I Enrolled as the Villain
Chapter 34: What Remain After silence

Chapter 34: What Remain After silence

"Gaze of Severance."

A blade born from memory, not mastery.

It’s not an original creation. Not entirely. In the novel, it had a different name Echoes of Sword. A Tier-5 technique: flawless, deadly and mythical.

I don’t have the skill to recreate that. I was never a swordsman.

and honestly, I don’t even know if I’m doing it right

But I remember the rhythm. The weight of each swing. The idea behind the flow.

And the key to unlocking it.

So I pass it down not perfectly, but fragmented.

Not as a master. Not as a warrior.

But just as someone who’s seen what it could become...

...and hopes they can make it better.

"This sword art isn’t in the archives. It’s not taught at your academy. And it’s not written in Valery history."

Cendric gripped his sword tighter. Silas didn’t blink. Maren tilted her head, watching closer.

"It came to me in a vision," I said, tone even.

"A future seen through the Mythrigan."

A lie. But one I could afford.

The real reason?

I looked at the three of them Valery bloodlines. Their eyes waiting. Expectant. Hopeful.

And just for a second... I saw Lucia.

Her voice. Her hurt.

"Why not teach your own blood?"

I swallowed that weight. I couldn’t fix the past. Couldn’t undo the choice to train Arthur first.

But maybe...

I could give them something better.

I gripped the training sword with focus.

Not too loose to slip. Not too tight to lose control. Then I closed my eyes.

I had no teacher. No master. And only small fragments of kael formal sword training memory. But I remembered.

From the novel. From the fight in the Realm of Song and Death. The way that sword art moved not just with force, but with rhythm.

The wielder’s mana flowed like a pattern. A pulse. Every step, every swing... followed a rhythm.

Slow. Sudden. Paused. Then sharp again. Like a song made from silence and impact.

That was the key.

To let the mana follow that rhythm. To stop thinking of it as energy and start treating it like a current I had to match.

And the setting?

That realm was cold.

Littered with the dead. Hundreds of bodies, silent... but the sword kept singing.

A melody carried by one who refused to let silence win. That’s what I needed to feel.

That stillness. That weight.

That song in the middle of a graveyard.

I gripped the sword tighter. Let the memory take hold. The way it moved in the novel slow, steady, then sudden.

I followed that rhythm.

And lunged toward the training dummy.

Mana surged through the blade not explosive, but sharp. Refined. A subtle blue glow traced the edge like a pulse.

Then I swung.

"HRGGG—!"

The sword carved through the air—

—and screamed.

The sound it made wasn’t a song. It wasn’t even clean. It screeched sharp, jarring, almost painful.

Like something that had forgotten how to sing.

Cendric winced, stumbling back as he covered his ears.

His stance broke for the first time since entering this room like the sound itself reached into his bones and rewrote discipline into instinct. A prodigy, yes. But not yet hardened.

Silas tensed, his gaze narrowed, muscles locked in place.

He didn’t flinch like Cendric. But he didn’t move either. It was as if his body had frozen on the spot, like retreating was failure and enduring pain was a test of worth.

His training told him to hold. His eyes, though those narrowed slits were calculating.

Maren flinched, but her eyes never left my form. The healer. The one who was used to cleaning up messes, not watching them form.

There was something heavy in her stare not fear, not awe. Just... scrutiny. Like she was trying to understand the cost behind every cut.

Cendric winced, stumbling back as he covered his ears. Silas tensed, his gaze narrowed, muscles locked in place. Maren flinched, but her eyes never left my form.

A beat passed. Then the noise settled.

And in the quiet that followed — I heard what it wasn’t.

This wasn’t the echo of a song. Not what it was meant to be.

As i stood there, breathing slow. I thought to myself

That noise...

In the novel, it was supposed to sing. Each strike was a note, the sword a beautiful blue flame across the battlefield.

But...

I glanced at the training dummy cleanly split, smoking slightly.

It wasn’t right. But it was good enough.

Then i look at 4 of them

And I exhaled lightly.

"...Can you follow it?"

A beat then...

This time, they answered.

Cendric was the first to recover. "It felt... wrong. Like it shouldn’t work. But it did." He frowned, shaking his head.

"It’s powerful. But unstable."

Maren tilted her head slightly. "It didn’t move like a sword. It moved like... a voice. Something trying to speak through you."

Silas stepped forward. His eyes narrowed. "I need to see it again," he said flatly.

"The rhythm was there. Buried. But it wasn’t constant. Your mana faltered in the second arc."

As he spoke, the Teragan in his eye flared a sharp golden brown flicker. Not hostile. Just hungry.

Hungry to understand.

And Liora?

She didn’t say anything.

But she stared wide-eyed, both hands clenched in her lap. Her lips parted slightly, as if the sound had grabbed something inside her and refused to let go.

I looked toward Liora, expecting her observation.

Her hands twitched in her lap. She flinched when all eyes turned.

"I—it’s... I don’t know," she stammered.

Her voice was thin. Embarrassed.

"It was too fast. My eye... I mean, my Ketsugan. It can’t follow it."

She looked down, clutching the arms of her chair. "I’m sorry."

The silence was heavier than before.

Even Maren blinked. Cendric shifted uncomfortably. Silas said nothing but his stillness was louder than any words.

I didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

She didn’t lie. That much I could tell.

But in this room this weight honesty didn’t count for much if it came empty-handed.

And right now, she looked like exactly what the others probably thought:

A burden.

One I chose to bring in.

I nearly breathed in frustration But I caught it before it escaped.

She couldn’t even see the strike.

Her Ketsugan failed her. Her training failed her. And worst of all... she knew it.

She sat there, shoulders tight, eyes downcast, trying to vanish in that damn chair. Not even trying to defend herself.

Should I even bring her to the Stronghold competition?

If I were being honest...

No.

She’d slow us down. Risk the others. Become dead weight in a storm we can’t afford.

This isn’t about pity or cruelty. It’s numbers. It’s strategy. It’s survival.

I’m the leader of this faction — and I have the right to cut her loose.

And with the Velvet Eye’s condition already deteriorating... adding her?

It’s foolish. Naïve.

Especially with them waiting.

The rain and fire. The Red Sword’s fury. The Crown’s silence. The monsters clawing at the walls of this story.

And I’m here i am.. trying to carry a broken piece that can’t even move.

I clenched my fist.

What is a sword that cannot swing? What is a Valery who cannot rise?

But as I turned my gaze back toward her— Her eyes met mine. Just for a second.

Not defiant. Not pleading.

Just... waiting.

The scars. The silence. The shame she didn’t try to hide. She didn’t ask for forgiveness. She didn’t ask to stay.

She was waiting to be cast out and that, more than anything, told me what this system had done to her.

Waiting to be discarded, like she’d already accepted it.

And something about that—

That quiet surrender—

It dug under my skin more than any shouted excuse.

I could throw her away. The others might even thank me for it.

But she’s still a Valery.

My own blood

And if I discard her now...

Then I’m no different from the Kael they feared.

No different from the leaders who only kept what was useful and burned the rest.

I exhaled slowly, voice low.

"...You’ll watch again tomorrow."

She blinked.

"And next day. Until you can keep up."

A beat passed. She didn’t respond.

"Prove me wrong," I added, quieter.

"Or at least... try to."

Then I turned away before she could answer.

Because part of me already hated that I said it.