Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

Kaelen Valerius did not wait. He exploded into motion, his body a golden blur against the white sand of the arena floor.

"I'm going to make you regret ever being born, Ashveil!" he bellowed, his voice laced with a fury that was both righteous and personal.

"Every insult, every sneer, you'll pay for it all today!"

He closed the distance in a heartbeat. The academy-issued longsword in his hand seemed to sing, cutting through the air with a vicious whoosh.

It was a simple, overwhelmingly powerful downward slash. It was the beginning of the end.

Azrael's mind screamed. His two weeks of training, his desperate gamble on a new skill, felt like a child's sandcastle against a tidal wave.

His body moved on instinct, the newly acquired knowledge of 'Stalling Edge' forcing his arms up into a defensive block.

CLANG!

The impact was like being struck by a charging bull. A shockwave of force traveled down the blade, through his arms, and into his very bones.

His feet slid back, carving two deep grooves in the sand. The strength difference was absolute.

'So heavy!' he thought, his teeth gritted against the violent vibration in his hands.

Kaelen didn't give him a moment to recover. He flowed into his next attack, a relentless storm of steel.

"Is this all you've got?" Kaelen taunted, his blue eyes blazing. "Hiding behind your sword just like you hide behind your family name! Pathetic!"

Azrael was completely on the defensive. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, tossed about by forces far beyond his control.

All he could do was try to survive.

He channeled his meager Aether into his blade, trying to manifest the techniques of Stalling Edge. A faint, shimmering barrier of light formed over his sword.

The barrier shattered instantly, but it absorbed a fraction of the impact. It was working. Barely.

He used the skill's footwork, a series of quick, evasive steps designed to create space. He managed to put a few feet between them, but Kaelen was on him again in an instant.

The crowd was roaring. They were seeing exactly what they expected: the hero dominating the villain.

But as the first minute bled into the second, and then the third, a subtle shift occurred. Azrael was still losing, but he wasn't breaking.

His defense was ugly and desperate, but it was holding. He was using Stalling Edge to its fullest, weaving his blade in patterns meant simply to endure.

He was a cornered rat, using every dirty trick he could to survive.

Then, Kaelen's skill began to awaken. A faint, golden aura started to shimmer around the hero's body.

The impacts became heavier. The speed of the attacks increased. Battleborn Will was activating.

The fight transformed from a one-sided beating into an impending execution.

Kaelen's smile was gone, replaced by a look of grim determination. He was trying to end it.

A powerful kick slammed into Azrael's stomach, bypassing his sword defense. The air exploded from his lungs.

Before he could recover, Kaelen was there. The hero's sword came down in a brutal, punishing arc.

The blow smashed through his guard, and the flat of the blade slammed into his side with the force of a battering ram.

Crack. He felt his ribs give way.

A spray of blood erupted from his mouth. He was thrown sideways, tumbling through the sand like a broken doll.

He came to a stop in a heap, his body a symphony of agony. He could hear Kaelen's heavy footsteps approaching.

'It's over,' he thought, his consciousness fading. 'I failed.'

He thought of his family. Not the cold, ambitious Ashveils, but his real family. His sick mother. His bright, hopeful sister, Hana.

If he lost here, if he gave up, he would die by the hero's hand, and his family would be lost to him forever.

Their suffering would continue, and it would be his fault. That thought was more painful than any broken bone.

Drip. Blood from his split lip hit the sand.

No. He would not fail.

With a groan torn from the depths of his soul, he pushed his hands against the ground. His arms shook violently.

His muscles screamed. But his will was a raging inferno.

He pushed himself up. First to his knees, then, swaying unsteadily, to his feet.

He stood there, bruised and bleeding, one hand clutching his shattered ribs. His body was broken, but his eyes burned with an unyielding fire.

High above the arena, in a private balcony, Headmaster Theron leaned forward.

"That boy," he said to the professor beside him. "His Aether is dormant, his technique is crude, and his body is at its limit. Yet he stands. His will is remarkable."

He turned to the other man. "Who is he?"

The professor adjusted his spectacles. "That is Azrael Ashveil, Headmaster. From the House of Ashveil."

Theron's eyebrows rose. "Ashveil? So he's the brother of that psycho, Celestria," he mused. "How very interesting."

In the stands, Elvara stood, her hands clasped tightly. She watched as Azrael got to his feet, a bloody, defiant figure.

A storm of emotions raged within her. She saw the boy who had been her tormentor.

But she also saw the man who had given her a bag of gold, who had looked her in the eye and told her to be free.

Her heart was torn. She didn't know if she should cheer for his defeat or pray for his survival.

In another, more opulent private box, a young woman watched the scene with cold, calculating eyes.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, with hair the color of spun platinum and eyes as cold and sharp as chips of ice.

A cunning, delicate smile played on her lips. Princess Isolde Valerius watched Azrael's display of defiance not with admiration, but with assessment.

She saw not a man, but a potential asset.

'He has the will of a rabid dog,' she thought, her smile widening. 'He's weak, but that can be fixed. I wonder… is he strong enough to be my next pawn?'