A Blazing Sprint

Course One: Quagmire Crossing.

If you studied the ground with a trained eye, you could easily tell where the quagmires lay and where the solid footing remained.

Clearing the course effortlessly went precisely according to plan, but one of the stat increases caught me completely off guard. Why on earth did my Good Kid stat get a bigger boost than Charisma from a heroic carry like that?

"There's a whole row of weird poles set up ahead! W-What do we do, Orknodi?!"

"Don't panic. Just keep a steady pace and run."

Dozens of hurdles lined the course one after another. Just vaulting every single one of them looked like a monumental chore, yet Scholar in Lane One and Rive in Lane Two were already far ahead, tearing down the track.

"They're already halfway through?!"

"If you let yourself get flustered, you'll trip, you know."

The warning sign stood conspicuously in plain view. Mob froze between the gnawing dread of falling further behind and the terror of losing points.

"Find a steady rhythm while you jog, and when a target pops up, just loose your arrows like step, step, thwip! Easy-peasy!"

Easy for who, you absurd little genius?! Mob's tearful grimace screamed the words aloud, though he still managed to draw his bowstring anyway. His aim was rushed, and his arrows failed to brush even the edge of the bullseye, but standing stationary to take careful shots would forfeit far more points from the running timer. Gritting his teeth, he forced his gaze away from the mocked targets and sprinted forward.

Another hurdle loomed into view. As his boot hit the metal plate set before it, the heavy coil beneath compressed with a heavy groan.

I can't get the timing down at all!

Boing!

The spring uncoiled with explosive force, flinging his body high into the air as though trying to catapult him clean over the crossbar. Flailing wildly in midair to avoid clipping the barrier, Mob barely managed to vault it without knocking it flat, but regaining his footing on the far side burned precious seconds.

"Dammit, can't they design a test meant for actual first-years?!"

"Should we slow down a bit?"

Mob had been groaning non-stop. But the moment he glanced back and saw how effortlessly I was gliding beside him, the look in his eyes fundamentally shifted.

"Why are you still running next to me?!"

"What's wrong with that? We're in the same group, so we run together!"

If push came to shove, I could always pretend to sprain my ankle so he could cross the finish line first. Just as I was casually contemplating that bit of match-fixing, a commotion erupted from the sidelines.

"Whoa, look! The kid in Lane Four just went totally berserk!"

"Is he out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of his damn mind?!"

"The gap between him and the lead pack is closing!"

The upperclassmen overseeing the tactics course shouted in genuine astonishment. Right beside me, an anomaly had unfolded: Mob had suddenly awakened.

Damn it all. What the hell am I doing?

The top student of the entire cohort, a mere child, was watching her exam scores bleed away in real time entirely for his sake. Was receiving help from a child humiliating? Was being weaker than a little girl shameful? No, it wasn't about wounded pride.

Because he was an anchor dragging her down, a girl who could run faster than anyone else on the field was falling behind.

"Looks like the top student of the A-Group isn't all that."

"Tch, what a pain. I bet good money she'd at least place second."

"Did the class of 981 scrape the bottom of the provinces for trash? How can someone like that be cohort valedictorian?"

Complete strangers among the upperclassmen were openly mocking her. Shut your mouths, Mob raged inwardly. She isn't someone you have the right to look down on!

He already owed Orknodi an immense debt over the club resignation incident. Far from repaying her kindness, here he was, dragging her down into ruin. His conscience demanded an answer: Can you call yourself a man after this?

No. A real man doesn't do this!

What did it mean to be a true man? It meant knowing how to repay a debt of gratitude. Unlike the proud nobles around him, Mob had grown up in an ordinary commoner household. He possessed neither secret martial arts nor mystical knowledge handed down through an illustrious lineage. In their place, his father had bestowed upon him a single lesson far more precious than any aristocratic heritage.

"Mob. Grow into a man who knows how to repay his debts."

Orknodi had discarded her own record in the exam just to stay by his side. There was no way she didn't care about her placement. Yet she smiled cheerfully, brushing it off as if rankings didn't matter in the slightest. Beneath that untroubled expression, how heartbroken must she truly be? How deeply must she resent him, wishing with every fiber of her being that he could run just a fraction faster?

I know my limits. With my mediocre skill, clearing these unfamiliar spring hurdles and shooting targets on the move is far beyond what I can handle.

If things continued like this, his own grade would be ruined, and Orknodi's score would be dragged straight into the mud alongside his. He couldn't have both. So, he made his choice. To become a man worthy of the debt he owed.

Just as Orknodi had sprinted backward along the track to save him when he was on the verge of surrendering, it was his turn to save her.

"Orknodi! Starting now, I'm running at full throttle!"

"Huh? But that's impossible with your current skill, Mob!"

"You're right! Navigating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the track, clearing the hurdles, spotting targets, drawing a bow on the fly... None of it comes easy to an ordinary guy like me!"

Mob's stride lengthened violently. As the next obstacle rushed toward him, he didn't hesitate for an instant. He wasn't afraid of stumbling, nor was he afraid of getting hurt. What terrified him now wasn't pain—it was the thought of Orknodi suffering on his account, of the world dismissing her brilliance because she chose to stand by him.

"Look at him go! Number Four is flying!"

"Wait, there's no way he can aim at targets at that speed!"

"What the hell is that guy planning?!"

The upperclassmen's bewildered questions echoed Orknodi's own thoughts. Mob was an extra from the lower classes, a background face below even the named side characters from the original game. He was Student A, wandering the academy without a single spoken line. A warm body occupying physical space. Grade-fodder designed to elevate the player's self-esteem by languishing at the bottom of the curve.

There was no way Mob could trigger an anomaly. If he possessed that kind of latent potential, he would never have remained an extra in the first place. Throughout her thousands of playthroughs of Graduating the Academy on Pure Luck, a name she had never once committed to memory belonged to a permanent loser—the lowest-ranked dreg among the 981st cohort, someone whose sudden expulsion at any moment would surprise no one.

I managed to hit my mark, but can Mob really make that shot?

Releasing her arrow mid-stride, Orknodi felt it instantly: a dead-center hit. Glancing back toward Mob for a split second, shock rippled across her face.

"Mob! Did you miss your timing to shoot?!"

Mob hadn't drawn his bow at all. Failing to loose even a single arrow at the target was an automatic, severe point deduction. Yet there wasn't a trace of panic on his face. Instead, a broad, white-toothed grin split his features, radiant with the unshakeable resolve of a true man.

"I didn't miss it. I chose not to shoot."

"Whaaaat?!"

"If an average guy wants to match the pace of a genius, he has to abandon the delusion that he can do everything she does!" Mob roared over the whistling wind. "So I threw it away! Spotting targets, loosing arrows—I gave up on all of it! And in exchange, I gained the speed to chase down the leaders!"

"B-But what about your score?!"

"Haha! Even if I took my sweet time aiming, I'd barely hit one target out of ten! I don't have a single regret!"

The gap to the front had shrunk noticeably. A gulf of forty-five track segments had already dwindled to thirty-three. Even so, it was still far. At this rate, Orknodi would remain held back.

Mob poured every ounce of strength into his legs. Thud! Thud! Thump!

"That lunatic is really doing it!"

"What kind of running is that?! Doesn't that guy in Lane Four care about point deductions?!"

"He didn't just give up on the targets—he stopped jumping the hurdles entirely!!"

Instead of clearing the hurdles, Mob was barreling down the flat dirt right alongside them. With every barrier bypassed, compounding penalties stripped his score away at a terrifying rate.

"Stop it! If you don't get back on the lane right now, you'll end up dead last—!"

"Then dead last I'll be!"

"Are you crazy?!"

"Running together because we're in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the same group? Not abandoning a friend? If that's your stubbornness, then mine is becoming a man who pays back what he owes!" Mob yelled, his eyes locked dead ahead with fierce conviction. "If we're crossing the finish line together, we're doing it in first place! I'd rather trash my entire score than let myself be your dead weight!"

"Mob...!"

"Don't you dare slow down! Don't look back at me! Clear your hurdles, find your targets, take aim, and hit them! You're good enough to do all that while matching this speed anyway!"

Last place was already an absolute certainty, yet not a single sliver of regret or hesitation showed on his sweat-streaked face.

"Show them all! Show them what the A-Group can do! Show them how incredible the girl running beside Mob really is! Wipe the smug grins off those imperial bastards and shut up those loudmouthed seniors once and for all!!"

When the track narrowed and bypassing the obstacles became impossible, Mob simply kicked and shoved the hurdles out of his way, plowing forward through sheer brute force. Shins and thighs slammed against wood and iron with sickening cracks that must have brought tears to his eyes, absorbing impact after bone-bruising impact, yet he gritted his teeth and drove forward.

No matter how violently he stumbled, no matter when agony tore a raw cry from his throat, he corrected his posture, bit down on his lip to swallow the screams, and looked only forward.

All so Orknodi could run just a fraction faster. All to prove her true worth to everyone watching.

You dummy. You get points just for 'recognizing' and 'aiming' at the targets, you know?

He had no idea, but the penalties he was racking up were vastly harsher than what met the eye. Yet Orknodi knew that even if he understood the mechanics, his feet wouldn't slow down for a second. The fiery charge of a boy who threw away everything just for her sake—the desperate, unyielding sprint of a nameless extra—made Orknodi's chest pound with fierce heat.

The status broadcast flashed bright across the massive Mana Board suspended overhead. Mob's reckless charge had ultimately fallen short of overtaking the imperial frontrunners.

Instead, the difference was a mere two tracks. He had dragged a forty-five-track deficit down to thirty-three, and then further still, closing within three tracks ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the lead and just two tracks behind the runner immediately ahead.

"Guh...!"

"Mob!"

"Prove it to them... Prove my sprint wasn't for nothing!!"

Unable to bear the overwhelming agony of battered limbs, Mob's legs finally gave out, bringing him to a skidding halt. His body had stopped, but his blazing fighting spirit burned into Orknodi's heart with absolute clarity.

"I will!!"

Orknodi made her vow on the spot. In this race, I'm taking first place for both of us!

Watching from the sidelines, the upperclassmen blinked in stunned silence.

Whoa. The instructor looks ready to murder someone.

That dude completely flew off the handle.

Still... I kinda respect it. What a fiery bastard.

The blistering sprint of an ordinary extra had begun to violently upend the entire flow of the match.