Second Semester Final Exams (10)
"Hrghaaah!"
Arthur rose with a voice utterly bereft of a prince's dignity, stared blankly around him, realized he had woken from a dream, and dragged a hand through his hair.
Joy. That wretched girl! Just how much had she been harboring against me all this time, to resort to such a dreadful spell?
Yes, the Academy Dungeon had safety measures in place, and yes, the Saintess herself had been standing right beside him — but wasn't that simply going too far?
No matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, he could only conclude that she had genuinely meant to kill him!
Wiping the cold sweat from his brow, Arthur noticed Joy beside him, still fast asleep and murmuring in her dreams, and gave her forehead a light smack.
"Hyagh?!"
Jolting awake at last, Joy sprang upright, clutched her forehead with both hands, looked around in confusion — and upon spotting Arthur, hastily dug a fan out from her breast and hid her face behind it.
"Joy. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"Your Highness, I trust you understand it was unavoidable for the sake of clearing the dungeon."
"Yes, I understand. I know full well how you must have suppressed a breaking heart as you attacked us."
"Hehe. You are truly a prince among princes, Your Highness. Well then—"
"Which is why I shall now take a turn suppressing my own breaking heart."
"...Pardon?"
As Arthur rose to his feet, Joy scrambled up after him and hurriedly backed away.
"Who is to say this place isn't a dream as well?"
"It isn't, and you know it perfectly well! You're simply after revenge for what happened just now!"
"Tut-tut. How cruel, to insult my tender heart so."
"Wha— Eek! Kyaaaagh!"
Having finished his reprisal by pinching both her cheeks without mercy, Arthur left Joy to grumble through her tear-streaked face and moved over toward Frey and Phoebe, who had just woken.
"Do the two of you also wish to take revenge on that girl? I would grant you permission by my authority as a prince."
"No, I'm quite alright. It couldn't be helped, after all."
"That's right. We're not as petty as the Third Prince."
With both of them shaking their heads, Arthur was suddenly cast as the villain of the piece. Doing his best to ignore the glare Joy was drilling into his back, he cleared his throat.
"Then let this matter end here. Back to the matter of the dungeon. Judging by the scenery around us, it seems Joy's conjecture was correct."
The place where Arthur's party now stood had a structure nearly identical to the room they had occupied mere moments before.
There were a few differences.
Holes riddled the walls here and there, eaten away by long years.
The carpet had decayed past the point of recognizing its former shape.
Numerous ornaments had withered with age, lending the air a desolate bleakness.
But set aside those things, and one could say the room matched the one they had dwelt in within the dream perfectly.
"Let us hope this one doesn't stretch on endlessly either."
Hoping that Lucy was not quite so diabolical, Arthur stepped forward.
Having been forced into rest while lingering in the fourth room, the party's movements were impossibly light.
How could they not be? These were people accustomed to fighting themselves to death from morning till night, yet they had spent half a day doing nothing but wandering a corridor.
Far from restraining Frey, who kept trying to bolt ahead, the party practically ran to match her pace — and in no time at all, they reached the corridor's end.
"We're to enter through here, then?"
Where the cradle had once sat at the start of the very first corridor, a door now stood in its place.
The moment Frey laid eyes on it, she drew her sword and moved to cleave straight through the door and charge inside — but Arthur seized her by the nape, and the assault never came.
"Wait. First, let us sense what lies beyond—"
"Oh ho. A guest has finally arrived. I thought I would die waiting."
No chance to peer beyond the door was granted to them.
Before Arthur could say a word to Joy and Phoebe, the door swung open and something within revealed itself.
The figure was a shabby, disreputable-looking man dressed in rags.
A hideous stench wafted from him, like something rising from a corpse.
His hair hung in greasy, unwashed strands for want of any care.
And peeking out between those curtains of hair were the mad, sunken eyes particular to a derelict.
The man studied the four of them quietly for a moment, then broke into a grin and raised his voice.
"Hello there—"
The instant his mouth opened, a sphere of divinity materialized and detonated before his eyes, cutting his greeting short.
Against an ordinary opponent, the flash would have stolen their sight and left them staggering — but the man had simply shut his eyes the moment the sphere appeared, evading the glare entirely.
"Ouch. I meant to give a welcome greeting, and instead I ended up receiving one."
While the man jested, Frey — released from Arthur's grip — charged forward with her blade wreathed in aura.
A single stroke meant to cleave him in two.
The man twisted his body just enough to slip past the attack like a whistling wind, and kept talking.
"Now, now, do calm yourselves. I may be one of those noble trinkets myself, but I would hardly do harm to a guest who's come all this way after so long."
Even as he spoke, he dodged Frey's strikes with ease — until he caught her by the nape, tossed her aside, and dusted off his hands.
Landing beside Arthur with balance that bordered on the miraculous, Frey frowned faintly.
"My sword won't touch him."
"Is he similar to the wolf, then?"
"No. If I had to say, he's closer to Professor Carl."
So he was being pressed down by sheer, overwhelming skill.
Arthur watched the man standing placidly with his hands clasped behind his back, then bit his lip lightly.
This one is not a man we can bring down by normal means either, it seems.
...Wait a moment. Given the state of the corridor, and this man's rotting appearance — could he not be a spectral dead?
If this man is one who refused death, then the Saintess's purification—
"That won't be possible, Your Highness."
Perhaps she had read the intent in Arthur's eyes; Phoebe shook her head.
"This man is among the living. What's more, he is someone capable of bearing the radiance of divinity."
So no shortcuts will be permitted.
Tch. Damnably thorough. Lucy Aln.
"Now then, I can't keep my guests standing around out there. Do come inside."
Holding the door open himself and ushering them in, the man could not have looked more suspicious.
So suspicious, in fact, that Arthur half-wondered whether it meant he had no schemes at all.
Honestly, I have no desire to follow that invitation.
Handing the initiative to someone of unknown identity is simply not to my taste.
The problem, however, is that we have no options.
What would we do if we failed to enter through this door?
We would be left blindly rummaging through an unresponsive corridor, just as before.
Rather than that, it's better to walk in knowing it's a trap and dig out some kind of clue.
The worst case would be getting struck down by something unknown the instant we cross the threshold and tossed back outside.
But the room visible beyond the door, though a mess, looks like an ordinary office — so it should be fine.
It doesn't appear to hold any magical contrivance, and with the Saintess making no remark of caution, nothing foul can be lurking within.
Even in the worst of outcomes, we should have at least a moment to find some clue.
The instant Arthur finished his deliberation—
Joy. Phoebe. Frey. All three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.
Beneath gazes weighted with the faith that his judgment would be right, Arthur felt the pressure of it, yet kept his outward expression grave and unmoved.
"We go. Let's see what Lucy Aln has prepared for us."
As Arthur took a step forward, the others followed him into the room.
And just as the four of them, now inside, were breathing in the musty stench peculiar to an old, filthy residence and looking around—
The man, still standing outside the door, spoke with a gloomy smile.
"Welcome to the mansion, everyone. Please do enjoy yourselves to the fullest."
What in the world is that fool saying now?
The moment Arthur sensed something strange in that tour-guide patter, the man abruptly slammed the door shut.
In the wake of the impact, cracks began spidering across the floor.
And before Arthur's party could marshal any response, the floor gave way entirely.
A sudden plunge began, with nothing anywhere to grab hold of.
"Damn it all! Joy! See to the Saintess!"
"Don't worry!"
Joy spun up several wind-based magic circles in an instant, wrapped Phoebe in her arms, and slowed their fall. Confirming this, Arthur unfolded his own spell and searched for Frey.
Damn it. Where is that girl?
If she keeps falling like this, even Frey won't come out of it unscathed!
When Arthur, glancing about in bewilderment, finally found Frey, she was not below — but above.
"I worried for nothing, it seems."
Frey was holding her position in midair, stepping from one falling fragment to the next.
I have no idea how she's even doing that.
But at the very least, she doesn't seem likely to fall and hurt herself.
Weary of a spectacle he wouldn't see even at a circus, Arthur tore his eyes from Frey and completed a spell for himself alone.
Before long, Arthur touched down on solid ground, brushed the rubble from his hair, and looked around.
Is this the mansion's entrance hall?
That cursed man did tell us to enjoy the mansion, so I suppose we're meant to search the place for some kind of clue.
Haah. Another tiresome affair, then. We'll do a light look-around today, and mount a proper assault from tomorrow—
"...Huh?"
As he surveyed his surroundings, Arthur's gaze fell upon something installed at the very center of the hall — and he froze solid.
It was something familiar to Arthur.
Familiar to Arthur's entire party.
Familiar to every single person who had ever attempted the Academy Dungeon.
"Why is a Recording Device here?"
The Recording Device.
A fixture unique to the Academy Dungeon, replacing the safe zones found in ordinary dungeons.
A mechanism that spared climbers of the hundred-floor Academy Dungeon from starting over at Floor 1 every single time.
Why is that here?
A device that didn't exist in any of the previous rooms — why only in this place?
The moment Arthur felt the question rising as he stared at it, the mansion's entrance opened, revealing a staircase leading down into the depths.
Seeing that dark stairway, with no visible end, Arthur hastily examined the Recording Device, refusing to believe his own suspicion.
FLOOR 0
The meaning of the number carved there was unmistakable.
Every room they had cleared until now had been nothing but a dream.
A tutorial, built to let the examinees grow accustomed to the dungeon's gimmicks.
Which meant that everything from here on—
From the entrance of this mansion onward—
Was the true, genuine dungeon.
"...This is truly insane."
Having grasped the full picture, Arthur glared at the number Floor 0 for a long moment before letting out a hollow laugh.
"What kind of gimmick was THAT?! One single mistake and you're dead on the spot!"
Flung out of the dungeon after failing the Floor 1 boss, Arthur clawed wildly at his hair as he vented his fury.
A place where mistaking the moment to strike for the moment to hold back — or vice versa — means death, no appeal, no second chances!
Where in the world does a dungeon like this exist?!
"Puhahaha! Pitiful Prince, what's this? Trying to win sympathy with your looks now? If you want to look like a beggar, there are plenty of better ways to go about it."
The moment that voice rang out — slightly high, crisp, ticklish, and insufferably smug — Arthur knew exactly who it belonged to before he even turned his head.
"Lucy Aln. Why are you here?"
Lucy Aln.
The very girl who had been the target of every curse Arthur had hurled moments ago was now looking down at him.
"I waited here to see the face of the defeated."
"...What?"
"Pfft. Khm. Well, seeing the Pitiful Prince all worked up like this, waiting was worth it. What do you think? A place a total loser like the Pitiful Prince could never clear in a hundred years, let alone a thousand? Pretty amazing, right? Right?"
...This damnable brat.
Forcing us to crawl through that grotesque dungeon wasn't enough — now she's come to mock us too?
"Why no reply? Was my dungeon simply too, too magnificent for the Pitiful Prince's pathetic vocabulary to describe?"
"Do you expect an answer?"
"Oh, you could give one?"
"Of course I could. On one condition."
"Which is?"
"Allow me to land a single chestnut fist upon your head."
Watching you prance around like this has stretched my patience past all bearing.
So present the crown of your head. I cannot say whether my fist will do you harm or none at all — but once I've vented this fury by striking you, I shall give you your answer.
"Heh. What's this? Are you angry? Did watching this tiny, adorable little girl make you want to hit her? You truly are garbage, you know that?"
"If you refuse, then forget it."
Truthfully, I hadn't been serious. I merely wished to show that I was irritated. So if she will not grant the opportunity—
"I never said no, though?"
"...What?"
While Arthur stood frozen at this wholly unexpected answer, Lucy Aln trotted up to him on quick little steps and thrust the top of her head toward him.
...Uh. So.
She truly means for me to hit her?
She wants me to swing a fist at that tiny little head?
Yes, I know perfectly well how absurdly durable she is.
But still—
"PAHAHA! You really are a hopeless loser. Given a perfect opportunity and all you do is hesitate. No wonder I'll be calling you the pitiful little loser prince until the end of time, hm?"
Retreating a single step with a laugh, Lucy stood silhouetted against the moonlight, giggling as she needled him.
But it did not last. The moment Joy appeared, Lucy wheeled about and headed straight for her side.
Without a trace of lingering attachment — as though everything that had just passed had been nothing more than a tiny bit of mischief.
Left standing alone, Arthur buried his burning face in both hands and made his resolve once more.
The moment they cleared this dungeon, whatever else he might let slide, that chestnut fist he would deliver. Without fail.