The Laziest God Mortal Reincarnation

( James Vellaroux’s POV )

The blade stopped less than an inch from my throat.

"Dead."

I looked at the sword.

Then at Father.

"I noticed."

Duke Vellaroux withdrew the blade.

"Again."

Good.

I tightened my grip.

My palms were raw enough that the leather wrapping on my sword felt unpleasant against them.

Sweat ran down my face.

My shirt clung to my back.

My legs were beginning to feel heavier than they should.

We had been fighting for almost two hours.

Father barely looked tired.

I hated that.

Not him.

The fact.

I stepped back into position.

Left foot forward.

Sword lowered.

Weight balanced.

Father didn’t move.

Instead, he lowered his weapon.

"Enough."

I frowned.

"You said again."

"I changed my mind."

"You never change your mind during training."

"I do when continuing becomes useless."

That was worse than losing.

"Again."

"No."

"Father."

"Your left leg is slowing."

"I can continue."

"Your spatial transitions have become uneven."

"I can continue."

"Your reaction time has dropped."

"I can..."

"James."

I stopped.

Father’s voice hadn’t gotten louder.

It never needed to.

Duke Vellaroux was the sort of man who could make a room go silent by speaking more quietly.

I lowered my sword.

He approached.

His eyes moved over me.

Legs.

Shoulders.

Grip.

Breathing.

Evaluating.

Always evaluating.

Then he nodded.

"Better."

One word.

That was all.

From anyone else, it wouldn’t have meant much.

From Father...

I straightened slightly.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

"Don’t become pleased with yourself."

There it was.

"I wasn’t."

"You were."

Barely.

"Tomorrow you enter Zenith with four other SSS potentials."

"I know."

"Your Potential will impress no one who matters there."

"I know."

"Your Title will impress even fewer."

"I know."

"Good."

He turned toward the weapon rack.

I followed.

Every step reminded me that my body had reached its limit before my mind had.

Annoying.

Strength meant nothing if I couldn’t keep using it.

Speed meant nothing when exhaustion destroyed precision.

My constitutions gave me advantages.

They did not excuse mistakes.

Father had spent years ensuring I understood that distinction.

"Have you studied the Academy’s new structure?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Opinion?"

"Annoying."

He glanced at me.

I sighed.

"Effective."

"Why?"

"Because I can’t compensate for thirty-six useless classmates by winning everything myself."

Father placed his sword into the rack.

"Continue."

I knew what that meant.

Wrong answer.

Or at least badly phrased.

"The class average matters. Missions are scored collectively. Some competitions remove or restrict the SSS leader."

"And?"

"I’ll have to know who is good at what."

"Everyone is useful for something."

"Not always."

Father looked at me.

I looked back.

He waited.

I hated when he did that.

"...Everyone should become useful for something."

"Better."

I placed my sword beside his.

A servant approached with water.

Father took one glass.

I took another and emptied most of it immediately.

"Your greatest problem at Zenith will not be strength," Father said.

I lowered the glass.

"What will it be?"

"Impatience."

I frowned.

"I am not impatient."

His eyes shifted toward the far side of the training hall.

I followed his gaze.

A section of the floor had been destroyed.

Six deep cuts crossed the stone.

All mine.

I’d attempted the same spatial entry six times because the first few hadn’t worked properly.

"...I’m not excessively impatient."

"James."

"Fine."

The corner of Father’s mouth moved.

Barely.

I chose to count it as a smile.

"You see an obstacle," he said, "and your first instinct is to cut through it."

"Usually works."

"Usually."

I disliked the way he emphasized that word.

Father sat on one of the benches.

I remained standing.

"People aren’t obstacles."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I looked at him.

That sounded unnecessarily insulting.

He continued before I could answer.

"You will be responsible for students weaker than you."

"Obviously."

"Some considerably weaker."

"I know."

"You cannot shout at them until they become stronger."

"I don’t shout."

"You glare."

"I don’t..."

Father looked at me.

I stopped.

Fine.

Apparently I glared.

Unfortunate.

"I’ll manage."

"I expect you to."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"You think managing people means telling them what needs to be done and expecting them to do it."

"That generally works."

"With soldiers."

"Zenith is training us for combat."

"Zenith is training you to lead."

"Same difference."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

I frowned.

Father rested his arms against his knees.

"A soldier has already accepted the command structure before you meet him. Your classmates have not."

I said nothing.

"Some will dislike you."

"I don’t care."

"I know."

"Then why mention it?"

"Because they may still be useful."

Fair.

"Some will disagree with you."

"Then they can explain why."

"And if they’re correct?"

"I’ll change the plan."

Father studied me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That look means something."

"You may be less hopeless than I feared."

I stared at him.

"Thank you."

"You’re welcome."

I wasn’t sure that had been a compliment.

Probably not.

Father stood.

"You have another weakness."

"I have several, apparently."

"One in particular."

"What?"

"The princess."

My expression tightened before I could stop it.

Father noticed.

Again.

He noticed everything when he wanted to.

"What about Elizabeth?"

"Exactly."

I frowned.

"Exactly what?"

"That."

"That isn’t an answer."

"Your reaction."

"I didn’t react."

"You did."

"What reaction?"

Father accepted another glass of water from the servant.

"The one that tells me anything involving Princess Elizabeth becomes personal before it becomes rational."

I looked away.

Ridiculous.

Mostly.

"We’re engaged."

"Yes."

"We’ve trained together for five years."

"Yes."

"Of course I care what happens to her."

"Care was not the concern."

I looked back at him.

There were conversations with Father where I felt like a trained swordsman.

There were others where I suddenly remembered I was fifteen.

This was becoming the second kind.

"Elizabeth is extraordinarily intelligent," he said.

"I know."

"Politically talented."

"I know."

"Ambitious."

"Obviously."

"Manipulative."

I remained silent.

Father’s eyes sharpened.

"That wasn’t a question."

"I know."

"Good."

I disliked this conversation.

He knew that.

Which meant it would continue.

"She doesn’t manipulate me."

Father raised one eyebrow.

I immediately regretted saying it.

Some statements became weaker the moment you felt the need to say them.

That had been one.

Father didn’t laugh.

Somehow that made it worse.

"James."

I crossed my arms.

"She doesn’t."

"Does she ask you to do things?"

"Everyone asks people to do things."

"Do you usually agree?"

"When they’re reasonable."

"Who decides whether they’re reasonable?"

"I do."

Father remained silent.

I hated silence.

Elizabeth used silence too.

That realization was deeply unhelpful.

"She doesn’t control me."

"I didn’t say she did."

"But you’re thinking it."

"No."

I stared at him.

His mouth moved slightly.

I narrowed my eyes.

"You’re enjoying this."

"A little."

"What I’m thinking," Father continued, "is that you are extraordinarily capable until someone you care about is involved."

I said nothing.

"Then you stop asking whether something is wise and begin asking whether you are strong enough to do it anyway."

That was...

Less wrong than I wanted.

"Elizabeth has never asked me to do anything dangerous."

"Not yet."

"Father."

"I like the girl."

That stopped me.

"You do?"

"Why is that surprising?"

"You rarely like anyone."

"I like plenty of people."

I stared at him.

He ignored that.

"I also respect her."

That was even more surprising.

"But liking someone doesn’t require pretending they possess no flaws."

I looked toward the training floor.

Elizabeth manipulated people.

Obviously.

Anyone who knew her for more than a week and still hadn’t realized that was probably incapable of understanding basic social interaction.

She changed conversations without people noticing.

Asked questions in ways that made certain answers easier.

Remembered everything anyone told her.

Knew which nobles disliked each other.

Which wanted titles.

Which wanted money.

Which wanted invitations.

Which wanted the Queen to remember their names.

She had once convinced three noble families to fund a charity project none of them had wanted to support.

She hadn’t threatened them.

Hadn’t bribed them.

Hadn’t even directly asked two of them.

She changed the seating arrangement at dinner.

Three days later, all three families donated.

I still didn’t completely understand how she’d done it.

I knew what Elizabeth was.

Mostly.

But there was a difference between Elizabeth manipulating court nobles...

And Elizabeth talking to me.

Wasn’t there?

My thumb moved against the side of my index finger.

Father’s eyes immediately dropped.

I stopped.

Damn it.

"I know her," I said.

Father nodded.

"I hope you do."

That irritated me.

Because it sounded like neither agreement nor disagreement.

Just warning.

"I know when she’s trying to make me do something."

"Do you?"

"Usually."

"Usually."

"Don’t say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I’m an idiot."

"I don’t believe you’re an idiot."

"Good."

"I believe you’re fifteen."

That was worse.

I stared at him.

He stood.

"Come."

"Where?"

"Your mother wants to see you before dinner."

I groaned.

Father looked back.

"She has apparently packed additional formal clothing."

"I already have six sets."

"I know."

"Why does anyone need more than six?"

"You are asking the wrong parent."

Fair.

We left the training hall.

Tomorrow.

Zenith Academy.

I had thought about it constantly since the announcement.

Not because I was nervous.

I wasn’t.

Not about the classes.

Competition was simple.

Win.

Find what went wrong.

Improve.

Win again.

People made competition complicated because they attached feelings to losing.

I preferred treating defeat as information.

Unpleasant information.

But information.

The problem with Zenith was everything surrounding the competition.

For five years, people had described me using the same phrases.

Duke Vellaroux’s second son.

Princess Elizabeth’s fiancé.

One of the five SSS prodigies.

Always attached to someone.

Or something.

My older brother would inherit House Vellaroux.

That had been decided long before my Awakening.

I had never hated him for it.

It wasn’t his fault he had been born first.

I wasn’t interested in fighting my brother for something that already belonged to him.

Then I awakened SSS Potential.

For several days, everyone finally talked about me.

James Vellaroux.

Radiant Spatial Blade Master.

SSS.

Then my engagement to Elizabeth was announced.

And somehow my name became attached again.

The princess’s fiancé.

I had never objected to the engagement.

I still didn’t.

Elizabeth was...

Elizabeth.

Difficult.

Annoying.

Too observant.

Too pleased whenever she knew something I didn’t.

Terrible at allowing other people to have the final word.

And one of the few people I could spend hours around without wanting to leave.

But sometimes...

I wanted something that belonged only to me.

No Father.

No brother.

No Elizabeth.

No House Vellaroux.

Something that existed because I had earned it.

Zenith might finally give me that.

My class.

My decisions.

My victories.

My mistakes.

My failures.

Mine.

That thought stayed with me through dinner.

It followed me upstairs.

And later that night, it brought me onto the balcony outside my room.

The Vellaroux estate stretched beneath me.

Training grounds.

Gardens.

Walls.

Everything familiar.

Tomorrow I would leave it behind.

A thin folder rested in my hand.

Four portraits.

Elizabeth Aurelius.

Sophie Trohan.

Daphne Spinster.

Alash Vortex.

I skipped Elizabeth’s page.

There was nothing in a report that could teach me more about Elizabeth than five years beside her already had.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true.

She could probably still surprise me.

Frequently.

Usually when inconvenient.

I turned to Sophie.

Sophie Trohan.

Froststorm Valkyrie.

Ice.

Lightning.

Agility.

Perception.

I stared at the portrait.

She didn’t look particularly threatening.

That meant nothing.

Her recorded speed during several training exercises was absurd.

Lightning for acceleration.

Ice for terrain control.

Good Perception.

She would be difficult to corner.

Annoying opponent.

I could deal with speed.

Space was useful for that.

If she couldn’t predict where my blade would appear, moving quickly only delayed the problem.

Probably.

I’d need to see her fight first.

I turned the page.

Daphne Spinster.

Blood.

Gravity.

I frowned immediately.

Gravity mages were irritating.

They changed distance without actually changing distance.

Made your body heavier.

Destroyed footwork.

Pulled weapons off-line.

Ruined jumps.

Ruined charges.

Ruined everything enjoyable about moving normally.

I’d trained against two.

I disliked both experiences.

Blood magic was rarer.

That made it worse.

Her Magic Constitution would increase the pressure she could generate.

Willpower meant controlling her probably wouldn’t be simple either.

Good.

Another problem worth solving.

Then came the final portrait.

Alash Vortex.

I stared at it.

Silver hair.

Blue eyes.

An expression that looked like whoever took the portrait had interrupted him during a nap.

"Aegis Healer."

I said the title quietly.

Healing.

Barrier.

Support.

Strange.

Most SSS Titles sounded like something designed to make armies reconsider their life choices.

Elemental Sovereign.

Froststorm Valkyrie.

Crimson Gravity Reaver.

Radiant Spatial Blade Master.

Then there was...

Aegis Healer.

It sounded almost harmless.

Which was probably stupid.

I read further.

Three Special Constitutions.

Stamina.

Intelligence.

Willpower.

Three.

Absurd.

Then the history.

Years near the beastkin border.

Not as a military student.

As a healer.

Apparently a very skilled one.

Then the kidnapping.

Beastkin territory.

Return.

More border work.

And recently...

An infirmary.

I frowned.

He had spent months working in a civilian infirmary.

There were notes from physicians.

Positive ones.

Several very positive.

Then...

Frequently carries a silver pillow.

I stared.

Turned the page.

Then turned back.

It appeared twice.

Someone had considered that important enough to confirm independently.

Why?

Was it an artifact?

The report mentioned nothing.

Maybe he was simply strange.

Elizabeth would hate that explanation.

She hated explanations that didn’t explain anything.

I looked at Alash again.

"You awakened SSS and decided to become a healer?"

I didn’t understand it.

Potential like ours came with responsibility.

Whether we asked for it or not.

Strength at that level could change battlefields.

Protect territory.

Kill monsters.

Stop enemies before they reached civilians.

Why spend years treating wounded soldiers instead of becoming strong enough to prevent those wounds?

I stopped.

Then frowned.

That sounded arrogant.

Father would say so.

Probably without saying it directly.

He would just stare at me until I became annoyed enough to reach the conclusion myself.

I hated that habit.

My eyes returned to the title.

Aegis.

Shield.

Healer.

Protection before destruction.

Maybe I was looking at it backward.

A sword protected people by killing what threatened them.

A shield protected them by making sure the attack never reached them.

A healer protected them afterward.

Different method.

Same result.

Mostly.

I could understand that.

A little.

Still didn’t explain the pillow.

I closed the folder.

It didn’t matter.

Reports were reports.

Tomorrow we’d meet.

If Alash Vortex was weak, Zenith would expose him.

If he wasn’t...

Good.

I wanted strong opponents.

There was nothing interesting about beating someone who couldn’t push back.

My thoughts returned to Elizabeth.

Especially Elizabeth.

I wanted to beat her.

That probably sounded strange considering we were engaged.

It wasn’t.

Elizabeth wanted to beat me too.

That was one thing between us I never had to question.

If we were placed across a battlefield tomorrow, she would absolutely try to bury me beneath four Attributes while smiling.

Good.

I would cut through them.

Probably.

I leaned against the balcony railing.

Tomorrow the five of us would finally enter the same Academy.

For years, nobles had compared us without any of us standing in the same room.

Who possessed the strongest Title?

Who had the best constitutions?

Whose Core would grow fastest?

Who would become strongest?

Who had the greatest future?

Everyone had an opinion.

Most based on nothing.

Soon there would be answers.

Not immediately.

Potential wasn’t strength.

Father had repeated that enough times that I heard it whenever anyone called me a prodigy.

But eventually?

We would know.

I smiled.

Finally.

A knock came from behind me.

"Young Master?"

"What?"

"Her Grace says you should sleep."

I looked toward the training field.

Then toward the sword resting beside my bed.

One more hour.

Nothing excessive.

Footwork.

Spatial transitions.

Maybe twenty repetitions.

Thirty.

"Tell her I’m already asleep."

Silence.

"...Young Master."

"What?"

"Her Grace specifically told me you might say that."

I closed my eyes.

Of course she had.

"What else?"

The servant hesitated.

"She said if you are still training, she will tell Princess Elizabeth."

My eyes opened.

That was low.

Extremely low.

I looked toward the sword.

Then toward the bed.

My mother had weaponized my fiancée.

Unacceptable.

Effective.

But unacceptable.

"Fine."

I stepped inside.

The servant wisely said nothing.

I closed the balcony doors.

Tomorrow, training would begin again anyway.

Not Father’s training.

Not something prepared because I was Duke Vellaroux’s son.

Not something I did because Elizabeth was beside me.

Mine.

My class.

My responsibility.

My decisions.

For the first time, I would stand somewhere without being measured against my brother or introduced through my engagement.

I would be a class leader.

James Vellaroux.

Radiant Spatial Blade Master.

That was enough.

And if Elizabeth, Sophie, Daphne, or the strange healer with the pillow wanted first place...

I smiled.

They could try to take it from me.