The X on the Rib

"The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way."

— Marcus Aurelius

———

The candles in Room 247 burned low, their wax pooling like tears on the wooden desk. Shadows danced across the stone walls, transforming the modest chamber into something more war room than dormitory. Lyra moved through the space with reverent care, each fold of fabric deliberate as if performing a sacred ritual.

Kaelen's sparring clothes lay spread across the narrow bed—plain linen shirt with fraying cuffs, reinforced leather jerkin worn soft at the edges, simple breeches faded from countless washings. Nothing that would hint House Leone possessed wealth they no longer had. To any observer, these were the threadbare garments of a forgotten third son preparing for another public disgrace.

But Lyra's hands trembled as she smoothed invisible wrinkles, her fingertips lingering on each piece as though touching something precious.

Her Master sat hunched at his desk, quill scratching across parchment. Notes, anatomical diagrams, probability calculations—the weapons of his trade spread before him like battle maps. The sound echoed through the room like a funeral bell.

"Master." Her voice sliced through the silence, stripped of warmth. Not a whisper—a declaration cold and absolute as death.

Kaelen's quill halted mid-stroke, ink bleeding into parchment. He didn't turn, but tension crept across his shoulders, his breathing paused for a heartbeat. He was giving her his full attention.

"Your plan is a masterpiece beyond compare." She sank to her knees beside his chair, black hair cascading like a mourning veil. Her crimson eyes never left his profile, memorizing the sharp angle of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. "Every contingency accounted for. Every reaction predicted. Every outcome shaped to your will. Truly magnificent."

Still, he remained silent. Waiting. He understood her well enough to sense the weight behind her words.

"But this..." She gestured toward the sparring clothes, toward the detailed drawings scattered across his desk. "This is a flaw. A needless blemish on otherwise perfect design."

Now he turned, calculating grey eyes meeting hers with quiet intensity. Not dismissal—genuine consideration of her assessment. It was why she worshipped him, this willingness to truly listen even when he'd already decided.

"Your body is a sacred vessel," she continued, her voice never rising above that unsettling calm. "The ark that carries your divine will through this world of filth. It must not be sullied by unworthy hands."

Her head bowed deeply, raven hair spilling across the stone floor like an offering of darkness. When she spoke again, each word fell with terrible finality.

"Give me the word, and he will not wake to see the morning sun."

===

Here we go.

I set down my quill and studied the woman kneeling beside my chair. Three weeks ago, Lyra had been a kitchen maid facing execution for a crime she didn't commit. Tonight, she knelt offering murder with the ease most people might offer water. Her transformation from timid servant to devoted shadow was both fascinating and chilling.

The transformation should have been disturbing. It was disturbing. But watching her crimson eyes burn with that cold fire, I couldn't regret my intervention. The world had created this monster long before I found her—beaten down, discarded, ready to be sacrificed. I had simply refined her, given purpose to her darkness.

"Rise," I said quietly. "Stand beside me."

She moved like smoke, flowing from kneeling to standing without seeming to pass through the space between. No sound, no wasted motion—just liquid grace. Her hand rested on the back of my chair, close enough that I felt warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to sever my carotid, crush my windpipe, or snap my neck before I could scream.

The trust implicit wasn't lost on either of us. It was our covenant.

I turned back to my desk, spreading the parchments. Charts, diagrams, behavioral analyses—three days of planning laid bare like a dissected creature. "Look here," I murmured, tapping the largest sheet. "Vance Thorne. Level 3 Noble Duelist. Seventeen years old, heir to House Thorne's mining fortune. Third in line for succession, first in his father's estimation."

Lyra leaned closer, her breath tickling my ear as she studied the documents with a predator's intensity. Her presence was both comforting and terrifying—a reminder that I'd created something beautiful and deadly that answered only to me.

"Strengths," I continued, running my finger down the left column. "Superior equipment, formal training since age six, natural athletic ability, talent for reading opponents. Weaknesses..." My finger moved right. "Arrogance bordering on delusion, predictable fighting style, showboating, and pathological need for validation."

"He will try to humiliate you," Lyra whispered with absolute certainty. "Make a spectacle to elevate his standing."

"Exactly." I pulled forward another sheet covered in combat analysis. "Vance isn't fighting to win quickly. He's fighting to make a statement. To prove his superiority. Which means he'll draw it out, savor it, play with his food. And that gives me exactly what I need."

I traced the tactical breakdown. Three phases of combat, each designed to showcase different aspects of Vance's superiority. The opening display to intimidate. The middle phase where he'd toy with his opponent. The finale where he'd deliver a decisive, memorable blow.

"His signature technique," I said, tapping a starred section. "[Power Strike]. E-rank skill, brutish but effective. Channels mana through the dominant arm for enhanced force. He finishes every match with it."

Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Simple magic. Predictable. No subtlety."

"Beautifully predictable." I reached for the final document—the one that took longest to prepare. An anatomical diagram of my torso, rendered in careful detail.

And there, marked in red ink over the lower left ribs, a single 'X'.

"The perfect target," I explained clinically. "Far enough from vital organs to minimize danger. Close enough to the surface to guarantee visible damage. The ideal location for [Skill Plunder] to trigger."

I'd tested the theory extensively. The skill activated when struck by an opponent's ability—but only if the attack connected, only if damage was dealt. A glancing blow wouldn't suffice. I needed to be genuinely hurt.

"I call it 'The Perfect Beating,'" I said, satisfaction evident. "Vance gets his glory. The crowd gets their spectacle. And I get [Power Strike] added to my arsenal."

Silence stretched, broken only by hissing candles. Lyra studied the diagram with the intensity used for a complex lock. Her fingers hovered over the parchment, tracing my torso's outline without touching it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"You intend to let him break you."

Not a question. A statement delivered with a flat tone of someone trying not to feel. Her crimson eyes remained fixed on the diagram.

"Two ribs," I corrected, tapping the 'X'. "Clean break, minimal complications. The healers will have me functional within hours. A small price for a permanent capability."

"A small price." She repeated like tasting something bitter. "Master, you speak of your bones as currency."

"Everything is currency, Lyra. Pain, humiliation, weakness—they're all forms of payment." I leaned back, noting the tightening around her mouth, the flare of her nostrils. "The secret is making sure you get value for what you spend."

Her eyes moved from the diagram to my face, searching. She wouldn't find hesitation. I'd made my peace with this decision days ago, calculating risks with cold detachment.

"The crowd will see Kaelen Leone beaten by his betters," I continued, sweeping my hand through the air. "They'll see weakness, cowardice, the natural order. What they won't see is a [Lord of Stolen Tales] harvesting power from his enemy's triumph."

"And if something goes wrong?" Her voice carried a faint tremor. "If his aim is poor, if he strikes too hard—"

"He won't." I pointed to a specific entry with certainty. "Vance has never seriously injured an opponent. He's a bully, not a killer. He wants to humiliate, not maim."

"Wants," she repeated weightily. "But in combat's heat, in front of the entire academy..."

"He'll perform exactly as expected." I gathered the papers into a neat stack. "Vance is a minor character, Lyra. A stepping stone. He doesn't have depth for genuine unpredictability."

The words hung between us like an unsheathed blade. I could see her processing them, understanding the cold calculus of treating people as narrative constructs.

"You're gambling with your life based on narrative convention," she said finally, disbelieving despite her loyalty.

"I'm leveraging my knowledge of how stories work." I met her eyes, letting her see my absolute conviction. "Every character has a role. Vance's is clear—he's the privileged bully who needs to be knocked down by the real hero. But I'm not the hero, so he has no reason to deviate."

She stared at the red 'X' where her Master intended to be broken. Her hands shook, betraying concealed emotion.

"There has to be another way," she whispered rawly.

"There are dozens." I moved to the window overlooking the academy grounds. Distant lights showed students preparing for tomorrow's spectacle. "I could have you poison him. I could arrange an accident. I could fight properly and risk revealing my capabilities."

I turned back, letting her see the weight of calculation in my expression.

"But none give me what I need. [Power Strike] is a foundation skill that opens doors to advanced techniques. Without it, I'm limited to stealth and misdirection. With it..."

"With it, you become something more than a shadow," she finished hollowly.

"Exactly. Every great work requires sacrifice, Lyra. The only question is whether you're willing to pay the price for excellence."