chapter 10: A mere “Spar”

The next morning, as I stood in the center of the training hall, I realized it was time to show these students exactly what separated me from them. Sparring with them would serve two purposes: to evaluate their capabilities firsthand and to remind them that, while we might share the same age on paper, I was leagues ahead of them in every other regard.

The first opponent was Mira. She stepped into the ring, her stance firm and her grip on the wooden sword steady. Mira wasn't terrible—no, she was good. Good, at best. She had some skill with the blade, her footwork was passable, and she carried herself with a determination that I could respect. But skill and determination were nothing without experience, and that's where I had the overwhelming advantage.

The match began, and she moved in quickly, swinging her sword in a clean, diagonal arc. I sidestepped it with ease, letting the blade cut through the empty air where I'd been standing moments before. She didn't hesitate, following up with another strike, then another. Her movements were fluid, her attacks calculated. For a moment, I could see why some might think she was talented.

But talent alone isn't enough.

I parried her next strike, twisting my wrist slightly to redirect her blade, and stepped in close. My counterattack was swift, a precise jab aimed at her midsection, but she managed to block it just in time. I could see the strain on her face as she pushed back against me. She was trying to outmatch me in strength, which was a mistake.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "Not bad," I muttered, more to myself than to her.

She lunged again, this time feinting to the left before swinging toward my right shoulder. It was a decent maneuver, but predictable. I dodged to the side, though not quickly enough. The tip of her blade nicked my arm, drawing a shallow cut.

The faint sting was a reminder that even someone with minimal skill could be dangerous if underestimated. Still, it was hardly worth noting. I stepped back, holding my arm up briefly, and muttered a quick incantation under my breath. A soft, golden glow emanated from my hand as I healed the wound. Healing magic wasn't something I had relied on much in my past life, but here, it was an invaluable tool—a gift passed down from my mother. She had been a master healer, able to mend wounds both physical and emotional.

The sight of me casually healing myself seemed to throw Mira off her rhythm. She hesitated, her grip on her sword tightening as her confidence wavered. That was all I needed.

I moved in swiftly, closing the distance between us in a single stride. My white core enhanced every movement, making me faster and more precise than she could keep up with. Her blade swung defensively, but I was already inside her guard. With a fluid motion, I disarmed her, the wooden sword clattering to the ground as I placed the tip of mine lightly against her chest.

"Yield," I said, my voice calm and unwavering.

She froze, breathing heavily, before nodding and stepping back. The match was over, and it wasn't even close.

As I lowered my sword and turned to the rest of the class, I caught Gregor watching me with wide eyes. He whispered something to another student, and though I didn't catch every word, I could hear the awe in his voice. "Sylas's swordsmanship… it's perfect."

Perfect? Hardly. I wasn't perfect, not yet. But compared to them, I might as well have been.

Mira stepped out of the ring, her shoulders slumping slightly, but there was no bitterness in her expression. If anything, she seemed reflective, perhaps even determined to improve. That was good. That was what I wanted.

I glanced at the rest of the class, their eyes filled with a mixture of admiration, fear, and curiosity. "Next," I said, my tone sharp and commanding. "Who's ready to learn something?"

This wasn't just a sparring match. This was a lesson—a lesson in what true skill looked like, and a reminder that they had a long way to go if they ever hoped to reach it.

As Gregor murmured his awe-struck comment under his breath, I turned sharply and gave him a light but firm smack on the back of the head with the flat of my wooden sword. "That's Professor, Sir, or Mister Corvus to you," I said, my tone as dry as sandpaper. His wide-eyed look of surprise earned him a raised brow from me, and with a mumbled apology, he quickly corrected himself. These students might respect me, but they still needed to learn discipline.

Next up was Callan. He stepped into the ring, his hulking frame casting a shadow over the space. Callan was a beast of raw power and durability, his mana core enhancing his already monstrous physique. If there were a need to lift a tank, Callan could probably handle it without breaking a sweat. At his best, he could likely heft an entire blue whale out of the ocean.

But strength alone wasn't enough to win battles—not in this world, and certainly not against me.

Callan tightened his grip on his wooden sword, his knuckles whitening. He wasn't nervous, but he wasn't overconfident either. If anything, he looked focused—ready to give this everything he had. I nodded to him, appreciating his determination, though I knew it would only take him so far.

The match began.

Callan charged forward like a bull, his massive strides shaking the ground beneath him. His first swing was as predictable as the sunrise: a powerful downward slash aimed to overpower me. I sidestepped effortlessly, letting his strike hit the ground with a loud thud that sent dust flying into the air. The force of the blow was impressive, but it left him wide open.

"You're too slow, Callan," I said, darting behind him before he could recover.

He spun around, his massive sword arcing toward me in a sweeping horizontal strike. This one had a bit more thought behind it—he was trying to control the space and limit my mobility. A decent strategy, but still lacking finesse. I ducked under the blade, closing the distance between us in an instant.

Despite his lack of speed and intelligence, Callan's instincts weren't completely dull. He swung his elbow toward me, attempting to use his raw strength to knock me off balance. It was a good move, but not good enough. I caught his arm mid-swing, using his momentum against him to throw him slightly off balance.

"Good try," I muttered, stepping back to reset the fight.

Callan growled, his frustration evident as he lunged at me again, this time with a series of quicker, more deliberate strikes. He was learning—or at least trying to. But for every move he made, I had a counter. My experience, my speed, my skill—all of it was leagues ahead of his brute force approach.

Strength-wise, we were evenly matched, but that was where our similarities ended. Where Callan relied on raw power, I had agility and precision. Where he relied on instinct, I had strategy and decades of battle experience from my past life. My blade found the gaps in his defense with ease, and each strike I landed reminded him of the difference between us.

He swung again, a powerful overhead slash that could have split a boulder in half. I didn't dodge this time. Instead, I met his strike head-on, our swords colliding with a deafening crack. For a moment, we were locked in a test of strength, the ground beneath us trembling under the pressure.

Callan gritted his teeth, pushing with everything he had. But I didn't budge.

"Strength alone won't win you battles," I said, my voice calm but firm. "It's a tool, not a solution."

With a surge of effort, I broke the lock, pushing his blade aside and stepping into his guard. My sword stopped just inches from his neck, the match over in an instant.

Callan froze, his chest heaving as he stared at the blade. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"You're strong, Callan," I said, stepping back and lowering my sword. "Stronger than most. But strength means nothing if you can't use it effectively. Work on your speed, your strategy, and your control. Then we'll see what you're really capable of."

Callan nodded, his expression a mixture of frustration and determination. He might have lost, but I could tell he wasn't going to let this defeat crush him. If anything, it would fuel him to improve.

As he left the ring, Gregor leaned over to whisper something to one of the other students, and I shot him a sharp glance. "I heard that, Gregor," I said, and he immediately straightened up, muttering, "Yes, Professor Corvus."

The rest of the class watched in silence, their expressions ranging from awe to fear to grudging respect. I looked over at them and smirked. "Next."

Sylas crossed his arms, standing at the front of the class, observing their uneasy expressions. The tension hung in the air like a weight ready to fall. No one dared step forward for another sparring match. Their pride wouldn't let them face another humiliating defeat, not so soon after Callan's and Mira's losses. Sylas sighed inwardly. They were capable, but their lack of discipline and fear of failure were holding them back.

"Fine," he said, his tone calm but commanding, "since no one is willing to step up, let's move on to something else. A new lesson."

The students shifted uneasily in their seats, waiting to see what Sylas would throw at them next. He paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, and began to speak.

"Today, we'll talk about laying plans." His voice was steady, each word measured. "In war, in battle, and in life, planning is the difference between victory and defeat. A good plan doesn't just guide your actions; it disrupts your enemy's. It should be intricate enough to deceive them but simple enough for your allies to execute. A plan must evolve—adapting to new information, new obstacles, and new opportunities."

He stopped pacing and turned to face the class, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. "But here's the catch: a plan isn't just about strategy. It's about psychology. You have to anticipate the moves of your opponent, understand their weaknesses, and exploit them without mercy. A truly great plan isn't just a sequence of steps. It's a trap—one so perfect they never realize they've walked into it until it's too late."

The students stared, some leaning forward, captivated by his words. Sylas noted their reactions but didn't let it show. He had their attention, and now he needed to cement the lesson.

"Gregor," he called out, his voice sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Gregor blinked in surprise but stood up, his tall frame stiff as he made his way to the front of the class. "Relax," Sylas said dryly, raising an eyebrow at Gregor's hesitation. "This is a demonstration, not an execution."

A few chuckles rippled through the class, easing some of the tension. Gregor, now slightly more confident, stood beside Sylas.

"For this demonstration," Sylas began, gesturing toward Gregor, "we'll assume that Gregor here is a mighty war leader. A man of great power, commanding armies, conquering nations. The type of figure who inspires both fear and admiration."

Gregor grinned at the praise, puffing out his chest. "Maybe I'll win this hypothetical war," he said with a grin, earning a few amused glances from the class.

Sylas tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Oh, Gregor, I don't doubt you'd try. But this isn't about winning or losing. Today's demonstration…" He paused for effect, his tone suddenly shifting to one of mock solemnity. "…will be on how to, do a blow job."

The room fell into absolute silence. A silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. Gregor froze, his grin vanishing as his face turned bright red. The other students exchanged bewildered and mortified glances, unsure if they'd misheard.

Sylas waited a moment, letting the silence stretch to its breaking point before giving a slight smirk. "By that, of course, I mean delivering a blow that destabilizes your opponent's job—whether that's their position, their morale, or their strategy."

Some of the students groaned audibly, and a few chuckled nervously, realizing they'd been baited. Gregor, still red-faced, muttered, "You could've phrased that better, Professor."

Sylas waved off the comment, turning back to the class with a slight smirk. "The point is, laying plans involves misdirection. What you think I'm doing and what I'm actually doing should never align. That's the core of strategy. Keep your opponent guessing, uncomfortable, and reactive. Now, imagine that hypothetical war leader—Gregor here. If I made him think I was launching an all-out assault when I was really targeting his supply chain, his 'invincible' armies would crumble before they even saw the battlefield."

He placed a firm hand on Gregor's shoulder, pushing him gently back toward his seat. "Now, keep that in mind as you approach your training. Plans are only as strong as the mind behind them. Learn to think, anticipate, and adapt."

After the lesson, Sylas crossed his arms, looking at the class. "Now, before you all dismiss me as just another instructor with lofty ideas, let me remind you of something: if you don't listen, you'll fail. You'll fail here, and you'll fail out there in the real world. But if you do listen—if you learn to plan, to strategize, to think—I can make you stronger. Smarter. Better. So, the choice is yours. Be fools who stumble through life or students who rise above the rest."

The students nodded, some more reluctantly than others. As the room began to empty, Sylas caught a glimpse of Gregor shooting him a playful glare. "Still not over it?" Sylas asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gregor smirked. "You're impossible, Professor Corvus."

Sylas simply smiled. "And you're learning."