CHAPTER 62: COMBAT CLASSES [I]

I made the identity of the Jester for two reasons.

The first was simple. I couldn’t use my summoner grimoire while being Loki. Not here. Not in the academy.

Too many eyes were watching me — teachers, nobles, even spies from different factions.

If I showed what I really had, I’d be exposed. People would ask questions I couldn’t answer, and sooner or later, someone would decide I was better off dead.

The Jester, on the other hand, could be anything I wanted.

In red, with a mask and a grin, I wasn’t tied down. The Jester could cheat at cards, flip coins like tricks of fate, or win so much money people whispered about it.

And if they whispered, good — that meant they feared him. The Jester was free to move in places Loki couldn’t touch.

The second reason was the kind of work I had to do. The dirty work.

Things like gambling for survival, making deals in the dark, maybe even removing certain people from the board if it came to that. That wasn’t academy work. That wasn’t for classrooms or sparring grounds.

That was for back alleys, smoky taverns, and places where names didn’t matter.

And that was the Jester’s territory.

It worked both ways. Loki could stay clean, study, and train. Pretend to be ordinary.

The Jester could get his hands dirty, and if trouble ever came knocking, I could burn the mask and walk away.

That was the best part. If the Jester failed, Loki would still be safe. People would curse the man in red, not the quiet boy with the mask at school. Two lives, one body. One to protect me, one to protect the truth.

It wasn’t about being clever. It was about being careful.

Because if I wanted to survive in this world, I couldn’t be just Loki.

I needed the Jester.

One face for the daylight.

One face for the shadows.

And I’d use both as long as I had to.

Currently, I was attending the combat class I had signed up for. Almost half of the first years were here, lined up in the training yard, weapons in hand, faces full of confidence they hadn’t earned yet.

Me? I had none of that confidence.

Because unlike them, my physical abilities were the worst.

And I don’t mean "a little below average." I mean bottom of the barrel. Rock bottom.

The kind of weak where climbing a flight of stairs too fast could count as cardio. Which, to be fair, wasn’t surprising.

I’d only transmigrated into this world a month ago. Back on Earth, my training regime was running from debt collectors and occasionally doing push-ups when I felt guilty. Not exactly the foundation of a warrior’s body.

So here I was, in the middle of a field full of children who had grown up swinging swords since they could walk. Some of them had personal trainers. Some had battle instructors. Some probably had magic lessons at age five.

Meanwhile, I still got sore carrying groceries in my past life.

Unfair? Absolutely. But that was life.

The instructor clapped his hands once, the sound like a thunderclap. Everyone froze. Even the air felt heavier.

That’s when I realized who he was.

This wasn’t just some random drill sergeant.

No, this man was one of the great war heroes from the battles against Kalis. I had read his feats in the novel.

General Veylan, the "Iron Fang."

He’d held an entire fortress with only a hundred men against Kalis’ army of thousands. The kind of legend you read about in dusty history books.

And now here he was... teaching combat class to a bunch of sweaty, clueless first-years.

I stared at him, a little stunned. A man who had once clashed with the terrifying generals of Kalis, who had survived fields of blood and fire, who had carved his name into war itself, had been reduced to babysitting students who couldn’t even hold their swords straight.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

The others around me were buzzing with excitement. "That’s him," someone whispered.

"The Iron Fang himself!" Another student’s eyes practically sparkled. They were drinking in the legend, already imagining themselves being trained by a living hero.

Me? I just thought about how much this sucked for me personally.

Because if anyone could see through my flimsy stance and garbage stamina, it was this man. He’d survived the worst the world could throw at him. He could probably size me up in one glance and know I couldn’t win a pillow fight.

Great. Just what I needed.

Nyx’s voice slid into my mind, amused. "A war hero. Impressive. You think he’ll notice you can barely lift a sword?"

I kept my eyes forward. "No. He’ll be too distracted watching all the nobles trip over themselves."

Nyx purred. "Optimism looks good on you. Shame it won’t save you."

The Iron Fang began pacing down the line, his scarred face hard as stone, gaze cutting into each of us like a blade. When his eyes brushed past me, I felt my throat tighten.

The Iron Fang stopped pacing and planted his boots firmly in the dirt. His voice rolled across the training yard like thunder.

"First lesson is simple. You all have to run ten kilometres around the yard right now."

For a moment, I thought I misheard him. Maybe he said ten laps. Or ten minutes. Or literally anything else that didn’t involve slowly killing me in front of my peers.

But no. His glare dared anyone to complain.

The yard fell silent. Then, without hesitation, the nobles and commoners alike broke into motion, sprinting off like a pack of hounds released from the leash.

And me?

I gagged. Out loud. My throat made this awful hurk sound that drew a glance from the guy next to me.

"Ten kilometers?!" I hissed under my breath. "That’s not training, that’s homicide!"

Nyx’s voice slid into my head, smug and amused. "Oh, I’d love to see this. You’ll collapse after the first hundred steps. Maybe fifty if you’re lucky."