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

by J. P. Valentine

  The queen’s face fell. “I’m so sorry.”

  Eve shrugged. “I hardly remember him. It was always just me and Ma.”

  Emily nodded. “I can’t imagine… My mother passed birthing me, and my father and I were never close—kings rarely have time for raising little girls—but I never lacked for company. Between the nurses and the maids and the tutors, I was never alone, but I was also never…” She exhaled. “I’m not sure how to put it.”

  “Never partners?” Eve offered.

  “Perhaps. I grew up surrounded by caretakers but never parents.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I must sound positively beastly, lamenting my loneliness to a girl who grew up with only a mother at her side.”

  “Well it wasn’t just me and Ma,” Eve said. “I had a whole village to play with. Sure, sometimes the other children were mean, but that’s just how children are. Not that—um—not that you’d know that, I guess.”

  “Palaces aren’t conducive to childhood,” Emily replied, “but even bored and lonely, I had no right to complain. How unaware would I have to be to believe there’s a child in all of Leshk who had it better than I?”

  “You can be aware of how lucky you are and grateful for everything you have without pretending nothing has ever gone wrong in your life. Compared to an urchin in the gutter I’ve been truly blessed, but that doesn’t stop me from complaining when life hands me a flaming pile of ramtshit.”

  Emily stared.

  “What?” Eve asked. “It’s true.”

  “You’re an interesting one, Evelia Greene.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

  Emily snorted. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last. You’re clearly no diplomat, and if what I hear of your progress through the Proving Grounds has any truth to it, you’re quite the dedicated fighter.”

  “I’m friends with you, aren’t I? Maybe I’m just the greatest diplomat you’ve ever met.”

  The queen laughed. “I like you because you’re no diplomat. How did you become an Emissary, anyway?”

  “By accident, really,” Eve answered truthfully. “I started out as a Messenger Girl, and apparently if you travel enough and adventure enough and rack up enough exp, the natural progression takes you all the way to Emissary. Sure, killing monsters isn’t the most conventional means of getting there, but it worked for me.”

  “A combat Emissary,” Emily mused with humor in her voice. “I like it. So that’s why you’ve come to Pyrindel?”

  Eve nodded. “Most orgs aren’t interested in noncombat classes, whether or not they can fight. The Proving Grounds seemed like the best way to change their minds.”

  The queen flashed a thin smile. “I must say, I’m tempted to take you on, politics be damned.”

  Eve blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t know? For the past several iterations of the Proving Grounds, the crown has taken the most promising candidates directly into service to help keep our kingdom safe from existential threats. It was a policy my father started and I continue. Of course, as a foreign dignitary…”

  “You can’t recruit me,” Eve finished the thought. “That’s why the Dragonwrought haven’t accepted any applicants for over a decade. You’ve been taking all the good ones.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘taking,’” Emily said. “Our offer is quite generous.”

  “Gods below,” Eve cursed. “He must’ve known.”

  The queen raised an eyebrow. “Who must’ve known what?”

  “An acquaintance of mine.” Eve described the Man of the Mists in as neutral terms as she could. “The same one who directed me to Pyrindel. He said I would be uniquely situated to join the Dragonwrought.”

  “Your friend is confident in you, if he points you towards the Dragonwrought.”

  Eve laughed. “You have no idea.” She finished her tea, placing the empty cup delicately back on its saucer. She pushed herself to her feet. “Well, Your Majesty, it has, as always, been lovely chatting with you. You’ve-um… given me a lot to think about.”

  As she turned to leave, Emily caught her hand in a warm touch that Eve had to force herself not to think too hard about. “I’ll see you next week? I do so cherish our talks.”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe before that if Roric makes me take more time off.” She turned to leave.

  “Good luck with your match,” Emily called after her.

  Eve didn’t answer. Her mind raced as she navigated the now familiar palace halls back to her suite, her thoughts running wild yet still inevitably landing on the same conclusion over and over again.

  The Man of the Mists had intended that she come to the palace. She could only wonder what exactly that meant.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Re-re-reenter the Arena

  THE LONGER EVE thought about her discussion with Queen Elric and the realization that the Man of the Mists had perhaps intended her to come to the palace, the less concerned about it she grew. Why should she care what that foggy asshole had intended? If this was all some elaborate trap, Eve couldn’t fathom its purpose. If he bore her ill will, she’d be dead; it wasn’t like she could stop him.

  Eve decided, as she swapped her fancy dress for her familiar armor to get back to practicing, that the misty boy wasn’t worth worrying about. Trying to figure out what was or was not a part of some complicated plan seemed like an exercise in futility. Conceptually, anything could be a trap.

  That said, Eve remained confident that her choice to think of Mr. Moist in insulting diminutives was probably not something he’d be happy about. She’d take the little victories.

  The remaining question, in Eve’s mind, was that if Sir Steamy had sent her to the palace, why did she get a milestone for going? Had he known that her quest would lead this way, or did he have some kind of influence over it?

  Eve’s prime theory figured the Questing Stones had fucked up somehow, and most of her milestones were their attempt at rationalizing a quest that made no gods-damned sense. She couldn’t say for sure that they were made up on the spot whenever she accomplished something, but she liked that idea better than the thought that her entire adventure was planned out.

  It explained her Defiant class line reasonably well. She could hardly claim to be defying her fate if she was still walking a predetermined path, but if her life quest had been broken from day one, then doing anything would be defying her fate, because it seemed more and more like she didn’t actually have one.

  Questions of why the Stones had messed up or how they’d arrived at a Legendary quest for a loaf of bread were beyond her. For now, Eve would take what joy she could from the idea that she had no set path and that the Stones were making things up as she went along just as much as she herself was.

  Mind made up, Eve charted that unset path to the training yard. Whatever Roric insisted about taking days off, the Defiant was, well, defiant. She’d never admit it, but the loss to Riah had rattled her. It wasn’t solely the reminder that there were competitors in the tournament that posed a threat that so irked her, but the realization of just how cocky she’d let herself become.

  Eve hadn’t even considered loss in the arena a possibility. Sure, Roric’s constant reminders that her technique was abysmal helped knock her down a peg, but she hadn’t suffered a real defeat since… since Alex. She exhaled. Maybe she really had needed to fall on her face a few times. A lesson in humility, her notification had said, another example of the Stones making shit up.

  Eve tightened her hold on her club as she stepped onto the practice field before consciously adjusting to the proper grip. She was going to do this right, damnit. She couldn’t afford another slip-up, not if she wanted to join the Dragonwrought.

  Eve got to work with a fury, drilling the series of basic swings Roric had given her before moving on to more complicated Jet maneuvers. Whatever reads she had on her opponents, whatever plans she and her friends formed, Eve had no intention of stepping into that arena anything less than fully prepared.

&
nbsp; * * *

  Much to Eve’s relief, the Windcaller Harold Leon won his match, keeping him a potential foil for Riah in the winner’s bracket. To the Defiant’s chagrin, that meant his opponent, a certain level fifty-two Sword Dancer, would be her first bout in the loser’s bracket.

  Priya Estellian was fast.

  Unlike her previous matches, the Sword Dancer faced down Eve with both swords already drawn. Eve took it as a show of respect.

  There were no concessions, no late arrivals, no knives to the throat to take a safe Cheat Death. Whether Eve’s loss had instilled the competition with confidence or the Sword Dancer had decided she’d come too far to drop from the tournament now, Priya came to fight. Unfortunately for her, she only managed to do so for about eight seconds.

  Priya Estellian may have been fast, but speed was Eve’s bread and butter—or just butter given her distinct lack of bread.

  Without an effective way to dodge the griffin-bone club, Priya’s only way into sword range was to either tank or deflect Eve’s first swing and riposte for the kill. The problem, at least as far as Priya was concerned, was that whatever skills she had to enhance her parries or keep a hold of her weapons weren’t designed to withstand five thousand Strength barreling straight at her.

  Sharp and strong as her enchanted steel blades were, they would never have pierced the ironclaw griffin’s skin, let alone its bones.

  Eve breathed a sigh of relief when Priya crumpled to the sand, not for her victory, but for the brief flash of gold it accompanied.

  Cheat Death had done its job.

  As Finch declared her victory, Eve spared a hesitant glance up towards the Archbishop. Their eyes met, and the elderly woman gave a slight nod. Eve chose to interpret it as approval.

  Five thousand Strength, she decided, was a good middle ground. It would still crush the defenses of anyone near her level—other than perhaps the one tank still in the tournament—and if Priya was any indicator, it wouldn’t overwhelm Cheat Death. Eve could only hope the Sword Dancer hadn’t had some hidden defensive skill that’d saved her, else the same amount of Strength might prove lethal to a different opponent.

  She didn’t turn away until the team of healers got Priya back on her feet, a minutes-long task given the force of the blow.

  Eve supposed as long as the Archbishop was there, everything would be fine. The lack of Divine Intervention would certainly go a ways towards convincing people to fight her, if any were still frightened after her loss.

  Nevertheless, Eve walked away from the definite win feeling conflicted. In theory, she’d achieved everything she wanted. She’d won, and she’d done so without putting Priya’s life at too much risk. It was as much of a victory as she could have asked for.

  But it wasn’t satisfying.

  After a week’s worth of training, planning, and conditioning herself against overconfidence, it felt hollow to win so easily. What was the point of this ‘lesson in humility’ if she was just going to go back to crushing the competition?

  Eve spent the rest of the day diving into preparation for future rounds, forcing herself to remember that just because Priya had been easy didn’t mean the rest of the tournament would be. There were pitfalls ahead of her if she wasn’t careful, and Riah wasn’t the only competitor who posed a threat.

  A lot of that argument, unfortunately, fell by the wayside as the winner’s bracket completed its matches. While a number of dangerous fighters remained in the tournament, Eve’s next opponent was not one of them, not to her.

  Verreon Stile, a level fifty-nine Passion Weaver, won most of his bouts by instilling enough magical fear in his opponents to leave them quivering helplessly until he could finish them with his iron spear. He’d lost to a berserker whose natural rage overshadowed any unnatural terror, placing him unluckily in Eve’s path.

  Eve didn’t need class-defining anger to overcome fear. Defiant Mind did that for her.

  She spent her week leading up to the match reinforcing the basics with Roric and planning for the future. Aside from Riah, three fighters worried her.

  Orencio Binth was a Sanguinetic who could manipulate the blood within a person’s body. Eve hoped her magical physiology and immunity to ‘loss of control effects’ (as per the description of Defiant Mind) would, if not stop him, slow him down long enough for her to Jet into range.

  Theodrin Palsk, a competitor Eve had seen in action from the stands, used, as Wes had put it, a giant floating crystal to shoot lightning. Even having watched him fight, she didn’t have a good read on his cast times, and lightning traveled too fast for her to realistically dodge or outrace.

  Fenn Lucenia-Henthis threw knives. She threw knives fast. Eve’s main weakness—other than illusion magic, apparently—was ranged attacks that came at her before she had a chance to Charge into melee. The plan for Fenn involved some combination of dodging or parrying the projectiles, a skill Eve would readily dedicate a week of practice to if that matchup were announced.

  Eve would happily fight all three of them if it meant avoiding Riah. Fortunately enough, the Mirage Dancer had fallen to the loser’s bracket courtesy of a certain Windcaller, with a difficult match against Quillion Ur, a high-level Thornback and the tournament’s only remaining tank. Eve devoted her practice time elsewhere.

  The Defiant’s own fight against the Passion Weaver went about as she expected, ending quickly and with little fanfare. She didn’t even have to hit him. He resigned moments after realizing she was unaffected by his fear.

  Eve didn’t celebrate.

  She didn’t spend the evening drinking with her companions or her new royal friend. She didn’t take a day off to watch the other matches. She didn’t let her easy wins lure her back into cockiness.

  She trained.

  Eve looked past Quillion Ur, discounting the tank as a good matchup, and worked on developing a plan for either Theodrin Palsk or the Walker of Shadows that she hoped would defeat him. She was alone in her suite with the blinds closed, practicing using the light of her eyes to banish any shadow from the expansive bedchamber, when the door swung open.

  “Any interesting fights?” Eve asked as her friends stepped into the room.

  You should’ve been there! Art sent. This monk-guy was fighting an axe-lady and he blocked her swing with his fist!

  Eve mentally checked that matchup off her list, not that she’d been concerned about either of those two. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” The fallen tone of Wes’s voice rang alarm bells in Eve’s head. “You’re not gonna like it.”

  Eve stared at him. “What?”

  Preston sighed. “Quillion didn’t show up.”

  Eve’s eyes widened. “You think there’s something shady going on?”

  “Does it matter?” The healer shrugged. “Quillion forfeited his match, which means—”

  “Which means Riah won an unwinnable matchup,” Eve finished for him. “Shit.”

  Wes clapped his hands together. “So, any ideas on how to beat illusion magic?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Fatetorn Gaze

  “SO IF TANKING a hit is off the table, you need a way to hit her while she’s invisible,” Preston theorized.

  The adult members of the party sat around the suite’s breakfast table to brainstorm ideas for Eve’s match against Riah while Art and Reginald play-dueled with a pair of toy swords. As clumsily as the young drake held his weapon in his mouth, he still seemed to outmaneuver Art.

  “So you either need a way to find her, or better AOE,” Wes said.

  Even Roric had joined them for this set of planning, partially out of a desire for help and partially to hide behind the palace walls from his horde of rabid fangirls. “You will know where she is as start is called,” he offered in his usual stilted dialect. “If you are fast enough, you will not need too wide a net.”

  “But she’s not just an illusionist,” Peston countered. “She’s a Mirage Dancer. There isn’t much research available to the public on them,
but I’d be willing to bet the word ‘dancer’ implies some amount of mobility.”

  “You do not know that,” the berserker said.

  Eve chimed in, “It doesn’t matter. We can’t count on her not having mobility, because if she does I’ll be fucked.”

  “Wow, cheating on the queen already?” Wes taunted her. “I know Riah’s unnaturally pretty, but I didn’t think you’d be that disloyal.”

  “Emily and I are friends,” Eve explained for the twentieth time. “Meanwhile Riah wants to stab me in the neck. Again.”

  “Anyway,” Preston pulled the conversation back on track, “Mana Burst seems like a good fallback. Cooldown and cone-width restrictions aside, if all else fails you can just blast a quarter of the arena and hope that’s where she’s hiding.”

  “Maybe if we could count on her being close to where she started in the first few seconds of the bout,” Eve argued, “but I’d rather not take that risk if I can avoid it. A wide cone also loses a lot of power as it travels. Blasting a quarter of the arena with enough force to be lethal would drain me completely.” She hadn’t tested that for property damage concerns, but she could extrapolate the costs from weaker bursts of the same shape.

  “What about spinning?”

  Eve turned to look askance at Wes. “Spinning?”

  “Yeah, just… swing your club in a circle around you really fast. There’s no way she’d be able to get in to stab you.”

  Eve rubbed her temples. “So your plan is… what? Spin around in circles until she gets bored and gives up?”

  Wes shrugged. “She can’t stay invisible forever, right?”

  “And I can’t spin forever. Even ignoring the Mana drain from constant aerobic activity, if I have to spin in circles the entire fight, I’m gonna keel over and hurl.”

  “Alright, alright.” Wes held up his hands. “No spinning. Or at least spinning as a super-last-resort if you go for a Mana Burst and miss.”