The cheers were slow to start—tentative claps from his classmates, uncertain whether to be impressed or unsettled. Even Instructor Kael took a moment before nodding sharply.
"Unorthodox," the man muttered, his scarred arms folded. "But effective. Valtair, back in line."
Damon obeyed, returning to the row of noble sons and daughters, their gazes flickering toward him now with a different weight. Suspicion. Curiosity. A few with narrowed eyes—calculating.
Thorne groaned on the ground, helped up by a servant—his cheeks flushed with humiliation, his glare fixed on Damon.
And the part of Damon that had once driven his own sister into the night—the part that knew exactly how to twist words into a knife—couldn't resist.
"Thorne," Damon called lazily, brushing rain from his collar, "you really should've warned me you brought such a pretty servant girl with you."
Thorne stiffened.
The courtyard quieted.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Damon continued, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Would you mind sending her to my room later? I promise I'll treat her very well."
Gasps scattered through the ranks. Even some of the girls flinched.
He'll come for me now, Damon thought. Good.
"If you do," he added, voice carrying just enough for the instructor to hear, "I'll even throw in a few more sword pointers. Might even show your maid a better way to serve—with her mouth."
Thorne's hand shot to his sword. "Damon!!" he shouted, ripping free from the girl's grip—Lina, the commoner girl he'd supposedly fallen for.
Damon's hand went to his own hilt.
But before either could take a step, a voice cracked through the air.
"Young Lord Valtair."
Instructor Kael's tone was calm. Too calm.
He stepped forward, rain dripping from his short gray beard. "That's enough jokes for one day. This courtyard is for sparring, not slander."
Then he turned to Thorne, firm but even. "Same for you, Lord Veras. Discipline, or take your tantrums elsewhere."
Neither boy moved.
Kael clapped his hands sharply. "Next bout—Lady Selra of House Eluin versus Lady Maren of House Glast."
With that, the instructor turned his back. And Thorne—red-faced, sword trembling at his side—stalked back to the line.
But Damon? Damon smiled to himself.
[Simulation Menu Unlocked]
Simulation Anchor Point: Detected
Anchor Point: Day 44, Year 304—Sword Academy Courtyard
Access Level: Level 1–Multi-Thread Jump
Status: STABLE
Simulate Alternate Outcomes From This Point Forward
Primary Divergence Scenario Detected:
The son of a high-ranking noble house has just been humiliated during a class duel. Worse, the victor publicly mocked his maid, turning him into the laughingstock of the cohort.
CHOOSE:
[Trade Roles: Thorne's Hatred]—During the evening banquet, you challenged the fourth son of House Veras to a rematch under noble dueling customs. Assume the role of Thorne Veras and experience the moment of failure from his perspective. Feel what it's like to be humiliated... and to lose control.
[Rivalry: Lady Selra of House Eluin]—For your third duel, you're paired against Lady Selra. Known for her poise and principle, she intends to teach you a painful lesson for your earlier lewd remarks toward her friend Lina.
Damon's eyes gleamed as the menu hovered in his mind's eye.
The bet paid off.
The smirk lingered on his lips as Thorne stalked back to formation, soaked, seething, and silent. The boy's face was flushed with shame and barely restrained fury. And Damon knew it — the humiliation wouldn't fade. It would fester.
Exactly as planned.
He stepped back into line, just as Kael called for the next duel.
"Lady Selra of House Eluin versus Lady Maren of House Glast."
Damon turned his gaze to the dueling circle.
The two girls stepped forward in perfect balance—one dressed in Eluin silver and sapphire, her corseted violet dress embroidered with icy filigree, sapphire gems glinting at her throat and hem. Her grip was poised, her eyes cold as winter. The other looser in stance, adding a dancer's grace to her movements.
The two exchanged no words—just a slight bow. Then the clash began.
Their training swords met with a splintering force.
Selra was sharp. Fast. Efficient. Every step measured, every feint precise. Damon observed in silence, letting the sounds and sweat of the duel mask his deeper focus.
He knew who Selra was—the idealistic type. The kind who thought rules made order and that honor was a blade to be polished, not used.
She'd come for him eventually.
And he'd deal with her when it mattered. But right now?
His eyes flicked to the simulation again.
[Trade Roles: Thorne's Hatred]
[Rivalry: Lady Selra of House Eluin]
He chose without hesitation.
[Confirm: Trade Roles—Thorne Veras]— Simulate the moment from his perspective. Emotions, thoughts, instincts. You remain yourself, but you feel it in his place.
[Yes]
Simulation Transition: Initiating...
The scent of lavender and steel vanished.
A rush of vertigo struck him like a blow. His stomach twisted. His bones shifted.
When the world settled, he was on his knees.
Rain poured down—again—but this time, it struck his face differently.
His vision blurred for a heartbeat… then cleared.
He looked up.
At the boy that had been glaring at him just moments ago.
Thorne Veras—cool, composed, with a damning smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. Standing in front of him with perfect poise, wooden sword resting on his shoulder. Mocking.
Damon froze at a familiar glint of underlying madness—one he usually saw in his own eyes—now staring back at him from Thorne's.
His cheeks flushed with shame.
His heart throbbed.
It wasn't just anger. It was something deeper—a sick, curling sensation in the gut.
He looked around and saw them—the others watching. Whispering. Judging. Not one hand offered. Not one sympathetic glance.
Even Lina… She stood off to the side, hands clasped, her face pale with worry, but not for him. For the scene. For her own place in it.
And for the first time, Damon understood just how fragile Thorne was behind the confidence.
Not weak. But brittle.
Trained. Pressured. Fed on pride and status, but starved of approval.
So this is what it's like to be mocked and unwanted in front of the entire nobility, Damon thought. To live in a house where even your own servants look at you with polite disdain unless you're perfect.
He rose, shaky at first. The wooden sword felt heavier in his grip now. The weight of expectation, perhaps. The urge to prove something—to strike back. To crush the smirk from this Thorne's face.
But instead, he turned and walked—each step burning.
Because he knew now: Thorne wouldn't let this go.
And when the time came, it wouldn't be in the courtyard. It would be at the banquet. Or in a duel with real steel. And maybe... just maybe... he'd try to kill Damon.
He started walking back to the dorms, bruised and battered beneath the rain-heavy night sky—his understanding of the system deepening, eyes lifted toward storm clouds that hadn't stopped pouring since morning.
The simulation flickered.
[Thread Complete.]
[Memory Sync Option Available.]
Sync emotions?
[Yes] / [No]
Damon grinned—from within Thorne's perspective.
[No.]
> Return to Anchor Point?
[Yes] / [No]
Not yet...
[No]
The menu faded.
But the sensation of helplessness, of being watched and discarded like trash, clung to his borrowed skin. Damon knew the smart move was to withdraw, absorb the lesson, return to his real body, and refine the strategy of triggering Anchor Points.
But something in him—something deep and ugly—rebelled.
This is how they see him. How they see weakness.
The world blurred into instinct.
He turned on his heel—
—and sprinted.
The rain blurred his vision as he charged the boy now wearing his status—Thorne Veras, noble son of House Veras, fourth in line to a legacy of swords and silver.
That same face of his still held that damned smirk.
Damon—inhabiting the role of the second son of a lesser noble—lowered his body like a beast, wooden sword clutched in both hands. He didn't call for a third challenge. He didn't ask permission.
He just moved.
"VERAS!" he roared.
Gasps rose from the courtyard. Thorne turned, caught mid-step. Noble sons and daughters shifted, reaching for their sheaths, stepping back in confusion.
But none of it mattered.
The world had narrowed to one thing:
Impact.
The borrowed body, despite its similarity, didn't move like his real one—it was broader, heavier, and slower—but Damon adjusted mid-step. One foot slammed against the marble, momentum twisting his hips, rain flaring out from his coat as he raised the blade in an overhead arc—
Thorne looked up, and for the first time that day—
His smirk vanished.
Wood met wood.
The clash rang out like thunder.
Muscle strained against muscle. Balance tilted.
And Damon met Thorne's eyes with a glint of cruel satisfaction.
Now the real fight begins.