Swordmage Iris
This game summoned its participants at random, and the compulsion was undeniable.
To that end, they dangled rewards to motivate these lords to throw themselves fully into the Monarch Game.
"The three apprentice lords who achieve the highest scores across training and the lord qualification exam will receive rewards usable in the real world. Allow me to list a few that I suspect will pique your interest."
Rewards were essential.
And these were rewards that could be claimed in reality, separate from the Monarch Game itself.
Play the game right, and it could transform your life back home.
Arthur had benefited immensely from that fact.
Even setting aside the rewards, the Monarch Game granted something invaluable: experience.
Thanks to it, Arthur had earned the moniker "ghost of the battlefield" during his past life's wars. He'd commanded ever-larger armies without a single hitch.
"The third-place finisher among the top three will receive 1,000 gold."
"……!"
A hush fell over the grand hall.
Some nobles didn't bat an eye, but the slaves and commoners were a different story.
The slaves especially.
To them, it was a dream beyond dreams.
1,000 gold would outlast years of idleness for an average commoner.
"May I ask a question?"
A man who looked like a slave raised his hand.
"Permission granted."
The chief instructor nodded.
"Even if slaves like us get that kind of money, what difference does it make……?"
A slave's money became their master's. That was the usual assumption.
And no amount of coin could strip away a slave's status.
"From now on, listen until the end before asking. Commoners often pick gold. Slaves who place in the top three tend to choose alternatives. First: the privilege to wield 1st-class magic."
"……!"
Silence blanketed the hall once more.
It was absurd.
1st-class magic.
In other words, the chance to become a 1st-class mage.
How could anyone not be stunned?
Slave or commoner, becoming a mage flipped your status on its head.
Even if a noble slave-owner forbade it, that slave would still receive preferential treatment over the others.
Mages were revered across the continent, no matter the land.
True, a 1st-class mage was the lowest rung.
But even that earned you treatment akin to a baronet.
The chief instructor continued curtly.
"Mana manifestation."
"……Insane."
"Th-this game…… it's a golden opportunity……."
Whispers erupted here and there.
Mana manifestation.
It was coveted by soldiers, nobles, and commoners alike.
Mana usually came through rigorous training, manifesting as aura.
Even scions of famed houses often lacked the talent, sidelined in family power struggles.
But top three here? Mana was yours.
And soldiers? Even a sliver of mana rocketed their status overnight.
As the chief instructor outlined the rest, the apprentice lords' eyes blazed with hunger.
They'd claw their way into the top three, no matter what.
That's why they toss in rewards—to fuel the cutthroat competition.
The training lasted two months.
It was a system to ensure everyone complied.
Arthur also knew a secret the others didn't.
Top three. And first place gets the unique right to choose a territory. Territory selection is huge.
That was why Arthur had to stand out.
Territories were assigned randomly.
Get unlucky, and you'd land amid war-crazed mad lords.
Or barren soil unfit for farming.
After the speech, everyone headed to the cafeteria.
Arthur eyed the soup, bread, drumstick, and milk on his tray.
He dug in, and two flavors of groans rippled around him.
"They expect me to eat this slop……?"
The nobles stared at their trays in disbelief.
Accustomed to savoring ten-plus dishes.
This crude fare? An insult.
Others, though, gasped in awe.
"M-meat……."
"No way. A whole drumstick……."
Exploited servants, farmers on wretched soil where seeds withered, beggars.
To them, this was fantasy fare.
"Damn fine. This game's top-notch."
A middle-aged man beside Arthur tore into his drumstick with glee.
Grime caked his face—he was clearly a miner.
"Three squares like this a day? I might end up a fat noble pig at this rate."
"You bastard, what did you just say?!"
A nearby noble barked.
The quick-witted miner turned sullenly to the instructor.
"Instructor, didn't you say birth and titles mean nothing here? Yet this guy's playing noble."
"Both of you need a beating to wise up?"
"Sorry, sir."
"……."
The miner apologized swiftly; the noble was speechless.
Miner wins.
Street-smart. Adapts fast. And knows how to leverage it.
Status and origins meant zilch here.
What happened next was predictable.
Those clinging to "commoner" pride trailed nobles like lost pups.
But this miner? He flipped it.
He'd begged nobles countless times: "Sorry, mercy, no whips!"
That "sorry" to the instructor? Routine.
The noble? Utter humiliation.
One truth: Quick adapters survived, noble or not.
"I was one of the rare miners who could extract high-grade ore without much damage. Even I got just three potatoes a day."
Hmm.
Arthur ate while listening, intrigued.
High-grade ore was tricky. Even found intact, it often shattered—30% yield was lucky on a good day.
Nail that, and you were solid.
But just that.
Arthur finished and scanned the room.
Nobles hadn't touched their food.
Last scrap of pride?
Three days max.
Hunger would break them; they'd scarf it down.
"Time to move."
Slaves and commoners had wolfed theirs already.
Gotta eat fast when you're used to scraps.
Nobles rose, clutching empty stomachs.
Over 200 rooms stretched in a row.
Here, apprentice lords got two months of intensive care.
Thanks to it, even slaves, commoners, and nobles grasped lord basics.
Louis is here, of all places.
Arthur narrowed his eyes at the refined man by a nearby door.
Louis.
Scion of a prestigious house.
And one of the 101 lords Arthur knew.
The 101 were humanity's powerhouses, just below challenger lords.
Arthur had beheaded him in his past life—his conduct was legendary.
He'd played the sage king.
Graceful, elegant, every pose perfected.
But defeated by Arthur? He butchered his own knight order, knelt, and begged.
Sacrificed everyone to save his skin.
Pledged eternal loyalty.
Arthur saw the backstab coming and refused.
Louis's face then? Grotesque duality.
If he becomes a nuisance, eliminate him. Simple.
Arthur didn't dwell.
"Enter!"
At the instructor's shout, they filed through open doors.
The rooms were longer and larger than they appeared.
Swords, bows, spears—plenty of gear.
Clacking heels echoed.
A woman entered.
She froze at the sight of Arthur.
Orwen, the "witch" among instructors.
Most softened over two months, fondness creeping in.
Not her.
Disobey? She beat without mercy.
Her trainees graduated competent, no exceptions.
"Apprentice, how old are you?"
Her voice held faint dismay.
Arthur replied curtly.
"Sixteen."
"You're awfully short."
Arthur's brow furrowed.
She was stunning—a beauty among beauties.
Her soft-curved face evoked decadent allure.
Ample chest and hips, wasp waist—most men would drool.
Not Arthur.
Don't Be Underestimated
📍 Grade:F
🎁 Cash Reward:1,000
💎 Reward:Strength +1, Agility +1
⚠️ Penalty on Failure:Strength -1, Agility -1
[Description: The instructor seems to be treating you dismissively. Will you just take it?]
Arthur's first Monarch Game quest.
He pondered each detail.
How to please her without seeming weak?
She fiddled with her communicator.
Then snapped angrily.
"A sixteen-year-old apprentice in here, and you want me to teach him? What? The chief instructor already knows? And did nothing?!"
She bellowed into it, nearly shattering the device.
She got her "teach him" order, swallowed her rage, and cut the line.
But Orwen was no softie.
No kid gloves.
"Instructor."
Arthur, thoughts gathered, called her.
Orwen eyed him sourly.
"Instructor, your breasts are really big, aren't they?"