Got You.

"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."

— Henry David Thoreau

———

I pushed myself up on one elbow, blinking owlishly at Vance through the settling dust cloud. My sword lay an arm's length away, its blade catching the morning sun like a beacon of hope I couldn't quite reach.

"Still conscious?" Vance's voice carried a note of genuine surprise. "Most people would have stayed down after that display."

The crowd's laughter had died to scattered chuckles and murmurs. Even Fen had fallen silent, though I could feel her golden eyes boring into me from the stands like twin suns, predatory and unblinking.

I made another show of struggling to my feet, swaying dangerously as I reached for my weapon. My fingers closed around the leather-wrapped hilt, and I hauled myself upright with what I hoped looked like monumental effort, letting my knees buckle slightly before locking them.

"I promised my father I'd finish the match," I wheezed, raising the sword in another abysmal guard, deliberately keeping my wrist limp and elbow too high. "House Leone keeps its word."

Vance's expression shifted from amusement to something approaching respect. Not the kind reserved for equals—more like what you might feel for a particularly stubborn insect that refused to die when stepped on.

"Your father would be prouder if you yielded with dignity intact."

"Dignity?" I let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough, doubling over slightly. "Look around, Thorne. That ship sailed about ten minutes ago."

He had a point, though. This farce had gone on long enough. The crowd was growing restless, professors were checking timepieces, and most importantly—Vance's frustration had reached the perfect temperature. Hot enough to make mistakes, not so hot that he'd lose all control.

Time for the final act.

I stumbled forward, my sword weaving drunken patterns through the air. Vance sighed and stepped into a proper fighting stance, his blade rising to meet mine. Steel kissed steel in a brief, ringing exchange that ended with me staggering backward, my guard completely open, the impact vibrating painfully up my arm.

"Enough games, Leone." His voice had dropped to something cold and personal, almost a growl. "Stand still and let me finish this properly."

I planted my feet and raised my sword one final time, the blade trembling in my grip. But this tremor wasn't entirely faked—my arms genuinely ached from the prolonged performance, and sweat stung my eyes despite the cool morning air. The weight of maintaining this charade dragged at every muscle.

Vance approached with the measured confidence of someone who'd finally tired of playing with his food. His sword moved in a simple, elegant arc—a textbook cut designed to disarm rather than injure. The kind of move that would end the match cleanly and let him claim victory with minimal fuss.

Everything hinged on the next few seconds. Too early and I'd miss the mark. Too late and I'd take the hit somewhere that might actually cause permanent damage. My real self, the one hidden behind the pathetic mask, counted down silently.

Now.

I executed my final stumble, a perfectly choreographed piece of theater that sent me lurching directly into Vance's attack. But instead of taking the blow on my sword or shoulder as he'd intended, I twisted my torso just enough to present my lower left ribs—exactly where I'd marked the X on my diagram during last night's meticulous planning.

Vance's eyes widened as he realized what was happening. His sword was already committed to its path, moving too fast to redirect. He tried to pull the strike, horror flashing across his face, but momentum and muscle memory conspired against him.

The pommel of his sword drove into my ribs like a battering ram.

The sound that followed wasn't the clean ring of steel on steel or the dull thud of a training blow. It was something wet and organic—a sharp, splintering crack that echoed across the suddenly silent arena like a branch snapping in winter wind.

Pain exploded through my chest, a white-hot supernova that turned my vision into a kaleidoscope of agony. Every nerve ending in my torso screamed protest as broken bone shifted against broken bone. The arena tilted sideways, sand rushing up to meet my face as my legs forgot how to hold weight.

But through the red haze of agony, something else bloomed in my consciousness. Cool blue light pulsed behind my eyelids, accompanied by text that scrolled across my vision in neat, orderly lines.

[System Notification: Attack Detected from Vance Thorne. Skill: [Power Strike (E)] detected. Skill Plunder condition met. Commencing acquisition...]

The pain was a roaring ocean, threatening to drag me under and drown what remained of my conscious mind. But the System notification floated above it all like a life raft of calm certainty.

[Skill Acquired: Power Strike (E)]

Got you.

The thought drifted through my mind with crystalline clarity, untouched by the chaos consuming my nervous system. Three weeks of planning, three weeks of careful manipulation and calculated humiliation—all of it had led to this single moment of triumph wrapped in agony.

I hit the sand hard, my body folding like a broken marionette. Dust filled my mouth and nose, but I barely noticed. The pain had evolved beyond mere sensation into something approaching religious experience—a burning communion between flesh and purpose that left me gasping for breath that wouldn't come.

"Leone!" Vance dropped his sword and fell to one knee beside me, his face pale beneath his perfect tan. "Leone, can you hear me?"

I tried to respond, but all that emerged was a wet, rattling sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Blood filled my mouth—not enough to indicate internal bleeding, just the copper taste of violence well-executed.

"Get a medic!" someone shouted from the stands. Probably Leo—the voice carried that particular quality of command that came naturally to heroes.

"What happened?" Professor Blackthorne's voice cut through the arena's sudden chaos like a blade. "I saw the strike—it should have been a simple disarm."

"He moved into it." Vance's words came out strangled, horrified. "He deliberately moved into the blow. Why would he—"

"BECAUSE HE'S AN IDIOT!" Fen's voice roared across the arena, but even her usual fury sounded shaken. "WHAT KIND OF MORON WALKS INTO A POWER STRIKE?"

Footsteps pounded across the sand, multiple sets converging on my position. Through the forest of legs surrounding me, I caught a glimpse of black fabric and white apron. Lyra moved like a shadow given form, her face a perfect mask of worried servitude as she shouldered her way through the crowd. The onlookers parted before her—not from any conscious decision, but from something in her bearing that commanded space despite her station. Her eyes, normally downcast in the presence of nobility, now swept across the gathered students with an intensity that made them step back instinctively.

"Young Master!" Her voice carried just the right note of panic—not so much as to seem hysterical, but enough to convey genuine concern for her employer's wellbeing. "Oh, Young Master, what have they done to you?" The tremor in her words was masterfully executed, making several onlookers shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of their voyeuristic interest in my suffering.

She dropped to her knees beside me in a rustle of starched fabric, her hands moving over my chest with the gentle touch of someone checking for injuries. To the watching crowd, it looked like a devoted servant tending her wounded master—the picture of appropriate concern. But when her fingers pressed against the spot where bone had separated from bone, when she felt the unnatural give of my ribs beneath her palm, her dark eyes met mine for the briefest instant. In that momentary connection, I saw something hungry and delighted lurking behind her concern—a predator's satisfaction at a successful hunt.

I managed the faintest nod—barely a twitch of my chin, but enough for her to read my approval. Her lips curved in what might have been relief or satisfaction, the expression gone so quickly that anyone watching would have dismissed it as a trick of the light. Only I knew it for what it was: acknowledgment of a plan perfectly executed, a shared secret between conspirators.

"The medic's coming," she whispered, loud enough for others to hear but soft enough to seem private. Her fingers lingered on my chest a heartbeat longer than necessary, possessive in their touch. She leaned closer, ostensibly to check my breathing, her long black hair falling around us like a curtain. "Hold on, Young Master. You're going to be fine."

The scent of lavender from her hair mixed with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Through the haze of pain, I felt a strange comfort in her presence—my most devoted weapon, my first true ally in this world that wanted me dead.

Fine. The word tasted like victory despite the blood pooling in my mouth and the white-hot pain radiating through my torso.

"Move aside, all of you. Give me room to work. This isn't a spectacle for your entertainment."

The medic was a thin man with gray hair and steady hands, his Academy robes marked with the silver caduceus symbol of the healing arts rather than the insignia of teaching faculty. He knelt beside me and began his examination.

"What's the damage, Healer Aldric?" Professor Blackthorne's voice carried a note of genuine concern beneath its usual gruffness. He loomed over us, his massive frame blocking out the sunlight.

"Two ribs, lower left side." The medic's hands continued their exploration, mapping the extent of the injury with cool detachment. "Clean breaks, both of them. Nothing vital damaged—the lung's intact, no sign of internal bleeding." He prodded another spot that sent daggers of pain through my chest.

He sat back on his heels, wiping blood from his fingers with a clean cloth. "He's lucky. A few inches higher and we'd be looking at a punctured lung. A bit lower and he might have caught the liver." He shook his head. "For someone with such poor combat skills, he somehow managed to take the blow in the least damaging way possible."

Lucky.

The word echoed in my mind as consciousness began to slip away, consciousness I'd been fighting to maintain through sheer force of will. Lucky. As if any part of this had been left to chance. As if I hadn't spent hours studying anatomical diagrams, calculating angles and force vectors, mapping out exactly where and how to take the blow for maximum effect with minimum risk. As if I hadn't practiced falling a hundred times in my private chambers, with Lyra timing each collapse.

Luck had nothing to do with it.

The pain was fading now, not because it was lessening but because my mind was finally allowing itself to disconnect from my body's protests. I could hear voices around me—Vance explaining what had happened, his tone defensive and frustrated; Professor Blackthorne ordering students back to their dormitories with the bark of a career soldier; Lyra's continued performance of devoted concern, her soft pleas for space and care.

But beneath it all, beneath the chaos and confusion and carefully orchestrated theater, I felt the new presence in my mind. [Power Strike] sat in my consciousness like a perfectly cut gem, its facets gleaming with potential. E-rank, certainly—barely more than a party trick compared to what the real powerhouses could do. But it was mine now, stolen fair and square according to the rules of my class, plucked from Vance's arsenal at the moment of impact.

The first of many.

As the world faded to black around the edges, I allowed myself a moment of genuine satisfaction. Phase one was complete. The weakling act had served its purpose, Vance had been thoroughly humiliated despite his technical victory, and most importantly—I now possessed my first stolen combat skill, a small but essential piece in the puzzle of my survival.

The medic was calling for a stretcher, discussing treatment options and recovery times in the clipped tones of a busy professional. Lyra maintained her worried vigil, occasionally dabbing blood from my lips with a cloth that smelled faintly of lavender, her fingers lingering just a fraction too long each time. The crowd was beginning to disperse, their entertainment concluded and their gossip material secured for weeks to come.

But none of that mattered now. What mattered was the cool weight of new power settling into my consciousness, the knowledge that my gamble had paid off exactly as planned.

The last thing I heard before unconsciousness took hold was Fen's voice, carrying clearly across the arena in a tone of disgusted resignation:

"Well, that's the most pathetic victory I've ever seen. And the most pathetic defeat. Congratulations, you're both idiots."

Even in my fading state, I had to admit—she had a point. Though not for the reasons she believed.