Final Exams (1)

Had Joy's warning actually paid off?

Ever since that day, the venomous stares aimed my way had thinned out to a noticeable degree. There were still plenty of people who looked at me like something stuck to their shoe, but that much was just everyday life — barely worth a second thought.

Because something far more important had happened.

I wasn't eating alone anymore!

Phoebe and Joy came to find me every single day to share my meals! Whether they'd simply grown used to the Mesugaki Skill's vicious tongue, or their affection had grown high enough to withstand it, I couldn't say — but every day at lunch, the two of them would settle into the seats beside me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Usually Phoebe arrived first, with Joy wandering in after her.

Thanks to them, I'd been living happier days than I'd ever known. Every now and then I caught myself wishing Frey would join us too, but she seemed to be off doing something with Karl. She'd said she was going to show me something at the finals, and interrupting that would've been plain rude — so I never brought it up.

Of course, all that happiness came bundled with plenty of suffering.

Back in reality, I pushed myself through grueling training until evening like always, and even when I went to sleep, Practice Mode dragged me off to train with Gramps through the night.

And on top of that, I couldn't nap during academy classes anymore either.

The moment I slacked off in a lecture, Gramps lit a fire behind my eyes.

If only to escape that dreadful morning-after sensation — mind utterly exhausted while the body felt brand new — I had to pay attention in class.

'Lady Alrn... have I done something wrong?'

When I — the girl who was normally fused to her desk during lectures — sat there with my head up, the professor trembled like a leaf as he asked me that.

So someone actually taking notes was enough to wound a man. That one left a mark on my heart, honestly.

It was demanding in any number of ways, but academy life flowed along in peace overall.

By rights, Nakrad should have stirred up trouble at least one more time before the semester's end, but the beating Gramps ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had given him must have hurt more than expected — not a whisper of movement from him. The Church had even stepped in to purge the darkness that had seeped through the academy, and he'd let the whole process pass unchallenged.

And on top of that, even the pathetic Chief God who'd tormented me with such dedication had gone silent. So for the first time since enrolling — several months in — I finally got to enjoy something resembling actual school life.

They say the good times fly by, don't they?

One blissful, youthful day after another, and suddenly the final exams were staring me in the face. I wasn't worried in the slightest, though.

The pathetic Chief God hadn't ordered me to take first place, and the reward for top marks wasn't anywhere near attractive enough to care about. If I tanked, I tanked; if I didn't, I didn't. Simple as that.

Gramps had told me to treat it as a test of everything I'd studied so far, anyway.

So I didn't ask for Gramps's help this time.

And what I discovered in the process was just how absurdly broken Gramps's cheat really was.

Solving the questions myself, I could manage about half of them. The other half might as well have been written in an alien language.

If I looked like this even now, after studying fairly hard, I don't even want to imagine how it would've gone back when I did nothing but faceplant into my desk and sleep. What's the point of asking?

Try as I might, I had a feeling my ranking was about to plummet straight to the bottom of the board.

Even compensating with Dungeon Studies, Monster Hunting Studies, and Sparring would only get me so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠far — there's a limit to that sort of thing.

If she places above me, Joy is definitely going to collapse on the spot, right? I've racked up more than one or two karmic debts with her by now, so I'm sure of it.

Which would be adorable in its own way, I suppose... but honestly, Joy is cuter when she's just a little bit deflated. Ugh. That's a shame.

The day after the written exams ended was the day of the practicals.

I had two major ones on my plate: the dungeon-clearing exam and the Sparring exam.

There were various smaller things too — physical fitness assessments, weapon techniques, the like — but I wasn't worried about any of them.

Anything involving moving my body is my home turf.

And the first of all those practical exams was the test for Sparring class.

"Hey. Lucy. It's been a while."

And my opponent was exactly the same as last time.

Frey Kent.

The prodigy of the century who would one day claim the title of next Sword Saint — and the monster with the strongest close-combat stats of any character in Soul Academy.

In the game, her performance was matched only by how much trolling she caused, earning her a place on the discard pile — but now that the game had become reality, she turned out more well-adjusted than I'd expected, which I liked about her.

And she was the comrade I'd spent more time with than anyone else since entering Soul Academy.

'Yes. It has been a while.'

"Who was it again? Oh — the trash-tier swordsman. You were so forgettably weak I'd completely wiped you from my memory."

I snickered and needled her, but Frey showed no reaction at all.

Weird. She's always been thin on emotion, but whenever I taunted her with the Mesugaki Skill, I'd at least get some small twitch back.

She said she trained specifically to counter me — did that include practicing emotional control too?

Come to think of it, Karl would know better than anyone that the moment Frey takes the bait of a provocation, her odds of winning drop to zero. Of course she'd prepared at least that much.

Not that it'll help.

If preparation actually worked against it, the Mesugaki Skill wouldn't be the game-breakingly busted skill it is, would it?

Truly broken abilities have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a way of making preparation meaningless.

"From today on, you won't be calling anyone trash or weakling anymore."

'I'd love that, honestly.'

"Puhahahat! Dream big, why don't you. That's impossible. You'll be a bottom-feedingly trash, weakling, no-account swordsman for the rest of your life."

Please, Frey — somehow, some way, make the word "trash" stop coming out of my mouth.

If you managed that, I'd do literally anything you wanted.

I brushed the impossible wish away with an empty laugh, hefted the sparring mace in one hand, and conjured a shield of divinity in the other.

A bare-minimum safety measure I'd prepared — because if today's me went all out, the academy's first-years simply wouldn't survive it.

Frey's brows dipped slightly at the sight of it.

"Both sides. Are you ready?"

Anton, the professor who presided over Sparring class, stood between the two of us and searched our eyes.

'Ready, sir.'

"You can see for yourself, can't you?"

"Ready."

"Then we will begin the bout. Three."

The instant Anton began counting, Frey dropped into her stance.

It was wildly different from how she used to swing a sword. Back then, she'd been closer to pure natural stance — no real form to speak of. A sword that was, to put it kindly, instinctive, and to put it unkindly, beastly.

Not anymore. Her movements were clean. Orderly.

Even the little flinches that used to look like tics were gone entirely.

"Two."

So Karl really did drill her properly. Imagine — hammering discipline into a beast who'd swung her blade trusting nothing but her own prodigious talent.

I seriously can't stand that man.

What does he think he's doing, raising his own lady's rival? Does he want to watch me get beaten down, or something? Karl, you're starting to resemble the pathetic Chief God more and more, you know that?

I'll have to stomp him a good one one of these days.

"One."

And yet.

Yeah.

And yet it's still not enough, Karl.

Did you think I was just sitting around while you trained Frey?

I got trained half to death by Gramps too. Day and night, I gave everything I had to get stronger.

There's no way someone like that shatters here.

If you want to break me, bring a petty evil god's spiteful sabotage with you first.

"Begin!"

The moment Anton's shout rang out, Frey lunged.

She's fast — genuinely fast!

Any other first-year at this academy would fail to handle her speed and offer their throat to her blade! I guarantee it!

But not me!

Iron Wall speaks: move the shield.

I judge: the shield must move.

The instant those two thoughts overlapped, my shield met Frey's sword — and the power coiled within her blade was halved and cast aside.

And in its wake, an enormous opening yawned open.

Frey didn't press her luck any further; she fell back and reset her stance.

She's grown a lot.

The old Frey would have stubbornly pushed through even from this position, trying to bury me. Has she learned to value composure?

"What's this♡, little trash weakling♡? Was this your plan to beat me?♡ Hilarious♡. Honestly, did your brain turn into a weakling too, so you can't even read the room anymore?♡"

"...Yeah. Looks like I really do need these."

The moment the surging high running up my spine confirmed my taunt had landed, Frey pulled something out from inside her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠jacket.

That's...

'Oh. Those are earplugs.'

A huff of laughter escaped me at Frey's counter-taunt — a declaration that she had zero intention of listening to a single word I said.

Good strategy.

Good strategy, sure.

But it probably won't do a thing, will it?

A Mesugaki Skill that works on inanimate objects isn't getting neutralized that easily.

"You swung that with everything you had?♡ That's a trash sword that couldn't even cut paper?♡"

The earplugs were completely useless.

Frey ground her teeth at Lucy's voice, drilling straight through the plugs and into her ears.

She'd prepared the earplugs after hearing Karl's advice — that the instant she fell for a provocation and her emotions wavered, she would lose on the spot. The shop had sworn the pair could block out even a dragon's roar, but the earplugs were meaningless.

Lucy's voice had pierced straight through them as if they weren't there at all.

By the time the thought surfaced — that the plugs were nothing but an irritating obstruction — Frey had already leapt backward, ripped them out, and flung them to the floor.

"What's the matter?♡ With my voice gone, did the fight go out of you?♡ So you're a pervert too?♡ Disgusting♡"

"Shut up."

Frey answered in a low voice, then drew a deep breath and stilled her sword.

Lucy really was strong.

Shield arts that intercepted her blade's trajectory with perfect precision.

Overwhelming raw strength capable of batting her sword away like a feather.

Reaction speed that let not the smallest opening slip past.

And inhuman stamina — after all their exchanges, not a single ragged breath.

A true monster.

But still.

I can do this.

Steadying her stance, Frey called to mind everything Karl had taught her.

Karl had given his all to show her the way to bring Lucy down.

The first step had been making Frey stronger.

How to grip the sword. How to move her feet. What to watch for, what to think about, mid-fight. How to swing. How to answer a crisis.

Karl had dredged up everything Frey had been doing on pure instinct, dragged it into the light, and pushed her a whole step further.

Then, at some point, when he judged she had entered the right orbit, he'd told her this:

The strategy Karl had handed Frey was, plain and simple, a plan built to shatter one person — Lucy — completely.

Because she knew it, Frey felt no intimidation at all, even in the face of that overwhelming gap.

A gap this size is well within my projections.

I can win this.

And with that thought, she raised her blade — and locked eyes with Lucy, who was grinning her mischievous grin.

"Not coming?♡ Scared stiff, are your legs—"

"Pathetic."

"...What?"

"A coward who doesn't know how to do anything but hide behind her shield."

And then Frey picked the fight.

To shake the heart of the crocodile named Lucy.