Chapter 218: Reminder of Talent (6)

Chapter 218: Reminder of Talent (6)


Griselda’s sharp eyes, empowered by her unique skill, could see what ordinary vision could not.


Her gaze pierced through skin and cloth, sinking into the very fibers of Ashok’s muscles.


And what she saw confirmed one thing—he was no exception.


His muscles, just like every other student’s, bore the marks of fatigue. Microscopic tears ran through the fibers, his breathing had quickened subtly, and the beat of his heart pulsed with a rhythm far more strained than his outward calm suggested.


The tension, the stress—it was all there beneath the surface, clear as day to her specialized sight.


He was tired.


His muscles were frayed with exertion, his stamina clearly draining with each passing lap.


His heart, lungs, and core showed every sign of a student who had been running nonstop.


And yet—


And yet, if she turned off that penetrating gaze and looked at him with nothing more than her normal sight, it was as if she were looking at a different person entirely.


The contrast was uncanny.


Ashok’s expression bore no trace of exhaustion.


His body remained composed, posture firm, breathing even and calm. His arms and legs moved with practiced control, showing no tremble, no jerk of unsteadiness.


His skin wasn’t flushed, his lips weren’t dry, and his eyes sharp and unfaltering held not even the faintest shadow of strain.


It was unnatural.


No redness. No signs of faltering steps. Normal rhythm, maintained perfectly even under conditions that had others dragging their limbs like broken puppets.


Griselda narrowed her eyes slightly.


This wasn’t just unusual.


This was the first time she had encountered a phenomenon like this in all her years of teaching, and even in her brutal years on the battlefield.


She had watched warriors with their arms half-severed scream through the pain and keep fighting.


She had seen men with cracked ribs and punctured lungs force themselves to stand with defiance with a smile on their faces.


But even those rare warriors—the ones who refused to fall—could not completely hide their suffering.


Because the body always betrays.


No matter how strong one’s will, no matter how hardened one’s resolve, when the inside of the body was breaking down, the outside always showed it.


Whether through a tremble in the fingertips, a twitch in the jaw, or the uncontrolled flicker of the eyelids—pain and fatigue always leaked out.


Because even pretense had its limits.


But this boy—Adlet—defied that truth.


Completely.


He wasn’t pretending.


And that was made this situation completely impossible.


And that impossibility gnawed at Griselda’s mind like a splinter she couldn’t pull free.


It was absurd.


Not because the body was strong, but because it refused to look weak.


The inside and outside danced to entirely different tunes.


A contradiction standing right in front of her eyes.


Griselda’s narrowed gaze lingered on him, her lips pressed in a thin line.


Ashok’s overwhelming charisma cloaked him like an enchanted mantle—effortless, unshakable. It made him seem perfectly composed, even under circumstances that would reduce most students to crawling husks.


And now, it was confusing even her, a woman whose very expertise was reading the body, not just in form but in truth.


That fact gnawed at her more than she was willing to admit.


And yet Ashok himself had no inkling of the effect he was having.


He was too focused on his own race, too immersed in the fire steadily building in his limbs to spare a thought for what was churning in the mind of the instructor standing on the center on the field like a statue.


With his arms swinging in quiet repetition, he pressed forward into the seventeenth lap.


Just four more. Four more laps. I can do it’, he thought, repeating the mantra like a sacred vow.


The thought of collapsing, of surrendering to exhaustion and waking up later in the infirmary after Robert’s stick had done its work—that was a path he outright rejected.


He’d already run sixteen laps.


Sixteen!


He would not throw it all away by falling now, not after enduring so much.


More than that—there was pride.


Ashok had no desire to prove anything to the others, nor did he care for their opinions. Whether they saw him as arrogant, rude, or detestable didn’t matter. He viewed them no differently than one would view a pack of hounds barking from behind a fence.


But he did care about the image that he had somewhat established.


He didn’t need them to like him, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter or being beaten by Robert.


Because he knew if he showed weakness once—those eyes that now burned with quiet envy and fear would change. They would see blood.


And like dogs who catch the scent of it, they’d pounce.


There was a moment—brief, quiet, almost tempting—when the thought of cheating slithered into Ashok’s mind.


A whisper in the heat and exhaustion, nudging him toward an easier path. After all, he had the way to simply win. The Sole Survivor Trait.


With a simple thought, he could temporarily raise his Endurance to D-rank. His stamina would surge, his breathing would stabilize, and he could leave behind every single gasping student like they were standing still.


First place would be his in a matter of minutes.


He could already imagine it—sprinting past them, watching their tired faces twist in confusion, disbelief. It would’ve been satisfying, deeply so.


And yet... he didn’t do it.


Because one truth stood in his way: Growth.


If he relied on his Trait now, if he tapped into that well of power for something as petty as ranking first in this one-time endurance trial, it would sabotage his own long-term potential.


And to Ashok, that was a far greater loss than coming second or even last.


First place or Growth.


It wasn’t a difficult decision, not really.


The choice was obvious. He’d suffer now, to rise stronger later.


Thirty minutes later,


Ashok had just completed his nineteenth lap and was stepping into the final stretch—the last lap.


And to his own quiet amusement, he wasn’t just running.


He was winning.


Varnok had been long lost behind by the end of seventeenth lap. Mira and Elara— Ashok had also surpassed them during the eighteenth lap.


Unlike Mira who only acted surprised, The look on Elara’s face when Adlet surpassed her?


Priceless.


Ashok didn’t knew if it was real or not but For a moment—just a fleeting one—the fatigue that gripped his limbs loosened, and his steps felt lighter.


He would never admit it aloud, but watching that shocked scowl on her face as he calmly jogged past was more refreshing than a barrel of cold water. That moment alone was worth the suffering.


The expression on Elara’s face was nothing short of exquisite—like he had just thrown shit on her face and asked her to chew it down.


The royal haughtiness that usually clung to her features like a second skin had peeled away, leaving behind a mix of disbelief, outrage, and barely contained fury.


Ashok could almost hear her inner monologue screaming in indignation as she tried to summon every single ounce of strength to take over his position.


She gave it a valiant effort.


Truly, she did.


But the Tricelium bracers strapped to her arms had other plans.


Every attempt to quicken her pace only made her movement more pitiful.


Her arms swung limply at her sides, unable to resist the pull of the heavy metal, flailing like the broken limbs of a marionette whose strings had been severed mid-performance.


Her breathing had devolved into desperate, ragged gasps—less like a noble warrior of high birth and more like a boar rooting for truffles in the heat of summer.


Ashok being Ashok didn’t forget to make use of the opportunity when it came to winning mental warfare, he glanced sideways and offered her the kind of smirk that could curdle milk.


It was slow, deliberate, and smug enough to make even a saint consider murder.


The effect was immediate. Elara’s eyes flared wide, her teeth clenched, and she jerked forward with a sudden burst of speed—only to misstep, wobble, and very nearly go face-first into the dirt.


For a split second, Ashok’s heart danced in anticipation.


’Come on... fall... just fall once.’


But alas, the princess somehow regained her footing, flailing for balance and correcting herself.


He sighed, a tad theatrically. ’A shame’,


’Even in the game I never got to see her get whacked by Robert’s stick. I was really hoping this world would deliver that missed opportunity.’


His attention shifted briefly to Gideon, who had clearly been watching the exchange with great interest.


The fool, ever unapologetic in his admiration for chaos, shot Ashok yet another enthusiastic thumbs-up.


The gesture was so cheerful, so out-of-place amidst the grueling run, that it bordered on absurd not to mention it took place right before Elara.


’This fool’s thumb is going to be lopped off one of these days’, Ashok thought dryly, eyeing Elara’s razor-sharp glare that was now split evenly between him and Gideon.


’That idiot keeps throwing those thumbs around like we’re some sort of conspirators... she’ll start thinking we’re accomplices soon.’


Ashok’s gaze lingered on Gideon a moment longer, his thoughts growing quieter. ’In the game, this guy never died because of his own mistakes’, he recalled.


Gideon was a rival, sure—but not an enemy not to mention he was the only character who never walked the path of a villain no matter how many times Ashok played.


Gideon’s death in the game depended on which main character he partied or allied up with and since every single Main Character were too blinded by their own ideals... too selfish to pull him out of the fire.


Ashok looked ahead, his eyes narrowing slightly.


’I wonder... will it be any different this time?’