The Status Window (1)

Before the commotion could swell any larger, I slipped out of the arena and hurried straight back to my lodging.

I needed to change out of my armor, after all—and more importantly, I wanted to savor my reward at my leisure.

Status window. Oh, what a beautiful sound that word makes.

Anyone who's been transmigrated into some other body ought to have the basic right of checking their status window and confirming their growth. So why, pray tell, should I be expected to feel grateful just for being allowed to open one?

A complicated tangle of feelings bloomed in my chest, but I figured, hey, it's not every day you get to read your status window at all. So after taking a deep breath and locking my door, I sat down.

Phewww. I wonder how much I've grown by now. Judging from what my body feels like, it should be pretty impressive.

Struggling to rein in my pounding heart, I settled at the desk, spread out a sheet of paper to transcribe what I was about to see, and opened my status window—

BANG!

"Lucyyyyy! My daaaaarling! Papa, of course, always knew you'd wiiiin!"

Benedict, who kicked the door open at the last possible second before I could view it, scooped me up in his massive arms.

I'm so proud of you I don't know what to do with myself! And yet at the same time I worry—what will I do when you leave Papa's arms? We must raise a toast, not carry on like this!

Watching him rattle on without so much as a breath for air, I felt complaints bubbling up of their own accord—except, tragically, I couldn't voice a single one of them. Because I was being physically squeezed to the point of suffocation, and no sound would come out.

The moment I sensed I might actually die, I frantically drummed on his arms, and only then did Benedict finally loosen his grip.

"Oh dear, forgive me! Lucy! Your papa was simply overcome with joy!"

Even as he apologized, Benedict couldn't wipe the smile from his lips. Was my victory really that delightful to him?

I could have spat in that smiling face a hundred times over, but somehow—somehow—I just couldn't bring myself to say anything cruel to Benedict right now.

So I kept my mouth shut, and Benedict grinned slyly and hoisted me up onto his shoulder.

"Off we go to raise a toast! Lucy!"

Um, I don't think you should be taking me out onto the streets right now!?

"You foolish Father. Do you really want me out there listening to those losers spouting their nonsense?!"

I just caused a bloodbath not two hours ago, and you want to take me outside?! What will people think?!

I screamed as desperately as I could, but Benedict was immovable.

"Haha! No need to worry yourself over that!"

No, seriously, what is wrong with this man today?! You were the one cleaning up the arena mess on the way back, so you must know exactly what the mood out there is like!

Don't tell me he resolved the commotion physically? Left everyone too cowed to say a single word?!

In that case I want to go out even less! I can already picture the stares, and it will absolutely not be comfortable!

I squirmed this way and that on Benedict's shoulder, but escaping his grip proved impossible. For all my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠recent growth, I still couldn't hold a candle to even the tip of Benedict's little finger when it came to raw strength.

Grrrr. Just you wait, Benedict. Once I'm stronger than you, I'll live my life exactly as stubbornly as I please!

Not that I was entirely without options right now. As I'd demonstrated recently, I could always sink Benedict with words alone.

But, well. When I thought about how hard he must have worked to smooth things over at the arena, hauling out a stream of abuse just to win an argument felt a little... wrong.

...Also, the memory of Benedict slumped over, weeping, not long ago kept surfacing in my mind.

Either way, dragged out onto the street by Benedict's hand, I braced myself for hostile stares—but the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mood of the street was far milder than I'd expected.

That's strange. Considering the chaos I'd caused, even with Benedict right beside me, there should've been no end of grumbling. That much was only natural.

And even short of that, there should at least have been hostility lurking in their eyes—so why was everyone gazing at me with such fond, indulgent expressions?

...Why are you laughing all of a sudden?

My surroundings? Puzzled by Grandpa's remark, I nonetheless focused my divinity toward my ears. Sure enough, the voices of people whispering in the distance drifted into range.

'They say the Angel graced us with her harsh tongue again today?'

'Something about a bunch of perverts who lost to a little girl and couldn't even stammer out a retort?'

'Hurk. How very like the Angel to say such a thing.'

'Now, now. You're leaving out the part where she walked away without listening to a word anyone said around her.'

'Is that true? Haha. For all that foul mouth, she's quite the bashful one, isn't she?' 'It's so childish, it's adorable, really.'

...What? What is this? I just heard about the mess I made, and instead of a single harsh word, they're all giggling? Are these people the same breed as the face-con fox or the pervert apostle?!

Hoping those lot were simply the odd ones out, I turned my ear elsewhere—but the reactions there weren't much different.

'Nothing like those Soladin clods, is she? Truly the Count Aln's precious daughter.'

'The strong ought to carry that kind of arrogance. Aye.'

'She claimed victory in the arena at that age—if anything, that temper is only fitting.'

Only then did I understand their friendly gazes. The pervasive culture of strength-worship in the Tersha Empire—it had transmuted my insolent attitude into the pride of the mighty.

'Honestly, I kind of wish she'd curse me out a bit more.'

'What kind of lunatic—'

'I know how that sounds! But still.'

'Shut it, please. If Count Aln hears you, he will try to kill you.'

...Not everyone was like that, but what did that matter?

All right, fine, it did matter. Listening to them stare blankly at me while they said all this, I couldn't help but feel my irritation climbing—but still.

"Lucy."

Just as I was trying ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to calm the confusion swirling through my head, Benedict called my name with a smile.

"This city knows nothing of what you did in the past. And so, they judge you only by what you showed them in the arena."

It was then that I finally understood what Benedict had wanted to show me.

A world that knew nothing of the old Lucy. People who judged me purely as I was, here and now.

Benedict must have hoped that, seeing this, I could shed the weight of the past and walk forward. That however the old Lucy had lived, if the road I walked now was the right one, then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠goodwill could be etched into even the eyes of strangers. In his eyes, I was surely still a child crushed beneath the sins of the past.

And his wish overlapped, almost perfectly, with the scenery I myself had longed for.

I was someone who had always been hated for the countless messes Lucy had left behind. I was the one forced to live under all manner of venomous stares for crimes I had never committed.

So this street, which judged me purely as myself, should have been a world I'd wished for beyond anything—and yet, strangely, it didn't sit well with me at all.

Why? I mulled it over quietly there on Benedict's shoulder, but no easy answer came.

All I could tell was that something in my chest was squirming, restless.

The same way it had, in that moment when someone insulted Lucy's mother.

We visited the most famous restaurant in Badronel Territory, where I enjoyed my meal to a chorus of congratulations from the customers, the staff, and the cooks alike.

No. Scratch "enjoyed." Just like when I'd demonstrated my clear method for the final exam dungeon, receiving other people's praise made my body twist and squirm until I couldn't bear it. Thanks to that, even though Benedict had ordered every expensive dish on the menu, I could hardly taste a thing.

Either way, once the meal was over amid all that fuss, I returned to my lodging and took my place at the desk.

To do what Benedict's rampage had interrupted. And to speak the one line that anyone transmigrated into a game world is absolutely obligated to say.

"Status window."

— Ding.

The moment I saw the familiar chime sound and the blue pane spring to life, a smile escaped me all on its own.

Back when I first set foot in this world, I made an absolute fool of myself trying to summon this thing even once—and now, only after more than a year has passed, do I finally get to see my status window. Wonderful.

Seventy-two, huh. The price of slacking off on leveling during the second semester shows itself right here.

It's true that the required EXP curve spikes hard past level 50, so levels come slowly—but still being 72 is a bit embarrassing. It feels like a scratch across my pride as a veteran.

Fine. I was already planning on drilling my friends through dungeon runs, so I'll grind levels while I'm at it. At the very least, I need to break 80 before the next semester starts.

As I noted my current level down on the paper, Grandpa spoke up with a puzzled voice.

...Uh. Grandfather. You were awake?

Fair point.

I'd gotten so swept up in finally seeing my status window that I'd briefly forgotten Grandpa existed.

Ugh. Stuffing Grandpa back into the inventory at this point would only guarantee an interrogation later. Nothing for it, then. I'd just have to explain somehow.

To put it simply, a level is a number measuring the experience you've accumulated by felling enemies. The higher it is, the more you're able to do.

No, everyone in this world has a level. Most people are at least vaguely aware of the fact, too.

After all, the notion that repeated battle breeds strength is as good as common sense among the people living in this world. They may lack the word level, but the concept itself is broadly understood.

Most people can't, but I'm the Chief God's Apostle. I borrowed His grace for it.

For a knight of an ordinary house, a seasoned mid-tier one; among adventurers, roughly A-to-B-rank territory.

A level 72 can usually win acknowledgment of their strength wherever they go—but calling them a true heavyweight would still be a stretch.

Of course, proficiency and skills make strength vary wildly from person to person, but as a general rule, that's about it.

That's right.

An ordinary person would be content at this point, but I can't afford to be. There are far too many trials ahead that I must overcome to allow myself to stop here.

But don't worry. I'm going to grind myself into the dust this vacation.

Strengthening my friends means training myself a little too, after all. Having said my piece, I shifted my gaze downward.

Well, the class was exactly what I'd expected. No need to write it down.

The next part should be more of the same. There's no way the current me has anything resembling a flattering nickname.

PPFFT!... Koff! Koff koff koff!

The moment I laid eyes on what sat below that, a snort burst out of me.

Disgrace of Aln, I can understand. That's par for the course gossip in high society.

Why I got the Foul-Mouthed Angel nickname, I understand too. It's the same line I've been hearing nonstop from the arena all the way through my stroll around town today.

But, excuse me. What in the world is Beauty Extolled Even by the Goddess?! Why is a nickname I have never once heard in my life sitting there among my epithets like it owns the place?!

Was it the influence of that song the pervert apostle spread everywhere? If not that, then did the Crow goddess just pull some scheme for her own personal gratification?

...Nothing. It's nothing.

Eyes darting in confusion, I decided to skip the epithet section entirely without writing it down. One negative and two positives meant a net gain to my reputation anyway.

Now for the most important part of all.

Stats.

I had to check the numbers written there and patch up my deficiencies with the elixirs I'd been hoarding all this time.

Because to pull off the event coming later, I needed four stats that broke past 100.

Originally, I'd planned to just wing it and hope for the best when the time came—but if I could actually see my stat window, that changed everything.

Feeling anticipation and dread warring in my chest, I lowered my gaze—and at the numbers written there, I lost the power of speech entirely.

...Hmm. Hmmm. There is more than one strange thing on display here, but first and foremost, this one simply must be addressed.

Why is my Intelligence so low?!