Learned Helplessness
Orknodi was truly pitiful.
Anyone looking at her objectively would agree, and from a subjective standpoint, it was even more undeniable. To subject such a fragile, pitiful little girl to such brutal mistreatment—did those people have a shred of conscience left?
For the first time in his life, Mob harbored a personal desire. When he had first enrolled in the academy, it was merely to follow his friend Zaku. That was all there had been to it. But things were different now. He had found a purpose of his own.
I want to set Orknodi free.
To escape her grim destiny as an assassin and live a life truly her own—she deserved that ordinary happiness, more than anyone else ever could.
"Mob, you've been looking pretty motivated lately," Zaku remarked.
"You should give it a shot too," Mob said earnestly. "The mentoring over at the Dark Merchant Guild helps out a whole lot more than you'd think."
"Didn't you just get lucky with whoever you drew as a mentor?"
"If it isn't an Upper Class student stepping in, it's usually second-year seniors giving a hand. Trust me, it helps plenty. There's no way it'd do you any harm, right?"
"Is that so?"
Zaku's expression remained dark.
A failing student in the Lower Class. Unlike Mob, whose risk of expulsion stemmed from dramatic point deductions, Zaku was falling behind simply because he lacked raw talent. Zaku knew how to look at himself with cold objectivity. The danger Mob faced of failing out was fundamentally different from his own. Mob could easily clear the hurdle if someone provided proper guidance to match his effort. But Zaku was another story entirely. Without a single penalty point against his name, he was sinking into the bottom ranks on sheer, inadequate ability alone.
"Look, you've got nothing to lose anyway," Mob urged, aching for his friend and wanting him to seize the very same lifeline he had found. "Just attend one session."
"...Thanks, Mob."
"Come on, what are friends for?" Mob grinned, but then his expression hardened as he remembered one crucial detail. "Oh, but listen closely. Whatever you do, if the seniors offer you anything to eat, never put it in your mouth."
"Why?"
"Just don't. Seriously, don't eat it."
Having learned through painful, bodily torment that the only food in this academy one should ever consume was what one bought with one's own hard-earned coin, Mob was adamant.
Though they did not share a single drop of blood, Zaku genuinely loved Mob as his closest companion in the world.
Man. Was the look on my face really that pathetic?
Zaku had lost both of his parents to a virulent plague, leaving him entirely alone. In that quarantine zone where even holy priests hesitated to tread, he had crossed paths with another orphan just like himself: Mob. Back then, Mob had seemed just as helpless, an easygoing, ordinary kid who felt no different from his own frail self. As a boy, the mere fact that he had a companion to brave that harsh, disease-ridden wasteland beside him was enough to fill his heart with joy.
Yet as the years rolled by, the pure friendship he felt toward Mob gradually twisted into an ugly knot of inferiority.
Even among those scraping the bottom of life, the chasm of talent existed. How swift one's hands were. How rapidly one absorbed a lesson. How sharp one's memory proved to be. In every single category, Mob outstripped him. He couldn't go on like this. Zaku could see it clearly: Mob was destined to become someone far greater than he could ever hope to be.
The empty pretense of friendship could not last forever. An equal relationship was bound to fracture eventually. In truth, that equality had crumbled long ago. Mob simply hadn't realized it because of how good-natured he was.
Years ago, Zaku had grown consumed by the terror that Mob would eventually leave him behind, wondering whether he could ever survive this unforgiving world on his own.
It's impossible.
When a fledgling grew wings, it soared into the open sky, and once a predator matured, it abandoned the pack to claim territory of its own.
—You wish to become strong?
Right when anxiety was eating away at his sanity, a wandering mercenary had caught his eye. The man was blatantly suspicious, but back then, Zaku had been too desperate to care. He had believed with all his heart that unless he gained strength by any means necessary, he would be cast aside and left to die a lonely, pathetic death. And so he had approached the man, pleading for strength.
—You will have to leave your friend's side. Even if you beg to go back, you will suffer through years of hellish torment, and you might very well die in the dirt. Even so, if you still wish to become strong, follow me.
Zaku had made his choice. He would follow the mercenary into the dark.
—Mob. I'm going to follow this man and learn from him. If our friendship truly hasn't faded, let's meet again right where we first found each other. No matter how many years it takes, on the very first day of the new year, we'll meet again. That's a promise.
Ten full years had passed since that vow. Even Zaku had believed there was no chance Mob would actually be waiting for him. Ten whole years. Over a span of time long enough to reshape mountains and rivers, how could a childhood promise possibly endure?
"Yo. Look how much you've grown!"
"Mob...? Is that really you?"
"What's that face for? Gotten so handsome you can't even recognize me?"
Mob had shot up in height, his frame filling out with solid muscle. Judging by appearance alone, nobody could have recognized the sniveling brat of the past in the strapping young man standing before him. Yet some things had remained entirely untouched by time. That familiar, cheeky banter. A fierce, unwavering friendship that a decade of absence couldn't erode. And... the suffocating inferiority Zaku had felt all those years ago.
I endured ten agonizing years of training. I clawed through so much blood and sweat. And yet, even now, I still can't match pace with you?
It was a wall of innate talent, something that mere effort could never surmount. The harsh reality was that he couldn't even catch up to Mob—who was considered nothing special when measured against the true monsters of the Upper Class. Yes, he had no choice but to swallow that bitter truth.
—With your pathetic talent, even if you manage to scrape through the academy's entrance exam, you won't last a single year.
His instructor had made it brutally clear. Amateurs of his caliber were a copper a dozen. The sole reason the syndicate had taken him in ten years ago was for one thing alone: the sheer venomous obsession that had driven him to abandon even his dearest friendship for the sake of survival. And now, the moment was approaching where he was expected to bare those fangs once more.
Rattle.
A tiny glass vial rested within his clenched fist. If he swallowed its contents, his innate mana reserves would surge. Naturally, an organization gave only garbage to its bottom-feeders. It was never going to be a finished product. An incomplete prototype. An experimental concoction.
The side effects of consuming it were horrific. If the subject's constitution failed to align with it, the drinker simply died. If one possessed an awkward, incomplete aptitude, they would writhe in ungodly agony, clawing at their own flesh in madness before perishing. If one held at least a passable compatibility, they might cling to life despite the excruciating torture. And should luck grant an exceptional match, one might achieve explosive growth.
What were the odds of that miracle occurring? Thirty percent? Nine point nine percent? Or a miserable zero point one percent?
Give up on false hope. I have no such thing as talent.
A decade of crawling through the syndicate's mud had taught him well: the moment he uncorked that vial would be the end of his life. His instructor's voice echoed in his memory.
—If you are expelled from the academy, whatever remains of your life will be entirely stripped of freedom. Resign yourself to living and dying as nothing more than a hound for the organization.
If that happened, he would never be able to see Mob again. A subterranean world. A life spent wandering through darkness thick with the reek of stale blood. That was the only future awaiting him.
He stood right at the precipice of a long, desolate downward slope. He had already taken a few steps forward. If he fought with every ounce of strength he possessed, perhaps he could claw his way back to solid ground. But if he waited too long, the incline would turn into a sheer drop, dragging him down into an abyss from which there was no return. That steep cliff was right before his eyes. A single misstep, and everything was over.
And that fatal step lay pooled inside the tiny vial in his palm.
"All right, first-years! Don't look so down in the dumps," a booming voice called out. "We'll pull you through this somehow!"
Zaku's hand tightened around the vial before slipping it back into his robes. Taking it could wait just a little longer. After all, Mob had gone out of his way to dig up this opportunity for his sake.
"...I'll be in your care, seniors."
Lending a hand to kick off that new event really seemed to have paid off. Around this time in the storyline, news of disaster in the Lower Class should have been blowing up everywhere, but I hadn't heard a single peep about any incident.
"Giselle. Are you really sure there aren't any rumors going around?"
"Is there perhaps a particular piece of news you are waiting for?"
"That's a secret!"
Giselle had an amused look that said he knew there was something brewing, smiling warmly like a fond parent indulging a toddler trying to hide a stash of candy. Seeing him act so composed and grown-up made a petty urge flare up inside me.
"Want me to tell you? If you're that curious, I mean."
Giselle drew in a soft, slightly startled breath. His squinted eyes curved into a gentle, elegant crescent.
"I am a wicked adult with an insatiable appetite for other people's secrets, you see. Would you truly be so gracious as to enlighten me?"
"Mmh... fine! Since it's you and me, Giselle. I'll give you a special freebie!"
To be fair, leaking future events wasn't something a player should do recklessly. Just because NPCs learned what was going to happen didn't mean it always led to a good ending. Sometimes they tried to stop a minor hiccup and caused a catastrophic trainwreck instead, turning what should have been a light injury into critical trauma or an outright grave. But Giselle was an intelligent character with immaculate self-control, so giving him a heads-up ought to be safe, right?
"This week, a failing student in the Lower Class is scheduled to cause a fatal casualty incident."
"...That is quite the fascinating piece of intelligence," Giselle murmured, his smile fading into something much sharper. "Might I inquire as to the source of this information?"
"Mm-mm. Explaining all that is way too much hassle, so that part stays a secret!"
Giselle sank deep into his thoughts. Once I realized his attention was no longer on me, my interest evaporated just as quickly. Time to go focus on my lectures and grind some coursework!
Watching Orknodi's small back vanish down the corridor, Isabelle stepped up beside Giselle and asked in a low voice, "How did it go?"
"Just as Arcadia deduced," Giselle answered grimly. "The Foundation intends to orchestrate an incident involving student casualties this very week."
"...Orknodi knew about that?"
Being an unwitting pawn was entirely different from possessing foreknowledge of a calculated crime.
"Don't tell me... she's an accomplice?"
"No, that is unlikely. In fact, it might almost be a relief if she were." Giselle could not disguise the heavy, bitter weight settling in his chest. "Orknodi simply treats it as an utter triviality. The loss of human life that is about to occur means nothing to her."
"How could that be...? Orknodi is such a sweet, kind girl."
"Are you familiar with the term learned helplessness?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"'It won't work anyway. Nothing will ever change.' It refers to a psychological state where, after experiencing absolute futility, a person abandons all resistance and shuts down emotionally."
To Giselle's eyes, Orknodi's breezy, detached attitude was the tragic result of learned helplessness.
"She must have endured similar horrors countlessly in the past. She likely cried out for help, or desperately tried to stop the slaughter, only to watch every single attempt end in crushing failure... If you view her through that lens, her reaction becomes agonizingly clear."
It was an ordeal no child should ever have had to suffer. A cruelty so overwhelming it would shatter the spirit of a grown adult ten times over. The sheer horror of it made goosebumps prickle Isabelle's skin.
Did the training of an assassin truly demand this level of torment?
Isabelle stood frozen, stricken completely speechless.