The Oddballs Gather (2)
The preliminary exam consisted of three distinct evaluations. Scores were assigned to each category, and the total determined whether an applicant passed or failed. Physical ability assessment. Magic power assessment. Knowledge assessment.
Most of the applicants brimmed with confidence in the physical test while openly dreading the knowledge portion.
“Haha! No one back home could match my strength!”
“I’ve been an adventurer for years. You think I’d lose to a bunch of rookies?”
“Physical and magic power are one thing, but why the hell do we need knowledge?”
“Damn it, isn’t swinging a sword well enough?”
Reactions to the magic power test varied. Some remained indifferent because they had no idea what it actually involved, while others tried to hide their pounding hearts filled with tension and anticipation.
I’ve heard about this before. They say magic power is fifty percent talent. Maybe I’ve got some hidden power too!
What if I get an insanely high score? Maybe the big shots will come looking for me.
Yeah, I could pretty much guess what they were thinking. That kind of hopeful delusion seemed to be the same whether it came from fresh-faced kids or bearded men who had barely squeaked past the age cutoff. After all, age doesn’t stop anyone from buying lottery tickets. If anything, the older you get, the stronger the dream of a single dramatic reversal becomes.
And it didn’t take long for those vague expectations and overconfidence to be brutally shattered.
The three categories—physical, magic power, and knowledge. A maximum of thirty points, but you only needed ten or more to pass. Yet the vast majority of the thousands of applicants who had strutted into the preliminary exam soon found themselves staring at the miserable report cards that sealed their fate.
“Number 271. Hans. Physical ability: 3. Magic power ability: 2. Knowledge ability: 1. Total: 6 points. Failed.”
“W-wait a second! Didn’t you say it was out of ten?! That’s way too harsh!”
“As previously explained, failure to comply with control measures during the exam will result in immediate disqualification. Please keep this in mind.”
“Ugh…”
The red-haired young man, face flushed as he tried to argue with the examiner, retreated with a bitter expression. No one mocked him for getting scared. And even if someone thought it, there wasn’t a single idiot brave enough to say it out loud.
Clank.Thud.
Every time the control officers—silver full-plate armor gleaming, imperial soldiers if we’re being honest—took a single step, the heavy weight of their presence pressed down on everyone. Their eyes, visible through the visors that covered their faces, shone with a piercing light. With squads of them patrolling every corner of the testing ground, who in their right mind would throw a tantrum and declare the exam invalid?
The situation was largely the same for the other applicants. Many young men who had boasted about being the strongest in their hometowns averaged only three to four points in physical ability. Those who broke five were rare, and anyone scoring six or higher could be counted on two hands.
The average for magic power assessment was three points. That category at least produced occasional sixes and sevens, so among the upper ranks, far more people earned decent scores than in the physical test.
And the knowledge evaluation? It was a complete disaster.
“Excuse me, how do you read this character?”
“…One point.”
“W-wait! I was just kidding! I’ll try for real!”
“This is not multiple choice. It is a short-answer question. You cannot guess.”
“…Um, what’s a short-answer question?”
“Guards! Remove this applicant!”
In short, it was brutal. More than half couldn’t even read the text. Of those who could read, half again couldn’t understand what they were reading. The situation was somewhat better for those from wealthy families or noble backgrounds, but even they couldn’t breeze through the problems.
Question 1: Five suspects are being interrogated at a murder scene. If four of them are telling only the truth, who is the one lying?
Question 2: Observe the diagram below and select the symbol that belongs in the empty space.
Because most of the questions didn’t test professional knowledge or social common sense. They demanded comprehension and judgment from the applicants.
Over half the examinees received one point. The average was two.
Watching so many people fail to cross the wall of ten points and collapse in despair, I thought to myself:
As expected, the Template candidates really are cheats. In the game, even without any prior preparation, first-year players could casually clear the preliminary exam just by charging in. Yet here in reality…
Of course, anyone who actually tried that would get their soul shredded in the main rounds later. Still, it proved just how exceptional the protagonists’ talents truly were.
Even the original Greedy Prodigal, who was always called mediocre in both physical ability and magic power, could easily hit a total of twelve. The Nameless War Demon usually secured fourteen or more even after bombing the knowledge section.
So what about us, after two full years of thorough preparation?
“Number 277. Chrome Midas. Physical ability: 6. Magic power ability: 5. Knowledge ability: 7. Total: 18 points. Passed.”
The examiner’s announcement triggered a wave of murmurs throughout the hall. The highest score so far. The fact that the person in question was a member of the infamous Midas family drew one round of shock. The second round came from the realization that this skinny kid who didn’t even look twenty yet had matched the physical ability scores of the burly, muscle-bound men around him.
From my perspective, though, it was only natural. Just consider how much money I had poured into my diet to strengthen this frail body, or how many top-grade medicinal herbs I had consumed—herbs so expensive they wouldn’t even acknowledge silver coins and required gold before the merchants would treat you like a real customer. Add in the consistent physical training I’d squeezed into my schedule, and six points actually felt a little disappointing.
It was all that damn father’s fault. He couldn’t even give his growing child a proper bed to sleep in, yet he worked me without mercy.
The commotion didn’t stop with me.
“Number 278. Ligret. Physical ability: 9. Magic power ability: 7. Knowledge ability: 5. Total: 21 points. Passed.”
“Number 279. Fiore Midas. Physical ability: 2. Magic power ability: 5. Knowledge ability: 9. Total: 16 points. Passed.”
The string of high scores left more than just the other applicants stunned. Even the examiner reading the results hadn’t expected anything this extreme—his voice trembled faintly as he announced them. The soldier-guards had gathered in small clusters, whispering among themselves.
Of course they were surprised. While ten points was technically the maximum, that was only theoretical. Having played Planetarium and completed the academy storyline twice, I knew the empire’s actual evaluation standards were as follows.
1–2: Insufficient ability.
3–4: Not lacking, but nothing exceptional.
5–6: Outstanding talent, or fully trained.
7–8: Holds truly remarkable talent. Worth scouting even if other areas are weak.
9–10: Genius. Or monster.
Nine points was essentially the real ceiling. After all, ten points was something second- or third-year players could only barely achieve after min-maxing their specs specifically to farm achievements.
The Nameless War Demon originally scored around seven in physical ability at this stage, so we’ve gained two extra points. That’s a level that doesn’t lose out even compared to the Proud Barbarian.
Considering the Proud Barbarian possessed monstrous physical ability even among all the templates, this was an encouraging result.
The problem was—
…Why the hell is Fiore’s score so high?
Her physical score matched her delicate appearance, and the magic power score made sense since she had already learned magic manipulation at the temple beforehand. The real issue was the knowledge score. Nine points wasn’t something you could get just by being a little clever.
That’s easily second-string among all the companion candidates in Planetarium. Depending on how you raise her, first-string wouldn’t even be difficult.
Players usually cared about appearance and personality as much as raw specs when choosing companions. With her striking looks and this level of ability, there was no way she wouldn’t have been mentioned in strategy guides or player reviews.
Yet among all the Midas-related characters I knew, there wasn’t a single one who matched Fiore’s image.
There were three main possibilities.
First, she was simply a resident of this world unrelated to Planetarium. That was the safest and most reasonable answer. I had known from the beginning that this wasn’t a perfect copy of the game. It wouldn’t be strange for there to be people or events I didn’t recognize.
Second, my own actions had altered history. If I had acted like the original prodigal, my eldest brother Holter Midas would already be dead. Bern Midas wouldn’t have focused on collecting cubes, and Theo Midas wouldn’t have risen as a major player in the succession race. In that case, it was possible for someone who should have died or come close to it to be living and acting normally.
And the third possibility: she was a character from Planetarium after all, and I simply hadn’t realized it. There were characters who wore masks, possessed transformation abilities, or never removed their full-plate armor and helmets. They appeared in the story, but players never saw their faces. If Fiore fell into that category, it was perfectly natural that I wouldn’t recognize her.
I was curious about her true identity, but there was no good way to confirm it right now. Besides, having excellent party specs was a good thing, not a bad one.
While soothing Ligret, who looked disappointed at failing to reach ten points, and Fiore, who grumbled that the physical test had nearly killed her, I quietly tucked the question into a corner of my mind.
In any case, we had passed the preliminaries.