The Heavenly Hero Returns

Chapter 12: The Sprinting Gutter Rat

Your endurance training was starting to pay off. The first few days had left you feeling like you were dying—like your muscles were screaming in protest, like your very bones wanted to shatter under the strain.

But now? You were getting faster.

And the more you trained, the more you realized something strange.

Your instincts were… brutal.

When you held your new rapier in your hands, it felt natural. Too natural. The movements that wanted to come out of you weren't the elegant, honorable strikes of a knight—they were vicious, efficient, and terrifyingly precise. You wanted to thrust at joints, flick your blade through exposed flesh, move in ways that had nothing to do with proper swordsmanship.

So you suppressed it.

Even when training, you forced yourself to fight in a way that felt acceptable—quick, agile, and overwhelming, but not monstrous.

But even while holding back… you humiliated the squiring students.

—

You were fast. Too fast.

The other students hadn't even gotten used to their weapons yet, still struggling to refine their forms. Meanwhile, you moved like a mosquito flitting around their heads—darting in and out of their reach, dodging and weaving with ease.

One poor squire swung his sword, and you were already behind him before he even realized he missed. You tapped his back with your knuckles.

"Dead," you said cheerfully.

Another one tried to block your thrust. You stopped your rapier just before his throat.

"Checkmate," you added, before flicking his weapon aside effortlessly.

And when another squire got frustrated and rushed you, hoping to overwhelm you with sheer force?

You punched him.

Right in the jaw.

Not a refined knightly strike. Not an elegant counter. A full-on street brawl punch.

He dropped instantly.

The entire training hall went silent.

The squires weren't weak. They were the most promising trainees of their generation, carefully selected and trained for years. And yet you, a magic cripple, were making them look like fumbling children.

—

They hated it.

They hated that you—a nobody—were outpacing them in raw skill.

They hated that you weren't using magic, weren't using proper knightly techniques, and were still winning.

They hated that no matter what they did, you dodged.

Your reflexes were inhuman.

Your movements were obnoxious.

You were a disgrace to proper swordplay.

But worst of all?

You were winning.

—

You weren't provisional anymore.

Your skill was undeniable. You had humiliated too many squires, dodged too many attacks, and outpaced too many knights-in-training for anyone to pretend otherwise.

And that made things worse.

Because now, instead of dismissing you, they had to acknowledge you.

Not as an equal. Never as an equal.

You were still a magic cripple. Still a gutter rat.

They whispered among themselves, murmuring behind your back.

—

"She's fast, but that's all she has."

"Once we get better with magic, she won't stand a chance."

"A magicless knight is just a joke. She'll lose eventually."

"She's just sprinting at the start. She'll never win the marathon."

"Worthless, worthless, worthless."

—

You ignored them.

Your body was still sore, your endurance still growing, your limits still being tested.

You had five seconds of brilliance in your last duel.

Next time?

You'd make it ten.