The Duel (2)
Iris Gostrick.
Her name carried considerable weight even among the students of Class A.
Part of it was the fact that she'd come from abroad, but what really set her apart was one simple thing — she was a Shaman.
Shamanism was a niche class with an extremely small player base.
Because it was weak? No — quite the opposite. Its raw power outclassed every other class by a wide margin.
Buffs, healing, damage.
A perfect trinity!
Curses to deal damage, spells to empower her allies, blessings to mend their wounds. A dream class straight out of some web novel's protagonist build.
But the reason so few people took this path was obvious.
It demands an absurd amount of talent.
Shamanism was simply not something one could manage with mediocre ability. Most people could barely master a single specialty as it was — and a shaman needed to borrow the power of 'sorcery' to shoulder three roles at once.
It was like cramming groceries into a bag with no regard for capacity until the whole thing bursts at the seams.
Which meant that only those born with prodigious talent for sorcery could even qualify to step through the door. That was what it meant to be a shaman.
This morning, word had spread that Lee Seonyoung was dead.
The reason the Academy launched an investigation into his death was nothing complicated.
Because he was a shaman.
He'd started at F-rank, sure, but he'd grown steadily until he secured a place at D-rank. Shamans were all prodigies, so their rank assessments were brutally strict.
In other words, a D-rank shaman was the equivalent of an A-rank among ordinary cadets.
Judged by that standard, Lee Seonyoung had been an A-rank talent too — which was exactly why the Academy had stepped in.
So, a question naturally arises.
How strong, then, is Iris Gostrick — the shaman who sits enthroned at the top of Class A?
I didn't think the answer needed spelling out.
Screeeeech.
"Come in."
Escorted by the Class C homeroom teacher, I arrived at the faculty office and pushed open the door.
Sluuurp.
"Ah, you've arrived."
There sat Iris, sipping tea with impeccable poise.
Exotic features, blonde hair that exuded old-money nobility. Add an elegant tea time to the picture, and she might as well have stepped out of a masterpiece painting.
Sloppy.
But I could spot her inexperience.
Ever since my mental fortitude and silver tongue had improved, I'd developed a habit of catching even the tiniest details to win any war of words.
First of all, steam was rising off her tea in waves. That much vapor only happens with freshly boiled water — which meant the tea hadn't finished steeping.
And she was drinking that scalding tea without so much as a single puff to cool it.
Granted, an awakener wouldn't flinch at that level of heat, but if tea time were a regular habit, a natural reflex would have formed by now.
The way a lifelong glasses-wearer still reaches up to adjust frames they're no longer wearing after switching to contacts. The way a pro gamer instinctively reaches to pull off a headset even when the sound is coming through the speakers.
If she'd been holding tea times since childhood, blowing on her tea before drinking would have become second nature.
Instead, she was guzzling it like a sports drink after a workout.
So she's trying to crush me with atmosphere alone.
She wanted to use the pressure of her status to dominate the mood and have me dancing on her strings. Well then, I supposed I'd have to respond in kind.
"Where's my tea?"
I asked as I sat down on the sofa across from her.
"?"
"You invite someone to tea time and don't even serve your guest a cup? Is that how nobles treat company?"
This one didn't even need A Story That Makes Sense.
"Excuse me?"
Iris's composure cracked, and a dazed squeak escaped her instead of a proper reply.
Good.
I'd reclaimed the atmosphere. Time to press the attack.
"Never mind. Drop the amateur theatrics and get to the point."
"Th-that's hardly mannerly—"
"And is it mannerly for a single student to drag another student out of a professor's lecture at her own whim?"
She tried desperately to keep up her aristocratic act, but it was too late. The tempo belonged to me now.
"...Very well. Let us proceed to the matter at hand."
At least she can read the room.
Right now the situation was working against her. Resetting the conversation meant resetting the situation itself — by far her best move.
Psychological warfare is my specialty.
This wasn't something I'd learned from Nyarlathotep. Games had taught me just how crucial mind games were.
Sheer physical skill could only carry you so far — that was the whole point of gaming.
Granted, living with that woman had sharpened me in certain ways, but mind games had been my forte from the start.
"I would like a duel with you."
"I beg your pardon?"
But there was exactly one situation where my psychological warfare failed.
"I want a duel with you."
When my opponent was a lunatic.
People whose minds operated on a plane so far removed from ordinary humans that no amount of leading questions could steer them toward an answer.
And of course, today, of all days, I had to run into one of them.
"...Why, exactly?"
I had no choice but to fall back on defensive responses.
Lunatics were at least docile while you listened to them talk.
"I cannot tell you my reasons... but I can state the compensation with absolute certainty."
This smells like absolute garbage, honestly.
What could a Class A student possibly gain from dueling an F-rank cadet?
Nothing but snickers and mockery about her punching down.
And yet she was offering compensation on top of it, just to get a duel out of me? That meant something was definitely up.
"I will offer you five hundred million won as payment."
"Five hundred million, you say?"
Ironically, the richer the reward, the less I trusted it.
Besides, I wasn't exactly starving for money at the moment, so the offer did nothing for my appetite.
If I really put my mind to it, five hundred million was well within reach even now.
Brain's made its ruling: decline.
My SAN value would take a hit, but refusing was the right call here.
Of course, she wouldn't let me off the hook that easily. Thank god for A Story That Makes Sense.
Outer God Nyarlathotep says: 'Accept it.'
Just then, a message from Nyarlathotep arrived out of nowhere.
What? Accept it?
Outer God Nyarlathotep declares that some uppity little fox has been wagging her chin without her master's permission, and demands corrective education.
How am I supposed to beat Class A?!
Class A.
The elite class of the Academy — a collection of nothing but monsters.
Total enrollment: a mere ten students.
Reportedly all rank 1 or rank 2 talents by academic standing.
I hadn't gotten from rank 9 to rank 7 only to defeat people like that.
If I transformed into that avatar, maybe — but if I pulled out something like that inside the Academy, it would be game over for everyone.
Outer God Nyarlathotep asserts with certainty: you will win.
How, exactly?
Outer God Nyarlathotep chides you for talking too much.
So just smash my way through?
Outer God Nyarlathotep raises both thumbs in enthusiastic approval.
...Um.
Was this right?
It couldn't possibly be her telling me to go die, could it?
By her own admission, Nyarlathotep was the supreme god of everything mental. She would never greenlight a boneheaded decision with even a shred of a chance I'd lose.
And besides, if she actually wanted me dead, she'd never have signed a contract with me in the first place.
"..."
Fine. Time to trust her once.
A Story That Makes Sense
I activated A Story That Makes Sense and opened my mouth.
"Will five hundred million be enough?"
"Pardon?"
"The value of money is relative."
Since I was fighting anyway, I might as well squeeze out a better prize.
"Consider an example. One man is rich enough to fill a vault; another has no food to eat even today."
If I was going to negotiate, I'd aim for something rarer than money.
"The man with the overflowing vault doesn't lift a finger for a mere five hundred million. He earns that much just by breathing."
"But a pauper would trade his very life for it. Because with that money, he could shed his poverty and live like a normal human being again."
I laid out the difference between her position and mine.
"You see me as the pauper. But I am the man with the overflowing vault. Which is to say — money isn't enough to make me move."
"I... see."
"Then allow me one more example."
Now, the part where I named my price.
"The rich man has a daughter stricken with illness. But the cure for her disease is so scarce that no seller can be found anywhere in the world."
I didn't actually have a sick daughter, of course. Purely hypothetical.
"Then along comes someone who says: perform one troublesome favor for me, and I shall give you the cure. Naturally, the rich man accepts the offer."
I extended a hand toward her, slow and deliberate.
"I want the cure. The cure called the Tome of Spirit."
"The... the Tome of Spirit?"
Sorcery.
In a way, it was a close cousin of my own power.
She draws on mental strength too, after all.
Magic took mana and layered concepts on top of it. Sorcery took mana and layered the mind on top.
A curse carrying a wish for death. A blessing carrying a wish for fortune.
All of it steeped in human emotion.
In other words, mental strength was the fuel of sorcery.
It wasn't one hundred percent mental fuel like me — call it fifty percent, give or take — but still.
The point stands: mental strength matters to shamans too.
Which was precisely why the Tome of Spirit had been created for shamans.
A grimoire that raised your mental capacity just by reading it. An utterly absurd, busted item.
The rapid gains were only in the early stages, admittedly — it slowed to a crawl later on.
Even so, busted was busted, and among the already scarce population of shamans, only a select few ever got their hands on one.
"Th-that item is..."
But there was no way in hell the strongest shaman of her age generation didn't own one.
She'd try to pretend otherwise, at least — and would you look at that, her face was already scrunching up.
"Naturally, if I win, I take it. If I lose, I'll simply pocket the five hundred million and we'll call it a day."
"You... you mean to take the money as well?!"
"Of course. Five hundred million is the table stakes. The Tome of Spirit is the win bonus."
Since we were fighting anyway, I figured I'd bleed her dry until not a speck of dust was left.
"If you have complaints, feel free to call the whole thing off."
"...I accept."
She'd prepared five hundred million just to duel an F-rank cadet — which meant she had a reason she absolutely had to fight me. She couldn't afford to walk away from my terms.
And so the duel was complete — one where every single benefit flowed to me.