The Villainess is the Villainess [LitRPG]

Book 2: Chapter 32 - Undergarments [Part 1]

Mined in scant handfuls from the deep tunnels beneath the Dwarven Hold of Bronzegate, the midnight‑black ore yields pure Adamantium only after punishing labor and ruinous expense. Though less rare than Mithril, its brutal weight keeps it impractical: wealthy adventurers settle for a razor‑thin plating, and modern forges temper and alloy it with steel, yet even then, only the strongest can bear it. Near‑indestructible, the Empire of old forged the metal into the infamous 'Sinner's Shackles' for the vilest criminals deemed unworthy of the mercy of death. Thus, Adamantium, or 'Sinner's Shackles', remains the dusk‑forged counterpoint to Mithril's revered 'Saint's Silver.'"

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.

Melisiandre was a most stringent, exacting teacher. The moment she saw how much raw Strength Seraphina carried in her lithe frame—far more than Aranthian higher society ever expected of a "fair‑sexed" noble—she resolved to test every inch of it. She knew precisely when to push, when to scorn, when to dangle the next challenge just out of reach. What the girl needed was not coddling but an obstacle worthy of her will, because her very life might depend on it. Melisiandre owed that much to one of her oldest friends: to forge Anaselena's daughter into something the Bloody Tower itself would think twice about hunting. Kellan had taught her the basics of the battlefield; Melisiandre would teach her how to survive on and off it.

Seraphina was almost masculine in her fighting style, full of bravado and flare, which in her teacher's opinion did not suit her. At the end of the day, a man fought to win, but a woman fought to survive.

"One more lap! Flat‑out this time—this is no stroll through the gardens, little lady!" she barked, amber‑steel eyes flashing.

Seraphina's jaw tightened as though she might snap back, but she swallowed the retort and burst into a sprint. A newly gained point in Constitution served to somewhat mollify her and smoothed the sharp edge of her temper.

She was heartbreakingly like her mother, and that resemblance still stirred old memories in Melisiandre's chest. Though now married and mother to four lively children of her own, she had never quite lost that first, bittersweet and silly crush on Anaselena. Seraphina moved with the same effortless grace, a younger mirror of Anaselena.

Yet there was one crucial difference. Anaselena could afford to fight recklessly, trusting her gift of Sight to weave her safely through every possible future. Seraphina fought with equal ferocity and recklessness, but had none of that clairvoyant net beneath her. Rumors claimed she "knew things no one should," yet Melisiandre's instincts said otherwise. Whatever spark lived in the girl's green eyes, it was not her mother's Sight.

Anaselena had once confessed that seeing a thousand futures meant living them, too; in that sense, she was far older than her years. Seraphina carried only the faintest echo of that facet of her mother. Yes, she had the poise and carried herself in a manner far beyond her years, but lacked the deep Wisdom that having such her mother's gift would have brought her.

So Melisiandre drove her harder than any pupil before. If the Sight would not shield Seraphina, skill and grit must. And if the lesson required blood, sweat, and even a few tears, then so be it—she would hammer the girl into the survivor her mother needed her to be.

It was almost as if Anaselena had seen this day would come.

Only the faintest hint of sweat clung to Seraphina's brow as she thundered over the chalked finish line. She did not slow; Melisiandre would have scolded her for that in what she thought was a most annoying voice. Unbeknownst to her teacher, the girl had been holding her breath to make the exercise somewhat of a challenge; her immense Constitution trivialized most of the tests of endurance. Now, the blonde noblewoman braced against a wooden post, doubled over, and dragged in a ragged breath. The crisp morning air tasted of iron and effort. Deeper in the Academy grounds, songbirds trilled their morning chorus obliviously. Here, only discipline answered them.

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"Good," Melisiandre said, neither praise nor condemnation, merely a measurement. She flicked an hourglass that pinned time like a butterfly. "A bit faster than yesterday. Improvement—but not enough." A leather satchel thunked at Seraphina's feet. Within it lay bands of almost pure, ruinously heavy Adamantium, each weighted further with rune-etched spells. "Strap those to your wrists and ankles."

Adamantium was extremely expensive, and ensorcelled Adamantium doubly so, but Melisiandre would spare no expense for this particular student. The older woman owed almost all of her current happiness to the advice and suggestions of the girl's mother.

And so, Seraphina did so without comment; defiance wasted breath best saved for the next drill. The stones turned even her powerful limbs to lead, yet she squared her shoulders. Melisiandre's eyebrow rose—approval, almost invisible. "Forms, first sequence. Begin!"

Weighted or not, Seraphina's body remembered the dance. She flowed through low sweeps, pivoted into spear thrusts, rolled her shoulders into back‑fist strikes that cracked the still morning like whiplash. Each motion finished in perfect guard. Or so she thought. From nowhere, Melisiandre's cane rapped her outer forearm—sharp and precise. "Lazy elbow. Again." Another rap across a calf. "Ground your stance."

It was of some note that the golden-eyed woman was teaching Seraphina some of the stolen forms taken from the Bloody Tower, the agents of their sometimes enemies, the Empire. For it was better to know the blades in your enemy's arsenal, or so the teachings of Aran went.

Pain flashed; will hardened. Seraphina repeated the sequence. The weights tugged at her like ghosts seeking purchase, but she fought gravity to a draw. A bead of crimson slipped from the cane cut on her arm. She ignored it.

Melisiandre circled, predatory. "Pain is ever a harsh instructor, but it can be like those weights, too. Sometimes one must ignore. Wisdom will teach you when. Remember that."

The young girl had to use a greater portion of her will to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the cringey cliché. This was another humiliation she would add to her list against her "teacher."

Her teacher tossed a practice blade—a solid length of hardened oak. Seraphina caught it awkwardly, palms stinging. With no countdown, no salutation, Melisiandre lunged the instant the hilt touched Seraphina's fingers.

Wood clashed. Melisiandre's style was a storm broken into steps: a low cut to draw a parry, wrist‑snap feint into an elbow, pivot‑heel sweep to topple a careless stance. Seraphina yielded ground in a broken retreat, training shoes skidding across the floorboards, until instinct snarled: Enough. She batted aside a thrust, twisted under Melisiandre's arm, and aimed a point‑blank strike for the ribs.

The master twisted like silk on the wind; Seraphina's blade found only air. A flying knee smashed against her sternum, controlled and with clinical precision, and the girl sprawled onto the hard wooden floor. Breath whooshed from her lungs; the ceiling reeled overhead, a vision that was growing steadily familiar.

Melisiandre placed the tip of her practice blade just above Seraphina's throat. "You commit too early. A perfect opportunity is a lie—it vanishes the moment you trust it." She offered a gloved hand. When Seraphina clasped it, Melisiandre hauled her up with surprising gentleness. "Again."

The word weighed more than the Adamantium shackling her limbs. Yet Seraphina straightened, drew a steady breath, and nodded. Resolve hardened behind emerald eyes—no mystical foresight, no prophetic certainty, only raw determination stoked to white heat.

Morning's light spilled through the high windows of the training hall, gilding master and resistant pupil alike. Melisiandre allowed herself a fleeting, private smile. The Bloody Tower would learn never again to attack another innocent student of the Academy. For even the foundation stones of the Tower could crack under enough hammer strikes, but tempered steel endures. Adamantium would endure. And this girl, she vowed, would shine brighter than the finest blade ever drawn from a furnace.

"The weights stay on," she said, stepping back and throwing her another practice weapon. "Second sequence. Begin."