The Academy's Terminally Ill Side Character
Chapter 146: Club Tour [2]

I should've turned around right then. Faked a stomach ache. Told them I had a deadly allergy to cringe.

But no.

I followed them anyway.

The Drama Club room was located in one of Velcrest's older halls—the kind with creaky floors, weird acoustics, and the lingering smell of ambition. Posters of past productions lined the hallway: Othello, Macbeth, Cats... but Only the Weird Parts.

We stepped inside.

It was like walking into an explosion of scarves.

Scarves on the walls. Scarves on the chairs. Scarves hanging from the ceiling for no reason. And in the middle of it all, a boy with too much eyeliner and the confident posture of someone who had never once been told "no."

"Ah!" he declared, spinning dramatically to face us. "New souls!"

He snapped his fingers.

Instantly, four other drama kids popped out from behind various props and curtains like overcaffeinated jack-in-the-boxes.

"Oh no," I muttered.

"Welcome," the eyeliner boy said, stepping forward. "I am Zephyrus, current lead of the Drama Club and future star of stage and screen. You may call me Z."

"I'd rather not," I said.

But he was already monologuing. "Today, dear guests, you arrive on a momentous occasion! For we are performing improv, the most sacred of theatrical rituals. And you… yes, you," he pointed directly at me, "shall be our inspiration."

"Please no."

Too late.

"Give me a word!" he demanded.

Kiera clapped. "Pickles!"

Ryen added, "Dragon!"

Leona muttered, "sword!"

Nora?

Silent.

Of course.

"Pickled dragon!" Zephyrus cried, eyes alight. "A tragedy in three acts!"

Before I could blink, he launched into a fake accent, flailing around the room like a medieval knight who'd been cursed by vinegar. The others joined in immediately—one of them pretending to be the jar, another shrieking something about "emotional brining."

Ryen was eating it up, grinning like a kid at a puppet show.

Kiera laughed so hard she almost dropped her notebook.

I stood there, arms crossed, watching the madness unfold like someone who'd accidentally walked onto the set of a cult documentary.

"This is happening," I whispered to myself.

Nora, beside me, finally spoke. "...Why is that one crying over a spoon?"

"Honestly? I don't know. I don't want to know."

Five exhausting minutes later, the scene ended with Zephyrus dramatically "dying" on a chaise lounge while reciting Hamlet backwards.

Everyone clapped.

Even Nora.

Just once.

Politely.

"Would you like to try?" Zephyrus asked, now crouched in front of me like a vulture with jazz hands. "You have the soul of someone deeply repressed. That's perfect for the stage!"

"I'm good," I said flatly. "I prefer to suffer silently."

"Oh," he said, disappointed but still grinning. "A classic stoic. We'll convert you yet."

I gave Ryen a death glare that said, If he tries to make me cry onstage, I'm setting the prop closet on fire.

Ryen just smiled.

As we left the room, I heard Zephyrus shouting after us, "Remember! The stage is always open! And so is our emotional vulnerability!"

I didn't turn around.

I had never power-walked faster in my life.

---

We visited a lot of clubs after that.

Most of them? Instant regret.

One room smelled like glue and despair. Another tried to recruit us with an interpretive dance about ancient rune stones. And I'm pretty sure one wasn't even a club at all—just two guys arguing over the best kind of bread.

So yeah.

There wasn't much to see.

We'd open the door, peek in, and leave before anyone could rope us into a "fun team-building exercise."

And just when I was about ready to fake a nosebleed and call it a day, we stumbled upon the one place Leona had been low-key dying to check out:

The Swordsmanship Club.

Or as the massive sign above the door proclaimed in shimmering gold paint:

"SWORD SOUL — Where Steel Meets Spirit!"

Subtle.

The moment we stepped inside, I knew this wasn't going to be like the other clubs.

Swords clashed midair with an echoing ring that made my teeth vibrate.

Two seniors were sparring at the center of a wide arena, surrounded by cheering students. The movements were fast, flashy, and just dramatic enough to make you wonder if they choreographed this in advance.

Sparks flew—literal sparks—as their blades collided, and a gust of wind swept through the room as one of them performed some kind of spinning technique that definitely violated the laws of physics.

I blinked.

Okay.

That was kind of cool.

Leona, predictably, was completely hooked. She didn't say anything, of course—her expression remained its usual blank-cool—but I could see the tiny sparkle in her eyes.

Yeah. She was impressed.

"As expected," she murmured, arms crossed, "even swordsmanship relies on talent. But this? Not bad."

Translation: She loved it.

Unlike the other clubs that just dumped a flyer in your hand and gave a sad little speech about community and passion, the Sword Soul club went all in. Live demonstration. Crowd energy. Cool uniforms. They were marketing like their lives depended on it.

Ryen was clapping.

Kiera looked overwhelmed.

And Nora?

…Unmoved. Just staring. Probably calculating how long it would take to disable someone with one of those swords.

"What's so good about swordsmanship that flashy anyway?" I mumbled.

But I had to admit, the showmanship worked. Especially on Leona.

Right then, one of the sparring seniors—tall, broad-shouldered, probably had a sword for a pillow—noticed us near the door and called out, "You four! Care to try a little duel?"

I stepped back so fast I nearly tripped.

"No thanks," I said. "My sword technique starts and ends with butter knives."

Ryen laughed. "You've gotta admit, it's kind of exciting."

Kiera looked tempted, but then whispered, "What if they accidentally cut off my bangs?"

Valid concern.

Leona, of course, stepped forward.

Not a word. No hesitation. Just walked up to the senior like she was ready to fight God himself.

She grabbed the offered practice sword and got into stance.

Ryen's eyes lit up. "Oh, this is going to be awesome."

And it was.

Leona didn't just hold her own—she dominated. Her footwork was smooth, her strikes precise, and her expression never changed once. The senior went easy at first, but after three clean hits, he started taking her seriously.

It ended with Leona disarming him and standing tall while everyone else in the room burst into applause.

She calmly handed the sword back.

"Good balance," she said.

That was it.

That was her whole review.

We left the Sword Soul club shortly after, and though no one said it out loud, I could tell we were all a little impressed.

Even me.

But still.

Sword club or not, flashy swords or not—

I wasn't joining anything.

Especially not a club that made you bleed for fun.