CHAPTER 180: NO EXCUSES TO RELY ON

{Elira}

~**^**~

Cambria leaned in beside me and whispered, "They are probably just impressed. You made history yesterday. Most first-years don’t even pass the first elimination stage."

"I just want one day without whispers," I said, closing my locker a little too hard.

Her hand brushed my shoulder. "Then pretend they don’t exist.

After our brief conversation, we all dispersed and went to our respective classrooms. But when I stepped through the doorway of mine, the same hush rippled across the room.

Every conversation halted mid-sentence. Dozens of curious and calculating eyes shifted toward me. Some were still admiring me, while others were doubtful.

And though no one spoke, I could already guess their diverse thoughts.

I inhaled quietly through my nose, lifted my chin, and walked to my seat.

A few moments later, the professor for our first class walked in. His presence alone broke the tension as he began writing the day’s topic across the board:

’Agriculture & Pack Sustainability; Understanding the Balance Between Growth and Survival.’

He briefly turned, his eyes scanning the room before settling on me. My heart skipped a beat.

Then he nodded, faintly approving, before continuing. "I assume by now, most of you have heard of yesterday’s combat results."

Murmurs stirred across the class.

"Good," he said. "Then let this serve as a reminder. Strength doesn’t always look like what you expect. And sometimes, what you overlook becomes exactly what surpasses you."

A soft, stunned silence followed his words. And though he didn’t say my name, every gaze turned toward me again.

---

By the time the final bell rang, my head was full.

Students streamed out into the hall, laughing and stretching, the air thick with chatter about the day’s assignments and the next combat matches. I, however, went straight to my locker.

The metal door clanged softly as I pulled it open. My reflection in the dented surface stared back at me, my red hair pulled into a messy ponytail, tired eyes, and faint shadows where yesterday’s bruises used to be.

I slipped my notebook inside, grabbed my backpack, and swung it over my shoulder, knowing what was already waiting for me in the small training hall.

And the thought alone was enough to make my stomach twist as Lennon’s statement about Zenon, from over the phone last night, floated back into my head.

The hallway leading to the faculty wing was quieter than usual. My shoes clicked softly against the tiles, each step feeding that mix of nerves and anticipation.

Apart from being afraid of Zenon, his approval mattered more than I wanted to admit. And after yesterday’s fight, I already knew what he must think: that I was sloppy, emotional, and reckless.

Still, I pushed open the training hall door before I could second-guess myself.

The familiar scent of wood polish and a faint hint of iron filled the air. The space was mostly empty, and the triplet brothers were already here.

Zenon stood at the centre of the room with crossed arms, his gaze cutting toward me the second I stepped inside.

My throat went dry.

"Good afternoon," I managed. My voice came out softer than I wanted.

Zenon didn’t answer right away. His eyes swept over me once, from my still-bandaged wrist to the faint bruise on my jaw, before he spoke.

"You are late," he said evenly.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to nod. "It won’t happen again."

Lennon snorted under his breath, but one look from Zenon shut him up instantly.

The tension in the air thickened as Zenon’s words began to land on me sharply.

"You forgot every lecture given to you during your combat training. You suffered some minor injuries and almost lost the duel after being beaten up so badly."

I lowered my gaze. "I know."

"No," he said simply. "You don’t otherwise, you would have applied all your learned."

Rennon’s quiet voice broke through, softer, like an anchor. "She is learning, Zenon. She held longer than anyone expected."

Zenon’s attention flicked to him, but his reply stayed measured. "I’m not questioning her endurance. I’m questioning her strategies."

My chest tightened. I wanted to defend myself, to say that my opponent was more seasoned in combat than I was, and that that was my first fight, but I held my tongue.

Zenon’s gaze returned to me. "Drop your bag."

I obeyed without thinking, setting it gently on the floor.

"We are reviewing your form," he said, voice firm, unreadable. "From the ground up."

A breath caught in my throat. "Right now?"

"Yes. Right now."

Lennon grinned faintly from the sidelines. "Told you he was in a mood."

I shot him a look that earned only a smirk in return.

Just then, Zenon took a step closer. "Get ready."

I drew a deep breath and moved to the centre of the mat, my pulse thudding faster.

I took my position on the mat, but I hesitated when I noticed how tightly my bandaged wrist was wrapped. The white linen looked stark against my skin.

So, I lifted my arm slightly, showing it to Zenon. "I’m still... recovering," my voice small but hopeful.

The look he gave me was unreadable—calm, cool, and cutting all at once. Without a word, he crossed the short distance between us.

For a moment, I thought he was going to check my hand, pity me, and tell me to rest, but instead, his hand gripped my wrist, firm yet gentle, and he started to unwind the bandages himself.

The linen fell away in slow, practised motions, each pull neat, silent, unhurried. The air brushed my bare skin, cool and sharp, and by the time the last strip fell away, my wrist looked untouched.

There were no bruises, no swelling, no pain.

Zenon’s eyes flicked up to mine. "Move it."

I blinked. "What?"

"Move your arm," he said flatly. "Freely."

My heart thudded. I hesitated, then flexed my wrist, rolled my shoulder, and tested the movement. There was no pain, not even the faint pull of strain.

Then, Zenon released my wrist and took a step back. "You are healed, so you have no excuses to rely on."