CHAPTER 309: CHAPTER 309 - ONE OF THE ROMANCE HAREM MEMBERS?

Seria stumbled through the corridor, one hand pressed against the cold stone wall, the other clutching her bruised shoulder.

Every breath felt like swallowing glass. Her ribs screamed with each step, and the metallic taste of blood coated her tongue.

"That... fucking... cat bitch," she hissed between gasps, spitting a glob of red saliva onto the floor. It splattered against the pristine academy tiles like an insult.

Her vision swam. The wall became her lifeline as she dragged herself forward, legs shaking. That last kick—Yuna’s heel connecting with her face—kept replaying in her mind. The crowd’s roar. The impact. The humiliation of sliding down that barrier wall like discarded trash.

"I’ll wipe that smug look off her face," Seria muttered, spitting more blood. A strand of blonde hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. "Break every one of those stupid cat bones. Rip out that tail and make her—"

"Pfft~!"

Seria’s spine went rigid.

The laughter echoed down the corridor—light, feminine, and absolutely dripping with amusement. Not the friendly kind either. The sort of laugh that meant someone was enjoying your pain a little too much.

"It’s funny how Yuna seems to have done you dirty, Blockhead."

Seria’s jaw clenched hard enough to make her teeth grind. Her eyes snapped toward the voice, and pure rage flooded through her battered body like gasoline meeting a match.

"SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU BITCH!"

She pushed off the wall, swinging her fist in a wide arc that would’ve knocked out teeth if it connected. Her body moved on instinct, combat training overriding the pain screaming through her muscles.

But she never reached her target.

Two sets of hands grabbed her arms mid-swing, yanking them back with professional efficiency. Seria’s momentum carried her forward, but the guards—both women in academy security uniforms—held her fast. Her feet scraped against the floor, finding no purchase.

"Let me go!" Seria thrashed, but her body had nothing left. The guards might as well have been stone statues.

"Careful now," one of them said flatly. "You’re already on report for excessive force in training. Want to add assault to that?"

Seria’s eyes finally focused on the figure standing behind the guards.

She stood at a height of 5 feet 3 inches, her petite frame draped in the standard academy uniform that somehow looked more expensive on her. Silver eyes—sharp as broken glass and just as cutting—stared back with fox-like intensity.

They were slightly squinted, giving her a perpetually calculating expression that made people uncomfortable.

But what really drew attention was the cane.

Polished dark wood with silver inlays, gripped in one small hand. And below the hem of her skirt, the faint mechanical whir of her left leg—clearly prosthetic, the advanced kind that cost more than most students’ yearly tuition.

The woman tilted her head, those silver eyes gleaming with cold amusement.

"Are you a fool or something?" Her voice came out quiet but razor-sharp, each word precisely measured.

She took one step forward—the prosthetic leg moving with barely audible clicks—and studied Seria like a scientist examining a particularly stupid lab rat. "You know what? I kind of know the reason why you got defeated."

She chuckled, soft and cruel.

Seria’s face flushed red. "You paralyzed bitch! How dare you—"

"Oh, there it is." The woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. "The intellectual capacity of a concussed hamster. Truly, Seria, you make this too easy."

She moved closer, the tap of her cane against stone punctuating each word. Despite her small stature, she somehow managed to look down at Seria. "Your footwork is garbage. You telegraph every strike like you’re waving a flag. And that spinning hook kick?" She made a dismissive gesture. "A child could’ve dodged it. But please, do continue blaming Yuna for your own incompetence. I’m sure that’ll make you stronger."

Seria strained against the guards’ grip, veins bulging in her neck. "I’ll kill you, you crippled—"

The woman raised one hand, and from her sleeve, she produced a small envelope. Cream-colored paper, sealed with red wax. She held it delicately between two fingers, waving it slightly like a treat before a dog.

"What’s this?" Seria stopped struggling, confusion breaking through the rage. Her eyes locked onto the envelope.

"Nothing complicated." The woman’s smile widened, showing teeth. "Money. Simple as that."

She paused for effect, silver eyes glittering.

"For you to break Aelric’s leg."

The corridor went dead silent except for the soft whir of the prosthetic.

Seria’s mouth fell open. Then twitched. Then twisted into something between disbelief and disgust. "Again with that bastard’s name?" Her voice came out strained, almost hysterical. "And do you really think everyone’s as unlucky as you, bitch? That they’ll get permanent leg damage like your crippled ass?"

She yanked against the guards again, getting nowhere. "He’ll heal in no time! Potions exist! Not everyone ends up like you—a fucking cripple limping around with a stick!"

The woman didn’t even blink.

Years of hearing the same insults, the same taunts, the same creative variations on "cripple" had long since burned away any emotional response. Her expression remained perfectly calm, maybe even slightly bored.

She shrugged one shoulder, the gesture almost lazy. "It doesn’t matter." Her tone suggested she was discussing the weather. "At least for a few days, we’ll have matching canes."

The envelope tapped against her palm.

"And he’ll naturally be more interested in learning the ways of how a cripple walks." Her smile turned genuinely pleased now, like she’d just solved a particularly enjoyable puzzle. "After all, when you’re suddenly dependent on assistive devices, who better to learn from than someone with experience?"

The calculation behind it hit like a sledgehammer.

Break Aelric’s leg. While he’s injured and waiting for the expensive healing potions to be prepared—which would take two, maybe three days minimum—he’d be vulnerable. Dependent. And who would he turn to for advice on managing mobility issues?

The girl who’d been living with a prosthetic for years.

Two to three days of forced proximity. Of him needing her expertise. Of conversations that would never happen otherwise. Of building connection through shared—temporary—disability.

It was manipulative, calculating, borderline sociopathic, and absolutely brilliant in its twisted logic.

Seria stared, mouth working silently for a moment. Then she shook her head, blonde hair whipping around her bruised face. "You really think a guy like that will be interested in you?"

The words came out dripping with venom. "Forget your crippled body—I don’t even see you as a wom—"

The fist came out of nowhere.

CRACK

Seria’s head snapped back, the punch landing square in her solar plexus with enough force to drive all the air from her lungs.

Blood exploded from her mouth along with something white and hard—a molar, spinning through the air before clattering across the floor.

The guards released her arms and Seria collapsed, hitting her knees hard. She gagged, coughing up more blood, dry-heaving as her diaphragm spasmed.

The woman stood over her, cane planted firmly on the ground, her free hand still curled into a fist. Despite her small stature and disability, that punch had carried serious weight. Probably augmented with mana. Definitely augmented with years of pent-up rage at being underestimated.

"Now you know if I’m a woman or not."

Her voice remained eerily calm, conversational even, while Seria choked on blood at her feet.

She crouched down—the prosthetic leg bending with mechanical precision—until she was eye-level with Seria’s hunched form. Up close, her silver eyes looked even more predatory. Fox-sharp and absolutely merciless.

"The name’s Rururu," she said softly, almost intimately. "Remember it. Because unlike you, Blockhead, I actually think before I act."

She straightened up, brushing invisible dust from her uniform. The envelope appeared in her hand again, and she let it flutter down onto Seria’s back where it landed like a lead weight.

"The offer stands. Break his leg—left one preferably, easier access to the femur—and that envelope contains enough coin to make your worthless existence slightly less pathetic for a month." Rururu’s cane tapped once against the floor. "Or don’t. Continue being Yuna’s punching bag. I genuinely don’t care which you choose."

She turned to leave, prosthetic leg clicking with each step, cane providing counterbalance. The guards fell into step behind her, their boots echoing in the corridor.

"Oh, and Seria?" Rururu called back without turning around. "Next time you mention my leg, I’ll break both of yours. Then we can really compare notes on what being crippled feels like."

"Fufu~" The laugh that followed was light, almost cheerful, and somehow more disturbing than any threat.

’...bitch...’