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

by J. P. Valentine

Eve tuned the posh man out, turning left to ask Preston across the empty seat between them, “When’s the fighting start?”

  The healer shrugged. “Whenever he’s done with his speech. Not sure why we need all the pomp for day one.”

  Eve had to agree. From her vantage high up in the coliseum seating, the overwhelmingly empty bleachers spoke to the unimportance of the early rounds, at least as far as spectators were concerned.

  There was a smattering of viewers, predominantly friends and family of the competitors, scattered about the stands, as well as a few higher-level individuals that Eve assumed represented the less-successful mercenary groups, but she wouldn’t be impressing much of anyone that day. Hells, the Dragonwrought probably wouldn’t show up until the finals.

  A few bookies wandered the sparse crowds, offering bets on the first fight of the day, but few accepted. They hadn’t even seen the fighters yet.

  The long-winded speech continued, “As we wind up for the first bout, I’d like to again thank her holiness Archbishop Callandria for her pivotal role today and throughout the tournament.”

  A gray-haired woman in priestess robes of gold-lined white and a fancy hat stood and nodded. Eve didn’t need to Appraise her to know her class or that her level would only show as question marks.

  The minister spoke on. “Without her Cheat Death, we couldn’t hope to present to you all the spectacle that has become so core to Pyrindel’s…”

  Where’s Wes? Art’s sending drowned out the emcee’s prattling.

  Preston patted the hatchling—who unlike Reginald could pass as vaguely human with a loose-fitting cloak and hood—on the head. “He’s down there.” The Caretaker pointed at one of the dark archways leading into the bowels of the coliseum. “He’ll come out when it’s his turn to fight.”

  The buzz of chatter around the arena faded as the announcer finished his speech. “And without further ado, I’d like to welcome out our first competitors! From Pyrindel, a level fifty-six Geomancer, Peter Shind!”

  Two people on the far side of the coliseum that Eve could only take to be the man’s parents broke out into cheers and applause when the aforementioned Geomancer stepped out onto the sand.

  “From Barrowsted, a level fifty-two Sword Dancer, Priya Estellian!”

  Eve had never heard of Barrowsted, and apparently neither had any of the other spectators, as not a single person cheered for the leather-clad Sword Dancer. Even so, the stands became a flurry of activity as audience members clambered to place their bets before the fighting started. Unfortunately for Eve, none of the bookies were near enough for her to make her pick.

  “Contestants! You may begin!”

  Peter got a spell off before Priya could even take a step. With a wave of his hand, a dozen fist-sized stones broke away from the arena floor, rising to the air.

  Priya dashed forward.

  Peter fired. All at once the stone projectiles shot through the air, homing in on the charging swordswoman.

  She sidestepped them all.

  The Geomancer was ready though, and another barrage soon followed, each rock’s path curving differently to obscure their destination.

  Priya drew her first sword. With a flash of enchanted steel and a cascade of sparks, she swung, knocking the stones away.

  Eve watched wide-eyed as the shrapnel flew through the air, her mind not even computing its path until Preston leapt to his feet. In a display of reaction that put her to shame, the Caretaker threw up a barrier of golden light, his Ayla’s Ward ready to intercept the wayward projectile.

  It never did.

  The air before them shimmered and the stone crumbled as it struck an invisible barricade. Preston lowered his ward. He blushed. “Right,” he sheepishly muttered, “arena’s enchanted for that.”

  Eve reached across Wes’s empty seat to patronizingly pat him on the back. “It’s alright. At least you did something. I was about to just sit and watch that rock kill me.”

  A flash of golden light pulled Eve’s attention back to the fight just in time to watch Peter Shind collapse to the ground. Priya stood over him, one sword bloodied and another still in its sheath.

  “Victor: Priya Estellian!”

  “She looks strong.” Eve watched as a pair of healers rushed out to stabilize the fallen Geomancer. Cheat Death might’ve kept his head attached to his shoulders, but it sure as hells didn’t stop the bleeding.

  “They’re all strong,” Preston replied. “It’s a tournament for tier fours and high-rarity tier threes.”

  For his part, Art was too busy furiously clapping his taloned hands as the Sword Dancer took a bow and vacated the arena. Who’s next?

  Next, as it turned out, were two plate-wearing juggernauts that spent the better part of an hour bashing their shields against each other until one finally ran out of Stamina. Eve paid the dull exchange little heed, though she did make a note of the victor’s name just in case he managed something more impressive in the later rounds. The party did need a new tank, after all.

  Not even Art offered much in the way of applause as the second bout ended, though that changed promptly as the emcee announced a certain Disciple of the Devouring Flame from Nowherested. While the hatchling and Preston cheered in support of their friend, Eve looked over the archer he found himself up against.

  “How much you wanna bet that Wes takes an arrow to the face?”

  Preston shrugged. “Five silver?”

  “Done.” Eve shook his hand.

  “Contestants! You may begin!”

  The archer nocked an arrow.

  Wes erupted in flames. The mage himself became a living inferno as he activated Forged in Flames. He stepped forward. Around him the sand itself caught fire, the blaze creeping outward first in inches, then in feet.

  With his second spell, Wes expanded the firestorm around him, spreading the cloak into a massive wall. With her sharp eyes, Eve could just make out his silhouette moving within the flames. When the first arrow flew wide, it became clear that Wes’s opponent couldn’t.

  Eve had to admit it was a wise strategy. His Flame Jet couldn’t out-speed a well-aimed Huntsman’s Arrow, so it made sense to hide his position and let the inexorable blaze do its work.

  And work it did.

  The archer fired shot after shot as he desperately backpedaled from the spreading flames, slowly running out of places to run. Eve watched with a grin as one random arrow flew but inches from Wes’s shoulder, but the Disciple fought on.

  It wasn’t until Eve herself felt the heat of the blaze kiss her skin that she noticed the tournament official frantically waving both arms at the emcee.

  “Halt!” The air boomed with the minister’s shout. “Competitors, lay down your arms!” The archer dropped his bow.

  The fire spread on, carefully climbing the walls of the coliseum. “I said halt!”

  All at once the flames vanished, revealing Wes where he stood in the arena’s center. “Did I win?”

  “Contestant Wesley Rollund is hereby disqualified for, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, burning the wards.”

  “I’m what?” Wes burst out.

  In his customary nasally tone, the emcee explained. “Forces beyond our ability to protect the crowd are disallowed in all tournament matches. How a tier three came into possession of such is another question. Yern Binne is the victor by default.”

  The crowd gaped. Art applauded. Eve dug out five silver from her pocket, paying Preston his winnings.

  “Thank you, thank you.” The Caretaker accepted the coins. “Better luck next time.”

  “That’s okay,” Eve said. “I can always shoot him myself if I get the urge.”

  Only once the enchanters finished repairing Wes’s damage and the next bout was underway did the fire mage emerge into the stands, climbing his way up the stone steps to take his seat between Eve and Preston. “Well, it’s not quite the crushing win I was hoping for, but I’m sure it’ll impress the mercenary companies.”

  �
�You mean all three of them that actually showed up today?” Eve needled him. “I’m sure the bottom-feeders were very impressed.”

  Wes shrugged. “Word’ll get around. It’s not often they disqualify someone for being too powerful.”

  “Maybe next time you should attack your opponent instead of the wards,” Eve snapped back.

  “Speaking of,” Preston interrupted as the bout in front of them ended with a brutal ice bolt to the chest, “aren’t you up soon?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Eve pushed herself to her feet. “It’s not like I have much prep to do.” She gestured over herself, emphasizing that she already wore her armor.

  “You should still get down there,” Wes said. “Those tunnels are a damned maze.”

  “Alright, damn,” Eve replied, turning to leave the stands. “It’s not like I’m gonna get lost.”

  Eve got lost.

  After losing some twenty minutes running back and forth down the twisting passages beneath the arena, the Defiant found herself standing in the same archway as her opponent, a brooding berserker-type with more muscles than charisma.

  “Whoops, wrong entrance,” she said. “Guess I got turned around.”

  He grunted at her.

  Just as Eve moved to again start searching for her entrance, the emcee’s voice echoed in from outside. “First we have… hmmm… a level fifty-one Emissary from New Burendia, Evelia Greene!”

  “Shit—um—sorry,” Eve muttered, running past the dark figure and out into the arena. Her face flushed red as she dashed across the sands to take her place on the opposite side.

  “She’ll be facing one of our tournament favorites, a level sixty-three Hewer of Bones from the Salfdir Clan, Roric Ironarm!”

  Eve got her first proper look at her opponent as he stepped into the sunlit arena. He stood six and a half feet tall and what must’ve been nearly three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Eve could tell because from the waist up, every inch of that muscle was exposed to the open air. In each hand he carried a single-edged axe, both of which showed the marks of countless battles fought and won.

  He’s perfect. High-level tournament favorite or otherwise, Eve couldn’t have asked for a better matchup. Her griffin-bone club outranged his one-handed axes, and she doubted a Hewer of Bones had any good ways to stop her Defiant Charge. She readied her weapon.

  “Contestants! You may begin!”

  Eve Jetted forward, activating Charge and Mana Rush at the same moment. I may as well end this quick, she thought to herself.

  Roric did the same, dashing forth to meet her head on. He pulled back his axes for a brutal two-handed strike.

  But Eve’s club was longer, and she made the first attack.

  Her heart raced as the griffin-bone swung through the air, her muscles only holding up to their own immense Strength thanks to the Constitution bonus from Defiant Charge. It was exhilarating. Even here, without the direct threat of a painful death, adrenaline pumped through Eve’s veins.

  Her attack flew true, the flared tip of the huge bone shooting towards Roric’s head at an unfathomable speed.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The blow stopped short, striking an impenetrable barricade of golden light. The rebound sent Eve’s club flying from her grasp. For a moment she froze, staring forward in abject terror before she realized her opponent was just as shocked as she was.

  It wasn’t the announcer’s posh voice which broke the silence, but the wizened one of a particular Archbishop. “She wins,” the elderly priestess’s words echoed across the arena. “Evelia Greene is the victor.”

  “Ramtshit!” Roric bellowed. “That wasn’t Cheat Death.”

  “Cheat Death wouldn’t have saved you. Not against that.”

  “That’s ramtshit!” the berserker repeated. “Let me fight!”

  The Archbishop didn’t reply, simply turning to whisper something into the ear of one of her aides. Said aide carried the message on to the announcer.

  With wide eyes and barely noticeable quiver to his tone, the minister addressed the crowd. “Archbishop Callandria has been kind enough to bestow a Divine Intervention to halt an attack that would’ve overcome even Cheat Death. Evelia Greene is the victor.”

  Roric raged. “You didn’t even let me fight! I demand a rematch.”

  “Roric Ironarm,” the announcer continued, “is eliminated.”

  From there, the over-muscled brawler engaged in a shouting match with the tournament organizer. Eve, meanwhile, took the opportunity to collect her club from where it’d fallen and vacate the arena. Berserkers had a penchant for getting angry, after all, and easy as her win had come, she’d prefer not to fight him again without the protection of Cheat Death.

  She re-navigated the maze of tunnels with a sly grin. Sure, she had a pissed-off Hewer of Bones to worry about, but Eve couldn’t have asked for a more decisive victory. An Emissary beating a tournament favorite so bad the Archbishop herself had to intervene made for two hells of a story. If her goal was to impress the mercenary companies, this was a damned good first step.

  And she still had an entire tournament left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Headaches

  “SO,” EVE STARTED as she led her companions through the broad thoroughfares of Pyrindel, “how much did you bet on me?”

  “Not much,” Wes replied, disappointment in his voice. “Odds were eighteen to one against you, and the bookies only carry a hundred silver in these earlier rounds. Only let me wager five.” He grinned. “Still cleaned him out, though.”

  Eve shook her head. “Shame. Doubt I’ll ever get odds that good again.”

  Preston snorted. “You beat a tournament favorite so bad the Archbishop herself had to intervene. If you’re not predicted to win every match until the finals, those bookies are drunk.”

  Wes exhaled. “I’m still disappointed none of you bet on me.”

  “I bet against you,” Eve said, “but that was with Preston. None of the bookies were close enough when you stepped up.”

  “And I’m glad they weren’t,” Preston added. “You technically lost, remember?”

  “Only technically,” Wes replied. “And now I don’t have to fight through a whole tournament to make an impression. I’d count that as a win.”

  “That’s exactly what a loser would say,” Eve teased.

  “No, I’m pretty sure losers say ‘ramtshit, I demand a rematch!’” Wes gave his best Roric impression.

  “What even is a ramt?” Preston asked.

  Eve shrugged. “Hells if I know. And I actually feel a bit sorry for him.”

  Preston raised an eyebrow. “Sorry for him, or sorry for his muscles?”

  Eve ignored him. “I mean, imagine traveling all this way, grinding up to level sixty-three, and being named one of the tournament favorites, just to be paired against me in round one. It’s really not fair.”

  “Feeling humble tonight, are we?” Wes chuckled.

  Eve flashed a grin. “It’s not my fault I’m so great.”

  Preston rolled his eyes. “I’m just curious what they’re gonna do for your next match. There’s a reason we had to wait an hour for the bout after yours. Divine Intervention isn’t cheap.”

  “Really? It looked an awful lot like a fancy version of your Ayla’s Ward.”

  The healer nodded. “That’s because it pretty much is. Divine Intervention is a tier five upgrade to Ayla’s Bulwark, which is a tier four upgrade to Ayla’s Ward. Get me to level a hundred and I can start doing it too. That doesn’t answer the question though. Archbishop Callandria can’t keep using it every time you fight, both for Mana reasons and because if she casts it too soon it’d end the bout unfairly and if she casts it too late your opponent dies. Roric’s lucky she was as quick as she was today.”

  “Maybe they’ll schedule me for the end of the day? At least that way the next match won’t be delayed while the Archbishop recovers her Mana.”

  Preston continued, “That still leaves her with the task of de
ciding your matches before you even land a blow. You saw how pissed Roric was today, and even if it’s the only way to keep your opponents alive, if you fight through the whole tournament like this, there will always be a question of whether you truly deserved to win.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” Eve asked. “Just kill ‘em in the ring?”

  “Well, no,” the Caretaker answered. “But you might consider toning down the Mana Rush a bit. You just need enough Strength to trigger Cheat Death; you don’t need to wipe out their entire bloodline from the annals of history.”

  “That doesn’t seem quite fair,” she argued. “How am I supposed to know how much Strength is enough? What if Roric had a defensive skill I didn’t know about? Too little Strength and I could just outright lose the match.”

  Wes snorted. “Mana Rush isn’t fair. Asking you to rein it in is absolutely reasonable.”

  Preston nodded. “Would you rather your opponents wind up dead? Or maybe the tournament officials will disqualify you like they did Wes.”

  “I doubt that,” Eve said. “The competitors knew Cheat Death wasn’t perfect when they signed up, and I’m not a threat to the spectators, the coliseum, and Pyrindel itself.”

  “Hey,” Wes protested, “I only burned the enchantments a little.”

  “Oh, you mean the enchantments put there to stop wayward spells from murdering audience members? The ones specifically stopping your fire from burning the arena to a crisp? Those enchantments?” Eve laughed. “Well as long as it was only a little.”

  When can I try? Art, who’d been thus far quietly reading the thoughts of random passersby, joined the conversion. I wanna fight!

  Preston patted him on his feathered head. “The tournament is for humans, Art. I don’t think it’d be fair to let a trellac enter.”

  But Eve’s not human! Art insisted. And Wes is only half human.

  Wes rubbed his temples. “Do… do I want to know what the other half is?”

  Half idiot! the hatchling cheerfully sent.

  Wes frowned. Preston snorted. Eve cackled.

  After several moments of belly-shaking, tear-welling laughter, the Defiant finally managed to collect herself enough to address Wes and Preston’s questioning looks. “What? You’re not the only one who can teach him things.”