YOUNG MASTER'S POV: WOKE UP AS A VILLAIN IN A GAME ONE DAY

The next day…

It was time for my final class before the weekend — Advance Combat Mechanics.

Half of the first-year batch — all the Cadets who had chosen this course as their last class of the day — stood in one of the training fields surrounding the Apex Tower.

Standing before us was a tall man with an air of brutal authority shrouding him.

He had a small moustache and judging by his receding hairline, he’d go bald in just a few months.

Yet, his physique was commendable. And his presence was sharper than a veteran soldier who had survived a hundred wars.

That was Instructor Kain Reichardt.

Our Physical Conditioning coach, and a sadist who the Academy thought would be best suited to guide us in the art of combat as well.

Because why not?

Why shouldn’t a deranged psycho like him, someone who enjoyed tormenting helpless teenagers in the name of training, get to teach two classes to the freshmen?

Yeah, that was totally a sound decision.

Instructor Kain’s gaze swept over the gathered Cadets.

His hardened expression was one of perpetual disappointment, as if we’d already failed before even starting.

“Can anyone tell me,” he began, voice cold and clipped, “what the most important factor in a fight is?”

Silence.

A few Cadets glanced at each other, some hesitating to speak, others way too wary of giving the wrong answer.

Instructor Reichardt sighed, shaking his head in disgust.

“Pathetic. You’re all here to learn combat, yet none of you even have an opinion?” His eyes landed on a boy near the front — one of the more studious types. “Cadet, enlighten us.”

The boy straightened under the scrutiny. “Strength, sir?”

Kain’s lips curled into a humorless smirk. “Strength is important. But strength alone won’t save you when you’re outmatched.”

Another Cadet raised a hand hesitantly. “Is it technique?”

“Better,” Kain allowed, “but still wrong.”

Then, he began to pace before us. His boots struck the concrete floor in slow steps. “Speed, endurance, intelligence, instincts — these are all valuable. But none of them matter if you don’t have this.”

He stopped suddenly and looked at us.

“Control.”

Perhaps it was the gravitas in his heavy voice or the way he delivered that word — but everyone stared at him expectantly when he stopped, eager to hear the rest of his speech.

“In battle, control is everything. Control over your body, your movements, your emotions, and – if you are good enough – control over your opponent.”

His gaze flicked across the field, as if daring someone to speak up.

No one did.

“Lose control, and you’re already dead.”

A tense silence followed.

Then Kain clapped his hands. “Let’s talk about a few examples, alright? We’ll start with the most recent match that shook your entire batch when it happened.”

My ears perked. And suddenly, I felt every single eye in the field turning on me.

Instructor Reichardt pointed at me with his chin. “That’s right. I’m talking about your Ace facing ten of some of the strongest Cadets. Can anyone tell me how Lord Theosbane pulled off a win despite his numerical disadvantage?”

A few scoffed, a few sneered.

“He got lucky,” someone whispered.

“He was underestimated. If they’d worked together, he would’ve lost,” another joined in.

“I think the match was fixed,” someone dared to accuse.

I personally resisted the urge to punch that last guy, whoever it was. What do you mean it was fixed? I was stabbed and slashed like a cow being skinned in that fight!

What other proof of authenticity did they want?

I shook my head.

Meanwhile, the smirk on Instructor Kain’s face widened. “Oh? Luck and match-fixing, huh? Those are some wild excuses.”

Some of the Cadets were about to indignantly argue, but Reichardt pressed on. “So if you were given a chance, you think you could defeat your Ace for his title?”

Silence. Once again.

Instructor Reichardt’s smirk turned into a grin. “I agree there are many other candidates in the Top Ten or even among some of the high-nobles who should be able to give a strong fight for the number one spot. But the rest of you? All you could do is pathetically make excuses.”

Instructor Reichardt let his words settle, his grin sharpening as he observed the uncomfortable shifts and clenched jaws among the Cadets.

After a brief pause, he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. A holographic display projected over his head, showing the video of my match.

“Look here,” he said, pointing at my figure in the video. “Cadet Samael is clearly stronger and faster than each of his individual opponents. But strength and speed alone don’t win fights when you’re at a disadvantage — how you use them does.”

He let that sink in before continuing.

“His first big move set up everything. To take out the enemy healer, he had to go underground and emerge behind her. It was a simple trick, but one that dictated the rest of the fight.”

He fast-forwarded the video and gestured at the next sequence.

“Later, he did it again — this time against Cadet Reiner. But instead of coming out first, he attacked from under the ground, pinning Reiner in place while he was in the midst of retreat.”

The playback then fast-forwarded to the final exchange.

“And lastly, against Cadets Erwin and Sylen, he used the same trick again! But not quite. He created a crack behind them, leading them to believe he’d emerge from the rear. But instead, he attacked head-on.”

Instructor Reichardt turned to the class, keeping his expression unreadable.

“He used the same trick three times to take out some of the most troublesome opponents. But here’s the key — he only attacked from behind once. The rest was conditioning, making them believe they knew his pattern when, in reality, he was controlling them.”

He let his gaze sweep over the field once more before delivering the final verdict. “And that is how he won. Not by luck or fix, but by wits.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Some Cadets shifted uncomfortably, while others refused to look back my way.

What was I doing? Smiling smugly at them, of course.

Instructor Reichardt crossed his arms. “Let’s go through a few more examples.”

And just like that, he showed us several more fights — some from upperclassmen, some even from past graduates.

One in particular caught my attention.

The current Cadet Council President, Vereshia Morrigan.

Back in her second year, she had also issued a ten-on-one title match — just like me.

Except she was defending her title against the Top Ten of her batch.

And she won.

Unscathed.

Without taking a single wound.

That match was… brilliant.

From start to finish, Vereshia displayed sheer battle intelligence and controlled her opponents with such ease that they may as well have been children.

She forced them into awkward positions, evaded disadvantageous angles, dismantled their synergy, and dictated the flow of the entire fight.

But above all, she effortlessly eliminated them all one after another in a display of unrivaled strength, and none of them could stop her.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.

She was on a different level.

The video ended. Instructor Reichardt shut off the projection and gave us a pointed look. “This is what separates a fighter from a strategist. Strength, speed, technique? They’re just tools. But control? Control turns tools into weapons.”

Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “But most of you don’t even know how to control your own breathing, let alone a battle.”

Some Cadets bristled at that, but no one dared to raise an argument.

“Which is why,” Reichardt continued, his smirk returning, “we’re going to fix that. Right now.”

He turned and gestured toward the metallic training dummies lined up along the field.

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“These,” Reichardt announced, “are Combat Puppets. And unlike the usual ones you’ve trained with, these have been programmed to analyze your movements, predict your patterns, and counter your attacks. In other words, they get smarter the longer you fight them.”

A collective silence fell over the class.

Reichardt chuckled. “Oh, don’t look so scared. You all did sign up for Advanced Combat Mechanics, didn’t you?”

…No, we didn’t.

It was a mandatory course.

But he didn’t care.

“Get ready,” Instructor Kain barked. “Each of you gets two Puppets. Your goal is to outthink it. If you fight it head-on, you lose. If you’re predictable, you lose. If you waste time complaining… you lose.”

As the Cadets reluctantly began forming pairs, I exhaled slowly. Great. A battle of wits against a learning AI.

I sighed. “I hate coming to class.”

•••

“Haaa! Haaa!” I gasped and grunted frustratingly.

After twenty whole minutes, I finally managed to destroy my Combat Puppets.

Despite their sleek frames, those robots were strong!

Ridiculously strong!

Their metallic exterior was enchanted against elemental damage and durable enough to tank the full force of multiple siege engines!

If that wasn’t enough, they were also extremely fast and agile. You’d be lucky to hit them twice with the same attack.

And there were two of them!

I literally had to spam my innate power and contort the ground under them to win.

Huffing, I straightened up.

I wasn’t truly tired, since after learning the Essence Circulation Technique, my stamina and vitality had skyrocketed. And each day, my body only grew stronger using it.

But continuously my Origin Card to perform transmutations on such a large scale was still a bit straining.

Just a bit.

The ground around me was broken by sharp spikes and towering concrete lances. Some spots were scorched black and others caved in like artificially created craters.

Beneath my feet were the sparking remains of the Combat Puppets.

I took a deep breath and dismissed my Origin Card, gazing at the rest of the field.

Apparently, I was one of the few who passed.

The rest of the Cadets were sprawled on the ground, exhausted and defeated.

Finally, Instructor Reichardt took mercy on them and called back the Combat Puppets, ending his class.

After giving us one last look of disgust, he dismissed us.

As the Cadets groaned and dragged themselves toward the exit, I dusted off my sleeves and stretched.

Just as I was about to slip away with the rest of the group, an excited voice called out behind me.

“Nice job, Lord Samael!”

Before I could even react, something latched onto my right hand.

Flinching, I looked down and saw a petite, orange-haired menace staring up at me with bright gray eyes.

“Alexia!” I yelped, instinctively shaking my hand in a futile attempt to throw her off.

She didn’t budge.

I shook harder.

Still nothing.

“…Are you secretly made of lead?!” I exclaimed.

Alexia just grinned and tightened her grip. “Nope! Just good at holding on.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not a skill people should brag about.”

“Why not? It’s super useful! Like, right now, for example.” She gave my hand a firm shake, her enthusiasm completely unshaken by my irritation.

I sighed, rubbing my temple with my free hand. “Alright, what do you want?”

She beamed. “You, of course! Or more specifically, to spar with you.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

Alexia shrugged. “We haven’t had a proper fight since the Evaluation Exam. I’ve sparred with Michael since then — even defeated him a few times. But not you.”

I raised a brow. “And?”

“And,” she continued, pointing at me dramatically, “I bet I can beat you.”

I scoffed. “That’s a stupid bet.”

Her eyes narrowed humorously. “Why?”

“Because you can’t. Also, I have no reason to accept.” I tried prying my hand away, but Alexia refused to let go.

Finally admitting defeat, I started walking.

She tilted her head, smiling cheekily. “Are you scared?”

I deadpanned. “That is the single dumbest attempt at reverse psychology I’ve ever heard.”

She hummed. “Maybe. But it worked, didn’t it?”

I rolled my eyes. “No—”

Thaam—

Before I could finish my sentence, I slammed into someone.

‘…Oh god, this is becoming a habit,’ I groaned internally and looked up. ‘Please don’t let it be—’

Jake.

Green eyes. Green hair. A body that had lost even more of its chubbiness since the last time I saw him.

Yeah.

It was Jake Mel Flazer.

And he was looking at me with unfiltered, unrelenting hate.

Oh, come on.

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