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

by J. P. Valentine

  “Victor: Theodrin Palsk!”

  “Damn,” Wes repeated himself, “I want a giant floating crystal that shoots lightning.”

  That was so cool! Art applauded furiously, this time joined by the smattering of spectators who’d actually come to watch the second round of fights. I wanna learn lightning magic!

  Preston patted him on the head. “Why don’t you worry about learning telepathy first?”

  That’s boring!

  Preston didn’t bother arguing with the hatchling, instead turning back to Eve. “So what’s your plan for fighting mister lightning crystal there?”

  “Same plan as for every mage. Run in and kill ‘em before he gets a spell off. Rogue just stood there throwing knives while crystal guy charged up, what did he think was gonna happen?”

  “Heh,” Wes chuckled, “charged up. ‘Cause he’s a lightning mage.”

  Eve groaned, her eyes wandering the stands as the next contestants took their places. They were nearly twice as crowded as they’d been for round one, though she still doubted any of the higher-ranked mercenary companies would make an appearance. Eve could only guess how many people would show up to watch the finals.

  Roric sat in the front row on the opposite side of the coliseum. She’d offered him a seat with her and her friends, but he’d curtly declined, citing a desire to sit closer to the action. Eve quietly wondered if he secretly didn’t want to be seen socializing with the Emissary who’d so soundly beaten him in the ring.

  Eve’s match was the last of the day, likely to avoid delays should the Archbishop need to use Divine Intervention again. Eve didn’t particularly care. Nobody had come to her and asked she tone it down a bit, so she had every intention of bringing her full force to bear against her opponent. The Archbishop had stopped the attack last time, and now she even knew it was coming.

  As the bouts progressed, Eve managed to lose a fair bit of silver on questionable bets, until at last she decided whoever came up with the bookies’ odds was way better at estimating outcomes than she was. The fights were still exciting without money on the line, but that didn’t stop Eve from making little bets with Wes over how a given bout might end.

  When the day grew long, Eve excused herself from the stands to make her way beneath the arena, giving herself plenty of time to navigate the dark tunnels before her match. The last thing she wanted was to enter from the wrong side twice in a row.

  Fortunately enough, after spending an embarrassing amount of time wandering the maze of passages, Eve found herself staring out into the bright sand of the arena from an entryway all her own. Unless both she and her opponent had gone to the wrong sides, Eve figured she was probably in the right place.

  “And to round out the day, we have a level fifty-one Emissary from New Burendia, Evelia Greene!”

  Taking her cue, Eve jogged out into the ring, casually waving at the midsized crowd. She fixed her eyes on the entrance opposite her.

  The announcer continued. “She’ll be facing a level fifty-nine Warden of Storms from Lynthia, Fenric Sen Parillian!”

  Nobody appeared.

  The applause died down, replaced with growing chatter as spectators whispered amongst themselves.

  The emcee called out once more, “Fenric Sen Parillian!”

  Still he didn’t show.

  Eve watched with a furrowed brow as an aide scurried up to the announcer’s platform to whisper something into his ear.

  “It would appear,” the Minister of Public Affairs to the Queen of Leshk said with uncertainty in his voice, “that Fenric Sen Parillian has chosen to withdraw from the tournament rather than face Her Excellency, Miss Greene.”

  The coliseum fell silent. Seconds passed. Eve wondered if she’d be given a new opponent. The announcer said nothing. For a time Eve considered breaking decorum to shout her question at the foppish minister, but the man seemed to collect himself in time to make a call.

  “Because her opponent has forfeited the match, Evelia Greene is the victor!”

  The crowd didn’t know whether to boo or cheer or stare dumbfounded. At least they all seemed to agree they were disappointed to be robbed of the final bout’s worth of entertainment.

  Eve simply shrugged and left the arena. It wasn’t her problem. Truth be told she understood Fenric’s reasoning. Confident as she was that the Archbishop would cast Divine Intervention in time, Eve wasn’t sure she’d bet her own life on it, especially when all that was to be gained was a near-certain loss.

  She was, of course, a bit disappointed herself. She’d been quite looking forward to another showing in the arena, if only for the chance to actually fight with this new footwork technique Roric had taught her. The berserker, on the other hand, was probably jumping for joy that she hadn’t ruined her technique by fighting before she was ‘ready.’

  Ah well, Eve thought to herself, two bouts down, eight to go. She stopped for a moment to look where she was going, scowling at the unfamiliar juncture in the dark tunnels before her. Now I just need to figure out how to get the hells out of here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Alas, Poor Roric

  THE PARTY CELEBRATED Eve’s win—if one could even call it that—at The Siren’s Call. Eve was particularly proud of herself for finding the establishment, which sat far enough away from the palace to be a true tavern rather than the haughty eateries the nobility frequented, while still being close enough for Art to telepathically reach out if he and Reginald needed something back at the suite.

  The Call’s convenient location made for quite the eclectic crowd of patrons, made up primarily of off-duty guards and servants from the various nearby manors, mixed with the odd group of noble brats who wanted to feel like they were ‘slumming it’ without having to walk too far. Eve made a point of glaring at them whenever one looked her way.

  Eve, Wes, and Preston ate at a side table, the couple sitting together on the bench built into the wall while Eve had an actual chair facing away from the rest of the tavern. It was this seating orientation that forced the Defiant to put down her tankard and twist her neck at Wes’s words.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I invited him.” Eve waved a certain muscular berserker over to their table. He didn’t come immediately, stopping to fully survey the busy tavern first.

  Wes took the opportunity to press the matter. “I know he’s been helping you train, but he wouldn’t even sit with us today. Why can he come for drinks but keep his distance at the arena?”

  “Because a tavern is small,” Roric’s rumbling bass answered, “and a coliseum is not.”

  Wes blushed at the realization he’d been overheard, but he’d thus far had enough ale for embarrassment to be no deterrent. “What does that mean?”

  Roric sat, nestling his way onto the bench rather than taking the open chair, leaving Eve staring across the table at a line of three men.

  “I need more female friends,” she muttered to herself, forcibly keeping her thoughts away from what had happened to her last female friend. Instead she watched as Roric once again scanned the tavern from his new vantage. Even sitting he was taller than most anyone in the room.

  “I cannot let them see me fraternizing with her,” Roric explained in his stilted common. “I’d prefer if they didn’t see me at all. It is good to relax for a night.”

  Eve took a swig from her tankard. “That brings up way more questions than it answers. Who are they?”

  Roric leaned in, whispering over the din of the tavern. “The women.”

  Wes blinked. “What?”

  Eve nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to need a bit more context here. Start from the beginning.”

  “If you say so.” Roric paused to flag down a barmaid and order another round of ales for the party. Eve still hadn’t finished her current one.

  Once their small table was crowded with fresh pints, the Hewer of Bones began his tale.

  “I suppose it started when I was a lad. I was always bigger and stronger than the
other children of clan Salfdir, and I received more than my fair share of attention from the girls my age. At the time, I was foolish enough to revel in it.” Roric took a monstrous gulp of ale before going on. “The problems did not start until I defeated the shadowforged icecrawler and received my tier four. By then I was already bound to my beloved Hilda and awaiting the birth of our first child. That did not stop them. No longer was I just a promising young warrior. I was the Hewer of Bones, savior of clan Salfdir.”

  Eve kind of wanted to hear more about this fight with the icecrawler, but she refrained from interrupting.

  “It started with the looks,” Roric continued, “like they were appraising a purebred ramt. Demeaning but easy enough to ignore. Over time they grew bolder. Touching my arm in passing, biting their lips at me in public, leaving fresh frondbread at my doorstep. No matter how I tried to dissuade them, they never ceased. Hilda was livid. She thought I was encouraging them, enjoying their advances as I had in my youth. I could not convince her otherwise.”

  Again he paused, this time emptying his tankard. “It came to a head three months after it began. One of them, Fryda, came into my home while Hilda was out. I asked her to leave. She refused, untying her blouse and baring herself to me.” Roric’s voice shook. “Hilda… had been distant for some time. I had not known warmth since…” He swallowed. “I never touched her, but neither did I avert my eyes.”

  “And then someone found out,” Preston offered with quiet sympathy.

  Roric nodded. “Hilda found us, with Fryda undressed and me leering like a greenling. Soon enough the entire clan knew my shame.”

  “But you didn’t do anything!” Eve argued. “This Fryda lady did. You’re the victim here.”

  “I allowed it to happen under my own roof,” Roric replied. “I lost much honor that day, enough that the clan elders thought it best I embark on my own.”

  “They kicked you out for that?” Incredulity filled Wes’s tone. “That’s bullshit. Ramtshit. Whatever.”

  Roric shrugged. “I lost my Hilda the moment she found us. Without her, the Salfdir clan held little for me. I had hoped that by leaving I could escape the women that hounded me and perhaps seek to reclaim my honor.”

  “Is that why you signed up for the tournament?” Eve asked, feeling a growing sense of remorse for eliminating him the way she had.

  Roric nodded.

  “And Fryda?” Wes followed up. “Please tell me she faced some consequences for what she did.”

  “Her husband was perhaps angrier than Hilda. She too was asked to leave the clan, though she took it as an opportunity to lead a cohort of my pursuers after me.”

  Eve sighed. “And judging by the way you keep staring at the door as if it’s trying to sneak up on you, you haven’t managed to escape them.”

  The Hewer of Bones rubbed his temples. “They have given up all pretense. They scream my name and chase me through the streets with neither dignity nor shame.”

  Realization dawned on Eve’s face. “Is that why I found you in that dark alleyway? You were hiding from your rabid fangirls?”

  Roric scowled. “I do not know this word, but I was hiding, yes.”

  Eve frowned, her eyes wandering over the mass of rippling muscle that sat across from her. “Have…um… have you considered wearing a shirt?”

  “No!” Preston blurted out before turning bright red. “That’s… um… I mean… it’s not his fault these women are acting inappropriately.”

  “I dress no differently than any other man of clan Salfdir,” Roric said. “I will not forsake my heritage to appease these shameless harlots.”

  “Alright.” Eve shrugged. “So why is it you can’t be seen with me?”

  “If they see me with you, to them you will become competition. A target. I would not wish that upon my greatest enemy.”

  Eve blinked. “That’s… very noble of you. Thanks.”

  “These vultures…” Roric sighed. “They have cost me everything. My wife. My home. I missed the birth of my son. I will not let them harm anyone else.”

  Eve thought to reach over the table to place a comforting hand on his shoulder but decided the better of it. Instead she gave him his space and simply lifted her tankard. “I guess we’ll just have to help you get your honor back. The tournament’s out, but there’s plenty of opportunity for a warrior like you.”

  Roric perked up. “You would help me?”

  “I mean… I’m the one who ruined the tournament for you, and you’re still helping me. It only seems fair.”

  “Eve,” Preston hissed, as if his lowered voice would somehow escape the notice of the berserker right next to him, “what did we agree about side quests?”

  “This isn’t a side quest, it’s helping out a friend! Besides, we do honorable shit all the time. We’d just have to keep him with us until we kill some sufficiently impressive monster and we’ll be good.”

  Roric furrowed his brow. “What beasts have you slain thus far?”

  “Eve killed a leviathan just last week, if that counts.” Wes did his best to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible, but a grin still creeped onto his face.

  Roric’s eyes widened. “That… that would be an honorable feat.”

  Eve clapped her hands together. “That settles it. You’ll join us on our next dungeon dive or monster bounty until you’ve racked up enough honor to return to…” She trailed off as a pair of muffled voices from outside reached her ear.

  “Let’s check in here!” one said. “Maybe he’s waiting to buy me a drink.”

  The other giggled, her voice far too old to be making such a girlish sound. “Don’t be foolish, he’s going to buy me a drink.”

  Roric froze, the telltale signs of abject terror crossing his face. “They’re here.” He jumped to his feet, wobbling the table enough to splash beer on the floor. “I need to go. Thank you for listening, and for your offer of aid.”

  “Good luck!” Eve called after him as he dashed for the door.

  “Run like the wind!” Wes echoed.

  As the hulking behemoth disappeared into the street, a chorus of feminine screams greeted him. Eve listened closely, tracking his flight as the high-pitched yells slowly faded into the distance. She shuddered. “I feel so bad for him. These women ruined his life and they’re still harassing him. It’s disgusting. You’d think they’d get the message that he’s not interested.”

  Wes sighed. “Some people are terrible.”

  Preston still stared at the door through which Roric had left. “Do you think you’d look like that if you’d left Nowherested a warrior instead of a mage?” he asked Wes.

  “Gods, I hope not. Fangirls aside, I rather like being able to fit through doors without turning sideways.”

  Preston smirked. “I’ll be your fangirl.”

  “As long as you don’t start screaming in public whenever you see me.”

  “You heard him,” Eve cracked. “Save the screaming for when you’re in private.” She smiled at her own joke for a moment, before realizing that instead of laughing or blushing or harrumphing indignantly at her dirty humor, Wes and Preston had both gone pale. “Oh, come one, that was funny.”

  Wes shook his head slowly. “It’s not that,” he muttered. “It looks like Roric isn’t the only one getting unwanted attention tonight.”

  Eve scowled. “What are you talking—”

  “Your Excellency!” a panting Charles interrupted her. “I’ve been searching all over Pyrindel for you.” He fell into what was probably meant to be a bow but looked awfully more like doubling over to catch his breath.

  “Oh—um—sorry?” Eve put down her tankard. “What’s going on?”

  “Her majesty Queen Elric dispatched me herself to offer you her congratulations on your victory in the arena today.”

  The queen’s tracking my tournament results? Eve grimaced as the thought crossed her mind. That can’t be good. The best she could manage in reply was an awkward “thanks?”

  “Her
majesty also asks that I confer her invitation for a royal introduction with full understanding of the honor and expectations thus conveys.”

  Eve blinked as her alcohol-slowed mind tried to interpret the Steward’s words. “What?”

  “Queen Elric desires a meeting, Your Excellency.”

  Shit. “Um… alright,” Eve replied. “I’m a bit… indisposed at the moment. Why don’t you visit my suite tomorrow morning and we can arrange—”

  “I apologize, Your Excellency, but it would seem I’ve been unclear,” the Steward interrupted for the second time. Even given the bow and the flowery language and the constant honorifics, on the Charles-adjusted scale, the man was being downright rude. “I seem to have forgotten myself in my haste to locate you and deliver her majesty’s message.”

  Eve raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Allow me to clarify,” Charles finally said. “Her majesty desires a meeting with you tonight.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Regal Advice

  “SHIT,” EVE SWORE aloud this time. “Um… what happens if I say no?”

  “Her majesty wonders why you would slight her so, or what business a foreign Emissary might have in the royal palace that doesn’t include the queen herself.” Charles’s answer was somehow both eloquently polite and deeply threatening.

  Eve exhaled, deciding then and there she’d rather face a meeting with Queen Elric than be kicked out of the palace or labeled a spy. Going along with the poor Steward instead of sending him on another wild goose chase was an added benefit. “Okay.” She stood, dusting off her pants out of habit from long nights of sitting on the roadside more than from any real need. The tavern chair wasn’t that dirty. “Let’s go.”

  As she turned to go, Charles cleared his throat in an unnecessarily disguised attempt to politely get her attention. “It is customary, in Leshk, for a visiting Emissary to present his or her host with a gift at their first meeting.”

  Eve froze, frantically patting herself down for something she might give the queen. Maybe the leviathan scales would’ve done if she hadn’t already sold them. As it was, all she found in her search was her coin purse, daggers, and the Man of the Mist’s ivory rook, none of which she was willing to part with.