I Enrolled as the Villain

I watched Arthur carefully not just his swing, but everything beneath it.

His posture. The way his muscles flexed. The channels of his mana, the subtle alignment of bones through his shoulder and spine. He was trying. Really trying.

But still…

Too rough. Too stiff.

Too conscious.

He was mimicking what I told him but that sword art couldn't be mimicked.

It wasn't born from form. It was born from something else.

"Good," I said quietly. "But not enough."

Arthur straightened, sweat on his brow, chest rising and falling.

"What do you mean? I really don't understand this whole… rejection-feeling-into-swing thing."

I sighed, stepping forward.

"I think you're missing the point. This isn't about style or strength. It's your first time attempting it… and you don't even have a Valeheart heart—"

The words left before I could stop them.

Arthur froze. His face tightened. Eyes dipped for half a second.

Damn it.

"No," I said quickly, raising my hand.

"That came out wrong. I'm sorry."

He stayed silent.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Forget it. Let's keep going."

Arthur didn't nod. But he didn't leave, either.

Then after a long pause, with his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the training hall he said,

"…You really don't get it, do you?"

I raises a brow.

Arthur looks away, then back.

"It's not about one big rejection. It's every day. Every damn breath. They look at you like you're already wrong, no matter how hard you try."

I stayed silent. Letting Arthur speak.

"…Just forget it," he muttered. "Let's just continue. I want to see what this so-called Eye of God can actually offer me."

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I closed my eye, inhaled, and let the breath out slowly.

Arthur Valeheart.

Rejected by his mother.

Rejected by his bloodline.

Rejected by his fiancée.

Rejected by the very crown he was meant to wear.

Rejected by everything.

And yet… still here.

Still fighting.

Still trying.

Only someone like him could understand what rejection truly means.

I looked at him, at the way his fingers clenched too tight around the hilt, at the flicker behind his eyes he didn't know how to hide.

"Don't just swing," I said softly. "Feel it."

Arthur didn't respond.

So I stepped forward, voice low.

"Don't imagine the battlefield. Imagine the silence."

His jaw tightened.

"The silence when they looked through you. When they chose others. When you were still there still breathing but forgotten."

Still nothing.

I continued, slower now.

"Think of the empty hallways. The unopened letters. The way your name only exists when they need someone to blame."

Arthur's shoulders rose just slightly like a held breath.

"That's the moment this sword begins," I whispered.

"Not in rage. Not in glory. But in the stillness after rejection when you decide to stand anyway."

Then—

He moved.

Not out of fury.

But out of something older.

Arthur lunged forward blade sweeping wide in a perfect arc, the kind born not from drills but from desperation sharpened into skill.

The wind followed him like a howl.

But the Mythrigan flared.

Before his body even committed, I saw it the tremor in his wrist, the flick of his heel, the pulse of intent behind his strike.

I moved.

Slipped just past the arc of his blade, the wind of the swing brushing my cheek.

His sword slammed into the floor behind me with a loud crack, splintering the stone

I turned.

A thin fracture now ran along the blade's edge.

The sword I gave him… cracked.

Arthur was still holding it, breath uneven, arms trembling not from fear.

From holding back.

He hadn't swung to kill.

He had aimed with something deeper.

"…That was closer," I said quietly.

Arthur glanced down at the blade, eyes narrowing. "Then why did it break?"

I stepped beside him.

"Because you meant it."

He didn't answer right away.

So I continued, voice low.

"This art… it only works if you feel it. If the rejection you carry reaches the blade itself."

Arthur stared at the crack again.

And for the first time—

"I see.."

Suddenly—

A flash of white between us.

My Mythrigan pulsed.

Before the blade reached Arthur, I moved.

My hand shoved him back as the air split with steel.

Lucia.

Her sword stopped just short of my chest — one more breath and it would've drawn blood.

Golden eyes burned under her bangs, sharp and unyielding.

"What the hell are you doing," she hissed,

"you damn Valeheart?"

Arthur stumbled behind me, stunned, hand still gripping the cracked blade.

Footsteps echoed.

I didn't need to turn.

I could already feel them.

Valery bloods. Three of them my classmates.

I raised a hand behind me. Not a word. Just stillness.

They froze.

I turned back to Lucia.

"He's not your enemy," I said calmly, steady.

"Not today."

Her eyes narrowed. "He raised his sword against you."

"And I dodge it."

"Barely."

Silence.

Only the sound of wind brushing the courtyard edges, and Arthur's quiet breathing behind me.

I looked at her blade, then her grip — tight, but trembling. Just slightly.

She didn't move.

Neither did I.

Finally, I said, "You want to protect Valery. I respect that. But this—"

I nodded toward Arthur.

"This is mine to handle."

A long breath passed.

Lucia slowly lowered her sword not out of submission, but choice.

Then, almost bitterly, she muttered,

"If he touches you again, Kael… Eye or not, I won't wait next time."

I didn't flinch.

"Understood."

She stepped back.

The other Valery followed her lead.

Arthur was still watching me.

I didn't look at him.

Not yet.

I thought defeating Lucia, offering her a hand, and speaking honestly would be enough.

I thought it would stop the spiral before it began.

But I hadn't accounted for him.

For Arthur.

For what she sees when she looks at him.

That was a mistake.

A dangerous one.

As I walked into class, the chairs already filling, I moved to the back as usual — the quiet spot, away from the center.

Arthur followed.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

His presence alone was a reminder.

Lucia entered moments later, her gaze sweeping the room like a sword in its own right sharp, searching, unblinking.

She didn't look at me.

She looked past me.

At Arthur.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn't see a soldier in her eyes.

I saw something else.

Something heavier.

Possession?

Betrayal?

Fear?

I didn't know.

But I'd made the mistake of thinking this was about power or rank or loyalty.

It wasn't.

It was personal.

I leaned back in my seat, fingers tapping lightly against the table, pretending to be bored. But my mind was racing.

I would have to do something about this.

Before it breaks.

Before she breaks.

But how?

How do you fix a wound when you're the one who cut it?

How do you stop two ghosts from colliding when you're the one who summoned them into the same room?

The classroom lights dimmed for a brief moment, followed by a soft blink across our desks the signal for class to begin.

A thin blue line scrolled across my syncpad. The assignment appeared:

Tactical Assignment:

Design a strategy to survive him.

Two versions.

One if he is your enemy.

One if he is your ally.

Around me, students immediately leaned forward. Some whispered. Others tapped furiously.

I saw files bloom into graphs, combat flowcharts, battlefield diagrams.

Countermeasures. Delay tactics. Kill zones.

As if preparing for a war.

I didn't blame them.

After all, the "him" in question was me.

I stared at the question longer than I should've.

Then I typed.

Enemy Strategy:

Don't try to survive him. Try to reach him first.

Ally Strategy:

Hold the line long enough for him to change the ending.

I stared at the words a moment longer.

No formulas. No tricks.

Just the truth.

————

The sun hung low, spilling gold and shadow across the stone of the Valery quarter.

Classes had ended. Most students were drifting off to electives or winding down in the lounges. But not me.

I moved quickly, boots striking the tile with just enough force to clear the path ahead. My breath was even, but my chest was tight.

I didn't know where Kael had gone after sparring class. Or what expression he wore when he left Arthur Valeheart behind.

But I saw enough.

I saw them train.

Saw him teach.

Saw the way Kael lowered his voice — calm, patient — for him.

"Vice Leader Lucia! Look what I found during drills…some sort of fragment? maybe from the eastern sparring dummies?"

Her smile was bright. Expecting praise.

I didn't slow.

I walked past her without a glance.

Her steps faltered behind me.

Good.

Let her learn, too.

By the time I reached the weapons rack, my hand moved on its own. Fingers closed around the hilt of my blade, cold and silent like my thoughts.

I stood at the edge of the Valery training ground, sword in hand, watching our students sweat under the fading sun.

Their uniforms were stained, their forms imperfect but they were here. Every evening. Every damn day. Drilling. Falling. Standing up again.

For Valery.

"Kael…"

My grip on the hilt tightened.

Can't you see them?

Your own blood?

They look up to you — some fear you, sure, but they follow. They still do. Even after everything.

And yet…

You train alone.

You hide in silence, in secrets, in shadows.

You let us carry your legacy while you throw your time your knowledge at him.

At that damn—

Vileheart.

I forced myself to breathe, slow and steady, the way Kael once told me to.

But the breath didn't help.

It just made it worse.

"You teach him techniques. You watch him grow. You care."

I looked out at the students — ten, maybe twelve of them — clashing blades, correcting stances, calling each other by title and name.

One slipped during a form and caught herself with a grunt.

She stood again. Alone. No Kael to correct her. No Eye to adjust her footing.

I swallowed something bitter.

Why don't you train us like that?

Why not them? Why not… me?

Was I not always the one at your side?

Did I not fight for you, bleed for you, endure for you?

Was I not loyal when no one else dared be?

So why him?

Why now?

Why give him that look, that care, that voice?

You said I was your sword.

Your shield.

You said I understood.

You said rejection was the key.

Then why not me?

Why does he get your silence?

Your fire?

Your time?

He's not even a Valeheart.

He's a mistake.

A stain.

A Vileheart.

I drew the blade

"You say rejection gives the sword weight,"

I muttered under my breath, eyes narrowed toward the empty training ring ahead.

"Then I'll show you how heavy mine's become."