The Contest with Arthur (1)

On my way back to the dormitory to wash up after wrapping up my usual early-morning training, something caught my eye: a crowd of people gathered around the notice board.

If there was a new notice going up today, that would be it, wouldn't it?

I turned on my heel and headed toward the board.

Excuse me, could you make way?

"Move it, you losers."

The students were ever so gracious. They glanced up from the notice at the sound of my voice and hastily parted like the Red Sea.

If only they hadn't worn the expressions of people spotting a cockroach, I might have actually thanked them.

By now I'd grown used to this kind of thing, so I waded through the crowd and checked the notice.

Just as I'd thought. Every semester, Soul Academy opens a dungeon — an artificial labyrinth built by the Academy itself, roughly a hundred floors deep. Its interior takes the classic maze form everyone imagines when they hear the word "dungeon."

A boss every ten floors, difficulty climbing the further down you go, a different theme for each stratum demanding proper preparation — the works.

But what set this dungeon apart from all others was, decisively, its crisis-escape function. If a challenger fell into danger, the magic woven throughout the dungeon would recognize them and ferry them out to safety. Because of that, Academy students could clear the dungeon with zero real risk.

That function should have been active during the entrance exam dungeon, too — but Agra's interference turned it into a disaster.

Students of Soul Academy weren't strictly required to clear the dungeon. It was simply a good idea, since rewards scaled with the floors you conquered. Above all, a special prize awaited the first three parties to fully clear it.

Back when I played the game Soul Academy, nothing mattered more than being in that top three. Whether you got that reward or not shaped how comfortable the rest of the game became.

The first-semester reward of freshman year could be forgone under certain circumstances, but every other reward was mandatory. Of course, I had no intention of giving up the first-semester reward either. The pride of a Soul Academy hardcore veteran was at stake — how could I possibly let it slip away!

While reading through the Academy's notice to see if reality had changed anything from the game, I found something curious — a line I should never have been able to see in a first notice.

It was a sentence that couldn't exist right after enrollment, since there was no way to acquire Agra's Curse the moment you entered the Academy.

That much I could believe. When Agra meddled in the Academy dungeon, this exact notice appeared — and after that, he never intervened again. Which meant that to farm items off Agra's Curse, you had to head to the external dungeons instead. Well, exceptions existed, but not often.

So for now, I could clear the Academy's dungeon with peace of mind.

The rest was all the same boilerplate, right? No, wait. One thing was different... Huh?

I'm sorry, what?

You can't enter the dungeon without a four-person party? Why?!

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

My eyes slid down the page in search of an answer, and there it was. The notice went on at length, but the gist was this: despite their utmost vigilance, variables and accidents could occur anywhere. Seasoned students familiar with dungeon clearing could handle such situations, but freshmen were another matter. Many of them had never cleared anything but the entrance exam dungeon, and such people were bound to be clumsy in a crisis. Hence, for their safety, this measure.

No. This is not okay.

Four people?!

I understood the spirit of it, but wasn't this going way too far? For safety's sake, a two-person party would be plenty. Which meant a social pariah like me couldn't even set foot in the dungeon!

Why on earth were they this jumpy? The game was never this strict. You people never insisted on four-person parties unless we were heading out to clear an external dungeon! What's different now, huh? Is this because of the accident in the entrance exam dungeon?

Ugh. Forget it. I don't get it.

The bottom line was that I had to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clear the dungeon for the rewards. So how was I supposed to fill the slots? Even if the professor requirement could be handled by dragging Carl along, where was I supposed to find two more people willing to enter a dungeon with me?

"Four people...? Troublesome."

Oh right. I did know one person. Unlike me — a pariah by circumstance — here was someone busily pariah-ing herself out of the world by choice.

Frey, who had apparently followed me over and now stood beside me reading the notice, furrowed her brow and jutted her lips out in a pout.

Should I bring her along?

Hah. To think I'd ever agonize over this. Deliberately putting her — a party-wrecking menace of the highest order, a walking inconvenience — into my party? Better to just go in alone than make that choice.

Except I couldn't go in alone, could I? Dammit!

And what stung even more was that even if I had no choice but to take Frey, one person would still be left over.

The first-semester reward was the one thing I could technically skip without regret, so I could wave it off coolly and... no, no I couldn't.

"Lucy Aln."

Who is it now? My head's about to split open.

If you're picking a fight, I'll happily use your face as my stress relief.

The moment I turned my head with that thought, I met a pair of cold, glacial blue eyes looking down at me.

Arthur.

"If it isn't the Pitiful Prince."

Running into the very person I'd been deliberately avoiding since the catastrophe of the entrance ceremony startled me so badly that his name slipped out on its own.

And once again, without fail, the Mesugaki Skill performed its duties to the absolute best of its ability. Seriously, would it kill you to slack off a little?

"...A week has passed, and that filthy mouth remains unchanged. Well, I suppose it can't be helped. You've lived your whole life this way."

At the words Pitiful Prince, the corner of Arthur's mouth twitched upward, and he let his voice drip with mockery.

I couldn't see his affection meter right now, but somehow I had a pretty good guess where Arthur's stood.

Negative. Definitely negative.

"Blasphemous Lucy Aln. I have a proposal for you."

...And that would be?

"What is it?"

"Ordinarily, your insolence would demand punishment. But this is the Academy, is it not? I am ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a prince, and yet not a prince; you are a lady, and yet not a lady."

As Arthur spread his arms in an extravagant gesture, the gazes of everyone around us swung our way.

The temperature of those stares was starkly divided. The eyes on Arthur were warm. The eyes on me were glacial, heavy as lead.

Those hundreds of stares were so weighty that, formless though they were, I felt crushed beneath them — as if they might suffocate me where I stood. If the Mesugaki Skill hadn't forcibly manufactured my composure, would I have crumpled to the floor?

Would you call it oppressive? Or just shrewd?

What do you mean?

I mean the bastard engineered this whole tableau on purpose.

Because he knew public opinion favored him and froze me out.

Arthur had chosen, deliberately, to approach me in a crowded place.

The intent is obvious. To make you feel pressured into accepting his proposal.

...What do you think he wants?

Hard to say. Nothing good, I'd wager.

Grandpa, I knew that much already. What kind of flattering words would Arthur have for someone he hates, anyway?

"So I shall make you an offer. Will you hear it?"

Go ahead.

"I'm listening, Pitiful Prince."

He'd arranged the crowd into something that looked ready to stone me the moment I refused, and now he was playing the considerate gentleman? Give me a break.

Hearing my answer, Arthur cocked one eyebrow and drawled on, unhurried.

"You are exceptional. Exceptional enough to crush me underfoot and call me pitiful. Some are already saying a once-in-a-century genius has appeared."

What on earth was that about?

A genius? I've never heard anyone say that in my life. The only thing I've caught people muttering as I passed by is trashed lady.

He's buttering you up. Deliberately.

Why?

Because the higher he lifts you, the further he can drop you.

"Hearing all that stirred something competitive in me. I may not measure up to you, but I am, after all, a man who was raised on being called a genius himself."

With that, Arthur paused.

Like a storyteller signaling the crowd that now — now — was the moment to lean in.

"Shall we not settle it, then?"

A contest?

"A contest?"

"Yes. A contest. We wager on who clears deeper into the dungeon within a single day.

Should you win, I shall graciously forgive your insolence. I am a generous man, after all. And should you lose, you lose nothing. You need only bear the consequences of your blasphemy. Well? A proposal with nothing to lose. Wouldn't you agree?"

Refuse it.

The instant Arthur finished speaking, Grandpa barked the words without hesitation.

It sounds like he's offering you a chance at forgiveness, but it's nothing of the sort. That is a scheme to humiliate you — legally, publicly, and on his terms.

Normally, someone like that wouldn't even make the offer if he thought he might lose, right? He'd sooner stoop to any underhanded trick imaginable to hand me a defeat.

Grandpa said that merely lending an ear to the proposal was already a stain on my honor.

And the most vicious part is that nothing is clearly specified.

If I won, I'd receive his forgiveness.

But what would that even be worth? Arthur would only perform magnanimity on the surface while never forgiving me in his heart — and my reputation wouldn't change one whit. And if I lost, then what? If I was defeated, what exactly would I have to bear?

In short, what Arthur had laid on the table was a blank contract.

A blank contract — favorable only to Arthur.

With opinion the way it is, refusing will get you called a coward, a spineless sneak. But so what? Where exactly do you have left to fall?

Granted, I was confident I could beat this guy no matter what kind of dog-and-pony show he pulled. But confidence didn't mean I had to accept an offer where I held all the risk and he held all the cards.

My reputation?

I was already at the bottom of the abyss. Where else was there to fall?

Having conceded Grandpa's point, I was just opening my mouth to spit out my refusal when—

Ding.

A message window materialized in front of me.

You perverted, pathetic Chief God.

You're watching me right now, aren't you? And you want me to take this bet. Don't you?

If your goal was to seduce me into accepting, you hit the bullseye. An item that could instantly raise the Airhead Lady's affection? Getting my hands on one normally meant grinding through a quest so tedious it made my skin crawl — and you're offering it for free?

Hah. Damn you.

I don't know what your exact game is. Maybe, in your lofty godly contemplation of us pitiful little mortals, you're seeing something I can't. Or maybe you're just a degenerate scrub ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a Chief God who wants to watch me eat humble pie. Going by your track record, the latter seems far more likely.

But whatever. Either way, it doesn't matter.

No matter what tricks the NPCs of this game try to pull, I have what it takes to win.

Sure...

"Fine, Pitiful Prince. I accept your proposal."

WHAT?! Are you insane?!

At my nod, Grandpa cried out in alarm — while Arthur's grin stretched slow and long across his face.

"Confident, are we?"

Obviously.

"Obviously, Pitiful Prince. As if someone like you could ever beat me."