Everyone Has a Plan
Everyone has a plan that sounds good enough.
The church leader responsible for the Remington County branch of the order was a man of considerable skill. He smoothed the entire incident over by slipping a modest “token of gratitude” to the guards who had answered the report. It was hard to grasp a man of the cloth handing out bribes so casually, and harder still that the guards accepted them without batting an eye—yet for the Cretus Church, which ran a colosseum and made its living on wagers, such things were simply business as usual.
Having deftly cleaned up the mess, the church leader barred the thick temple doors, dismissed the others, and led me into the innermost chamber of the sanctuary.
“On behalf of everyone in the order, I offer our deepest apologies. Would you be so gracious as to forgive the discourtesy of a moment ago, Brother?”
The church leader looked to be in his late forties. His slightly angular face and full beard that blanketed the whole of it called to mind a classic Western gentleman of advanced years. His body, however, belonged to a warrior still very much in his prime.
His blessing was Fighter—a class of close-quarters martial arts, axes, and blunt weapons of the mace variety.
“Please raise your head. I did not find anything particularly discourteous.”
To them, a Guardian must have felt like a thorn lodged in the throat. They had founded an entire order on the legends of Cretus and gathered combat maniacs who lived to test their strength against one another. To men like that, the Guardian class was something closer to a trial handed down by their god. Unable to doubt the deity Himself, they could only blame their own failure to grasp His will.
And then a man bearing the Guardian’s blessing had appeared—someone who, at the absolute minimum level of fifteen, had already cleared the event known as Cretus’s Trial. A superstar had walked through their doors. Their reaction was only natural.
“Thank you for your understanding. I am Andreas, church leader of the Remington County branch.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Church Leader. I am Edwin Revan, second son of Viscount Revan.”
“Viscount Revan…? Ah! Hmm? …Hmm?”
Word that the second son of House Revan had received the Guardian’s blessing was already common knowledge in the social circles of the region. An organization the size of the church would certainly have obtained that information in advance. For him to look so startled could only mean—
“Pardon? No, I was told the second son of House Revan had only just received his blessing…. What in the world…?”
It was my abnormal rate of leveling, of course. In any game the early stages offer the highest efficiency, but even then there are limits. Reaching level fifteen in a single month is the work of a handful of people at most—and effectively impossible unless you are a mage capable of dumping massive firepower in an instant. I, on the other hand, was a Guardian, infamous for low damage. The violent tremor in the church leader’s pupils was only to be expected.
A low murmur rose from beyond the reception room.
—What on earth is the Church Leader…?
—Quiet, will you…!
—Great Warrior! Mmph!
Faint voices drifted in from outside. Andreas cleared his throat, looking faintly embarrassed.
“…It would be no exaggeration to say everyone has been waiting for this moment. Please forgive them.”
“It’s fine. More importantly, that word I heard earlier—‘Holy War’—what exactly does it mean?”
“Ah, you needn’t concern yourself with that. It is nothing more than a baseless rumor.”
Even as he said so, he proceeded to explain the rumor in rather thorough detail.
“Ah~ so that was the meaning of it.”
The time had not yet come. Someday, when the moment arrived, one who carried out the War God’s will would appear and become a single ray of light illuminating a world into which darkness had descended.
No one knew who had started the story or when. It was simply a rumor that had begun circulating through an order that had never managed to overcome the Guardian’s blessing. Andreas called it a tale not worth fretting over, yet to me—who knew that the Silverion Kingdom would fall five years from now—it carried an ominous weight.
“I am fully aware how impertinent this request must sound. Yet to our order, Brother, you are a presence akin to the Great Warrior who has appeared by divine revelation.”
“Meaning…?”
“Would you grant us the honor of walking beside you on the path of hardship that lies ahead?”
In plainer terms, the order wanted to attach party members to me under the pretense of protection and observation. Growth demanded the overcoming of countless trials, and they wished to place trustworthy companions at my side lest something go wrong along the way. It was an offer I ought to have been grateful for—yet there was a reason the church leader spoke so carefully.
The problem was the highly sensitive matter of “exposing secret arts.”
Take, for example, the Warrior and Knight blessings so often chosen by those born into noble or knightly houses. Long before their seventeenth birthday, when they receive their blessing, they undergo intensive combat training from their families: how to forge a body that can fully draw out a blessing’s power; combo techniques to master before learning effective skills; training methods that make specific skills easier to acquire; know-how for hunting monsters; efficient hunting grounds; and so on. They gather all of this knowledge under the name of “secret arts” and pass it down in strict secrecy. In a world where a single well-raised knight can match hundreds of ordinary soldiers, the leak of secret arts is a matter serious enough to spark bloodshed.
Attaching an escort force to me would inevitably result in the exposure of my secret arts. They were probing a point of extreme sensitivity for any noble; that was why they remained so humble yet refused to withdraw the request.
Personally, I was not overly concerned about Guardian techniques leaking. However—
‘I always have to move while keeping the worst-case scenario in mind.’
—What has happened once may never happen again.
—But what has happened twice will certainly happen once more.
Or so a saying from my previous life went. I found myself agreeing more than a little. Was I truly the only person who possessed knowledge from a past life? If someone else, by whatever means, had obtained information of their own, the situation could turn extremely ugly—because of the Great Library of Ashcraft.
Every mage, through meditation, gains access to the spiritual space created by the Great Mage Ashcraft. There they study various disciplines through magical tomes. What if someone with game knowledge had left that knowledge behind in the form of a tome? Even if the original writer had acted with good intentions, there was no guarantee that whoever absorbed it would be a good person. The worst case had to be considered. That was precisely why I had chosen the Guardian class, the one that could aim for the highest peak under my current circumstances—the best choice that would let me protect my people no matter what variables appeared.
With that calculation in mind, I had no desire to see Guardian information freely circulating. The Cretus Church was a reliable ally, but if the worst came to pass they would simply be swept away by the tsunami, unable to do a thing.
“I consider it an honor to face hardship alongside you. However, the path of hardship is something I alone must bear.”
“Ah…”
Andreas could only nod with a bitter expression.
“If that is your wish, may I take it that you would prefer your identity remain concealed for the time being?”
“Yes. I would be grateful if you would arrange it so.”
Unnecessary attention could invite great disaster. Sensing as much, the church leader made a welcome proposal of his own.
“Still, would you at least permit us to report this news to the main temple?”
That much was fine.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you, Brother.”
With that, Andreas held out a finely crafted dagger. Engraved upon it were the symbols of Cretus: a shield and an axe.
“Should the path of hardship ever grow too heavy to bear, please visit the order at any time. We will strive to become steadfast companions on whatever road you walk.”
It was essentially a form of identification. Since I had handed my family seal to my brother, I was currently little more than a self-proclaimed noble. With this, any troublesome situations that might arise from bad luck could be smoothed over. The treatment was almost absurdly generous. I had not donated a single coin, nor completed a single church quest, yet I was being received with maxed-out contribution status…
‘I never expected such lavish hospitality…’
To receive treatment of this level from the major Elysion Church, one would at least have to recover a lost holy relic. I had anticipated a certain degree of courtesy, but never this degree of goodwill. Perhaps the greatest benefit of choosing Guardian was the affinity it granted with the Cretus Church. The thought was hard to avoid.
“I express my gratitude for the order’s kindness. I too wish to maintain excellent relations with you. I look forward to working together.”
After a firm handshake with the church leader, I stepped out of the reception room. Immediately, men as excited as enraged bulls surrounded me, breathing hard. Yet none of them lunged; they still watched Andreas’s expression. I answered them by striking my chest three times.
Thump-thump-thump!
It was a gesture no one who bore Cretus’s blessing could fail to recognize.
Bang-bang-bang!
Thump-thump-thump!
Crunch-crunch-crunch!
Their reply was so excessive that the guards were summoned again on another report—but
‘Well, a little noise is only natural on a good day.’
The Cretus Church would prove a very solid ally. Someday I would fight back-to-back with them. I did not know when that day would come, but I had the feeling it would not be far off.
Harold, steward of the Remington count’s household, received a report from Kaiden on recent events.
“You mean he is still coming and going from that dungeon?”
“That’s right. He’s a sharp one.”
Even after obtaining Shield of Faith (LV.3), Edwin had continued to visit the very first dungeon he had entered—Dungeon: Aria’s Forgotten Paradise—without pause. An entire week had already passed. The visits were less for leveling and more for raising the proficiency of Cretus Martial Arts.
To imprint into his body the martial techniques of Cretus that he had witnessed as a vision, he needed sparring partners whose attacks roughly resembled those of a human. Monsters with a moderate degree of danger, yet with standardized patterns ideal for repetitive motion. Edwin judged that Reaper Mantises, with their twin-blade style, were close enough and selected them as sparring partners for martial arts training. The choice had been impulsive, yet after more than a week of continuous combat drills he had achieved significant success in internalizing a portion of the movements Cretus had demonstrated—enough that Aren, after sparring with a brother whose level was not even half his own, felt a genuine sense of crisis and began privately debating whether to raise the matter of dungeon access rights with the Countess.
Harold, however, interpreted the situation quite differently.
‘So the brat is holing up in that worthless chaff of a dungeon, is he?’
Aside from the likes of Man-Eaters, Bespoids, and Demon Spiders, the place held little real danger. It was a dungeon formed of ordinary creatures that had evolved into monsters under the influence of a demon god. There were no treasure chests yielding rare equipment, no life-threatening traps. It was closer to a noble’s hunting ground that simply featured somewhat unusual wildlife than a true dungeon.
If the boy had been drowning himself in that place for over a week—
‘This is my chance…!’
Steward Harold was a man acting under the instructions of Dylan, younger brother of Count Remington. His task had been to make the Countess’s position as difficult as possible, yet Edwin’s unexpected interference had severely narrowed his standing. Having fallen out of the Countess’s favor, he had been stripped of his duties. Dylan, upon learning of the failure, had sent him a message that amounted to a notice of expulsion from the plan. With the house’s downfall all but assured, being cut loose was a painful blunder. What, then, had the betrayal even been for?
‘It’s all that bastard’s fault.’
Edwin Revan, who had grown comfortable enough to enter the dungeon alone. If a guest currently staying at the count’s estate were to die inside a dungeon managed by the house, the Remington family’s position would grow even more precarious.
‘Arrogant little shit…’
If Edwin died, even a man who had received an expulsion notice might still have his contribution recognized and receive some form of reward. No—reward or not, it hardly mattered. Simply killing that insolent whelp would soothe the irritation festering in his gut.
Harold began searching for someone who could disguise the death as a dungeon accident. Unfortunately, such talent was scarce within the estate itself. That particular field was the specialty of Assassins.
‘Yes… better leave this to a professional.’
Assassin was a blessing specialized in ambush; it performed poorly in frontal confrontations against front-line damage dealers. Yet its unpredictable movements, free use of poisons and hidden weapons, made it a thoroughly threatening class. Against a boy who took an entire week just to kill a single Reaper Mantis, the chance of anything going wrong was nonexistent. A noble who had never had any connection to Assassins would hardly know the proper countermeasures.
‘Still, I should hire someone with a certain level of skill.’
Where there is light, there is also darkness. Harold contacted a fixer organization based in the county. The request: an Assassin to kill a Guardian estimated around level 10 and make it look like an accidental death. The pay was generous relative to the effort of disposing of a low-level Guardian, so the organization agreed to dispatch a level-23 Assassin.
Because Assassin was a blessing specialized in murder, leveling in a party was all but impossible—who would willingly group with an assassin? As a result, a level-23 Assassin was a rather precious asset even within the fixer group. When Harold heard the details of the man they had arranged, a broad smile spread across his face.
At this point, Edwin was as good as dead.
From where Harold stood, there was simply no other conclusion to draw.