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

by J. P. Valentine

  She was just glad to have escaped the conversation. Eve didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about these things, especially when her opinions on such matters were just a giant tangled mess of uncertainty. Her romantic life, or lack thereof, wasn’t something she worried about, and hearing Wes and Preston bring it up left her feeling a bit uncomfortable. She was perfectly happy as things were, thank you very much.

  Eve shook the thoughts from her head as she stepped into the practice yard. According to Roric, Eve still had a long way to go before she was ready for an actual fight, and she was more than ready to throw herself into the training.

  At least killing things was straightforward. Mostly.

  * * *

  In the days that passed after round two of the Proving Grounds tournament, Eve managed to work her way up from the rigid jog Roric had insisted she start with all the way up to an actual run. He still didn’t let her use any of her abilities, but that didn’t stop Eve from trying out a Defiant Charge or two in the long nights she practiced alone.

  On the day before her third bout, Roric even gave her a crash course on how to properly hold a weapon. Eve felt a hint of embarrassment to discover she’d been holding her bone club far too low relative to its center of mass, but the additional several inches of reach had always felt more useful than a little bit of extra control. Roric had audibly groaned when she’d said that.

  “Control is everything in combat. More reach allows you to better control your opponent’s movement, but that does not matter if you cannot control your own.”

  The words sounded strange coming from a berserker, but Eve heeded them nonetheless. These days she was faster and stronger than anything she could conceivably face, but she’d also taken down more powerful foes through wits and luck, two things that could be more readily utilized if she had more tactics than just running in with an obscene amount of Strength. Roric’s stable foundation helped.

  The nearly seven-foot-tall Hewer of Bones was the only person to be happy when Eve’s round three opponent also failed to appear for their bout, leaving her once more the winner by default. The crowd, as per last time, booed at his cowardice while the announcer looked on with a growing expression of concern.

  Whether or not a fight so early would derail her training with Roric, Eve itched for the opportunity to show what she was capable of. This was the Proving Grounds, after all, and she could hardly prove herself to the Dragonwrought or anyone else if nobody was willing to fight her.

  Eve found the problem exacerbated further when her round four opponent officially conceded two days before the match was even scheduled, leaving her the first ever competitor to win a bout without even showing up at the arena.

  In the off-days before her fifth fight, the tournament organizers sent out an official notice that failure to arrive for a scheduled match would carry a ten-gold fine, something few adventurers could afford to pay. It did little good.

  The moment the call to start echoed through the crowded coliseum, Eve’s opponent drew a knife from her belt and promptly slit her own throat, activating Cheat Death and ending the match without having to face the Defiant’s deadly charge.

  The crowd raged.

  Cries of “coward!” and “fight damnit!” filled the air even as money changed hands to and from the assorted bookies. Apparently, they’d added peaceful concession as a third possible outcome for her bouts, though Eve had to wonder if the most recent loss could really be considered ‘peaceful.’ The blood on the sand certainly argued to the contrary.

  It wasn’t until she watched her would-be opponent leave the arena that Eve realized some of the crowd’s vitriol was targeted towards her.

  “Cheater!”

  “It’s rigged!”

  “Make her fight!”

  Eve’s blood boiled. It wasn’t her gods-damned fault that she out-Strengthed Cheat Death, just like it wasn’t her fault her opponents refused to take that risk.

  The crowd didn’t care.

  Rotten produce and other garbage flew through the air only to collide with the defensive wards and fall back into the stands. Eve marveled at their stupidity. It wasn’t like they were so angry in the moment they weren’t thinking about the invisible barrier between crowd and competitors; they’d had to bring the spoiled fruit in with them.

  She forced herself to breathe as she stepped out of the arena. Someone would have to fight her eventually, and once the crowd got another taste of her power the accusations should hopefully cease. For the time being, Eve decided, it wasn’t her problem. She could peacefully ignore the rabid spectators until the issue resolved itself.

  Still, as she navigated the maze of tunnels beneath the arena to return to her friends, Eve burned—with rage, not with anything Wes-related. Unlikely as the crowd’s temporary anger was to ever affect her, it hurt to be the object of widespread distaste, justified or otherwise.

  She considered tracking down her next opponent as soon as pairings were released to try and convince them to actually fight her, but Eve was painfully aware how it would look if anyone caught wind of such a conversation. She sighed.

  Eve had nearly made it out of the dark halls she’d grown so familiar with over the tournament thus far when a figure appeared before her, his face shrouded in the gloom of the sunless passages.

  Only his voice identified him as the announcer himself, Minister of Public Affairs and organizer of the entire Proving Grounds tournament.

  “Evelia Green? I think it’s best we have a little talk.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  If It Wasn't Rigged Before...

  “ALRIGHT.” EVE SHRUGGED. “What would you like to talk about?”

  The Minister of Public Affairs stepped to the side, gesturing Eve forward with an open hand. “Right this way.”

  Eve followed the man’s direction, continuing on through the dark tunnel as he fell in to walk at her side.

  “I hope you’ll understand if we forego the honorifics,” he said. “I’m no diplomat, and as far as I’m concerned, you are just another contestant in my tournament.”

  His tournament? Eve thought to herself. Did organizing this year’s version of a centuries-old event make it his? It all seemed a bit self-important to Eve, but then again, she supposed a certain level of self importance was a prerequisite to working in politics. “Okay,” she simply replied. “What should I call you?”

  The man stopped for a moment, blinking in surprise at her question. How could a competitor not know his name? “Finch,” he eventually uttered. “Samuel Finch.”

  “So tell me, Finch, do you normally whisk your contestants away to secret underground meetings? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’m not ‘just another contestant.’”

  “You’re hardly the first that required special attention.” Finch stopped before a simple wooden door with yellow light spilling through the gap beneath it. He opened it. “Here we are. Step into my office.”

  Eve, somewhat surprised to find the Minister of Public Affairs had an office in the bowels of the coliseum, followed instructions. Inside she found a small torchlit space crowded by an ornate wooden desk stacked high with paperwork, a rather comfortable-looking leather chair behind it, and two visibly less comfortable chairs opposite it. At a glance, all three seats appeared empty.

  “Enough theatrics,” Finch snapped at the empty room. “We’re here to discuss business, not to play mind games.”

  Eve furrowed her brow at the statement in mounting confusion until the air before her began to shimmer. As if a blanket fell away, a woman materialized in the leftmost chair, a look of exasperation in her eyes.

  Her appearance was impeccable. Her dark olive skin glowed in the torchlight, complementing eyes of chocolate brown and her pristinely managed mane of frizzy black hair that seemed to go everywhere at once without ever straying from exactly where it was supposed to be. Even her mage robes of light blue skyweave embroidered in gold hugged her curves flawlessly, with neither stain nor wrinkle to detract from thei
r aesthetic.

  Eve gaped, at once both jealous, intrigued, and perhaps a bit frightened by the specimen before her. She was perfect. Eve cursed internally. The last thing she needed was another obscenely high-level player interfering with her life.

  Finch simply exhaled, stepping around the desk to sit in his own chair. “Evelia Greene, I’d like you to meet Riah Laskerendian, your round six opponent.”

  That was enough for Eve to drop all pretext and Appraise the gorgeous woman.

  Level 51 Mirage Dancer

  Epic Tier 4 Class

  Well that explains it, Eve thought, immediately feeling better about her own appearance. She’s a fucking illusion mage. After a moment to collect herself, she took the final unoccupied chair across from Finch. “You know, people are already starting to think the competition is rigged. I’m not sure how an underground meeting with my next opponent is going to help matters.”

  Finch clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers. “Because unlike your last four adversaries, Riah here has agreed to actually fight you.”

  Eve blinked. “Okay? So why are we meeting here? It sounds like there isn’t a problem, unless you’re worried the Archbishop will have to use Divine Intervention again and it’ll still look like I’m cheating.”

  Finch cleared his throat. “Allow me to clarify. We’re here because Riah has agreed to fight you, and because you’re going to lose.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He leaned in. “As I’m sure you’re aware, now that we’ve reached the top sixteen, the tournament bracket changes to double elimination…”

  Eve’s eyes widened. She hadn’t been aware.

  Finch scowled. “You didn’t know, did you?” He sighed. “Does nobody read the information packets? I swear I spend so much time writing them just to re-explain things over again. Once you reach the top sixteen, you receive an extra life, as it were. When you lose, instead of facing elimination, you fall to a secondary bracket where…” He trailed off as he noticed Eve’s bored expression. “You don’t care.”

  “Nope.” Eve grinned. “I show up to fight when the pairings tell me to, I win, then I go home.”

  “You haven’t exactly been doing much winning, have you?” Riah spoke for the first time, her voice dripping saccharine venom.

  “The point,” Finch stepped in, “is that you can afford a loss without dropping from the Proving Grounds entirely. Several champions have come from the loser’s bracket over the years, and if you are as fearsome as your opponents seem to think, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble doing the same.”

  Eve reclined in her chair. “So let me get this straight. Me, you, the Proving Grounds, and presumably the government as a whole, are all losing a bunch of credibility because it looks like the tournament is rigged, and your solution to that is to actually rig the tournament.”

  “Yes.”

  “And why would I agree to that? Someone’s going to have to fight me eventually, and I may as well keep racking up the free wins as they come.” Truth be told, Eve didn’t particularly care about free wins—she’d rather fight—but the idea of losing on purpose rubbed her the wrong way.

  “It hardly seems wise for an Emissary representing her kingdom to ignore the opinions of the masses,” Finch argued.

  “It hardly seems wise for an Emissary representing her kingdom to show weakness without cause,” Eve turned his words against him.

  Finch scoffed. “Please, a loss now costs you nothing.”

  “Except that extra life you mentioned, which I think I’d rather hold on to.”

  “So lose now lose later, even if you expect to come out the champion at the end. It doesn’t matter.”

  Eve kept pushing, if only in the hope she might win some other favor in exchange for dropping a match. “And what will people think when I lose to Riah here only to beat her later?”

  “Who says you can beat me?” Riah spoke up.

  Eve snorted. “You, if you’re here trying to negotiate a win.”

  Finch sighed. “She’s here because I asked her to be, because I want this to go smoothly. Assuming you or Miss Laskerendian aren’t eliminated by other means, rematches have been known to go different ways. Perhaps she blunders, or perhaps you were simply unprepared for illusion magic at your first match. I don’t foresee an issue.”

  “And once I lose, what happens? We keep fighting as normal? Won’t that support the theory that the tournament is rigged if I lose to the first person to actually fight me?”

  “Then it’ll be your job to start winning,” Finch explained. “A loss to Riah will demonstrate to your opponents that you are, in fact, fallible. Once you’ve fallen once, they’ll be more willing to risk embarrassment or a failed Divine Intervention for a chance at replicating the feat.”

  “I don’t like it,” Eve said outright, “and not just because I’d have to lose. It’s a trick. Convincing people the tournament isn’t rigged by rigging it. Even worse, it’s tricking competitors into risking their lives against me on the basis of a lie.”

  “All entrants understood the terms when they registered for the Proving Grounds.” Finch waved away her concerns. “Deaths happen. If you’re so concerned about the safety of your adversaries, perhaps you shouldn’t hit them so hard.”

  Eve paused. He was right. All she had to do was dump less Mana into Mana Rush, though finding a value that would obliterate any attempt at blocking her without overwhelming Cheat Death was no small task, especially when Divine Intervention had worked so well for her match against Roric. Either way, she could hardly object to tricking people into fighting her when it was well within her abilities not to put them at risk.

  Finch took her thoughtful silence as an opportunity to continue speaking. “I do believe such an arrangement is in the best interests of everyone involved. Do I have your agreement?”

  Riah turned up her palms in the universal sign of ‘why not?’

  Eve bristled. It felt wrong, though she struggled to determine if her distaste for the scheme came from its inherent dishonesty or because any loss, intentional or otherwise, would mean taking a hit to her pride.

  Finch turned to her. “Miss Greene?”

  Eve pushed a different angle. “Whether or not this… arrangement of yours is in everybody’s best interest, it sounds like you care about your reputation and public opinion of this tournament far more than I do. Sure, it’d be nice to fight real bouts sooner rather than later, but I can just stay the course until I’m paired against someone brave enough to actually face me.”

  The minister groaned. “Your point?”

  “Oh, I’m just saying you and Riah here only stand to gain from this deal, and I’m actually losing something. It seems only fair to negotiate some… additional incentive on my end.”

  “Of course,” Finch sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less from an Emissary.”

  Eve winked at him.

  Finch sat back in his chair. “So tell me, how much do you want?”

  Eve left the coliseum that day with her club at her back, her daggers at her hips, and the distinct weight of gold in her hand. The pouch—she wasn’t stupid enough to carry gold out in the open—carried fifty pieces, half of their agreed-upon amount. The sum held quite a bit less buying power here in Pyrindel than elsewhere in the world, but even if she wouldn’t be purchasing a house any time soon, the Defiant was an ardent fan of nice things.

  She knew the others wouldn’t be happy with her—hells, she wasn’t necessarily happy with herself—but they’d understand. Maybe after Roric was done lecturing her for acting dishonorably, he’d thank her for giving them more time to train before her next actual fight.

  Truth be told, Eve appreciated the outcome of the clandestine meeting. Perhaps a match loss was the way to get the tournament back on track, and even if it didn’t, she was still walking away fifty—soon to be a hundred—gold richer.

  Negotiations could’ve gone worse. At least Finch hadn’t outright disqualifie
d her for posing a threat to her opponents or some other manufactured reason.

  As she stepped back out into the sunlit streets of Pyrindel, Eve let out a quiet laugh and amended the thought.

  At least Finch hadn’t outright disqualified her for posing a threat to her opponents yet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mirage Dancer

  EVE FOUND WES and Preston back at the suite, sitting around the breakfast table engaged in a four-player game of crowns. Reginald was winning.

  Eve waited for Art to play out his turn before unceremoniously dropping a coin pouch onto the table. “Here’s fifty gold.” She crossed the room, reaching into her trunk to withdraw the rest of her fortune. She put it on the table too. “And here’s the fourteen left of my cut from the ar-iron talons and leviathan scales. I want you to bet it all on Riah Laskerendian.”

  Wes blinked. “The illusion mage? Why?”

  Of course he recognized her name; he’d actually been watching the tournament instead of spending all his time training. Eve dismissed the pang of envy that thought generated. “Because she’s going to beat me.”

  “Hold up.” Preston put down his hand of playing cards. “Does this have something to do with whatever held you up under the coliseum?”

  “Yep.” Eve took a seat on the chair that had been shoved aside to make room for Reginald at the table. “The tournament organizer wanted to have a chat.” She ran them through her conversation with Riah and Finch, including the deal they’d struck and her various concerns with it.

  Wes raised an eyebrow. “So the Minister of Public Affairs is suffering a reputation crisis right now, and his answer is to rig the tournament? That sounds a bit counterproductive.”

  “It makes sense from the viewpoint of a corrupt government official who’s used to doing shady shit,” Preston argued, “but what I don’t get is why you’re going along with it.”