Several weeks had passed since the duel with Lyman, Barkatus, and Walters. The atmosphere around me had shifted. Students who once taunted or glared now stepped aside, their eyes wide with something resembling respect, or perhaps fear. I noticed it most in the halls of the Academy, where whispers often trailed in my wake.

"Look, it's Widow," one would say, while another would add, "Did you see that fight? Unbelievable!"

Surprisingly, some approached to offer congratulations. They smiled nervously as if standing before a caged beast rather than a student like them. One boy with messy hair handed me a small token, a trinket shaped like a starstone falling to the earth, while stuttering about how brave I was.

Thank you very much, I replied, though the words felt strange to say to a perfect stranger.

My friends noticed the change too. Genta and Eyarna exchanged amused glances during our lunch gatherings, while Loland offered hearty laughter when someone stumbled over their words trying to greet me.

"I never thought you'd be so popular," he joked, taking a bite of his fried fish. "Maybe you should charge for autographs!"

I'm not that interesting, I said. Yet a flicker of pride ignited within me. This was new territory; acceptance among those who had once seen me as an outsider.

In our small group, we discussed strategies for the upcoming reassessments. Well, Genta, Loland, and Eyarna did. I doubted Shawe would bother being fair, so I wouldn't bother even showing up to the test.

I leaned in closer as Eyarna outlined her plans for enchanting new equipment.

"You'll have to show us how you channel mana so effectively," she insisted, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

My abilities had increased significantly. Mana Manipulation had grown to rank B with surprising speed. Eyarna theorized this was likely due to my mechanical "children."

"You're constantly feeding them mana that you gather into your body," she explained one evening as we examined my status screen together. "You've been doing it so long that the process has become automatic."

I considered this, realizing she was right. The constant absorption and redirection of mana through Brace and into my mechanical constructs had elevated the skill rapidly. The practice had become as natural as the movement of my mechanical limbs; it was a continuous flow that I barely noticed anymore.

Analyze had similarly improved, reaching B rank as well. This enhancement allowed me to see people's actual stat scores rather than just basic information. I tested this newfound depth by focusing on a student passing our table. He was a tall boy with sandy hair who walked with the confident stride of an upper-year.

The familiar blue text box appeared in my vision, but now with considerably more detail than before. Where previously I might have seen only his name, level, species, gender, and age, now columns of numerical values appeared: Strength 24, Endurance 19, Dexterity 28, Intelligence 15, Wisdom 12.

"Interesting," I murmured through Mind Speech. "I can see everything now."

Genta leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

"Analyze has improved. I can see his actual stat numbers."

Loland's eyes widened. "That's quite valuable. You could assess opponents before duels."

I nodded, seeing the tactical advantage immediately. In my previous encounters with Lyman and Barkatus, I'd gone in with only vague notions of their capabilities. Now I could quantify exactly what I faced.

"Try me next," Eyarna suggested, adjusting her spectacles with a curious smile.

I turned my attention to her, activating Analyze again.

Name: Eyarna

Level: 16

Species: Orc [MONSTER]

Gender: Female

Age: 18

Strength: 19

Endurance: 18

Dexterity: 16

Intelligence: 33

Wisdom: 29

The numbers appeared revealing impressive Intelligence and Wisdom scores that far outstripped her physical attributes. No surprise there; her enchanting abilities required significant mental acuity.

"Your Intelligence is your highest stat," I confirmed. "Thirty-three."

She blushed slightly, her green skin darkening. "That seems about right."

These improvements felt significant. They were tangible markers of my growth at the Academy despite Shawe's efforts to hold me back. While officially I remained C-rank, my actual capabilities had far surpassed those boundaries. The thought brought me a certain satisfaction.

With each passing day, my power grew. With each construct I created, Ancestor Might enhanced my baseline capabilities. With each practice session in the Hellzone, my combat experience expanded. And with each interaction with my friends, I learned more about this world and my place in it.

The path toward confronting Duke Redflight seemed clearer than ever before. These abilities would serve me well when that day finally came.

The next morning, I arrived at Basic Swordplay class and stopped short at the entrance to the training yard. There, leaning against the weapons rack with bloodshot eyes and a pained scowl, stood Langdon Hassel.

I blinked, uncertain if my Mind Sight was working right. He hadn't shown up to class in weeks.

Annes and Copelan stood nearby, their faces twisted in matching expressions of dismay. I approached them, my mechanical legs making soft clicking sounds against the stone floor.

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"Can you believe this?" Annes hissed, jerking her head toward Langdon. "Just when we were making real progress. Now we'll be stuck doing his stupid basic sword drills again."

I nodded. It's unfortunate timing. Everyone's form has improved dramatically with the Isparan techniques.

"I was just about to master that flanking maneuver," Copelan muttered, his normally rigid posture slumped in disappointment.

It's probably just for today, I said through Mind Speech. Soon enough, he'll wander off back to his drinking.

Yulios and Patter arrived next, their conversation dying as they spotted Langdon. Sven was the last to enter, his daggers already in hand for what he'd expected to be our usual training session.

"Professor?" Sven called out, squinting suspiciously. "What are you doing here?"

Langdon pushed himself away from the rack with visible effort. His sword hung loosely at his side, and the stains on his tunic seemed fresher than usual.

"What am I doing here?" He smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Teaching, apparently. Shocking concept, I know."

He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Seems word of my... extended absences got back to our esteemed Headmaster. The old man cornered me last night at the Broken Shield and told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to start teaching again."

Langdon's expression soured further. "So here I am. And here you all are. Looks like we're stuck with each other for the foreseeable future."

A collective groan rose from the group. Even Copelan, normally so proper and reserved, couldn't hide his disappointment.

"But we were just getting good at the battlefield formations," Patter complained.

"Coordinated attack patterns!" Yulios yelled.

"And the defensive ring maneuver," Annes added, crossing her arms.

Langdon raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over our group with newfound interest. "Battlefield formations? Defensive rings? What exactly have you lot been up to in my absence?"

I remained silent, calculating the risks of revealing too much. The others exchanged nervous glances.

"We've been practicing," Copelan finally said, his voice carefully neutral.

"Practicing what, exactly?" Langdon pressed, suddenly more alert than I'd ever seen him.

"Just some techniques," Annes replied vaguely.

Langdon's eyes narrowed as he studied each of us in turn. When his gaze landed on me, I felt a strange sensation, as if he was seeing through my porcelain mask to whatever lay beneath.

"Well," he said after a long moment, "perhaps you can show me these techniques of yours. Might be more interesting than the drills I was planning."

The tension in the air shifted slightly. This wasn't the reaction any of us had expected.

I exchanged glances with Annes. Perhaps this development wasn't entirely negative after all.

We formed our usual battle formation at the center of the training yard. Annes and Copelan took front positions, Yulios and Patter formed the second rank, while Sven circled as mobile support. I stood at the center, calling commands through Mind Speech.

Begin sequence one, I projected. Front rank, advance and engage.

Annes and Copelan moved forward in perfect unison, their practice swords cutting through the air with precision. They executed one of the opening moves of Isparan Battlefield Fencing: a double thrust followed by a lateral sweep, designed to create space on a crowded battlefield.

Second rank, support pattern.

Yulios and Patter stepped into the gaps, their weapons extending to threaten the space beyond our front line. Sven darted between them, mimicking the quick strikes of a skirmisher exploiting openings.

Defensive circle, form!

The formation collapsed inward, blades facing outward in a protective ring. Then, at my command, they exploded outward again, weapons thrusting in coordinated strikes that would have skewered multiple opponents.

Throughout the demonstration, Langdon watched with an intensity I hadn't thought him capable of. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, tracking each movement with the focus of a hawk. His perpetual slouch straightened, and for the first time, I glimpsed the level 45 Duelist beneath the disheveled exterior.

After fifteen minutes, he raised his hand. "Enough."

We halted mid-sequence, the practice weapons still extended.

"Where did you learn these maneuvers?" Langdon's voice had lost its usual slur. "This isn't standard Academy curriculum."

My friends exchanged glances but remained silent. Langdon's gaze settled on me, his eyes suddenly sharp and knowing.

"Everyone to the sides," he ordered. "Except you, Widow."

As the others reluctantly moved away, Langdon approached me. His hand rested on the hilt of his practice sword.

"Where did you learn this style?" he asked quietly.

I shrugged. Self-taught.

Langdon laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "Even a broken drunkard like me can tell that's bullshit."

He drew his practice sword, its nicked blade catching the morning light. "Show me what you know. No holding back this time."

I hesitated, calculating the risks of revealing too much. But months of watching this man waste his position, not to mention our time, while we struggled against the Academy's biases finally tipped the balance.

I dashed forward, striking with deliberate force. My blade whistled through the air with precision that no C-rank student should possess.

Langdon's eyes widened. He deflected my strike at the last possible moment, the dulled blades connecting with a sharp crack. Even half-drunk, his reflexes were impressive.

I pressed forward, executing a complex series of thrusts and slashes. Each attack flowed into the next with the fluid grace of Isparan techniques. Langdon parried and dodged, his movements growing more desperate with each exchange.

Our blades clashed again and again, the sound echoing across the training yard. I maintained aggressive pressure, forcing him backward step by step. His defense, while competent, showed the effects of years of neglect.

Finally, I feinted high, then swept low. Langdon's blade moved to block the nonexistent high strike, and my practice sword caught him behind the knees. He collapsed onto his backside, sword clattering away.

My friends erupted in cheers from the sidelines. I stood over Langdon, my mechanical body still and ready. Through my porcelain mask, I stared down at him, disappointment evident in my posture. I had expected better from an instructor at the prestigious War Academy.

I moved to join my friends but Langdon ordered me to stop. His hand shot up, palm out.

"Not so fast," he said.

To my surprise, he was smiling up at me from his position on the ground. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly. Dust covered his already filthy clothes, which he ineffectually patted at before retrieving his sword.

"That was impressive," he said, cracking his neck with a series of pops that echoed across the training yard. "But I think I owe you an apology."

I tilted my porcelain mask in silent question.

"I wasn't showing my best just now." His posture shifted, transforming before my eyes. The perpetual slouch vanished. His feet slid into perfect position. His sword arm extended with elegant precision.

I recognized the stance immediately from my recent memories: Court Style, the refined combat technique developed for the nobility.

"Let's try again," Langdon said, his voice suddenly crisp and commanding. "This time, don't hold back."

Irritation flared within me. I hadn't been holding back. I'd demonstrated precisely the level of skill appropriate for my advancement curve. If this drunken failure thought I was concealing my abilities, he was mistaken.

As you wish, I projected through Mind Speech.

I rushed forward, my mechanical legs propelling me at a speed that blurred my form. My practice sword whistled through the air as I executed a perfect diagonal slash aimed at his shoulder.

Langdon's eyes focused, sharpening with sudden clarity. Time seemed to slow as he moved.

His blade hummed with power and speed I couldn't track. The underhanded strike came from nowhere, a technique so refined and devastating I had no memory of its counter.

A sharp crack split the air. My practice sword didn't just block his attack, it shattered. The force continued through, slicing clean through my mechanical right hand at the wrist.

Metal fingers skittered across the stone floor, the severed appendage coming to rest near Sven's feet. He screamed.

I stood frozen, staring at the dangling wires and hydraulic fluid leaking from my wrist. My Mind Sight registered the expressions of shock on my friends' faces, their mouths hanging open in perfect circles of disbelief.

Langdon's focused expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine horror. The sword dropped from his hand as if it had burned him.

"Gods above!" he cried, lurching forward. "I didn't mean… your hand! I thought it was—"

He stared at my severed mechanical appendage, then back at the wires protruding from my wrist. His face had gone pale, eyes wide with mortification.

"I'm so sorry!" he babbled, hands fluttering uselessly. "I didn't mean to be so rough! It's just been so long since I've had a proper duel, and I forgot myself, and…"

He looked ready to weep, genuine distress radiating from him as he continued apologizing.

I barely heard him. My attention remained fixed on what I'd just witnessed. This disheveled, alcohol-soaked instructor had just displayed a level of skill that should have been impossible for anyone. The precision, the speed, the raw power behind that strike...

I had believed I was the only one in the Academy hiding my true capabilities. Now I wasn't so sure.

It's fine, I finally projected, cutting off his stream of apologies. I can repair it.

I bent down and picked up my severed hand, examining the clean cut through metal and wire. A perfect slice. Not even my combat chassis could have withstood such precision.

That was... impressive, I admitted.

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