12. Rekachev Circus School Trial (25)
12. Rekachev Circus School Trial (25)
Arena 7, the Shooting Range, was originally used for dagger-throwing and firework-manufacturing practicals. Its traps and obstacles were therefore designed to be overcome primarily through shooting.
The space where competitors could move about was cramped — but fanning out from it in a wide arc, a sloped ramp was lined with targets.
The arena provided fist-sized balls of tough leather. They lay scattered everywhere, easy for anyone to grab and throw, and since any ball hurled at the targets rolled back down the ramp to where the competitors stood, the supply constantly replenished itself.
Targets popped up unpredictably all across the slope. Each one had a board attached, painted with a human figure.
The competitors stationed themselves at the bottom of the slope and threw balls at the targets.
In the scenario, the competitors' area was the stage, the fan-shaped slope was the audience seating, and the painted figures were disruptive patrons causing trouble during a performance. The competitors had to subdue them by hitting them with balls.
At first everyone simply hurled balls the moment a target appeared, but as time passed they learned that some figures were not meant to be struck — the ones depicting ordinary audience members. Hitting those triggered fireworks that flew out to attack the competitors.
"Waaah!"
A target painted with a girl tossing a bouquet of roses took a direct hit, let out a wail, and toppled backward. The bushes near her rustled, and a firework launched toward the stage with a sharp whine.
"Which troupe's idiot was that?"
"How was I supposed to know? I thought she was throwing rotten tomatoes!"
The firework streaked in like a comet, black smoke trailing behind it, and bounced across the floor. But that was all. Unlike other fireworks, it didn't explode.
"A dud?"
Everyone paused mid-dodge, glancing at one another — then an acrobat who specialized in firework manufacturing recognized it, turned ghostly pale, and flung himself behind a stone wall.
"It's a Hedgehog Firecracker!"
"What?"
"W-wait. I've heard of those!"
"Does that matter right now? Just get clear!"
Too late. The moment the competitors began to move, the firework hissed, vented air, and spewed sparks. Needle-like streaks of flame rained in every direction. They weren't especially hot — the metal was reactive even at room temperature, so the display was all flash and color — but the crystals were sharp. When they touched skin, they stung like rose-thorns.
"Agh!"
"Ow!"
"Don't cross onto my tile!"
"Chain reaction — damn it!"
Every time a "failure" occurred like this, every troublesome-patron panel on the slope would spring upright and mock them.
"Heeheeheehee!"
"Pff-hahaha!"
"Wahahaha!"
Drunks. Bratty children. Obsessive fans who stared at only one performer. Nitpicking grumblers. Stubborn critics. Thugs sent over from the theater across the way.
After laughing to their hearts' content, they returned to their usual routines.
"Urgh, what? The female acrobats aren't taking their clothes off? Hic!"
"Boring! Boring! Boring!"
"Kyaaah! Move! I can't see my young master!"
"Hmm. A third-rate act copied straight from existing acrobatics."
"Wait! Isn't that trick way too obvious?"
"This place is so boring. The one across the street is much better."
Each had a distinct personality calibrated to poke at an acrobat's deepest traumas, and the voice acting behind them was disturbingly vivid. Listening to their lines made every competitor's throwing hand clench a little tighter. The person who had just hit the flower-tossing girl had been blindly pelting balls at anything that looked like a whining child and had simply made a mistake.
Of all the arenas, Arena 7 had the foulest atmosphere by far. The obstacles that waged psychological warfare on the competitors were bad enough; the system that punished everyone for a single person's mistake set everyone's nerves on edge; and the steady undercurrent of sabotage — deliberately deflecting balls toward rivals, triggering fireworks near opponents to knock them out — bred deep mutual distrust.
Ella understood now why Maya was crouched behind a crate in the corner. It was one of the few spots in the arena where a person could avoid becoming a target.
Watching balls and fireworks rain down from all sides, she regretted her earlier anger upon hearing that Maya had simply tripped over her own leg and been eliminated. In a place like this, it couldn't be helped.
"Ella! Ella's here!"
"Hey, do something about your friend!"
"Yeah — if she's just going to cower like that, why'd she even show up?"
Ella clicked her tongue. The disruptive-patron targets were well-made, but they still fell short of the real thing. The thought that Maya had been listening to this for two solid hours made her worry for the girl's mental fortitude.
Maya, however, was perfectly fine — contrary to Ella's concern. She was, by nature, a person who cared nothing for the opinions of those around her. That didn't change even when she stood in front of an audience of hundreds.
Whatever anyone said, she kept her expression blank and focused entirely on observing the pattern in which the shooting-range targets emerged.
"Did you find the thread?"
"Yes."
Maya relayed what she had seen to Ella. Unlike the other arenas, this one required pointing at each target to explain properly — it couldn't be passed along through Clara — so she had come herself.
She told Ella which targets, when suppressed, caused which other targets to rise; which targets triggered which types of fireworks when struck; and what rules governed the hidden compartment door that kept opening and closing bit by bit.
Listening to Maya's explanation, Ella realized that once someone found the path to a complete strategy, anyone could clear this arena in five minutes. It only looked difficult because testing every variable required so many attempts.
Fortunately, by watching other people's trial-and-error from behind her crate and analyzing it logically, Maya had been able to derive the correct answer with relative ease.
"Good. So once Sudden Death starts, you'll come straight here?"
Seeing that no hints needed to be left for this arena, Ella turned to leave. Maya called after her.
"Reina's joining our circus troupe?"
It was rare for Maya to initiate a conversation. With a mix of pleasant surprise and puzzlement, Ella looked back.
"Did you talk with Reina earlier?"
"Yes. She came to apologize. For tripping me."
"Oh? I didn't get the full story since it happened mid-exam, but in the end the Troupe Leader agreed to take her. Why do you ask?"
Maya stared at her as if she had something to say, then shook her head.
"No. It's nothing."
She watched Ella leave, then crouched back down behind the crate and gazed vacantly into the air.
So the Deputy Leader didn't know. If she did, there was no way she would welcome Reina's arrival with such a carefree expression.
But Maya knew what had happened between Wonderstein and Reina. During the battle against Sinepekus's Avatar at the Freshmen Welcome Party, she had learned the truth.
Play her father, was it. That little tramp. She wouldn't dare keep demanding things like that after actually joining, would she?
Just thinking about that incident sent a hot surge of anger through Maya's chest.
Clinging to the Troupe Leader and acting coy, kissing him right in front of her, crawling into his bed, asking him to change her clothes for her.
She had tried to dismiss it as something that was over and done with — something to forget. But if Reina was transferring troupes specifically to keep pursuing him, Maya had no intention of sitting idly by.
A hot glint kindled in her normally expressionless eyes.
—Nyaaaa!
Quiet. This isn't jealousy. It's about maintaining order in the circus.
She repeated the mantra to herself and forced the magic power that had begun stirring on its own to settle back down.
Time passed. One hour remained on the clock.
The siren signaling Sudden Death wailed.
Maya thought it sounded oddly like a cat's yowl.
***
The twenty-third Mini Game had ended.
The oldest mage in the Silver Screen Circus after the Troupe Leader and Deputy Leader — a balding, middle-aged man — turned to Arno with a troubled expression.
"Our current coin count is forty-five. Only thirteen games remain. At this rate, we won't reach a hundred before the event concludes."
"No, we won't."
Arno nodded, his voice cool.
"Tell the members in the Mini Games not to push themselves any further. It seems wiser to simply skip this city."
"Understood."
The middle-aged mage leaped down toward the benches below.
The mages who remained in the stands regarded their Troupe Leader with deep respect. Two months of training had come to nothing, yet he displayed not a flicker of disappointment or anger on his face.
That is the equanimity a mage must possess.
Not a single moment's weakness to Papilax.
But that figure and that voice were nothing more than an illusion.
Arno’s true body — Rumi — had cloaked herself in invisibility and silence, and was now rolling violently across the floor, thrashing her arms and legs in every direction.
"Argh, goddammit! I'm so annoyed! So annoyed! So annoyed!"
After a long fit of fury, the silver-haired fairy clenched her small fists and sprang upright. She glared across the hall at Wonderstein, who was wearing a supremely self-satisfied smile.
She had intended to use the strategy he'd provided as a reference, maximize the exploration team's survival rate, and seize a chance to open a chest during Sudden Death Time. But that was only possible if they first gathered a hundred coins.
The first- and second-place finishes had come faster than in previous competitions, yet they still hadn't managed to collect a hundred coins. The young mages had spent two months diligently honing both stamina and technique, but competing against seasoned acrobats remained an uphill battle.
"I put on such a show in front of that bastard, and all I did was hand him the advantage!"
Rumi drummed her bare feet against the floor.
Outpaced by a junior — and one so green at that. That, she told herself, was the reason for her anger. It absolutely was not because the man had kissed the cheek of a competitor returning from the twenty-fourth game. Absolutely not.
"Right out in public — what does he think he's doing! That bastard! That bastard!"
Rumi conjured into the air a Wonderstein effigy made of straw and rags, sized to match her own stature, and began pummeling it with her fists.
That was when the middle-aged man who had gone to relay orders downstairs returned. His gaze flicked briefly in Rumi's direction, then snapped firmly back to Arno's illusion.
"Troupe Leader, I've told the Mini Game participants to rest. What shall we do about the exploration team?"
Rumi paused her assault on the Wonderstein-shaped scarecrow just long enough to steer Arno's illusion.
"They should withdraw as well. Staying inside the arena now only risks injury."
"Understood. In that case..."
Meanwhile, the Monster Circus camp was in a celebratory mood. Yurakne had just placed sixth in a game, bringing in seven coins, and their total had surpassed one hundred. They could now open a treasure chest as well.
"Excellent! Now everything rests on Miss Ella."
Wonderstein and the troupe members turned toward the stage. With the conclusion of the twenty-fourth game, exactly two hours had elapsed since the competition began. The emcee stood before the map of the ten arenas and cried out in an exhilarated voice.
"Yes! One hour of game time remains! One treasure chest remains! Who will claim the final trophy? Sudden Death has begun, heralded by the chime of the clock tower in the main hall, ringing out at this very moment!"
As he finished, the siren blared across the entire school.