Chapter 12: The Sprinting Gutter Rat
Jessica's endurance training was starting to pay off.
The first few days had left her feeling like she was dying—like her muscles were screaming in protest, like her very bones wanted to shatter under the strain.
But now? She was getting faster.
And the more she trained, the more she realized something strange.
Her instincts were... brutal.
When she held her new rapier in her hands, it felt natural. Too natural. The movements that wanted to come out weren't the elegant, honorable strikes of a knight—they were vicious, efficient, and terrifyingly precise. She wanted to thrust at joints, flick the blade through exposed flesh, move in ways that had nothing to do with proper swordsmanship.
So she suppressed it.
Even when training, she forced herself to fight in a way that felt acceptable—quick, agile, and overwhelming, but not monstrous.
But even while holding back... she humiliated the squiring students.
The other students hadn't even gotten used to their weapons yet, still struggling to refine their forms. Meanwhile, Jessica 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 she was already behind him before he realized he missed. She tapped his back with her knuckles.
"Dead," she said cheerfully.
Another tried to block her thrust. She stopped her rapier just before his throat.
"Checkmate," she added, flicking his weapon aside effortlessly.
And when a frustrated squire rushed her, hoping to overwhelm her with brute force—
She 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 training hall went silent.
These squires weren't weak. They were the most promising trainees of their generation, carefully selected and trained for years. And yet Jessica—magic cripple, unwanted outlier—was making them look like fumbling children.
They hated it.
They hated that someone like her was outpacing them in raw skill.
They hated that she wasn't using magic, wasn't using proper knightly techniques—and was still winning.
They hated that no matter what they did, she dodged.
Her reflexes were inhuman.
Her movements were obnoxious.
She was a disgrace to proper swordplay.
But worst of all?
She was winning.
Jessica wasn't provisional anymore.
Her skill was undeniable. She 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 her, they had to acknowledge her.
Not as an equal. Never as an equal.
She was still a magic cripple. Still a gutter rat.
They whispered among themselves, murmuring behind her 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."
Jessica ignored them.
Her body was still sore, her endurance still growing, her limits still being tested.
She had five seconds of brilliance in her last duel.
Next time?
She'd make it ten.