The Extra's Rebellion
Chapter 51: Combat class

Chapter 51: Combat class

When Zephyr entered the combat class, it was not empty like the meditation class, though the room’s sheer size made it feel like it was. A few students were already scattered across the space, their conversations low, some stretching, others testing their weapons with quiet discipline. Their gazes shifted toward him as he stepped in—some indifferent, others hate—but one lingered longer than the rest.

Lunethra.

Her sharp purple eyes held his for a fraction too long before he adverted his gaze awkwardly.

"Zephyr!" Mr. Fisher’s cheerful voice cut through the ambient noise. "You’re late, but it’s fine—change out of that cloak and into the vest."

Zephyr nodded and slipped away to the changing corner. When he returned, now wearing the sleeveless training vest, Mr. Fisher clapped his hands together and grinned.

"Alright! Let’s not waste time. Bed number one and bed number fifteen—you’re up."

Two students stepped forward, both holding the standard-issue training dagger. One had a lean and somewhat short build with ash-blond hair, his expression wary. The other, stockier, cracked his knuckles before assuming a ready stance.

"Hold on," Mr. Fisher said, raising a hand. "You’re not allowed to use your Arts."

Murmuring filled the air, but non were bold enough to voice ot their opposition. All except the ash-blond boy who frowned and said. "Why not, sir?"

Mr. Fisher’s smile dimmed, his eyes glazing over with a memory only he could see. "Because I’m not about to be the instructor who gave kids a license to kill. Not happening."

For a moment, he stood still, lost in whatever bygone war or battlefield lived behind his eyes. Then he blinked it away and walked to the center.

"Now, before we start... what’s your dominant hand?"

"Right," they both answered almost in unison.

"Good," he said. "Now wield your dagger in your left."

Another Wave of murmurs filled with confusion swept through the room.

"As warriors, you don’t have the right to have a dominant hand. You earn that privilege. Until then, fight as though you have none."

The students hesitated, but did as they were told, switching their weapons to the awkward grip of their non-dominant hands.

"Begin!"

The fight that followed was could be defined in one word— Disgraceful.

The boys fumbled with their grips, their footwork uneven. There was more circling and hesitating than striking—like dancers who had forgotten their steps mid-performance. The dagger, light and simple, might as well have been a slab of steel for how unwieldy it looked in their left hands. Each motion was stiff, the blows hesitant, lacking precision or flow. Every now and then, one of them would land a glancing tap, only for Mr. Fisher to call out corrections with a sigh.

Zephyr leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. Despite the dullness of the match, he watched closely. Or at least he tried.

’Damn it, focus Zephyr, focus’.

Zephyr struggled to stay awake, his eyelids were heavy, whatever Aether had entered his body had not wore off.

"Bed number seventeen and bed number forty four you’re up. You two are a disgrace". Mr. Fisher first called out the next persons to fight while he addressed the two who were playing on the field.

At the sound of the voice Zephyr was jotted from the shallow sleep he had found himself in. He scratched his head then proceeded to fold his hand together under his chest and poured his attention on the on going fight.

Unlike the first, this one was of a boy and a girl and they were both nobles of Vermilion clan and Demios clan respectively.

The yellow haired boy stood on the field and held the dagger in a reverse grip, while the girl, clad in black and red accents of the Demios clan, adopted a loose forward stance that screamed experience. Her hair, a curtain of mid day red streaked with orange, was tied back, and her expression was calm

The air shifted.

Zephyr noticed it immediately. Where the first fight had been clumsy and awkward, this was something else. Sharper. He narrowed his eyes.

The girl—no doubt the one from the Demios clan—moved first.

A simple feint. Then a pivot. She tested the boy’s guard with a swipe so smooth it looked lazy—but the boy staggered, already off balance from the sheer precision of her footwork.

Mr. Fisher said nothing. His silence was approval.

The Vermilion boy gritted his teeth and lashed out, switching to a forward grip in frustration. The girl didn’t flinch. She leaned back slightly, the attack grazing her vest. Then, with an elegance that seemed second nature, she stepped inside his reach and tapped the blade gently against his throat.

"Point," Mr. Fisher said.

The boy looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

"Again."

This time, the clash was faster. The redhead tried to overpower her with brute force. He rushed in with a flurry of jabs, trying to push her into retreat—but she danced back, steps measured, controlled. Then, a sudden pivot—and he was disarmed.

It hit the floor with a dull clack.

Zephyr blinked, and for a moment, his mind cleared. The haze of residual Aether lifted slightly.

"She’s good," he muttered under his breath as he shifted from his position. "Damn this pillar is comfortable". He muttered under his breath his attention leaving the fight for some moment before he heard Mr. Fisher voice.

"That’s enough Ceryn’s the winner". Mr. Fisher said with a goofy expression.

Zephyr wasn’t paying any mind untill he heard it.

"Number eighteen and number fifty".

He jotted from his sleep and stood upright trying to look like he haven’t been sleeping. As he walked towards the middle of the field he looked at his opponent with a haze still clouding his face, but who he saw made he wake up for real.

Just few meters from him, standing on the empty field undeniably stood Lunethra. She stood there wearing a black vest same as the rest of them. Her eyes stared as him with clear impatience. He could read it and it said— finally.

"Number fifty move forward". Mr. Fisher voice rang out again, and it was at that moment he realized that he had stopped moving.

’I am morally screwed’.