a poisoned spring.
"He calls that a guard stance?"
"His sword might be heavier than he is."
"Maybe he should be evaluated for servant duty instead."
"F minus—does that even exist?"
Renard said nothing.
He bent down, picked up the blade, and returned to his stance. Awkward. Too high. Too tense. He knew it was wrong. His instructors knew it. The crowd especially knew it.
They weren't here for a fight.
They were here for sport.
Across the yard stood Rodric Faelin, third son of a Viscount and an academy darling—tall, golden-haired, and built like he'd been sculpted from oak and legacy. He smirked, adjusting his stance lazily.
The Tournament of Veilspire Academy was a big deal for noble youth. An annual ranking event. Victories meant glory. Losses meant mockery. Disqualifications… meant your entire house got laughed at for a season.
Rodric flourished his blade with unnecessary grace. "Try not to trip this time, Baronling."
Renard tightened his grip.
The whistle blew.
Rodric closed the distance in a flash. Renard reacted too late, swinging wide with a sloppy horizontal slash. Rodric ducked easily, stepped inside—
—and slammed the pommel of his sword into Renard's stomach.
THUMP.
Renard wheezed, doubling over. The sword dropped from his hand again.
Rodric stepped back, shaking his head. "Come now, you're making me look like a bully. At least fall with dignity."
Renard forced himself upright.
The referee—an aging knight named Sir Brennar—sighed. "Continue."
Rodric advanced again. Renard gritted his teeth and lunged with all he had. It was telegraphed. Sloppy. But for a moment, just a moment—
Rodric narrowed his eyes.
That... almost landed.
The crowd leaned forward. A second of silence.
Then Rodric stepped left, sidestepped the swing entirely, and swept Renard's legs out from under him.
CRACK.
The audience roared.
Someone tossed an apple core. Another yelled, "Just surrender, goat-blood!"
Renard didn't get up.
He just stared at the clouds drifting across the Veilspire sky, chest rising and falling, limbs aching, pride burning quietly.
"...I yield," he croaked.
Back in the barracks, the stone walls were cool and mercifully silent. Renard sat alone on a bench, peeling off his training gloves. His fingers trembled.
Then he saw it.
A faint shimmer in his vision.
[Swordsman Skill Proficiency: F– → F]
Impressive! You now understand which part is the blade.
[Public Class: F-Class Swordsman]
Reputation Penalty Applied.
*[System Remark: "Improvement noted, but please reconsider your life choices."]
Renard stared at the screen for a second.
Then he laughed. Bitter, quiet. The kind of laugh you exhale when you're too tired to be angry.
He tapped into the hidden system window—a secret menu only he could access, its glyphs arcane, its structure unlike anything the nobles used.
[True Class Identified – Phantom Warlord (S-Class)]
Status: [Incompatible with Current Social Status]
Passive Aura: [Drillmaster's Touch I] – Any units trained by you gain 5% faster proficiency.
[Assassin Skill Tree – Shadowblade Arts (S)]
Status: [LOCKED – Reveal = Death by Noble Law]
[Next Unlock: Train 5 Units / Survive 1 Real Combat Scenario]
He closed the menu.
No one would believe him anyway.
Later, the summoning bell rang.
Renard was ushered into the narrow stone keep atop Veilspire Hill. The interior was sparse—just a long table, some faded banners, and a fireplace large enough to roast a knight in plate.
His father, Baron Godric Valtierre, stood there.
Stiff. Square-jawed. Still dressed in his old campaign armor from twenty years ago.
He turned slowly, eyes fixed like a hawk.
"You shamed us again."
Renard didn't answer.
"Your third loss. And still no marks in riding or bladework. Do you understand what that means?"
"I'm ranked last."
"It means House Valtierre," Godric growled, "has no future in court. Our allies pull away. Our vassals whisper. Even the peasants snicker behind closed doors."
Renard's jaw clenched. "I'm not a duelist."
"No," his father snapped. "You're not anything."
That one cut.
"You think war is led by paper and plans? Glory is won in the dirt. In steel. The world only kneels to strength, boy."
Renard lowered his gaze.
"I could command," he muttered. "Given soldiers. A squad. I—"
Godric slammed his hand on the table. "You have no command. You are not a general. You are a boy with a weak grip and delusions of legacy."
There was silence.
Then, quieter:
"Leave."
That night, Renard sat in the keep's abandoned barracks, knees drawn to his chest, staring at a training dummy worn half to rot. The torchlight flickered. His mind spun.
"Command," he whispered.
"I'll never beat them in duels. Fine."
"I'll never ride like Rodric. Fine."
"But give me ten men… twenty… a battlefield…"
He stood, pacing, whispering like it was prayer.
"I'll outmaneuver every noble brat in this kingdom."
"I'll raise a banner that crushes theirs beneath it."
"I'll turn my disgrace into a doctrine."
[NEW COMMANDER SKILL UNLOCKED]
"Field Doctrine I – Your units gain +5% morale, +3% reaction speed during skirmish combat."
[Milestone Registered: Humiliation Endured (x3)]
Passive Perk: +2% to tactical analysis vs noble-led forces.
[Quest Unlocked: Rise of House Valtierre]
Objective: Elevate your House from Baron to Count.
Win 3 sanctioned wars OR conquer noble land directly.
Status: 0/3 completed.
Renard's eyes gleamed.
"If I can't win a duel…"
He grabbed a piece of charcoal and started sketching troop formations on the floor.
"…I'll win a battlefield."