I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!

Ashok finally tore his gaze away from Gideon and looked ahead toward the one figure that still remained in front—Leon.

The Hero of Light, the Saintess' favored child, was still running.

Still holding first place.

Though Leon's lead was nothing like it had been in the beginning.

Once a distant figure dashing far ahead with effortless grace, now he was only five to eight steps beyond Ashok and the others.

His form had dulled, his pace slowed, and though his head remained high, the strain in his movements was undeniable. And yet… none of them could catch up.

Neither Ashok, nor Gideon or Zog—could bridge that short gap between second and first. The strength to do so simply wasn't there.

Not anymore.

They were all operating at their limits.

'Still…' Ashok mused, his eyes narrowing on Leon's back, 'I've already gotten far more than I expected from this garbage heap of a body.'

He was right. Just being in second place at this stage was something he wouldn't have even dreamed of when the class began, he did expect to caught upto the main characters but couldn't believe that he will be second.

But whatever fuel he had left wasn't stamina. It wasn't physical resilience.

It was willpower.

And a three-line mantra.

'Last Lap... Just a few meters more... I can do it...'

He repeated the lines in his head like a sacred chant, each phrase timed with the rhythm of his feet striking the dirt.

Step after step, breath after breath, he clung to that mantra like it was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness.

His vision was beginning to blur at the edges, but the words kept him going, pulling him forward inch by inch.

But there was one more thing.

Music.

Yes—music.

Not real music, of course. He was half-dead on a sun-scorched training field, not lounging in some tavern with a lute player in the corner.

No, this was music of his own making, crafted entirely in his battered mind.

The beat?

The sound of Robert's stick mercilessly striking exhausted students who dared to stop running.

Last Lap!~

♬ WHACK! ♬

♬ WHACK! ♬

Just a few meters more!!~

♬ WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! ♬

Just a few meters more!!~

♬ WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! ♬

I can do it!!!~

♬ WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! ♬

♬ I CAN DO IT! WHACK! WHACK! ♬

(Repeat.)

The blows fell with rhythmic precision, and each scream or cry that followed only added depth to the beat—like improvised base notes in a twisted military march.

And that's how Ashok created his First Soundtrack of Victory.

The stick fell, a student screamed, and Ashok pushed forward.

And it worked.

The cries, the blows, the agony of others—became his marching drum. A deranged kind of motivation, but motivation nonetheless.

The number of students on the field, which had once begun at forty-five strong, had now withered to just fifteen.

The others?

Collapsed.

Carried. Dragged.

Sent to the infirmary either unconscious, broken, or too battered to continue—sometimes even screaming as Robert "helped" them on their way with that cursed stick of his.

Three minutes into the final lap.

The finish line—no, the start line—was finally in sight once more. That white chalk arc they had first crossed like bright-eyed lambs was now the gate to salvation.

One by one, they pushed harder, burning the last drops of adrenaline their tortured bodies could conjure. Limbs that had long since gone numb found some primal spark and began to move faster.

And at the very front, naturally, was Leon.

Even now, even after being reduced to a red-faced wreck, he still reached the line before anyone else.

But the moment Leon's foot crossed the finish line, all that strength, all that iron will, vanished like dust in the wind.

He collapsed instantly. His body hit the ground, chest heaving, his face turned to the sun as he gasped desperately for air.

Not even the Hero of Light could fake strength now.

Right behind him came Gideon and Zog. Neither tried to keep themselves upright.

Both fell like boulders beside Leon, their bodies slamming onto the hard earth as they panted like dying dogs.

And then came Ashok.

He reached the line, crossed it—and kept walking.

Past the three who now used the field as their bed, their sweat pooling beneath them like the spoils of war.

He had half a mind to plant a foot right on their faces.

But no.

Instead, he veered slightly to the side and stood tall, posture relaxed, breathing under control.

Because he had no choice.

The False Monarch Trait was still active, and with it, any gesture that could be interpreted as "collapse" was outright forbidden.

His body simply wouldn't allow it. Ashok might be dying on the inside, but the outside?

Perfectly composed together with Charisma and False Monarch.

Though, truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to fall. He wanted to lie down like the rest of them, to sprawl across the dirt and finally rest.

Not with the False Monarch still wrapped around his body keeping him straight as his eyes looked down on everyone.

So, standing perfectly still he watched the others cross the line.

Elara refused to fall.

Even with her face pale and her arms limp from the weight of the Tricelium, she still had an image to maintain.

Her back bent, her legs trembling, but she didn't allow herself to fall. Instead, she lowered herself onto the ground with as much grace as exhaustion allowed and sat—dignity preserved.

Even her mind was tired to point where sitting on the dirt filled ground seemed more worthy than lying on the ground.

Mira, by contrast, didn't care. She crossed the line and instantly let gravity do the rest, flopping to the side beside her brother.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid bursts as she stared at the sky, her body drained but her face peaceful.

The moment Varnok came charging toward the finish line, his massive body drenched in sweat and red as a sunburnt tomato, everyone knew what was coming.

Unlike the others who barely managed to collapse with some grace, Varnok didn't even try. The second his foot crossed the line, it was as if the last string holding his soul together had snapped.

His eyes rolled back, arms went limp—and then his mountain-like body began to fall.

Straight. Down.

Right on top of everyone else.

Those already lying on the ground, trying to enjoy the rare luxury of breathing without pain, suddenly found their brief moment of peace cast under a massive shadow. Wide eyes turned skyward.

A collective moment of panic passed like a ripple across the group.

A giant was falling on them.

And then the main characters hurriedly rolled away somehow, miraculously, surviving just barely.

THUMP!

Varnok crashed into the earth like a boulder, kicking up a storm of dust. The ground trembled slightly under the impact, and for a second it seemed like the field itself might crack open beneath him.

Ashok, standing at the side, sipped from his flask of protein shake and clicked his tongue.

'Tch! What a disappointment. The elephant nearly did my job and annihilated these ants.'

His gaze swept across the field where the main characters now lay scattered, just beyond the finish line, half-dead from effort and nearly trampled by a falling barbarian.

And then—

THUD!

THUD!

CLANK!

One by one, the Energy Shackles and metal bracers began unlocking and detaching from the arms of those who completed their Twentieth Lap.

Ashok barely blinked. Just like before, he felt no change, since he can't sense mana.

The effect of the Energy Shackle had always been minimal on him.

But the others?

The second their shackles fell off, it was like watching the resurrection of the dead. The main characters sprang up from the ground, rising with a speed that made it seem like the past ten kilometers had been a nap instead of a nightmare.

Leon, Gideon, Elara, Zog, and Mira—each one pushed themselves up with renewed strength.

Their limbs still trembled, their breaths were ragged, but now that their mana and aura flow had returned, their recovery had kicked in fast.

All except Varnok.

The big guy remained face-first in the dirt, completely unconscious.

With the restraints removed, everyone instinctively channeled their Aura inside their bodies.

The channeling of Aura acting like a support system or a Buff—boosting their Natural base recovery, reinforcing tired muscles, and making it just a lot easier to stand.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Aura couldn't restore their lost stamina or soothe the burn in their lungs, but it at least gave their bodies the strength to stay upright which was lost from running.

Except Ashok.

Since he was unable to internally channel Mana.

He was devoid of such privileges and can only watch others as they get back to their feet.

But even without it, he stood straighter than anyone. No trembling arms. No shaking knees or legs.

Just calm, steady breathing as he drank from his protein shake like it was any other morning.

That contrast didn't go unnoticed.

Leon, wiping the sweat from his brow, narrowed his eyes. 'Does he not get tired? Or... does he just not feel pain?'.

Because even for someone like Leon it was hard to stand without the use of Aura.

Gideon, still catching his breath with a lopsided smile, tilted his head. 'Is Mr. Special really a mage?.'

Elara, glaring daggers at Ashok, crossed her arms tightly. 'Hmph! All of it must be an act.'

She scoffed, convincing herself of the lie—never once suspecting that the thoughts was truth because the both the False Monarch and Charisma were not far from an Act.