The Vlastovich family—one of the Great Nine Houses of Humanity.
Known for their terrifying strength and heritage, they stood alongside the other eight as the unshakable pillars of mankind’s survival. It was said they boasted not one, but two Rank 9s—one of them being the legendary Sword Saintess herself.
And standing right here on this field, barking orders like a seasoned war veteran, was her younger brother:
Ezra ran across the training field with a massive weighted vest strapped across his back—500 kg on his shoulders, 300 kg on his legs. He barely broke a sweat.
"My master’s training was far more hellish than this."
Around him, students wheezed and stumbled, dragging their mana-enhanced bodies forward.
But Sergei was relentless.
"Keep running! What are you? Toddlers?! You want to survive out there—on the battlefield?! Then MOVE!"
He even ran alongside the students—yelling, pacing, urging them like a mad general charging into battle. Looking at him now, no one would guess this man was destined to become a major villain.
But Ezra knew better.
He had his reasons for what he becomes.
After thirty grueling minutes, Sergei raised a hand.
The word echoed like a command spell.
The students collapsed in heaps—gasping, sweating, done.
Everyone except two people.
Ezra, standing calmly as if he’d just taken a morning jog.
And... surprisingly, Xavier Quinn.
Despite his reputation, the boy was physically tough. Strong stamina. Good control.
Sergei scanned the group and smirked.
"You two—and you three over there," he pointed at two boys and a girl who had lasted longer than most. "Come forward."
The five students lined up.
"You all will train separately from the rest."
Students in the background murmured. The remaining Rank 2s and strong Rank 1s began forming pairs for wooden sword duels as instructed.
As Ezra stepped forward, he cast a side glance at Xavier, who still avoided eye contact. The other three students joined—one of them, a muscular short-haired guy, cracked his knuckles with excitement.
Sergei crossed his arms.
"You’re probably wondering why I separated you."
He continued, his tone serious.
"There’s a special evaluation coming soon. Not a tournament. It’s a combat readiness test—a surprise assessment across all Year 1 sections."
The short-haired boy—John—raised a brow. "Is that even allowed, sir?"
Sergei smirked. "It’s not about rules. It’s about preparation. Top students from every section will be matched randomly. You might fight a magician. A gauntlet user. A spear user. Or each other."
Mitchell—the blonde boy—grinned. "And what’s the prize?"
Sergei’s eyes gleamed.
"Direct Academy Points. And a shot at gaining elite training access."
Ezra tilted his head slightly. This wasn’t in the novel. A butterfly effect?
Sergei continued, "You five will represent our class. And I don’t want us to lose—especially not to those arrogant brats from Class 1-A or 1-B."
Ah, Ezra thought. So that’s the real reason.
Sergei’s tone lowered. "I’m not training you just because I’m generous. I want results. I want Class 1-D to shine."
Ezra’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew what this meant.
They want to gauge me... compare me with the top three of the first semester—Marcus, Daelen, Lyria.
"They want to see if the ’disciple of the Sword Emperor’ is really as good as the rumors say."
Only a few teachers knew Ezra’s connection to Ren Kurogane, and even they were under strict orders to keep it quiet.
Still... word travels fast in elite circles.
Sergei grinned, reading the tension between them.
"Well then," he said. "Sharpen your blades. The proving ground awaits."
"Looks like I get to beat the protagonists this time."
Sergei’s heavy boots thudded against the training field as he paced slowly in front of the five selected students.
His eyes scanned them one by one—John, Mitchell, the silver-haired girl named Claire, Xavier... and finally Ezra.
He clapped once, sharp and loud.
"Alright," he said. "Let’s begin the warm-up duels."
He turned to the four—excluding Ezra.
"You four will pair up and spar. I’ll assign the matchups."
John and Mitchell immediately shot each other competitive grins.
"Claire, you’ll go against Mitchell," Sergei said, ignoring their silent agreement. "Xavier, you’re with John."
John grinned wider. "Let’s go, pretty boy."
Xavier sighed. "Don’t bleed too hard."
Ezra stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowed. "And what about me, Professor?"
Sergei smirked like he’d been waiting for the question.
"Oh, you? You get something special."
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
From the side of the training field, a hidden hatch slid open with a mechanical hiss.
A tall metallic figure stepped out—sleek silver plating, humanoid in shape, but twice as broad. It carried a blunt training sword in one hand, its glowing red optics locking onto Ezra.
Its nameplate blinked:
[AutoBot-17 | Sword Combat Training Model | Intermediate Tier]
Ezra’s brows lifted. "...Really?"
Sergei crossed his arms. "AutoBot-17. A combat training unit calibrated with swordsmanship data up to Peak Intermediate Sword Mastery. It’s fast, precise, and doesn’t get tired."
Mitchell whistled from the side. "Damn, we use that for instructor duels sometimes."
Sergei looked at Ezra again. "Defeat it, if you can. Don’t expect it to go easy on you. It’s programmed to treat Rank 3 trainees as potential threats."
Ezra blinked. So this is how they plan to measure me.
He gave a polite smile. "Understood, sir."
The air grew still as Ezra stepped into the sparring ring, facing the tall metallic figure of AutoBot-17.
It stood at nearly seven feet, its mana-infused training sword already raised in a classic high guard stance. Its joints hummed faintly, power surging through its limbs—optimized for relentless offense and adaptive counters.
Students murmured from the sidelines. Some looked excited, others skeptical.
"I heard even top fourth-years struggle with that bot."
"Isn’t that thing dangerous?"
"He’s gonna get destroyed if he’s not careful—wait, is he not using mana?"
Ezra stood still, his right hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sheathed blade.
No stance. No mana glow. Just calm, unshakable eyes.
Sergei raised a brow, intrigued.
The AutoBot lunged forward, sword slicing toward Ezra’s left flank. Its form was mechanical perfection—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Ezra took a single step back, dodging it by a hair.
The bot’s stance reset instantly. It spun on its heel and went for a cross-strike.
Ezra tilted his head slightly, letting the blade pass within inches of his cheek.
A feint. A downward strike to bait a reaction.
Ezra didn’t flinch. He only watched.
A thrust to the throat—fast, direct, clean.
Ezra swayed aside, watching its joints.
A diagonal slash. Ezra’s eyes narrowed.
And then, Ezra moved.
His blade flashed once—so fast it was nearly invisible to the naked eye.
The AutoBot’s sword spun into the air, cleanly disarmed. Its arms froze mid-motion.
Its system stuttered for a moment, confused.
Combat Terminated: Weapon Disarmed
Victory: Ezra Celestrian
The field went dead silent.
Every student—including Xavier, Claire, Mitchell, and even Sergei—stared wide-eyed.
"What... just happened?"
"He didn’t even use mana..."
The wooden training sword clattered to the ground. Ezra calmly lowered his blade and sheathed it in one smooth motion.
He turned to Sergei and offered a polite smile.
"Is that enough, sir?"
Sergei didn’t answer at first.
Even he Rank 7 Swordmasters had never seen a first-year end a duel with AutoBot-17 in a single, clean move.
And not just any clean move.
Only using refined, absolute sword skill.
’He read the bot in just five moves,’ Sergei thought. ’Calculated everything—timing, grip, posture—and struck at the only joint weakness in the wrist.’
The field began buzzing.
"Even Elena Voncrest didn’t beat the AutoBot that easily in her academy time..."
"In fourth year, only top duelists can defeat it not disarm this cleanly —"
"Who the hell is he?"
Sergei’s sharp eyes didn’t leave Ezra’s back.
"So this is the disciple of the Strongest Sword of the World..."
A slow grin crept onto his face.
"...No wonder big sis warned me about him. She said, ’That boy’s more talented than even Marcus. Keep an eye on him.’"
Sergei’s fingers twitched slightly—just once.
"Sister... you’ve always stood above me."
"Sword Saintess, they called you. Untouchable. Divine. As if you were born of steel and light."
"But now... I see it."
His breath was calm, steady—but his heart whispered things far darker.
"With him... I won’t just reach your level."
Sergei’s eyes darkened, as if shadows clung to the edges of his vision.
"I’ll break every legend that stood before me."
"The Archduke. The Frost Fang. Even the Emperor of Swords himself..."
He exhaled slowly—quiet, cold.
"And once I’m done..."
"They’ll carve my name into history."
"Not as her brother."
"But as the man who stood at the very summit."
His smile grew slightly.
Just enough to unsettle anyone who saw it.
It was the smile of someone who had waited for years in silence—and finally saw the door open.
And in that moment, one thing was certain:
Sergei Vlastovich didn’t want to teach Ezra.
He wanted to own him.