Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

The world narrowed to the grassy field, the silent audience, and the man standing before him.

Sebastian held the wooden sword with a casual grace, his posture relaxed yet perfectly balanced. There were no openings.

'This is insane. What was I thinking?' Azrael's mind screamed. He tightened his grip on his own wooden sword, his knuckles white.

He took a breath and charged. It was a clumsy, straightforward rush, putting all his meager strength into a downward slash.

Whoosh.

The air stirred beside him. Sebastian hadn't moved from his spot. He had simply swayed his body to the side, and the sword had sliced through empty air.

"Your stance is too wide, my lord," Sebastian's calm voice stated. "You sacrifice speed for a power you do not possess."

Azrael gritted his teeth and spun around, swinging his sword horizontally.

Clang.

Sebastian's sword was there to meet his, the block effortless. With a simple twist of his wrist, the butler disarmed him.

The wooden sword flew from his grasp and clattered onto the grass several feet away.

'So fast. I didn't even see it.'

"Your grip is too tense," Sebastian continued, his tone like a patient instructor. "The sword should be an extension of your arm, not a club."

Azrael's face burned with humiliation. He retrieved his sword, his eyes fixed on Celestria. Her expression was one of bored amusement.

He charged again. This time he tried a feint, a move he'd seen in a drawing. He faked a high swing and then dropped low, aiming for Sebastian's legs.

The butler didn't even bother to block. He took a single, elegant step back, and Azrael's swing once again met nothing but air.

Before he could recover, the flat of Sebastian's blade tapped him sharply on the back of the neck.

Thwack.

A jolt of pain shot down his spine, and he stumbled to his knees.

"Predictable," Sebastian said, his voice holding no malice. "Your eyes give away your every intention. A true swordsman watches his opponent's core."

'He's toying with me,' Azrael realized, a bitter anger rising. 'He's not even treating this as a fight. It's a lesson.'

He pushed himself up, his body aching. He had to use his skill. He focused, trying to comprehend.

He watched Sebastian's stance, the way he breathed, the shifts in his weight. His mind, guided by 'Limitless Comprehension', started to work.

Sebastian's style was like flowing water. No wasted movements. Every block flowed into a parry, every parry into a strike.

'The Flowing Steel Style,' his mind supplied.

He saw the principles. Redirect force, don't meet it head-on. Let the opponent's momentum become their own downfall.

He understood the theory. But putting it into practice was another matter entirely.

He attacked again, trying to mimic the butler's fluid movements. He tried to flow.

It was a disaster. His imitation was a clumsy, broken version of the real thing.

Sebastian's sword became a blur. Clang. Thwack. Clang. He struck him three times—on the shoulder, the ribs, and the thigh—before stepping back.

The blows sent waves of agony through him. He fell to the ground, gasping, the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth.

Tssk. He heard a faint sound of disgust from where his sister sat.

That sound was fuel on a fire. He pushed himself up, his legs trembling. He would not let her see him broken.

"Better, my lord," Sebastian commented, a hint of surprise in his voice. "But understanding is not the same as mastery. Your body cannot keep up with your mind."

He was right. Azrael could see what he needed to do, but his weak, untrained body refused to obey.

He kept coming. Again and again, he charged. And again and again, he was struck down. The grass became stained with his sweat and blood.

Each time he fell, he learned. His skill absorbed every detail of Sebastian's movements.

He started to last longer. A ten-second exchange became twenty, then thirty. He was still being beaten, but he was forcing Sebastian to put more effort into his defense.

Elvara watched from the sidelines, her face a pale mask of horror and disbelief. This was not the weak, arrogant lord she knew.

'He keeps getting up,' she thought. 'Why does he keep getting up?'

During one exchange, Azrael was driven back. He was exhausted, his vision blurring. He stumbled and swung his sword wildly in a desperate, low sweep.

It was a novice's mistake, an attack that left him completely exposed.

Sebastian moved to parry. In that single, fleeting moment, Azrael saw it. His skill highlighted a flaw.

It wasn't a flaw in the style. It was a flaw in Sebastian's application against a worthless opponent. It was a tiny, microscopic opening.

Adrenaline surged through him. He ignored the butler's descending sword, forcing Sebastian to commit to the block.

Then, he dropped his sword.

He threw himself forward, under Sebastian's guard. He wasn't aiming to strike with a weapon. He was aiming to land a hit with his body.

For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Sebastian's face. He had not expected such a suicidal, desperate tactic.

But a master was still a master.

Faster than Azrael could process, Sebastian abandoned his parry. He reversed his grip and slammed the pommel of the sword into Azrael's stomach.

The impact was like being hit by a charging bull. The air exploded from his lungs. He was thrown backward, landing hard, the world fading to black.

He lay there, every inch of his body a symphony of pain. He had failed. He had seen the opening and still failed.

'It's over,' he thought, his consciousness slipping.

But then he heard his sister's voice, dripping with scorn. "Pathetic. I knew you couldn't do it."

That voice. That casual cruelty. It was the spark that ignited the last of his reserves. His mission. His family. His promise to change. It all came rushing back.

Drip. Something wet hit the grass beside his face. Blood from his split lip.

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

But his will was stronger.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up. First to his knees, then, swaying unsteadily, to his feet.

He stood there, bruised and bleeding. His body was broken, but his eyes, fixed on Sebastian, burned with an unyielding fire.

He was beaten, but he was not defeated.