Partran Festival (8)

The First Prince admitted his defeat with almost insulting ease.

He'd been the one to propose the wager in the first place, and in the final contest I'd used methods about as far from orthodox as you could get — I fully expected him to raise some kind of stink about it. He didn't. He simply shrugged, remarked that it had been an entertaining match for the first time in ages, and walked away.

And that was despite the constant clamor raging around him.

Grandpa pointed out, rather breezily, that a peaceful ending like this was a good thing for me, but there was no way in hell I could treat this situation lightly.

I know exactly what kind of man he is. How am I supposed to just let this slide?

The reason the First Prince had earned the nickname "the Hikikomori Prince" wasn't merely that he secluded himself in the capital.

It was his personality. That was the far bigger defect.

Imagine a man with talent so overwhelming that even Arthur looked up to him, with achievements to match — and a personality that was every bit as petty, as vindictive, as meticulous in its cruelty.

Players who took the royal court route and made an enemy of the First Prince almost inevitably ended up seething over the countless traps he'd laid for them, swearing that this one bastard, at least, they were going to destroy.

That man — a man who, once you crossed him, would grind you into the dirt regardless of your rank, your gender, or your strength — admitted his defeat cleanly?

That was never, ever a good thing.

Because when he acknowledged an opponent, it was effectively a declaration: I will now begin preparing, step by careful step, to make your life miserable.

Watching the First Prince shoulder his way out through the crowd, I must have spiraled through a thousand thoughts. At my lowest point, I actually caught myself regretting that I hadn't just thrown the match on purpose — even knowing I'd have to face the Sloppy Chief God's smug grin for it.

Think about it. If I'd lost, I would've suffered the humiliation of groveling before the First Prince and written myself an epic chapter of black history at the Partran Territory festival — but at least there would've been no loose ends.

Dammit. The problem is I got carried away, clearing a dungeon like it was a game again for the first time in forever.

If I'd had even the barest shred of rationality left, I would've at least hesitated!

And it's ALL that vendor's fault!

The moment that man showed rotten-water me a party of hopeless newbies, my reason just evaporated!

"Lucy. Are you listening?"

I, who had been screaming internally, lifted my head at the sigh-laden voice. For some reason, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Benedict's face was full of worry today.

"You understand, don't you? Everything that's happened so far is fine. His Highness the First Prince took it graciously. But you mustn't stir up trouble in the middle of the party either. Please, do think of your papa's stomach."

He had finished up the territory's business and arrived at the Partran festival, only to hear the whole story of what had passed between me and the First Prince the moment he set foot here.

How many thoughts must have raced through his head in that instant? And how relieved must he have been to learn that things hadn't blown up into a full scandal?

If Benedict dies before his time, the person it will hurt most is definitely Lucy.

Even after saying his piece, he kept watching me with lingering unease, but when a servant reported that preparations for the party demanded his presence, he had no choice but to leave.

As he departed, Erin and the other maids filed into my room.

In their arms were the stack of dresses I'd brought along for the trip to Partran Territory.

Half of them were the gaudy gowns the old Lucy used to wear to high society functions.

Looking at them, the regret I'd been nursing moments ago evaporated on the spot.

The First Prince, the evil god, whoever — those were bastards I could handle somehow if I just gritted my teeth and ground it out.

But those clothes were different.

Those outfits that the pedophile pervert Chief God had gleefully proposed as a punishment were a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠catastrophe I could not deal with — nightmares destined to carve deep, lasting wounds into my very soul.

Throw the match on purpose? On PURPOSE?

What, I should just put that thing on and then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠accept some mystery additional penalty on top of it? That's insane talk.

I filtered out every gown so flashy that even an elf from a storybook would get told, "Ma'am, isn't that a bit much?"

My excuse: they were old clothes, so surely they wouldn't fit anymore.

"The sizes should be fine, my lady. They were the same as when we measured you last."

...Doesn't matter. They're ugly. Take them away.

"Shut it, useless Erin. When your master gives an order, you just do it."

"Yes, my lady!"

Hang on. The old Lucy wore those things — what, two or three years ago? — and they're the same size now?

Isn't Lucy at exactly the age when her body should be growing like a weed?

This is the stage where clothes stop fitting within a few months and you have to replace the whole wardrobe, isn't it?

So why is nothing changing? Don't tell me Lucy's growth spurt is already over?

As THIS short, bratty little gremlin?!

No. No way. That defies common sense.

This is Lucy we're talking about — born of Benedict, whom I half suspect is part troll, and a woman who stood above average height even in my visions of the past.

Given how heavily genetics influence height, I shouldn't be worrying that Lucy's too small — I should be worrying she'll shoot up too much.

So why isn't she growing?! WHY?!

Is it the Chief God?

Is that pedophile pervert of a god refusing to let me grow taller?!

Normally I'd dismiss that as lunatic rambling, but the moment the Sloppy Chief God's name enters the equation, it somehow gains credibility.

"My lady. Which of these would you like to wear?"

Erin's voice snapped me back to my senses, and I surveyed the remaining dresses.

I'd already culled everything truly unforgivable, so what was left all had fairly restrained designs.

They were still dresses, mind you — but perhaps because I'd braced myself for the far worse prospect of the old Lucy's wardrobe, even this seemed... not terrible.

So which of these was the least bad option?

I frowned and deliberated, but no answer came.

Because I was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an efficiency junkie.

I could lecture for days about which piece of equipment gave the best returns, but ask me which look was prettiest and I'd go completely mute. That kind of person. That's me.

Grandfather.

<Anything would suit you fine. Everything looks well on you.>

That's not what I'm asking.

He clearly remembered the era when every single utterance earned him a jab, so hoping for a useful answer from Grandpa seemed hopeless.

Then again, he wasn't wrong. Whatever I put on, Lucy's face would carry it. They say fashion is finished by the face, after all.

Haah. Right. Why am I agonizing over this at all?

Just pick the most boring one of the bunch and be done with it.

"My lady."

Just as I was deliberating over what would draw the fewest eyes, Erin spoke up.

"Might I offer a recommendation?"

She'd hesitated before working up the nerve, and worry was written all over her face.

She must have assumed I'd bite her head off.

Seeing that, I gave a silent nod. I knew that whatever came out of my mouth next would be twisted into venom anyway.

And with that, a bright smile bloomed across Erin's face.

"There is no garment that would not suit you, my lady — but there is always one that suits you better."

Her words came pouring out as if she'd been waiting for this day her whole life, and they carried a strange, hypnotic power. I found myself nodding along in a daze, and by the time I came to my senses, I was already being dressed.

...Erin. Terrifying child.

The preparation process for the party was mind-numbingly tedious.

Makeup. Hair. And then the dress — more convoluted than a suit of armor, utterly impossible to put on alone.

So while the maids bustled around me, I let my mind drift elsewhere.

Staying stone-cold sober through playing dress-up doll was beyond me.

Whatever else could be said of the process, the fact remained: I had crushed the Sloppy Chief God's little scheme.

And the rewards had been paid out accordingly.

It was true that the Sloppy Chief God was a pedophile, a pervert, a masochist and a sadist besides — a incompetent, petty, trash-heap of a deity I couldn't bring myself to worship if my life depended on it.

But there was exactly one thing about Him I could trust. And that was the rewards.

After all, hadn't even His most useless suggestion to date — the advice about what to call Benedict — proven useful down the line?

So this time too, I both hoped for and dreaded whatever reward the Sloppy Chief God would grant.

Because over the course of this quest, I had cursed Armadi out by name more times than I could count.

I genuinely feared something depraved would pop up. Like an enhancement to the Mesugaki skill.

The first reward granted was the one explicitly promised when the quest itself was issued.

An increase in reputation.

The fine print underneath was full of flowery promises, but honestly speaking, it wasn't a reward I could feel.

This wasn't a game, after all. There was no readout saying "Reputation +3,000" popping up before my eyes.

Still, I didn't fret over it much. The fact that it appeared as a message meant something meaningful had changed, and it would make itself felt naturally as I made my way through the world.

The next message, however, was something I hadn't expected at all.

Every bonus reward so far had been skill-related, or equipment upgrades, or some item or other.

Removal of physical penalties.

THIS reward I felt instantly.

My condition had never been good to begin with, and with the doping penalty closing in, my body had been growing heavier by the day — and then suddenly, every ache dissolved and I felt light. Refreshed, like waking from a deep, dreamless sleep on a perfect morning.

I'd been bracing myself to spend the next few days bedridden, so this reward was welcome beyond words.

Given how brutal the quest had been, I'd hoped for even more — but that was the end of it.

And yet, I couldn't bring myself to complain.

It was clear He had looked at His Apostle's condition and considered her needs with surprising care.

Once the rewards were dispensed, I expected the Sloppy Chief God to issue a new quest.

He had always left at least one queued.

But this time was the exception.

Nothing came. Only a single line telling me to await the academy's second semester.

I had no idea why, but I chose to interpret it as His consideration — an instruction to rest easy for the days remaining.

Which meant: clear this one party, and the rest of my stay would be smooth sailing.

If I could just get through tonight without incident, my vacation begins!

The plan was already set.

I would plant myself in a corner for the entire party.

Skulk in the shadows, brood gloomily, and let the hours bleed away.

No meeting anyone, no talking to anyone — and where there's no contact, there's no trouble!

I was resolving exactly that while gazing at the nearly-finished Lucy in the mirror when a knock sounded at the door.

"It's Duke Patran. Might I have a moment?"

Duke Patran? Why is the busiest man in this entire festival coming here?

It struck me as odd, but there was no reason to turn him away. Without giving it much thought, I waved him in.

"My apologies. I know this is the worst possible timing."

It's fine, really...

"It's fine, Careless Duke. You're always like this, aren't you?"

"Ahaha. I appreciate your understanding. The reason I've come all this way is that I have business to discuss with you."

Business? What kind? Something to do with the First Prince?

"As I'm sure you're aware, you claimed the title of 'Slayer' at this Partran festival."

Yes. That's right.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because midway through tonight's party, I must summon you and formally bestow that title upon you. I thought it best that you prepare your remarks for the occasion."

"You're a clever, capable young lady — I'm sure you'll do splendidly," Duke Patran said with a warm smile, but I could not for the life of me smile back.

Let me get this straight.

You want me to deliver a speech — in front of a party packed with the kingdom's most powerful nobles, and not one but multiple contenders for the throne?

While the Mesugaki skill is fully operational?

...

Sloppy Chief God!

No — Lord Armadi!

Exemption ticket!

I'm using my exemption ticket!

Please, please skip this event!

I'm BEGGING you!

Just let me survive this crisis!