Second Semester Finals (15)
The final floor of the final exam dungeon.
Arthur's party, who had used the Academy Dungeon's records to reach the antechamber of the boss room, were each making their preparations for battle, just as they had done countless times before.
In their early attempts, they had changed this and that with every run, groping for the optimal approach — but by now, that sort of discussion was no longer necessary.
Arthur's party had already worked out exactly what the optimal preparation looked like.
In the middle of those preparations, Arthur found himself recalling what Joy had said before they entered this dungeon.
'If we can't break the final spell, then we just have to make it impossible to cast in the first place!'
Listening to her talk with such feverish excitement, Arthur had harbored genuine doubts about whether such a thing was even possible.
Interfering with a magic circle someone else had drawn was already an absurdly difficult feat — and yet she meant to reach into a spell woven by a being standing far above anything they could currently match, and unravel it entirely?
Having learned about the subject in his magic theory classes, Arthur knew exactly how ridiculous that sounded.
'Don't worry, Third Prince. I've burned that magic circle into my eyes over and over again by now. Its composition is already engraved in my mind, so interfering with it is absolutely within my power.'
And yet Joy had stood proud in the face of Arthur's skepticism. That unshakable confidence — the confidence of someone who did not entertain, even for a moment, the possibility of her own failure — only made Arthur more anxious.
Because whenever Joy got that fired up, it usually ended in some bizarre blunder and a catastrophic failure.
Extrapolating from past experience, Arthur had hurried to dissuade her — but then—
'Besides, even if failure were guaranteed, would that really be a reason not to try?'
Hearing her add that, he had fallen silent.
She was right.
So long as we're given unlimited attempts, a guaranteed failure is no reason not to challenge it.
If anything, refusing to try would be the strange choice. Hadn't Lucy Aln taught us, through this very dungeon, that the answer only ever waits at the end of a challenge?
'Right. Let's give it a shot.'
'...Um. There is one thing I'd like to ask of you, for the sake of this attempt. Could you possibly push the boss on the fifth floor all the way to its final phase, even without me?'
Recalling those words, Arthur let out a wry smile.
"Can we, though."
I told her I'd find a way, but whether that's actually possible is another matter entirely. The boss of the fifth floor is hardly a pushover.
Arthur was rubbing the back of his neck, lost in thought, when Frey — who had drifted over to his side at some point — gave his sleeve a tug, and he turned his head toward her.
"Prince."
"What is it?"
"This time, I'm going to move however I want."
"...And when, exactly, have you ever listened to a word I said?"
I don't understand why the girl who used to charge off on her own at every opportunity and cause nothing but trouble is suddenly announcing her intention to do exactly that.
"I haven't been moving however I want, though?"
"No? You're telling me that was you holding back?"
"Mm."
At the sight of Frey tilting her head as if the answer were obvious, Arthur stiffened slightly.
That was you holding back? And now you intend to run even more rampant than before?
"You're saying this because you understand we'll be operating without Joy, aren't you?"
"That's why I'm saying it."
Looking into Frey's brimming certainty, Arthur deliberated for a moment before nodding with a sigh.
He didn't particularly care for Frey's habit of unilateral action — but before that, he acknowledged the sheer talent she possessed.
Were it not for Lucy Aln, Frey would still have been considered a singular genius in her own right. If someone like that was saying this, she must have some means in mind.
And if it was just words spat out on impulse... well. Worst case, I can give this girl a piece of my mind once we've been kicked out.
"Forgive me for asking, but — do you have something to say as well, Saintess?"
Thinking that by this point he had no choice but to ask, Arthur turned his head, and Phoebe nodded with her usual gentle smile.
"Third Prince."
"Yes."
"Give yourself room to breathe."
"...Pardon?"
"While Joy was with us, it was fine for you to hang back and handle the coordination. But Joy isn't here anymore."
What Joy once carried is now Arthur's burden. So rather than fretting over synchronizing everyone, trust that each of them will do their part — and focus on your own.
"Lady Kent. Myself. We are all people who can carry a full share under any circumstances. You don't need to shoulder everything alone."
"...I suppose that's true."
Hearing her words, Arthur realized what he had been overlooking all this time.
Until now, Arthur had tried to drive everything forward according to his own design. Because that was how Lucy Aln had operated, there at his side.
Because Lucy's methods had looked so unbearably efficient.
Naturally, he had found himself imitating her.
But there was no need for that anymore.
When everyone already knew what their role was, what reason was there for Arthur to keep orchestrating the flow of battle?
"Trust us. Please."
Phoebe spoke, meeting Arthur's eyes.
"I will."
And as if answering her, Arthur nodded and gave his reply.
With that, every preparation was complete.
Only one task remained for Arthur's party.
To bring down the boss of the fifth floor.
"Let's begin."
As Arthur pushed open the door to the fifth floor, a bleak chill spilled out from within, along with a voice as unpleasant as something seeping up from the depths of a swamp.
"How was my estate? How were my memories? Did you enjoy yourselves? Did you have fun?"
The pressure exerted by the Derelict — arms flung wide, his mana-laden voice washing over them — was crushing enough to steal the breath from anyone's lungs. Yet Arthur's party stood composed even in his presence.
Perhaps they might have frozen, the first time they'd faced that voice. But after hearing it a hundred times over, it only prompted the thought: ah, there he goes throwing another tantrum.
"Now comes the final act. I do hope it proves to your liking, all the way through to the curtain."
"On th—..."
Arthur, moving on reflex like a conductor snapping his baton up out of habit, found that Frey had already slipped past his side before the words could leave his mouth.
Aura coiled around her blade, and before the Derelict could even draw his sword, she moved to take his head.
Yet faced with that beast-fang-sharp assault, the Derelict showed no trace of alarm.
Instead, a serene smile crept across his lips, and with an aura-clad hand he caught Frey's strike as though it weighed nothing.
"Eager, aren't we. Tell me — do you truly believe an actor of my caliber should be granted the leisure to deliver his lines?"
"Not really?"
Answering his question in a tone utterly devoid of feeling, Frey pressed in on the Derelict with a savage blade-dance impossible to imagine from that expressionless face.
"How sad. How very sad."
At that moment, Frey abruptly fell back.
The line about sorrow.
Eyes tinted blue.
An opening flaunted openly, practically begging to be struck.
She had recognized it — a gimmick that punished anyone who dared attack — and withdrawn of her own accord.
What.
She could handle it alone?
Arthur let out a hollow laugh at the sight.
Every time until now, the instant that state had appeared, Arthur had desperately shouted Frey's name.
Terrified she would drown in her own assault and keep swinging, he had raised his voice in warning.
And all of it, in truth, had been unnecessary.
Because Frey had always known how to break that gimmick herself.
If that's how it was, you could have told me from the start.
Smiling wryly to himself, Arthur traced several magic circles into the air around him.
You've shown me you can do your part.
Then I shall show you that I can do mine.
His spellwork might fall short of Joy's — but Arthur, too, was a human being who towered far beyond any ordinary standard.
His skill, already soaring far past the level of a first-year student, was more than sufficient to strip the boss of its gimmicks.
"Let us change the color of this stage!"
The instant the Derelict raised his voice, crimson energy began swirling across every part of his body.
One of the fifth-floor boss's gimmicks.
A pattern demanding that every marked point be struck down within a fixed span of time.
Fail to destroy all the crimson energy, and a spell would fire — one that threatened the challenger's very life.
But this time, that threat came to nothing.
Because Arthur had unleashed his prepared magic the moment he laid eyes on it.
From the heart of his magic circle, a saturation of mana-bolts like falling rain hammered into every streak of red, paralyzing the Derelict outright.
"Nice one, Prince."
"Spare me the useless commentary and mind your own job. Frey."
"...You really do have a rotten personality."
"Less rotten than yours."
The two of them had been bickering — then the staggering Derelict reached for his sword, and their mouths snapped shut as each moved to their own task.
Even after that, Arthur's party carried out their duties in silence, passing the battle between them like clockwork.
When the Derelict scattered his curses, Phoebe purified them on the spot.
When he charged, sword raised, Frey intercepted him and fought a holding action.
And in the openings she carved, Arthur — his magic circles already spun up — drove the Derelict back with sheer firepower.
When Frey took wounds in the process, Phoebe healed her, and while she did, Arthur stepped forward to plug the gap.
An organic chain of coordination, continuing on and on with no one directing it at all.
To be sure, the absence of Joy left its own hollows.
There was friction, undeniable, from the lack of anyone at the center to tune the flow.
And still, Arthur's party did not crumble.
They clamped their buckling legs together with improvisation and stubbornness, and pressed on toward victory.
"Hahahahaha! Yes! Good! Let's see it through to the very end!"
How long had they fought like that?
At some point, the Derelict laughed — and scattered crimson mana all around himself.
The fifth-floor boss's final pattern.
The gimmick that had crushed Arthur's party into despair countless times before.
A catastrophe for which no counterplay had ever seemed to exist.
Watching it take shape, Arthur exhaled a rough breath and turned his head toward the rear.
"Joy!"
It's your turn now.
You wanted this, and we dragged him here exactly as you asked — so make every ounce of our struggle mean something!
Catching Arthur's gaze, Joy smiled and clasped the red jewel hanging at her neck.
The jewel Lucy had gifted her not long ago.
Having steadily soaked up mana throughout the days since, it had become, at last, her trump card.
Taking a light, deep breath, Joy poured her own mana into the jewel — and closed her eyes.
The physical sight filling her retinas was unnecessary now.
All she needed was the mage's eye — the eye that sees mana itself.
A sense drilled into her from the earliest age, as a daughter of House Patran.
I see it. My own mana.
I see it. The crimson mana the Derelict holds.
I see it. The picture he is drawing, even now.
The magic circle we have faced over and over, a hundred times, up to this very moment.
The spell he weaves — the one I have traced in my head again and again, waiting for this point to come.
The spell that is not one hair's breadth different from what I remember!
The corner of Joy's mouth curled upward, and she opened her eyes even as she released the mana stored in the jewel.
Scarlet mana bearing the aspect of flame swept across her blue irises.
The power she had carried spread outward, pushing against the Derelict's crimson — and the two mana currents bared sharpened fangs at one another, each fighting to hold its own ground.
"Futile! Do you truly believe the likes of you — a half-baked amateur — can stop me?!"
"I'm not particularly interested in hearing that from a layabout who can't even manage basic self-discipline despite his noble station!"
In a situation where the slightest waver would dissolve everything into spray, the smile at the corner of Joy's mouth only burned brighter.
I'm sorry, but I'm not going to lose!
Everyone else performed miracle after miracle to carry me this far — I can't fail now!
Because if I did, the Prince and Phoebe and Lady Kent would all bury me under a mountain of scolding, without exception!
So go on and become the sacrifice for my success, won't you?
You layabout who isn't even worthy of the word 'noble'!