The Inter-Class Tournament (4)
A battlefield of rolling hills and trenches. Across that desolate expanse, blanketed in dry sand, the earth trembled without a moment's rest.
"Shields—up!"
The massive figure at the head of the line, a black armband around his arm, bellowed as he hoisted his steel shield. The tanks arrayed beside him raised theirs in perfect unison.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A storm of bullets and abilities crashed against the wall of shields standing in a single rank.
"Hold! Dig your feet in and PUSH! We have to advance!"
The man leaned his upper body into the steel shield and drove one foot into the earth, shoving the ground itself forward. He carried the largest shield of them all and drew the heaviest fire for it—and still he simply, stubbornly, took another step and pushed.
"UWOOOOOOH!"
As the man roared, his steel shield flared with light. A magnificent rumble shook the air, and light flashed across every steel shield arrayed to his left and right. Then the entire front line roared with him and took one step forward.
The sound of shields grinding across the earth rolled over the field. That crude, metallic scrape would be hell itself to the enemy—and a fortress to their own.
"Man, this is actually pretty fun."
Thirty minutes before our class's match, we were sitting in the spectator stands, killing time and watching the fight currently underway. The classes on the field were Class 7 and Class 9.
Class 9 had a massive edge in overall firepower, but thanks to that class president and his tanking ability, Class 7 was somehow, inch by inch, grinding their way toward the other side.
"Out of the way!"
A kid with a black armband burst out of Class 9's dealer line and hurled a black sphere at Class 7's president. The small ball hung in midair for a beat, then stuck itself to the steel shield with a heavy thunk.
An enormous sound rolled out, and the black sphere clinging to the shield began sucking everything around it inward. Even though it was stuck to the Class 7 president's shield, the suction was so overwhelming that the shields lined up beside him collapsed. The sphere tore their entire formation apart, greedily devouring the sand around it—and still, Class 7's president did not fall.
He just kept going.
"UWOOOOOOH! Dig in and PUSH! You're pushing the GROUND!"
He threw those same words out over and over, putting his whole body into the shield, stubbornly advancing. Grinding, shoving the earth, he pressed on—and once he'd gotten a feel for that gravity sphere, he even started picking up speed, striding straight toward Class 9's front line.
"Ah... no!"
Class 9's president screamed. In an instant, Class 7's president slammed into their front line, and the gravity sphere still stuck to his shield sucked their formation in and tore it apart.
"KWAAAAAH—!"
Roaring like a monster, Class 7's president swung the shield with the gravity sphere still attached. Class 9's front line staggered and got dragged along with every swing. I couldn't help but be impressed. The guy looked like King Kong out of some old movie.
"SHOTGUNS IIIIN!!!"
Light flared across the Class 7 president's body, and several of the kids who'd been advancing behind their shields—as if they'd been waiting for this exact moment—hurled those shields aside and pulled their main weapons from their inventories. Fire erupted from the barrels of shotguns, the most murderously destructive weapons in close-quarters combat.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The interior of Class 9's rapidly collapsing front line was packed with slug rounds of catastrophic power.
"It's over."
I'd been enjoying the match, and I already had my conclusion. The moment their front line crumbled like that, Class 9 had zero chance of beating Class 7. With those devastating shotguns pushing in from the front, and no line left to stop the abilities and bullets raining down from behind, the game was already finished.
"Woooow!"
I looked around. The classmates watching alongside me let out gasps of admiration. Our homeroom teacher just sat there chewing on a ballpoint pen, watching the match with complete indifference.
"Jojun! Do you think we can win?"
Alice, sitting next to me, tugged on my sleeve and looked up at me. Swept up in the heat of Class 7 and Class 9's match, her eyes were full of excitement and nerves.
"Of course. We've got you, Alice."
I ruffled her hair as I gave her my answer. Sorry, but even a front line as strong as Class 7's wouldn't stand a chance against our class. Like Class 9, our strength was concentrated in the dealers sitting in the middle ranks—but the difference in firepower wasn't even comparable.
The match was already decided, so I was just sitting there yawning, staring blankly at the field, when I felt a gaze from the spectator section up front where the guild masters were gathered. I turned my head and saw a man waving at me.
It was Kim Subin, the S-Class hunter who, for whatever reason, seemed to like me. He had a handsome face, and watching him wave at me put me in a bad mood.
Why is this guy so desperate for my attention?
Still, he wasn't a bad person, so I reluctantly waved back—and he waved even harder, looking even happier. Come on. He's not a kid.
I ignored Kim Subin and cinched the steel sword at my waist tight. Now it was really about to start. I tapped the scabbard out of habit and ran through this scenario's objective one more time.
The goal of this inter-class tournament was to burn my existence into the minds of every spectator and guild master sitting in these stands. Spread my name far and wide, harvest Causality, and class-up—that was the payoff I was taking from this scenario.
A lifeless mechanical tone announced Class 7's victory. Our homeroom teacher, still chewing her ballpoint with a blank expression, spoke.
"Alright, kids. Let's go."
At those words, the class rose from their seats, each of them wearing a look of grim determination. Class versus class. Even if it was just an exhibition match, there wasn't a student alive who wouldn't have their competitive fire lit by a contest like this.
"Player! Good luck with this scenario!"
Angel popped into existence beside me and unfurled a huge placard she'd somehow put together, holding it up right in front of my face.
GO, JEONG JOJUN!
STRONGEST SWORDSMAN!
I snorted. I whispered a quiet thanks to Angel, who always cheered me on no matter what, and headed for the battlefield with my classmates.
Alright, let's go, Jeong Jojun. The perfect chance to farm Causality.
The morning of the inter-class tournament. For any student of the Great Demon Subjugation Academy, this morning should have been overflowing with anticipation and excitement—and the girl was no different.
"Hoo!"
A girl stood before the mirror, looking at herself. Short-cropped jet-black hair. A face still marked with leftover cuts from her as-yet-unmastered ability. At a glance, the look could have passed for a boy's—but the girl's sparkling beauty, paired with that style, radiated a distinctly tomboyish charm.
"Ah."
She muttered in a husky voice, as if something had just occurred to her, and her fingers found a tuft of hair that was standing up and smoothed it down.
"There."
She checked herself over—the school uniform shirt left slightly open, a handful of bandages stuck to her body—and Cheonghwa decided she was ready.
There was a time when Cheonghwa would roll out of bed looking like a mess and barely make it to school on time. But these days there was someone she couldn't stop thinking about, so she couldn't do that anymore.
She was reaching for the backpack slung over her chair when her eyes fell on the tattoo drawn on her wrist. Seven triangles, jumbled together in black ink.
When she'd first awakened as an ability user, she'd been an ordinary lightning-type. Then this tattoo had suddenly appeared, her lightning had turned pitch-black, and it had taken on terrifying destructive power. The increase in power itself was fine. The problem was that the black lightning existed completely outside the range of mana she could control.
No matter how hard she tried, the black lightning jumped and sparked wherever it pleased, and it hurt not only her but everyone around her. At first, everyone had encouraged her, told her it was okay. But after her repeated mistakes and the damage the black current caused, their gazes changed.
To irritation. To contempt.
During precious afternoon practicals with famous hunters, class had been delayed because of her—her alone—and she'd even injured the hunter giving the lecture. So Cheonghwa had fled afternoon class and gone into the Virtual Training Combat Building.
And she'd cried. Cried over this goddamn ability that refused to get better no matter how hard she tried. Cried over herself, who only hurt other people the more she practiced. Disgust and rage welled up inside her.
She'd sobbed until she staggered to her feet. Just once. Just one more time, she'd try to use her ability. Anyone watching would have called her stubborn and told her to give up. But just once more. Maybe a miracle would happen.
Black current crawled down Cheonghwa's wrist. She furrowed her brow, straining to move it—but it flowed halfway and then exploded, throwing her body back. Sprawled on the floor, Cheonghwa let out a choked sob and screamed.
"Ah, you piece of shit!"
It was a raw curse, and Cheonghwa kept spitting them out.
"FUCK!!!!"
Failure. But the lingering attachment and stubbornness stuck in her chest whispered again. Try just one more time. Yeah. Just once more.
Cheonghwa shot to her feet, manifested her ability, and failed again, of course. Hurled to the floor once more, she was pounding the ground and pouring out her frustration when she realized a man was watching her.
"You... you! Get over here!"
The thought that he'd seen her in this pathetic state sent shame and fury surging up, and before she knew it she was calling the guy over. She prided herself on looking pretty fierce, so she figured he'd run—but the man opened the training building door like he'd been waiting for it and walked right up to her.
Flustered, trying to figure out what to do with him, she spotted the armband on his right arm and the question slipped out on its own.
"You... you! Wait, you're a class president?"
"Yeah, I am."
The class president—the strongest fighter representing his class—answered her grilling with complete composure, looking her right in the eye.
That was their first meeting. The guy who'd rudely torn into her skills had listened to her situation, then dropped into a full bow and helped her. And in the end, she'd gotten to the point where she could control this bizarrely powerful black electricity, at least to some degree.
"Hoo."
Cheonghwa, about to walk out with her bag, paused and looked in the mirror one more time. Sparkling brown eyes shone back at her from the glass.
Is this a pretty face?
Jeong Jojun didn't like her—not like that—but he kept telling her she was pretty. Thinking of his words, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth for no reason.
"Yeah. If that guy says I'm pretty, then I guess I am."
This was Jeong Jojun, the guy with ridiculous skill. If that proud, cool bastard said she was pretty... then she was definitely pretty.
With a confident smile, Cheonghwa yanked the front door open. Today, she had to perform in the inter-class tournament. Not so much to shove it in the faces of the students who'd ignored her all this time—but for the one man who'd taught her and encouraged her without asking for anything in return. She had to make a showing, no matter what. Absolutely.
"Let's go!"
Cheonghwa shouted her resolve into the empty air and set off toward the Great Demon Subjugation Academy, her steps light and her mood high.