I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!
Chapter 214 - 214: Reminder of Talent (2)

Robert continued to watch Adlet with narrowed eyes, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, the veins at his temple lightly pulsing from the tension.

The boy's speed hadn't changed in the slightest. The same steady, almost leisurely rhythm of jogging—utterly indifferent to the shout hurled his way moments ago—remained constant.

It was as if Adlet hadn't even heard him.

That stung more than Robert wanted to admit.

He turned his gaze toward the center of the field where Instructor Griselda stood like a sentinel.

Her arms were loosely crossed as her eyes kept moving across the running students.

Her posture radiated authority, and yet… she showed no reaction to Adlet's blatant disregard

Robert's brow twitched again.

'She's not going to say anything?' he thought with disbelief.

Because, without the teacher's command, his hands were tied.

Authority without sanction meant nothing, and Robert knew better than to cross Griselda's line without permission.

He clenched his jaw, holding back a growl of irritation as he turned his head forward and clicked his tongue sharply in frustration.

Meanwhile, the rest of the students hadn't missed the exchange either.

Robert's shout had been loud enough to echo across the entire training field, and heads naturally turned to see who had earned his wrath.

When they saw the culprit jogging at a pace that could be called relaxed at best, eyes widened across both classes.

How could someone still be so far behind?

Everyone was about to complete their Second Lap and this guy was just starting his Second Lap.

Among the students of the Aether Class, especially within the ranks of the more prideful nobles and Elara were the first who wanted to ridicule him right now.

That unbothered gait.

That ridiculous calmness.

And above all, that lack of weights.

The biting remark was right on the tip of her tongue: 'Where did all that arrogance disappear to, Mr. Silver Tongue? Still feeling special while you're trailing behind with no burden to carry?'

She wasn't alone in her thoughts.

But no one said anything.

Not a word.

Not because they didn't want to, but because none of them had the luxury to waste their breath—not while Instructor Griselda's hawk-like gaze was raking across the field.

Her look alone screamed: "Your legs better not stop"

So, instead of jabs and sneers, they focused on moving their feet.

Meanwhile, at the front of the pack, Leon continued to dominate the run.

He passed by Robert for the second time, his boots kicking up short bursts of dust as he began the third lap. As he ran his eyes caught a figure ahead—one that didn't belong among the frontrunners.

Ashok had just reached the one-fourth mark of his second lap.

Then, he heard it—the rhythmic sound of rapid footsteps closing in behind him.

'Here it comes,' Ashok thought.

The first to pass him was, of course, Leon. For a brief second, Leon slowed just a little as he came up beside him.

His mouth opened slightly, as if he were about to speak— maybe to question, maybe just to throw out a heroically vague line about "effort" or "justice."

But then… he saw others catching up behind him.

Without another word, Leon clenched his jaw, picked up speed again, and pushed forward, shooting past Ashok without ever speaking.

'What the hell was that supposed to be?' thought Ashok as his eyes briefly flicked back toward Leon's receding figure.

The Hero hadn't said a word—just slowed down, stared, opened and closed his lips then moved on like the wind brushing past a mountain.

But Ashok didn't dwell long on it.

Gideon.

Still running with steady, eager steps, Gideon passed Ashok with a wide grin plastered across his face, like he had just spotted a longtime buddy.

Without breaking stride, he raised his hand and gave a cheerful thumbs-up, his smile gleeful as he rushed ahead.

"???" Ashok.

Before he could process Gideon's unbothered optimism, Zog passed next.

The tigerkin said nothing—just ran past.

Then the ground trembled.

Literally.

A low rumble grew louder and heavier, as if the earth itself was groaning—and then Varnok came barreling beside him.

The barbarian's strides were more like thunderous stomps.

His massive arms swung like tree trunks, bracers clinking with each motion. His breath came in powerful bursts like steam erupting from a forge.

As he stormed past, Varnok glanced at Adlet briefly and bellowed a single word, loud and booming:

"SLOW!"

It echoed across the field.

Ashok's chest seized for half a second. The sheer volume of Varnok's voice nearly shattered his breathing rhythm, jolting him like a hammer to the spine.

He barely resisted the urge to curse aloud, grinding his teeth as he regained control of his pace.

But by the time Ashok even managed to glare forward again, the walking Bull was already twenty feet ahead.

Then came Elara and Mira.

Mira kept her head forward as he ran not focusing on Ashok.

But Elara…

Elara strutted past with a deliberate toss of her hair and a smug glint in her eyes.

Her lips curled into a satisfied smirk as she huffed out a "Hmph!"—not a word, but more than enough to convey exactly what she wanted.

A triumphant little parade.

Ashok rolled his eyes without shame, resisting the overwhelming urge to trip her mid-run making her fall flat on the face.

'Just how much attention does this woman need?' he thought, irritation bubbling under the surface.

Elara's presence was like a parade float—loud, self-important, and impossible to ignore.

And then, finally, came the remainder of the Aether Class and the mixed lot of the Wyrd Class.

They came in uneven waves—some with judgment in their eyes, others too focused on breathing to care.

But plenty gave Adlet passing glances.

A few snickered lightly.

Ashok didn't respond to any of them.

He could feel the heat of their eyes—some amused, some mocking—but he kept his gaze forward and his breathing steady.

He was already halfway through the field, and more importantly, he could see the faces which was slowly started to getting red as their breathing showed signs of strain.

And that was enough for Ashok to knew that his plan was working.

Twenty Minutes Later…

Ashok's feet touched the marked start-line once more as he finished his Fourth Lap.

His breathing was slightly ragged, not yet erratic, but certainly not completely calm either.

After all, jogging two full kilometers continuously might not seem much for trained warriors or natural-born prodigies, but for someone who, just days ago, barely moved beyond his bed, it was a feat in itself.

Ashok's eyes drifted sideways, catching a flash of movement as someone blurred past him.

Leon was now crossing into his Fifth Lap, his pace still unbroken but noticeably more measured than before.

His body, which had moved earlier like a Olympic Champion in motion, now showed small cracks in the form of fatigue.

His hands, bound with full-length Tricelium bracers, trembled ever so slightly.

His strides had shortened — just a fraction — and his exhalations came out quicker, sharper, the rhythm of controlled desperation.

But even in this visible struggle, Leon's determination burned like a hearthfire.

Behind Leon came Gideon and Zog, holding onto second and third place.

Then came Elara and Mira, now tied in fourth place.

And then came Varnok.

Once the thunderous starter of the race, now pushed to fifth.

Ashok watched the massive figure of the barbarian lumber past him, his entire body glistening under the morning light.

Varnok's skin had turned a flushed crimson, the kind of red that came not from effort, but from overexertion.

His breathing was no longer wild and loud, but choppy, like a man choking on exhaustion.

And most importantly — he was silent.

No more war cries.

No more battle roars.

His jaw was clenched shut. Gone was the bravado that had shaken the field earlier.

In its place was the dawning realization that stamina wasn't something sheer muscle could brute force.

'Now he understands the value of breath,' thought Ashok, allowing a small grin to tug at the corner of his lips.

'Running a long-distance race isn't like charging into battle. You don't win by shouting. You win by breathing.'

As Varnok huffed and pushed forward, Ashok noted that his strides had shortened, his shoulders slumped just slightly, and his steps had started to lose their earlier rhythm. C^o!n^t.e.nt$ s^ourc^ed* f$rom M^VLEMP#Y*R* – My Vir%t#u%al Li*bra*ry E$mpire.-

The consequences of squandering stamina by shouting like a Madman had begun to bite into him — hard.

Though the main characters remained steadfast in their positions, locked in a quiet battle for dominance, the rest of the student body was telling an entirely different story.

The once dense cluster of Aether and Wyrd students — packed tightly like a wall of flesh and sweat — had long since fractured under the weight of exhaustion.

Only those bearing the half-length Tricelium bracers managed to remain in a semblance of pace, pushing themselves forward.

The others, those without the bracers, had started to lag behind.

What had begun as a wave had now become a slow, staggered current.

The vibrant stampede of youthful energy had transformed into a stretched, winding trail of gasping bodies and dragging feet.

Every breath was slowly turning a battle.

Their once synchronized footsteps were now a discordant mess, some pounding heavily into the dirt, others scraping weakly along the ground.

By now, the thick mass of students had unraveled into a serpentine line, winding around the training field in uneven rhythms

Twenty minutes later…

Ashok's pace remained calm and steady.

He had just crossed the mark of his Seventh Lap, sweat dampening the collar of his uniform and his breath hot but controlled.

'It should be starting now,' he thought, his eyes narrowing as he glanced ahead.

And right on cue, just as Ashok had anticipated, a Wyrd Class student, no longer able to bear the punishment his lungs and legs were handing him, came to a halt right before finishing his Eighth Lap.

The student bent forward, hands on his knees, mouth gaping like a fish pulled from water, trying desperately to gulp in enough air to stop the world from spinning.

'Showtime.' thought Ashok as he looked at Griselda.