This Class is Bonkers! (This Trilogy is Broken (A Comedy Litrpg Adventure) Book 2)

by J. P. Valentine

  “And you went with ‘half human, half idiot’?”

  “Hey,” Preston said with a slight smile of his own, “at least you’re not a full idiot.”

  Eve affectionately ruffled the feathers atop Art’s head. “Flawless timing, kid. Excellent work.”

  The trellac replied with a simple wave of pure emotional pride, not enough to actually influence anyone else’s own state of mind, but plenty to understand his meaning.

  “Now let’s get you back to the suite,” Preston said as the palace gates came into view. “I’m sure Reginald will want to hear all about today’s fights.”

  “And while we’re at it—” Eve paused to flag down a passing page to request a cask of ale and a few plates of food as they stepped into the lavish hall— “I think a celebration is in order.”

  Preston raised an eyebrow. “A celebration? It’s only round one.”

  “Sure, but there’s still a few days before round two, and we have one decisive win and one… whatever Wes did to celebrate.”

  The fire mage shrugged. “Good enough for me. And mine was definitely a win. I just won so hard the arena couldn’t handle it.”

  Eve patronizingly patted him on the back. “Whatever you tell yourself so you don’t go crying into your massive signing bonus with Hard Company.”

  “I’ve already told you, I’m not signing with Hard Com—” Wes exhaled. “You know what? Maybe a celebration is in order. Just so I have an excuse to drink enough ale to forget your Hard Company jokes.”

  “Now that’s more like it.” Eve opened the door to her suite, leading the way into the luxurious bedchamber. “The night is young, the food is free, and the ale will flow just like the bad jokes.”

  “I hope not,” Preston said. “The ale’s supposed to go into your mouth, not out from it.”

  “Yeah,” Wes agreed, “let’s not have one of those nights.”

  Eve opened her mouth to reply but was cut off when a knock rang out at the chamber door. But a moment later, a procession of liveried servants marched in with several trays of roast meats, hearty stews, and buttery fish, as well as the all-important small keg. Eve didn’t even wait for them to leave before pouring herself a tankard.

  “A toast,” she called, “to beating the tournament itself.”

  Wes fetched himself a glass, raising it to the air. “Cheers to that. It’s absolute ramtshit, but cheers to that.”

  “To ramtshit!” Preston added.

  Eve grinned, taking a swig before echoing the sentiment.

  “To ramtshit!”

  * * *

  Eve awoke the next morning feeling like ramtshit.

  The trouble, she’d learned, with being a manaheart, was that in order to experience any level of intoxication, she had to completely overwhelm her body’s ability to convert the alcohol into Mana. The process, however, left her needing to drink a truly unreasonable amount of water to stave off the morning after, a task she’d failed miserably the prior night.

  At least with a bit of food and water her Ethereal Metabolism would have her right as rain sooner rather than later. After a moment spent rubbing her aching temples, the reason for her abrupt awakening reasserted itself.

  Eve! Art’s sending overshadowed the polite yet unceasing knocking at her door. The silly man wants to talk with you.

  Grumbling something about waking her up being anything but silly, Eve forced herself to her feet and crossed the bedchamber, caring little for the wrinkled state of the clothes she’d slept in. She yanked open the door to reveal Art, accompanied by Wes, and Preston standing in the antechamber, both looking far too alert given last night’s festivities. No doubt Preston had a few Lesser Healing-sized holes in his Mana pool.

  In front of them all stood Charles, his fist poised to knock yet again at the wooden door.

  “What do you want?” Eve half spoke half grunted.

  The Steward dropped into his customary, unnecessarily extravagant bow. “Your Excellency,” he greeted. “Lord Traft, military advisor to her majesty Queen Elric, has requested I arrange a meeting with you. I believe he wishes to discuss a potential defensive alliance with the people of New Burendia. What time might I let his lordship know you’re available?”

  Eve froze. “I um…” She dragged the syllable out, her sluggish mind racing to summon any excuse to avoid negotiating treaties for her nonexistent kingdom. From behind the still-bowing Steward, Wes and Preston glared at her.

  It was only as her belly began to loudly rumble that Eve’s pounding head managed to form some semblance of an idea. “I’m sorry,” she said in the haughtiest voice she could conjure in her tired state, “but I simply cannot make plans on an empty stomach. Would you be so kind as to fetch me a loaf of bread to break my fast?”

  “A loaf of bread.” The Steward nodded. “Of course, Your Excellency. I am at your service.” With that, he turned on his heel and swung open the front door, vanishing into the ostentatious hallway.

  Eve grinned. “That oughta keep him busy for a while.”

  “That was cruel,” Preston said flatly. “You’re gonna get him killed.”

  “Nah, more likely he finds out the oven’s broken so he has to go into town, buys the bread, then finds the queen herself also wants bread this morning so he gives it to her, and she loves it so much she gives him a promotion and he forgets all about Lord Traft and his meeting with me.”

  Wes stared at her. “That’s… an oddly specific prediction.”

  Eve shrugged. “That or something else equally ridiculous but ultimately harmless. Even the bakeries I’ve burned down didn’t actually hurt anybody. Charles’ll be fine.”

  “Alright,” Preston backed down, “but you’d better tip the poor man in gold when he inevitably comes back empty-handed after scouring every oven in Pyrindel for your bread.”

  “Sounds fair.” Eve nodded. “He deserves it too, if only for dealing with nobles all day.”

  “Nobles and you,” Wes added. “You’re high on his list of headaches too, you know.”

  “Sure am,” Eve chimed, “but I’m number one on your list of headaches.”

  “That you are, Eve.” Wes patted her on the back. “That you are.”

  “Speaking of headaches—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She didn’t even need to finish her sentence for Preston to understand her meaning, lifting a hand to channel golden radiance across the room.

  Eve shuddered under Ayla’s invasive judgment, both of the self-inflicted damage she’d done in the name of last night’s celebration, and of the fool’s errand she’d just gifted the hapless Steward. Even as her hangover vanished and the goddess’s light faded, a shadow of guilt remained.

  She shrugged it away. Her life’s quest really hadn’t hurt anybody so far, she thought. Why should it start now? It wasn’t as if she’d sent the defenseless Steward into a dungeon, or anything. He might return a bit scraped up, a bit exhausted from chasing shadows all over town, but otherwise, Eve was sure that Charles would come out unharmed.

  Probably.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Distraction

  CHARLES RANDALL VENEROTH shut the door to the royal suite behind him and did a little dance right there in the hallway, paying little thought for the sideways glances of the queensguards on either side of him. He’d made third Steward! He still couldn’t believe it.

  Kiss my behind, Warren! he mentally taunted his rival. Who would’ve thought that after all these years, all it took to earn the recognition he deserved was to be the only one in the entire palace with a loaf of bread when her majesty was hungry on the morning the oven broke?

  Charles grinned maniacally. He could practically taste the one-point-five percent salary increase that came with the new position, though even that paled in comparison to the simple joy of surpassing Warren on the totem pole. Hard work really did pay off.

  The Steward practically skipped through the palace halls, reading through and dismissing the notifications as quickly as they ca
me in.

  Personal Quest Milestone Reached: Become Third Steward!

  +13600 exp!

  Level Up!

  Level Up!

  Ability Upgraded!

  Passive Ability - Steward’s Decorum

  Now grants intuitive understanding of foreign etiquette!

  Ability Upgraded!

  Passive Ability - At Your Service

  Now grants additional bonus movement speed while on a task assigned by a superior!

  Charles greedily reveled in the upgrades, already giddy to put them to good use. The change to Steward’s Decorum alone would be of great use in dealing with foreign Emissaries, especially that peculiar one from New Burendia. Charles hoped the New Burendians weren’t all as warlike as their Emissary’s proclivity for wearing armor implied. He did so detest carrying ceremonial weapons.

  The thought put an immediate hitch in the Steward’s stride as he realized the cost of his latest promotion. The bread! Her Excellency, Evelia Greene of New Burendia had asked him for a loaf of bread, and he’d been rude enough to deliver it to someone else. He chided himself for his foolishness. It wasn’t like he’d had the option to turn down Queen Elric’s request.

  Comforted in the reconfirmation that he hadn’t sold out his task in exchange for the promotion, Charles set his sights on the palace’s eastern service exit. There was still time, he decided, to return to town and buy a second loaf of bread for the manaheart Emissary. He hoped.

  Charles paused, taking a second to shake away any clinging doubt. He was third Steward to the royal palace, darn it, and even if he had to sprint with every ounce of his newly earned bonus movement speed, he was going to deliver that loaf of bread. After all, he’d just proved that opportunity came to those who put in the work.

  And he had work to do.

  * * *

  Eve walked alone through the streets of Pyrindel, her arms laden with bags and boxes of new clothes for every occasion from traveling through the wilderness to crawling through a dungeon to afternoon tea to dancing at a royal ball. She of course had no idea what an actual royal ball was like, but a girl could dream.

  The counterpoint to the weight of her new wardrobe was that her purse found itself significantly lighter. Preston had objected to the purchases as she’d first left the suite, arguing her money would be better spent on gear or supplies for their next dungeon-delve, but whether or not she’d admit it, that morning’s encounter with Charles had shaken her.

  Eve could only put the foppish Steward off for so long, and sooner or later she’d have to start actually acting like an Emissary. As far as she was concerned, dressing like one was as good a first step as any.

  Besides, the gear she needed more than anything was armor that could channel Mana, but if the leatherworker she’d spoken with was to be believed, dragon hide was the only leather that fit the bill. Unfortunately, dragon hide wasn’t exactly easy to come by, and Eve had no intention of running around in robes. For the time being, replacing her boots with a pair soled in hexweave so she could cling to surfaces without going barefoot would have to suffice.

  Truth be told, Eve wasn’t quite ready to part with her old suit. The plain leather set was comfortable, and it had a good amount of life left in it. The thought reminded Eve she needed to clean it upon her return to the palace, having forgone wearing the armor on this particular outing if only to make trying on new clothes that much easier. She’d similarly left her club behind, wearing only her daggers for protection.

  She didn’t expect any trouble. Word of the Emissary who’d demolished her round one opponent in the Proving Grounds had already begun to spread through the busy capital, and Eve also held out the distinct hope that the Ilvia thieves’ guild had informed the Pyrindel branch of their own encounter with her. She hadn’t needed her mace and armor to deal with them then; she’d hardly need them now.

  Her confidence was not altogether misplaced. Twice as she walked the streets and alleyways of Pyrindel did Eve’s manaheart ears catch one shadowy figure warning another off of the innocent-seeming Emissary. Thieves were opportunists, after all. All it took to avoid them was a bit of bluster and the odd show of Strength.

  However, equipped as she might’ve been to deal with all manner of bandits, outlaws, and brigands, in her simple blouse and skirt and her arms laden with new purchases, Eve was most decidedly not ready to wander into the wrong alley and find herself face to face with six and half feet of pure muscle armed with two viciously battle-marked one-handed axes.

  “You,” Roric growled. “You are the little Emissary girl who embarrassed me in the arena.”

  Normally Eve might’ve protested his use of the word ‘little,’ but on the Roric-adjusted scale, she supposed the descriptor fit. He loomed over her, his hands sitting comfortably on the tops of his axes where they rested at his hips.

  Eve’s heart pounded. Her mind raced. Without her club, the Hewer of Bones outreached her, and she had no illusions about her ability to outmaneuver him in the tight alleyway. Running away seemed like the best option, but she’d need to turn around first, and Jetting backwards into a busy street would just end in her hurting some random passerby. She needed to think.

  “I wouldn’t say embarrassed,” Eve stalled. “I won that bout fairly.”

  Roric spat. “That holy ptish robbed me of my chance to prove myself.”

  “She saved your life!”

  Roric ignored her argument. “But she isn’t here right now, so I’ll have to reclaim my honor in other ways.” He stepped forward menacingly.

  Adrenaline pumped through Eve’s Mana-charged veins as she readied herself to throw her bulky new purchases in Roric’s face and make a run for it. She really didn’t want to. “Why don’t we work something out?” she tried, taking a nervous step back.

  “I want to help you win.”

  “What?” Eve froze, confusion warring with the familiar battle-ready rush of adrenaline.

  “To lose in the first round,” Roric explained, “it brings great shame upon me. If my loss were to the eventual victor, however…”

  “That wouldn’t look as bad,” Eve finished. For a moment she simply stared up at the imposing man, before remembering herself and shaking the surprise from her head. “Sorry, I—I saw this going differently in my head. Disgruntled loser, big axes, dark alley and all that.”

  Roric let out a bellowing laugh. “You westerners are a strange people. You are underarmed and without your armor. What honor would there to be gained from defeating you now?”

  Eve shrugged. “I don’t know. You sure as hells wouldn’t be the first person to accost me in a dark alley. Come to think of it, I should probably stop wandering into dark alleys.”

  The berserker chuckled, gesturing across the filthy alleyway. “I come here to think. It is quieter, here.”

  “Alright.” Eve didn’t bother to inquire further. “So how do you suppose to help me win the tournament?”

  “You are without a sparring partner, yes?” Roric offered. “I much doubt that mage and priest of yours are good practice for a warrior such as you.”

  Eve nodded. While Wes was useful for practicing dodging projectiles, he was hardly a melee threat. Then again, given her access to Mana Rush, her strategy of ‘land a good blow without getting hit’ was pretty much static. Either way, Roric seemed nice enough, and more help would always be welcome, especially from a level sixty-three tournament favorite. “Okay,” she eventually said, “I could use a good sparring partner. Meet me at the palace training grounds this time tomorrow. I’ll have the guards let you in.”

  “Good,” Roric simply grunted. “I look forward to learning from such a skilled warrior.” He extended a hand.

  Eve shifted her bags around in her arms to offer her hand in return. “Likewise.” They shook.

  As she stepped away from the alleyway back into the busy thoroughfare, Eve thought over the strange encounter. She supposed she was happy to have picked up a new training partner and, with any luck, a
new friend. Even more so, she decided, clutching her purchases closely, she was happy she hadn’t had to drop her new clothes in a grimy alley to escape a sore loser.

  After all, she was the esteemed Emissary to the great kingdom of New Burendia.

  It was about time she looked the part.

  * * *

  “I don’t have time for you to bake an entire new loaf. Her Excellency requires breakfast!”

  “Breakfast?” The Baker gave Charles an incredulous look from behind the counter. “It’s four in the afternoon!”

  Charles’ heart sank at the reminder of his failure. In a moment completely unbecoming of the third Steward to the royal palace of Pyrindel, he gave voice to his frustrations by uttering a curse most foul. “Butter and biscuits,” he swore, “she probably doesn’t even want it any more.”

  “Well there you go,” the Baker offered. “You don’t even need the bread.”

  Charles sighed. He’d sworn to himself the moment he’d left the first bakery that morning that he wouldn’t return to the palace empty handed. Sure, he’d had a downright pleasant experience traveling from shop to shop as each Baker he encountered offered him a pastry or meat pie or cup of tea as an apology for running out of bread so early in the day, but now all that free food weighed as heavily upon his stomach as his lack of bread weighed upon his heart.

  “It pains me to admit defeat at my first task in my new position, but I fear you may be correct,” Charles eloquently put it. “I can only hope her Excellency forgives me for my shortcoming. If a diplomatic incident were to spark as a result of my actions…” He gulped.

  “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” the man comforted him from across the counter. “You might’ve missed breakfast, but you can still bring this diplomat of yours something for afternoon tea. I have some fresh-baked scones that I promise will trounce anything the palace chef can make.”