9. Black and Gold (8)
9. Black and Gold (8)
Yurakne quickly slipped into the seat beside Wonderstein.
Before they left, the two old men had turned back and raised their fists toward her.
An unmistakable gesture of encouragement.
She pressed both hands over her mouth, struggling to stifle the laughter threatening to spill out.
'Oohoo, I didn't expect that at all... Thank you, thank you.'
The sheer delight set the extra arms on her back and waist twitching, threatening to wriggle. She forced them still and spoke.
"Did you know Sven was over ninety? I'd heard he was old, but... I've smacked him around quite a lot... Have I been guilty of elder abuse?"
Wonderstein looked at her tilting her head like a child and burst out laughing.
"Hahaha, who knows. Don't take a clown's words too seriously. Could have been a prank."
Name: Sven
Age: 59
Affection level: 20 (Next Reward: Affection level 30)
Title: Skeleton Clown
Occupation: Clown
Trait
: [Inspira - Clown's Lie]
Trait: Inspira - Clown's Lie
Applies to: Sven's lies
Effect: Exerts a weak hypnotic effect on anyone who is not a troupe member. The effect fails if used while smiling.
Activation: Sven's Affection level 15
Three weeks ago, thanks to his promise to restore their bodies, every troupe member's Affection level had climbed above 15. Sven had received his Inspira then.
Clowns were different from acrobats. An acrobat earned recognition by succeeding at something. A clown earned applause by failing at something. Perhaps because of that, the blessings they received were notoriously twisted.
Sven's Inspira was proof of that.
He had never once deceived an audience with a lie. On the contrary, he told lies so blatantly transparent that their entire purpose was to provoke a reaction — "How could that possibly be true?!"
And perhaps that was why he had been saddled with a blessing that made people believe his lies.
That was how even Gaston, who never lost a verbal sparring match with Ella, had been utterly swept up in Sven's nonsense. Every time Sven spoke without a trace of humor, Gaston had nodded along in a daze.
For light mischief, it seemed remarkably effective.
"Anyway, it's been a while. Sitting alone with you, Troupe Leader."
Yurakne smoothly drew his arm toward her and linked it with her own.
If Ella had done this, Wonderstein would have felt awkward and uncomfortable. Anais would have been no different. If it were Maya, he might have pushed her away, wondering what had gotten into her.
But Yurakne managed the approach as naturally as breathing.
Her smile and her gaze — reaching toward him yet somehow hesitant — made it impossible to push her away. If anything, it made him want to draw her closer.
This was why Gaston rated her highest of them all.
The seasoned poise of a woman who had once captured a man and guided him all the way to marriage — none of the other three possessed it.
"I've been busy too, after all. If only old Gaston had given me even a moment's rest. Back in Rouge, I shared tea with you at least once a day without fail..."
Wonderstein's tone carried a note of genuine regret. At his words, Yurakne, as if she had been waiting for exactly this moment, pulled an object from her bag.
"Ta-da! I brought tea, just for that! Surprised?"
She held out a red thermos.
The one Anais had gifted him had been sliced in two by the Reaper's Scythe. He hadn't been able to drink tea for some time after that. Even after arriving at the villa, he only managed to cadge a cup on the rare occasions their schedules aligned.
'And the Troupe Leader loved his tea so much...'
Yurakne had heard he never asked Anais for a replacement thermos. With Ella ill and a healer already summoned, demanding a thermos just to enjoy a drink would have felt shameless. She had spent those days fretting, remembering how he used to carry the viscountess's gift everywhere.
That's my tea inside it!
The urge to shout it aloud had nearly overcome her more than once.
And now her chance had come.
Wonderstein accepted the thermos with a delighted smile. The tea he had once choked down for the sake of a quest — so loathed back then — had become something he genuinely missed.
Drinking it calmed his mind. Perhaps it was because her tea had helped him through a crisis not long ago.
"I know you've been holding back for my sake. But I can always find the time to brew you a cup. Please, just ask whenever you like."
The villa they were staying at belonged to a noble with ties to Anais. It had a caretaker, guards, servants — but every last one of them had been given leave and sent away.
They had been the noble's employees, not hotel staff. They made no effort to hide their contempt and revulsion toward the monster troupe members.
So Yurakne had taken on the cooking — three meals a day for the whole troupe — and the cleaning of the mansion. The Ratmen helped, but juggling that alongside the physical conditioning for the exam was grueling.
"I'm fine. You're struggling too, Troupe Leader. With Ella's situation... and that promise you made to all of us."
The promise.
Wonderstein's hand, carrying the cup to his lips, stopped.
"Do you really think we'll ever be free of these bodies?"
"...I have to try."
Wonderstein checked the quest notification window out of habit. The Member Quests still hadn't appeared. Kirkeus continued to flag their wish as an "impossibility."
"Oh, I'm not saying I doubt your abilities! Not at all! It's just... sometimes I think... maybe staying like this wouldn't be so bad."
He remembered now — when he'd declared he would fix their bodies, she alone had responded with only passive agreement. He'd chalked it up to her calm nature. Had she simply not wanted it?
"Are you content with your body as it is, Yura?"
"Ah, no. I want to be ordinary too, if I can... But if the treatment has side effects..."
"Side effects?"
Her last words carried a different weight from everything before. Something sharp-edged, and beneath it, a thread of sorrow.
Her lips parted slightly, then pressed firmly shut. What she could tell him might be useful for the treatment research he was pursuing.
But she couldn't bring herself to speak of it. It held memories too painful — things she wanted no one ever to see.
At that moment, saved by perfect timing, the shrill blast of a whistle echoed through the hall.
"Out, out!"
"No, we really are teenagers!"
"It's true! Absolutely! We're seventeen!"
Two men were scuffling with a guard at the auditorium entrance. Yurakne looked over and let out a little sound of recognition.
"Those two..."
"It's been a while."
The pair tangling with security were the comedy duo from Rouge — Allen and Joe. They had shown up waving fake IDs, loudly insisting they were seventeen and demanding to take the entrance exam.
"At least have the decency to shave off those mustaches first!"
"Gyaaah! Don't touch the mustache!"
"We're telling the truth!"
Professor Yakovlev, the Strength Show-off instructor, seized both men by the scruff of their necks and hauled them out. Behind them, their companion, the snake charmer Suave, trailed along with his face buried in his hands.
"Told you it wouldn't work, you morons..."
The brief commotion passed, and the exam preparations were complete.
A pallid man in a black suit and black cloak ascended the stage.
"Now then, the New Student Selection Test will begin! I am Professor Lugo, instructor of Shooting and the chief supervisor for this examination."
His attire resembled Wonderstein's, though his cloak lining and bow tie were red, and his collar was turned up as high as it would go.
As he appeared, the students filed in as well. They took their positions in pairs before the one hundred apparatuses — twenty-five types in all. These students were today's assistant proctors.
The examinees, now changed into school-issued gym clothes and sneakers, lined up at the starting line. Those taking the exam as independent applicants wore teal uniforms. Those who had been discharged from circus troupes wore pink.
Regardless of category, no one approached Reina Magier's vicinity. She radiated an untouchable aura.
Then, a dark-haired girl in a pink uniform stepped up right beside her.
Reina didn't flinch. She'd anticipated someone would try to challenge her like this. It didn't matter who. She would simply demonstrate her skill.
Without a hint of disturbance, she looked down at the girl and spoke.
"Get lost."
Her overbearing tone would have cowed most girls on the spot. But this one fired back without backing down.
"Why? Afraid of the comparison?"
Reina gave a light scoff and looked away. A war of words only diminished the dignity of the Golden Libra. She'd crush her with skill alone.
Bang.
The starting signal fired, and the examinees surged into the hall.
Some kids lunged straight for the nearest apparatus. Others moved strategically, seeking the ones best suited to their strengths. A few hung back in the middle, hesitating, unsure where to commit. Every approach was on display.
Reina headed for the equipment at the far end. She had no particular calculation — she was simply drawn to where fewer people were clustered right now.
'Decent speed.'
Reina glanced sideways at Ella, who had matched her pace and refused to fall behind.
The girl looked a good twenty centimeters shorter, but the spring in her leg muscles was extraordinary. Her running form, the way she launched herself forward — it was all flawless.
Reina was impressed, but not surprised. This was a competition that drew the world's finest circus troupes. A certain level of talent was to be expected.
Still, it wouldn't be enough to beat her. Surely another outlier like Charlie wouldn't appear again.
Reina selected one of the inner apparatuses. It bore the mark for Ground Acrobatics.
What Ground Acrobatics demanded was patience, persistence, durability, and endurance. A quick, nimble type like this girl could shine on the tightrope, but Ground Acrobatics tended to expose their weaknesses.
She intended to show this brat who had latched onto her and picked a fight the difference in their abilities right from the start.
"Test apparatus number 19: the Own-Goal Keeper! I will now explain the rules."
The rules were simple. You had to catch a ball launched from a giant slingshot.
Drop the ball: zero points. Any part of your body other than the soles of your feet touches the ground: zero points. Fail to stop the ball before it crosses the line drawn on the floor: zero points.
Your score was determined by how many centimeters in front of the line you managed to stop the ball.
"Out of the way! This event isn't for little girls like you!"
A hulking man with a mean face — pink gym uniform — pushed forward. He had arrived late, panting, and shoved his way in front of Reina and Ella just as the explanation was wrapping up. His anxious eyes and hurried movements practically screamed that he'd been discharged for lack of skill.
When a fool volunteers to demonstrate, there's no reason to refuse. Ella seemed to think the same; she stepped aside to let him go first, just as Reina did.
"Hmph. Lucky for me it's a test like this. My finesse might be a little lacking, but when it comes to raw power, I don't lose to anyone."
The man pulled on gloves and planted himself on the X mark.
Screeeeech.
The slingshot, made of springs and rubber, stretched back so far it looked about to snap. The students working the crank glanced at the man for confirmation; he nodded.
The crank's catch released with a bang, and the ball shot out like a cannonball.
Discharged or not, he was still a man with the skills to compete in the Circus Grand Prix. He didn't fall; he didn't drop it. He caught the ball squarely with both hands.
He glanced around. People were staring at him with expressions of surprise.
He let out a gruff laugh and tossed the ball to the floor. His palms were a little scraped, his thighs ached, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.
"Rekachev? Nothing special. If my family had just had the money, I'd have passed this place when I was a kid."
But his confident smirk crumbled almost instantly.
"Beep! Own goal! Zero points! You crossed the line!"
"What?"
Baffled, the man stared at the floor. From the X mark where he'd stood, a long black skid mark left by the rubber soles traced a path across the line he'd been told never to cross — all the way to his feet.