Trash-Tier Elf

Amid all the troll threads clamoring for attention, that was the moment I read its pitiful little title.

"Ugh...!"

A violent jolt, like something tearing through my skull, crashed over me again.

Just like when I'd glimpsed the future of the Blackened Swordsman last night — the metallic tang of blood surged up to the tip of my nose. Then my vision blacked out against my will, and someone else's eyes were superimposed over my own.

— A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crackle. A tap.

A dark, musty room. There sat a blonde elf, head sunk low, fingers tapping at her terminal, looking one breath away from collapsing in despair.

Tap. Tap.

Tears sliding down her pallid cheeks left dark stains on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the stone floor — and along the tracks of those tears, the years of her past began flashing by like a panorama.

To the forest-dwelling elves, the 'Spirit Covenant Ceremony' held but once a year was no mere festival. It was the pivotal event of a lifetime — the day an elf proved, through a pact with a spirit, that they had finally earned the right to stand as a full-fledged member of their people.

But in recent centuries (apparently that counts as "recent" for elves), the ceremony's trends had shifted. Spirits, it turned out, were more easily drawn to elves who carried the divine power of gods on their backs. A new era had dawned — one in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠which only elves bearing the blessings of the great temples could casually pick and choose high-ranking spirits.

The trash-tier elf had refused to follow that trend. Her conviction was that communing with a spirit was not something to be forced through borrowed divine power.

And so came her first ceremony. Eyes shining with sparkling hope, the blonde elf stepped up onto the dais. Yet while her classmates — draped gaudily in the blessings of gods — locked hands with radiant spirits with ease, not a single spirit appeared before her.

But she had apparently been blessed with a rather cheerful, sunny disposition.

— "Whoa! You made a pact with a light spirit? Congrats, seriously! Don't you worry about me! Next time's got to be my turn, right?"

Even in failure, she stubbornly wrapped her arms around her celebrating friends.

The second ceremony. Failure again. The brave smile she'd worn to comfort herself had sunk a little lower.

The third. Failure once more. She offered her friends a lifeless round of congratulations, then trudged home with her head hung low.

Four years, five years — as the time crawled by, her shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, and the light steadily drained from her face. Until, at the eighth ceremony, she could barely squeeze out even a word of congratulations for her comrades, and collapsed on a deserted roadside before she ever reached home.

— "Why...? Why is it only me?"

Face buried in her knees, she whispered the words over and over. But then, roughly wiping her tears with her sleeve, she forced herself to sit up.

— "Still... I have to keep going. Elves live long lives. I've still got plenty of chances left."

In the very moment she was coaxing herself upright, the approach of fellow elves in the distance sent her reflexively diving behind a bush.

The light, easy laughter of passing elves drifted through the air. Were they happy about their new pacts? The sound drove a dagger straight into the ears of a girl who'd only meant to envy them.

— "Hey, did you see her earlier? Failed again."

— "You mean that trash-tier elf? Everyone else gets a divine-blessing buff and coasts through their pact, but she has to play the noble purist all by herself — and now she's failed eight times straight. Isn't she a disgrace to the whole forest? How does she even show her face in public?"

— "And she still says 'congrats' with a smile. Did you see how warped that smile was?"

— "Seriously creepy, I'm telling you. And totally oblivious, too."

They were laughing at her — calling her the 'trash-tier elf' who had failed eight times over. Even the friends whose pacts she had celebrated with all her heart, even in the depths of her own despair.

— "..."

Hot tears spilled one after another from the eyes of the girl curled behind the bush. The sight of her weeping in silence, unable to make even a single sound, filled my vision to the brim.

Then came the ninth ceremony. The trash-tier elf failed to be chosen by a spirit, as though it were only natural. She received no congratulations from anyone, offered none to anyone, and fled home with her eyes fixed on the ground.

For a full year after that day, she never once stepped outside.

And now, at last — tonight, just one day before the tenth ceremony — she was trembling as she typed out a message through her tears.

— Um.

— Will I be able to make a spirit pact tomorrow?

"..."

Pulling free of the afterimage of the past, I let out a long, level breath.

Nine consecutive failures. And yet here she was, stubbornly determined to stand at the tenth ceremony anyway — that foolish tenacity, and that bone-deep desolation. I could maybe, just a little, understand the feeling. I'd been cut from two hundred applications and interviews myself before falling into this other world.

Pressing a hand to my aching brow, I looked once more into the scene of tomorrow's ceremony — into her future. Beyond a vision bleeding red at the edges, tomorrow's outcome came into sharp focus.

I reached out to the terminal and typed my reply.

The response came almost instantly.

Desperation bled through every character on the screen. But I drove the point home without mercy.

Because that's exactly what I'd seen in the vision before my eyes.

Inside the pitch-dark room, the blonde elf — who had been staring blankly at the translucent system window hovering at the corner of her vision — stopped breathing altogether.

The utterly unflinching comment from NamelessPriest. That one short sentence shoved mercilessly against the back of a girl already teetering at the edge of the cliff.

And in that instant, the lurking trolls of the gallery swarmed in like bamboo shoots after a rain.

The mockery came pouring down like a waterfall.

The trash-tier elf's ashen, trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard as she struggled to compose some kind of rebuttal — but in the end, her hand dropped helplessly into empty air.

"You're right..."

Her cracked voice filled the empty room.

"I really am trash-tier."

The abuse aimed at her was familiar. No — if anything, it was fair. But there was one thing she could not bear, above all else. The fact that even that bizarre priest — the one who had supposedly worked a miracle and saved someone's life — had declared it with such cold, absolute certainty. The way things are now, you will never make a pact.

As tears welled up again along the cheeks of the trash-tier elf staring hollow-eyed at the gallery of some nameless, bottom-tier shrine, her gaze drifted blankly to the calendar hanging on the wall.

Tomorrow's date. The square circled in red pen dozens of times over, and covered in stars drawn with all the desperate longing in her heart.

"...I shouldn't go."

Better than becoming a spectacle in front of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hundreds of pairs of eyes. Just as she resigned herself and moved to close the window—

A second merciless comment arrived alongside the flashing notification.

"...What?"

The trash-tier elf murmured blankly. Knowing full well the other person couldn't hear her, she found herself staring dazed at the monitor, asking the question anyway.

And then — as though he'd actually heard her answer — another comment appeared in quick succession.

The next morning.

Brilliant sunlight was spilling down over the ceremonial grounds beneath the World Tree.

Reading her comment, trembling like an aspen leaf with anxiety, Aaron clicked his tongue from his corner seat.

"What kind of elf has this little confidence?"

In every fantasy setting he knew, elves were a race so noble and prideful it bordered on arrogance. Shaking his head, Aaron hammered roughly at the terminal.

He could feel her shuffling toward the ceremony grounds like a frightened puppy.

The [Nameless Ancient Shrine Gallery] that Aaron currently managed was under strict lockdown. The moment the trolls had begun their bombardment last night, he had exercised the gallery owner's authority to the fullest, slapping on an admin password and sealing the place up tight so that no one but himself and TrashTierElf could post threads or comments.

Thanks to that, communication between the two of them flowed smoothly — almost too comfortably.

There was just one thing neither of them knew.

That countless users were watching the feed of this nameless, bottom-tier gallery in real time, holding a whole separate broadcast over at an outside gallery.

It being early morning, there happened to be no other dopamine-bait drama to feed on. Riding that gap, the bizarre event dubbed "the ninth-failure trash elf's tenth ceremony" had become the hottest topic on the continent, rocketing all the way onto the integrated search rankings.

Not that anyone at the ceremony itself cared.

The proceedings began in solemn splendor. Beneath the dazzling boughs of the World Tree, young elves brimming with divine power from the blessings of foreign gods took the dais one by one, clasping hands with glowing spirits as easily as greeting old friends.

And then it was the turn of the trash-tier elf, hunched in the furthest corner.

— "...Next."

The elder called her name with a sour scowl.

The gazes of her kin were ice-cold. Openly clicking tongues and scattered, snickering laughter filled the ceremonial grounds.

And then—

"..."

Just as expected, not a single spirit approached the girl standing on the dais. Only silence hung in the air.

Her post read like she was about to burst into tears at any moment.

Aaron issued his instructions without a flicker of hesitation.

The outside review galleries watching them had already erupted into something close to open riot.

The merciless sneers rained down without pause. Even on-site, the elder was furrowing his brow and gesturing for her to step down.

Disregarded, isolated, and one heartbeat away from total collapse — just as the trash-tier elf lowered her head and moved to step off the dais...

Just before the tolling bell announced the ceremony's end, Aaron's finger came down on the terminal like a hammer.

At the sudden command, the trash-tier elf's shoulders jolted upward.

The elf protested in a fluster. By the rules, elves were the ones chosen by approaching spirits — pointing at a spirit, or seeking one out, was unheard of.

But Aaron's eyes saw it, plain as day.

Through the confused gaps where the powers of many gods churned and tangled together, threading straight between them — something small and brilliant, gazing at the trash-tier elf.

Far away. At the base of the colossal World Tree, where no one's gaze could reach. Beyond that massive root—

There, hidden behind the great trunk, a tiny spirit with an adorable pair of wooden horns sprouting from its head and leaf-green eyes sparkling like new foliage was peeking out, wide-eyed with curiosity, at the girl who stood frozen in her place.