The Patran Festival (5)
The next challenge I came to was a test of agility.
A game of dodging magic bolts that came flying at you from far away. Getting hit didn't hurt, but the rules were strict—if even a single shot landed, you failed. So I couldn't afford to take one.
Ordinarily, I would have been charging in wearing thick armor, lugging around the massive shield that covered my body, with Grandfather in tow on top of all that. Back then, I'd even had to throttle my speed out of consideration for Arthur and the other Academy students. Now, with every last ounce of that baggage thrown off and my physical abilities boosted by doping, how could my agility possibly fall short? No matter what twisted trajectory the bolts traced, I had every confidence I could dodge them all.
"We will now begin!"
The moment I watched the first magic bolt launch with that cry, I knew I had already won.
This pattern.
It's exactly the same one I saw in the game.
I'd once been obsessed with the Slayer of the Festival quest. Why, you ask? Because it pissed me off. A quest I couldn't beat no matter how well I played? Seriously?
I knew it was nothing more than a bonus objective, something I didn't strictly need to clear—but the word reason had never been on speaking terms with me, so I gritted my teeth and threw my head against it again and again.
And I got absolutely wrecked. As it turned out, a variable called luck was not something a mere human could control.
I used to think of it as time wasted on a crazy stunt, but who knew that effort would pay off someday like this?
One step to the right, then two to the left. After that, a jump, followed by a backward roll. And then—
<Can you see the future, by any chance?>
'Maybe I can.'
<So the Chief God has been lending you a hand after all.>
It grated on me that my past efforts were being chalked up to the Chief God's grace, but I couldn't exactly blow up at him. How was I supposed to explain that I'd memorized this pattern from the other side of a monitor?
Ugh. I want to convert religions so bad. I hated that everything I did was becoming a monument to that pathetic, perverted, trash-tier Chief God.
Even while my mind wandered, my body faithfully executed the memories of my past self, and just like that, I walked away from the match without a single scratch.
Perhaps the stall owner had never imagined he'd be countered this perfectly—too stunned to even announce my victory, he just stared blankly at me.
'Excuse me, sir. It's over, right?'
"Hey. Mustache. Why aren't you saying anything? It's over."
"...Congratulations. You have won this match."
'Thank you.'
"What, did that shock you? That you thought those flimsy patterns could hit me? You're as sloppy an adult as that ridiculous beard is. Aren't you embarrassed?"
Mistake. I'd been thinking about something else and reflexively said thank you.
Seeing the stall owner's face flush crimson, I made a hasty retreat. Staying any longer would only put further strain on the man's blood vessels.
Whew. So now I just needed two more stall victories, right?
Ever since finishing my doping, I hadn't stopped moving, circuiting stall after stall. Since I had no idea when the doping would wear off, I kept sprinting at full power the whole time.
The early going went smoothly. Thanks to Phoebe's buffs and the doping, combined with my knowledge from speedrunning the festival before my possession, I racked up win after win at stall after stall.
Anything requiring physical movement I settled with my body and my knowledge. The three luck-heavy games I handed off to the bracelet to eliminate any wild variables. And the memory-based stall I cleared effortlessly by exploiting the Log Function.
At that point, I thought I had momentum on my side. I figured that a few days of being bedridden was a fair price to obliterate the Chief God's dirty tricks.
But then a problem appeared where I least expected it.
It was a quiz stall.
<Wrong. That man's nickname back then was the Guardian King. He earned it for fighting ferociously to the very end without ever yielding ground during the siege of the capital.>
'Sorry, what? But—'
<You think your memory is more accurate than mine? Mine, when I fought in that very siege alongside him?>
I'd been writing down the answers exactly as I'd memorized them from the game, when Grandfather cut in mid-question. No, that's wrong, he said. The answer is something else.
I was puzzled at first, but he spoke with such conviction that I began to wonder if maybe I'd simply remembered it wrong.
That was the mistake. Listening earnestly to another person's word, when there was no possible way my rotted-water memory could be wrong.
<...Huh? Why? Why would his nickname be—>
'GRANDFATHERRRRR!'
I screamed at the betrayal of the grandfather I'd trusted, but once I calmed down and heard his explanation, I could understand the situation.
The problem was simple. Grandfather's memories were from when the king was still alive. The question asked what he'd been renamed by later generations. The gulf carved out by two hundred years of history had led Grandfather straight to the wrong answer.
<Forgive me, child. What a blunder on my part.>
'It's okay, Grandfather. Oh, but did you know? The Patran family's stables are reeeally big. I bet they produce an awful lot of manure, don't you think?'
Perhaps it was because my momentum had been severed—I chalked up two defeats at stalls I'd judged to have relatively little luck involved.
Honestly? It was a rigged call. There are limits to how much bad luck can screw you over. That was getting to the level of the Dice God drumming my skull with the last face of a die.
No matter how you look at it, didn't that pathetic Chief God do something here? He figured I'd win if he left me alone, so he deliberately dumped bad luck on me. There's no other explanation—it just doesn't add up otherwise!
Me, the guy who scores above average even when guessing on every single test question, getting robbed by luck?
After three straight losses, I'd burned through every last coin and been driven to the edge of a cliff.
The silver lining was that only two stalls remained—and both were fields I was confident in. Either one was a game I could beat if I played well, but one inspired more confidence than the other.
So I'd save my best for last.
Having made that decision, I set off at once, and there I spotted a face I hadn't seen in a while.
Frey. The swordswoman blessed with the talent to become the next Sword Saint. It was probably because of me, but she looked even more lethal than she did in the game.
She was taking on a stall challenge with a sword held in one hand. The contest at this stall was to cut down every object that came flying at you. The speed, the size, the hardness—everything was different with each throw, making it a tedious challenge, but sword in hand, Frey looked utterly relaxed.
'Grandfather. Her swordsmanship feels different, doesn't it?'
I was no expert in the sword, but even I could tell. I'd sparred with Frey the entire first semester at the Academy. Nobody knew her blade better than I did.
A fast, violent, willful, selfish sword. A style of violence that leaned entirely on her raw talent.
But this was different. The foundation of Frey's swordsmanship was the same, but how should I put it—it had gotten cleaner. Refined.
<She has taken another step forward these past two months.>
She'd said she was going back to Kent Territory to train. Looks like she realized something. Well, Frey was a monstrous genius freak too, after all. Second semester was going to be even harder to deal with.
"Congratulations. You are victorious."
"That was easy. Really easy."
"...Truly worthy of House Kent's young lady."
Leaving behind the stall owner's hollow laugh, Frey soon met my eyes and immediately came running over.
"It's been a while."
'Hello, Frey.'
"Yeah. Dummy swordswoman."
Frey's expression was as blank as ever, but the moment she was called a dummy, the corner of her mouth twitched up—just barely.
Was being called a dummy really that appealing?
"Are you competing here too, Lucy?"
'Yes.'
"You can tell just by looking, can't you?"
"So we're rivals."
Frey clenched her fist with grim resolve, vowing to bring me down, but it wasn't the least bit intimidating. If she couldn't solve something with raw physicality, she was going to fail at everything.
"See you later."
Whether she knew what I was thinking or not, she ambled away—then abruptly stopped, turned around, and came right back to me.
'What is it?'
"What is it, dummy swordswoman?"
"Bye-bye."
And with that deflated farewell, she turned and ran off again.
Uh... hm. What was that about?
Had something happened to Frey over the break?
"Next challenger!"
As I stood gaping at the spot where Frey had disappeared, the stall owner called me over.
"Lady Arln. Do you require an explanation of the rules?"
'No, thank you.'
"As if I'd need the rules explained for playing at some rinky-dink stall like this."
The stall owner nodded with a stiff smile and pressed a sword into my hand.
<Your grip is clumsy.>
'Of course it is. I've never trained with a sword.'
I'd picked things up by watching out of the corner of my eye, but that was it. I'd never properly studied, and I had no sword-related skills either.
<Can you manage it?>
'Of course.'
But it didn't matter. This wasn't a battle for my life—it was just a game. To win here, all I needed was agility, strength, reflexes, and the rotted-water brain of a veteran who remembered the type and trajectory of every single incoming object.
Having breezed through the cutting stall, I moved on to the final stall that remained.
Whew. If Grandfather hadn't opened his big mouth, I could've been taking it easy right about now. So, so frustrating.
<How long do you intend to drag that out?>
'Forever.'
<If you're going to do that, just punish me and be done with it!>
'No thanks.'
It's not every day such a clear-cut case of Grandfather's fault comes along, you know? So I'm going to milk it for the rest of my life. Every time he says anything, I'm bringing this up.
<You are merciless. Utterly merciless.>
I was smiling at the despair in Grandfather's voice when I spotted a crowd of people up ahead.
People gathering near a stall was only natural—but the composition of this group was odd. Soldiers, knights, several figures who looked like nobles. And at the center of it all—
The First Prince.
Rene Soladin.
Why on earth was he here?!
...Okay. Let's retreat for a moment. He'd step aside once I'd finished my stall challenge anyway, so I'd just kill time somewhere else until—
"Might that be Lady Lucy of House Arln?"
At the First Prince's voice, every gaze turned toward me.
Damn it. Too late.
"Enjoying the festival?"
'Yes, of course I am!'
"Unlike some people, I happen to like the sunlight. I'm having a lovely time."
"Hoh. Is that so?"
I could see the First Prince's brow furrowing.
Whew. This is why I didn't want to run into him.
"I'm curious. How many stalls have you conquered? Knowing your confidence, surely you've won at a great many."
'Thirteen.'
"Thirteen. And you, gloomy loner prince, naturally have more than that, don't you?"
"...Tch. A tie, then."
He'd won at thirteen stalls?! I barely scraped out thirteen using doping, items, and cheat-level knowledge—and he matched it.
Truly, a final boss is a final boss. Impressive. Genuinely.
"I ask only to be certain—is this stall your last as well?"
Midway through my admiring nod, I belatedly processed what the First Prince had said. Your last as well—that meant, quite clearly—
"What a coincidence. How convenient for you both—since this is my last stall as well."
With that, the First Prince drew closer and continued.
"I have a proposal. Since this stall will decide it between us, why don't we settle this with a match?"
Dark eyes looked down at me. The will in them was unmistakable.
He intends to crush me personally, in front of all these witnesses.
It was a petty, cowardly proposal for a man older than me with far more to his name—but.
'Shall we, then?'
"If the gloomy loner prince insists so earnestly, I suppose I have no choice."
I accepted without a moment's hesitation. There was no reason to refuse.
For the simple reason that this stall's contest was the field I was most confident in of all.
Virtual dungeon clearing. Taking the conditions the stall provided and laying out your clear strategy.
Hey, First Prince. No—Rene Soladin.
You picked the wrong opponent. The little brat standing across from you isn't just some Academy freshman—she's a rotten-water veteran who has every dungeon clear route in this world memorized by heart.