My Third Year as a Receptionist Lady: The Tournament

Floating next to the Royal Isle is a new island, made of rock, steel, and brick. Well, perhaps “island” isn’t the best word for it—it’s the stadium for the Wall Helenus. Above the six levels of the circular coliseum is no ceiling but the sky itself. At ground level on the arena are platforms where the competitors will fight. The second to sixth floors are all made up of seating for spectators, who will look down from their perches on high to watch the battles below.

Surrounded by the spectator seats above, the platforms are covered with dirt. The fighting events have not yet started, so there are still grounds people working the surface of the fighting platforms to ensure the dirt lies flat and smooth. Each of them wield broom-like staffs, sweeping and brushing away all irregularities.

The third floor of the coliseum consists of all the seats set aside for distinguished guests. There, all the aristocrats and royal families visiting from foreign countries will be seated.

I’d thought there wouldn’t be too many people here today, given that only the opening ceremonies are going to be held, but my expectations were completely off; there is a huge number of people pushing to get in through the gates.

“The entrance is this way!”

“Please do not push forward!”

So begins the first day of the tournament.

In addition to the stadium itself, special landing grounds have been constructed on this artificial island. They are filled with jostling horse-drawn carriages, used by those who do not possess a familiar. The vast majority of the people here today are from Doran, but about twenty percent of the spectators have come from Doran’s neighboring countries, in addition to a small but significant set who’ve come from farther away.

Doran’s aristocrats have all been sent invitations to attend the tournament, so all they need to do is show those to us receptionists as they quickly and efficiently file past our desks. The commoners, on the other hand, need to buy tickets at the entrance, so they’re taking a good deal of time to make it inside.

There haven’t been any rules given to us about rationing tickets for any given level of seats. The palace administrators had simply said to “squeeze everyone into” the level they wanted to sit at, which has ended up with me passing out a lot of level two tickets. The work itself isn’t difficult, and time flows by as I pass out ticket after ticket.

So far, I haven’t spotted any gate crashers. Everyone’s just patiently waiting in line, which certainly makes my job easier. Among those buying tickets are kids I remember growing up with back in the village, as well as a bunch of other acquaintances and former classmates, like Mr. Yakkurin’s little sister, Kara Yakkurin.

Mr. Yakkurin’s doing reception with me today. When he sees his little sister, his eyes go wide with surprise. “You’re back?” Kara just laughs and brushes a lock of her long, straight brown hair behind her ear. Seems like she wants to keep her adventures a secret.

Around the time that the opening ceremonies are about to start, there’s a good deal fewer people packing the reception area. I take a moment to breathe and count the remaining tickets—but while I’m doing so, a little blue bird quietly lands on my yellow rock receptionist desk.

Mr. Yakkurin doesn’t notice, busy as he is helping another someone else. I set down the tickets in my hand and give the bird a gentle pat on the head. The little bird twitches its beak open and shut—but what I hear is not birdsong, but the voice of one of my receptionist colleagues at Harré.

“Hey you three, would one of you mind coming over to help out at the competitors’ reception desks?”

This little creature’s called a “messenger fowl,” and while it may look and act like a lively bird, it’s actually a type of magical device. When a mage touches its head, it activates in response to their magic. They can be used to record a voice message or replay one, and are frequently entrusted to carry important information to far-off recipients. Rather convenient to have around, these little birds.

It opens its mouth to repeat the message, but I give it another tap to silence it. Cheepcheepcheep! Its head tilts to one side, then stops.

I stand up from my seat and call out to one of the men sitting to my left, who’s busy doing reception work. “I’ll go help out with competitor reception.”

“Thank you,” he replies. I spoke with him a bit before our shift started. Normally, he works in the Royal Courts, but he got roped into doing reception for the Wall Helenus this week, just like Mr. Yakkurin and I were.

All told, three of the receptionists working here today are from Harré, and another three are from the Royal Courts. I recall seeing their faces back at the orientation meeting I attended at the palace, but there hadn’t been any special “receptionists only” meeting back then, so today’s the first time we’ve had a chance to speak to each other. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, working with essentially strangers to pull off a major world event, but by working with one another to perform our simple, routine duties, we naturally come together as a team. While we’re too busy to speak much with each other, our common purpose allows us to get past any awkwardness or shyness and have normal conversations when we need to.

They probably need me over there sooner rather than later. I summon Lala and hop on her back, my white skirt fluttering in the air. Today, I’m wearing not what I usually do when I’m out in town, but my Harré uniform. The other two receptionists from the guild are also wearing their uniforms. The people from the palace hadn’t told us to come dressed in anything special, nor had they prepared any clothes for us. When I’d asked the speaker back at the orientation meeting what we should wear, he’d told me that I could “wear whatever I wanted,” and after talking it over with the other two receptionists, we’d decided on wearing our uniforms.

Perhaps that’s why we’re attracting stares and comments today, like “Why is a Harré employee doing reception here today?”

One of my frequent clients, a pharmacist, had been quite surprised to see me. “Ms. Hel,” he’d asked, “did you change jobs or something?!”

HA! As if I’d ever do that.

“Well now, look at this. The stadium’s rather stunning from above, isn’t it?”

“Sorry for making you drag me around everywhere, Lala.” I rub her neck as she flies through the air. Competitor reception is on the other side of the stadium, a bit too far for me to run. This place sure is huge. If you put the school and the stadium side by side, why, the latter would make the former look positively tiny!

I look down at the spectators in their seats below me. They’re all moving their heads from side to side, chattering with one another. Seeing all of them moving like that makes it feel like my whole field of vision is shaking. There are commoners, aristocrats, and sorcerers among them, of various nationalities and ethnicities.

Something else catches my eye. Doran may be called the “Kingdom of Flowers,” but this whole island’s been made with rocks, bricks, and steel. That must be why they had those Earth mages grow those flowers and plants all over the stadium. It’s not even the Season of Flowers, though, so seeing all that feels a bit weird.

“Ah, Lala, over there! Towards the gap in the walls!”

“Yes, master.”

Riding on Lala’s back, I pass over the open-air coliseum. The spectator’s seats are almost entirely filled up, all the way to the fifth level. Only the opening ceremonies are happening today—just how many people are planning on coming tomorrow? I grimace at the thought.

We arrive at the other side of the stadium. I step down off of Lala’s back and shrink her down enough to fit in the palm of my hand, then place her on my shoulder. Off we go.

There are still a lot of people in this reception area. Let’s see, competitor reception lasts until noon today, right? The cathedral bells should tell us when to stop. There’s less than three hours to go until then, but I bet more six-person teams will be coming soon.

“It’s like I said, one of our members is running late.”

“We can’t register you for the tournament until all six of you are here, so I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until they arrive.”

“Which of your members is the Ice-type?”

“I’m the Ice-type!”

“Incant the semeion spell, please.”

I watch the activity going on in all three of the long lines for a little while.

There are two types of reception going on for the tournament today: the first is for the spectators on the other side of the tournament, and the second is here, for the competitors. The spectator reception desks obviously deal with a lot more people, but those working over here seem like they have to deal with some tough customers.

There are groups trying to force their way into the entrance despite the fact they don’t meet the minimum of six members required, and there are groups lying and trying to compete without an Ice-type. About thirty percent of the teams here don’t seem to satisfy the requirements for entry.

I shake my head. Hello? Aren’t we all adults here? If you can’t follow the rules, please spare us all the trouble. ...Still, when I see that guy, who’s pretending to be an Ice-type, speaking with tears in his eyes about how he’s worked so hard these past five years to achieve his dream of becoming a competitor in the Wall Helenus...it almost makes me want to let him through. We’ve got to obey the rules, though. The other receptionists clearly know that. I hear one of my colleagues tell the fake Ice-type to hit the road. Just the kind of resolve I’d expect from someone at the Guild.

Anyways, it’s your fault, dude—you “work hard” for five years, but show up the day of the event and lie about being an Ice-type? What’s the deal? Clearly you weren’t “working hard” in the right way. Someone, please set this guy straight.

“Ah, Nanalie! So glad to see you here! Would you mind doing the registration for that line?”

“I’ll get right on it!”

I sit down at the empty desk and pick up the registration sheet. “Those in the back of the line, please come over here to sign in!”

There are three things I need to verify before I can formally register a team:

Are there six members?

After casting semeion, do they all have different magic types?

Finally, what are their names and ages?

The only individuals allowed to participate in the tournament are adults, eighteen years or older. No children. They have to sign their names on the registration sheet, because after we finish doing reception, we’ll use the information on these sheets to pair them up for the team battles. By signing their names they are entering into a magical contract; should someone under eighteen years old falsify their age, their team wouldn’t be included in the matchups. The same goes for those who are eighteen or older, but still falsify their ages anyhow.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my colleagues from Harré and employees from the Royal Court promptly sort the problem teams from the good ones. Before me, a new line forms, and I begin working.

“Your team name is ‘Lost Avantio,’ correct?”

“Yeah!”

“Please line up and cast the semeion spell from left to right,” I say. They do so, and one by one, stick out a hand, cast the spell, and reveal their types. All six.

“Thank you very much. Sign here and write your ages too, please.” I hold out the registration sheet and they fill it in.

“Excellent, you’ve all been registered! Please continue on inside. Through the entrance behind me is a hallway leading towards the standby seating on the first floor for competitors. We’re expecting it to fill up today, so please sit in open seats closest to the middle of the row. Here is a map of the stadium for your reference.”

“Sweet! Thanks, lady!”

“Yeah! We’ll head over there now!”

I watch them make their way down the hall, each of them waving excitedly at me as they pass by.

“Next!” And so the next group comes, and the next one after that, and on I go, registering them all. Fortunately, nobody in my line tries to cheat their way inside, but there are a number of groups who come up and ask me, “Can we compete even though there aren’t six of us? We don’t have an Ice-type...” A few of them look like they’re about to cry as they say this, but rules are rules.

“Guess we just can’t fight, then...” almost all of them say, giving up and going home.

Are Ice-types really that rare? Between all the reception desks is a box containing the filled registration sheets. I take a peek at them to see that not even a third of the box next to me is full. That’s probably only about fifty teams. Not that many for a continent-wide tournament.

I realize that there are only three groups left in my line. The end is in sight.

Just a few moments ago, the team from Harré completed their registration at the desk next to me, where someone from the Royal Courts is taking care of reception. Mr. Alkes had, apparently, overslept, and Ms. Zozo had been sharply exasperated with how he’d made all of them wait until right before the cutoff to complete their registration. One of the other receptionists hadn’t beaten around the bush when she’d reprimanded him, saying, “You sure you still want to do this? Because it sure seems like you don’t. Get a grip.”

As one of two men in the group, he must have felt outnumbered. When the team passed through the rear entrance, I heard him mumble out a “sorry” to his teammates, completely at odds with how he was the senior-most member of the team. That was something to see—whatever happened to that commanding dignity he usually walks around with?

Hmm, that reminds me—I still haven’t seen Satanás or the rest of his team. I wonder if they completed their registration before I got over here.

I return my attention to the group standing in front of me. “Your team name is ‘The Knight’s Order of Vestanu,’ correct?”

The succession of male and female Knights clad in their green uniforms cast semeion for me, fill out the registration form, and a man with ocher hair hands it back to me. “Thanks—oho? My lady, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Excuse me?”

Do I know this guy? I glance back down at the registration sheet. Is he...Borizurie?

My eyes go wide at the name. Borizurie, of the Knight’s Order of Vestanu. Even I know who that is—a super super super awesome mage, chosen as one of this year’s “Top One Hundred Sublime Mages of the Modern Age.”

While my jaw is flapping open and shut in shock, Mr. Borizurie has a flash of realization. “Aha!” He turns towards the neighboring line of competitor teams and addresses the man at the front of the line.

“Alois, isn’t she the one who you shapeshifted into?”

The man he’s addressing to my right is part of the group being helped right now by one of my fellow Guild receptionists.

Here I was, happy to have at least one nice thing happen today, and then this.

For some unfathomable reason, I’m constantly running into this guy, and moreover, it’s always at a time I don’t want to see him (that is to say, “all the time”), yet we have to interact regardless, because we’re forced to or the situation demands it. In circumstances like these, I’d say I almost certainly would have expected him to magically show up in my line, but I’d gotten lucky today and he’d lined up at a different receptionist’s desk. When I’d first realized this, I’d balled up my fists and pounded my knees with excitement—under the desk, of course. Can’t have people see me do that on the job.

But life often doesn’t go how you’d want it to. Just another team or two to register, then I can leave here and go back to spectator reception. Or so I’d thought, and then this happened.

Why, why, WHY would you bring me to his attention, Mr. Borizurie?

Rockmann turns to look at me. “It’s been half a year since I saw you last. You’ve gotten pretty old, haven’t you?”

“Eat shit, you eternally, heinously perverted bastard in sheep’s clothing.”

I’m so mad I want to stamp my feet at the sight of the group from Doran’s Royal Order of Knights.

“Oh really, you eternally rebellious, two-faced girl?”

“Ha! Two-faced! You’re one to talk.”

“Don’t suppose that mouth of yours would do us all the favor of shutting up.”

“You heretical, cold-blooded, blonde savage...”

“Goodness, look at the way your lips flap about. Even a fish gasping for breath would be impressed. Have you finally given up on being human?” He folds his arms and laughs at me.

I am extremely angry right now, but I decide to limit myself to a battle of words rather than spells.

What kind of guy tells a young, single woman that she’s “gotten pretty old”? He’s asking for it!

I notice two of the lady Knights from Vestanu blushing at the sight of Rockmann. They’re not quite so taken with him as the noble girls tend to be, but I can definitely imagine what they’re thinking: “Ah, which one am I going to choose? Sir Borizurie or this handsome blond Knight from Doran?”

Stop it, girls. Mr. Borizurie is several times more handsome than this bastard is. He’s not just a man, but manly! Handsomely manly!

I would like to say this out loud, but I feel that not everyone may pick up on the fictive conversation going on inside my head.

At least there aren’t any other teams waiting to be registered right now.

Rockmann’s dressed in his black Knight’s uniform today. Before insulting me, he had just finished signing his name on the registration sheet. The pen’s still in his hand.

Mr. Borizurie was the one who spoke to you, not me. Why’d you have to go out of your way to insult me when I’m not even part of the conversation?! Idiotic, is what your behavior is.

Behind Rockmann, I see a familiar face. Among the two lady Knights in the team is none other than Ms. Weldy. “You’re working here as well? Goodness, you must be busy. Were you dispatched from the Guild to help with the event?”

“Yes, I suppose you could say I was ‘dispatched.’”

“Hmm. I must say, I do wish that you would be a little more respectful towards our Captain.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Apparently she’s stopped getting furious about the things I say to Rockmann. She does end our little conversation with a “Tsk tsk. Ever a rude one you are.” I got off lightly there. She didn’t chew me out like she did last time, at least. If she’s here, I guess she must be participating in the Wall Helenus...

Mr. Borizurie is a good deal more polite than Rockmann. “Alois, you know it’s rude to tell a woman she’s ‘gotten old.’ Don’t you agree, my lady?”

“Y-Yes...”

“Ah, but I do think I can see it now, you were the one who he was disguised as.” He must be referring to the Orcinus Operation. Mr. Borizurie stares at me for a while, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The Knights of Vestanu were part of that operation, weren’t they? He must’ve seen Rockmann shapeshifted into...me.

Once we finish registering these two teams, I’ll be done with competitor reception, and with this conversation. Come on! Hurry it up!

...Ah, but this is a rare opportunity, isn’t it? A chance to speak with Mr. Borizurie, face to face. Surely a little more conversation... No. Can’t do that. Not while he’s here, at any rate.

I tap my cheeks and redirect my attention back to my work. They probably need me over there on the other side. Better get done with this soon.

“Lala, mind getting bigger?”

“Are we flying back now?”

“Yeah.”

And so with the chime of the noon bells, competitor registration ends. After giving the Knights of Vestanu a succinct explanation of the stadium and their seats, I start cleaning up my reception desk.

Both teams of Knights, however, make no motion towards the stadium’s entrance, choosing to remain chattering away where they are. Can’t you talk in the standby seats for the competitors?

“So Doran’s sending out you six,” Mr. Borizurie says. “Is Commander Grove not joining you?”

“He told me he’d prefer watching the fights. More importantly, who are these ladies you’ve got on your team? Don’t think I’ve seen them around before. Think you could introduce me?”

“Captain Alois! We are here, are we not! You do not need to be ‘introduced’ to any more ladies!”

“Yes, indeed!”

Rockmann must’ve caught on to how those women from Vestanu were blushing when they looked at him. What was he thinking, though, asking for an “introduction” when Ms. Weldy and the other lady Knight from Doran are standing right next to him? Of course they’re going to be offended. I casually glance at the other male Knights standing around the two Captains. All of them certainly look jealous. I don’t understand why they’re jealous of Rockmann, of all the bastards, but it’s quite obvious how they feel.

“There’s only about thirty minutes until the opening ceremonies start,” I say, standing up from my seat. “That said, there’s no rule forcing you to participate once registered, so I don’t mind at all if you stay here the entire time. The entire five days, in fact.” I move to lay the registration sheet for the Vestanu team into the box.

“Wait, O lady of the blue hair—would you care to have dinner with me this evening?”

“Me?”

I freeze. I’m still holding the registration sheet in one hand, stuck in a ridiculous posture. From my shoulder, Lala lets out a cry of dismay as she nearly topples to the ground.

Mr. Borizurie, who up until a moment ago had been speaking with Rockmann, is bending over to look me in the eye.

Ah! In surprise, I back up a few steps. Shoot. That probably was a bit rude.

“Forgive me, my lady. My name is Sarenja Borizurie. What might your name be?”

“Nanalie Hel...”

“Haha! What an exciting lady you are. Defiant words may you direct at Alois, but your intensity, your passion—I’ve never met someone like you.”

I don’t think he’s complimenting me right now.

“I-Is that so? Thanks for inviting me, but I’ve got plans for tonight. Sorry.”

I give him a quick bow of farewell, then hurry over to where my fellow receptionists are waiting. From behind me, I hear him say something like “Ah! She ran away...” but I’m not sure if his tone is disappointed or amused. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s quite apparent that I made the right choice in turning down his offer. “Dinner?” I very much doubt that’s what he’d planned for us to enjoy together tonight.

I got that same vibe from him that I get from Rockmann.

One of the senior receptionists watching all this happen seems concerned for me. “Nanalie, are you sure you don’t want to go? Share a meal with him, at least?”

“Whatever are you saying? I’d much prefer to eat with my Guild colleagues. We promised we’d all have dinner together tonight, didn’t we? How could you forget something like that...”

“That’s—that’s not—I didn’t forget...”

“Do you mind if I put this registration sheet in the box? It’s the last one.”

“The Knights all came at the end, didn’t they? One of the Royal Court people took care of a team of Knights from Sheera too.”

“Is that so? ...Hm?”

Right before I put the Vestanu sheet in the box, my eyes are drawn towards something written on one of the other papers in there.

The other receptionists notice my pause. “Um, Nanalie? Is there something wrong? Did we make a mistake?” One of them places her hand on my shoulder, looking worried.

“The Year 3644, by Arland’s Reckoning...on the sixth day of the second month of the Season of Flowers...?”

“Is there something the matter with the Captain’s birthday?”

“Subtract twenty years from 3668 and the difference is—four?”

I pick up the Doran Knight’s registration sheet and dash over to where they’re still chattering. Without any warning or waiting for him to stop talking, I give Rockmann’s back an insistent tap. All of the other Knights turn to look at me after I do so. Oh, this is awkward. But he should thank me for helping him correct such a basic mistake.

“Hey, you—you messed up here.”

“Where?”

“With this date, that would mean you’re twenty-four years old.”

The instant I say this, however, he lets out the weirdest groan of anguish, like he’s a frog I’ve just stepped on. “Gah!”

“Gah?”

“Never mind.”

Must’ve caught him off guard. He holds one hand over his mouth and makes a big show of coughing and clearing his throat. What was that all about? And why isn’t he looking me in the eye? I stare right at him, but he looks uncomfortable, averting his gaze somewhere to my right.

“That’s not actually...that’s not wrong.”

“Huh?”

“I am really twenty-four years old.”

What the heck is this bullshit he’s trying to pull?!

“Um, you know if you lie about your age, you won’t be able to participate in the tournament?”

“Yeah, but, it’s like I told you, I’m not lying.”

Mr. Borizurie lays a hand on Rockmann’s shoulder and backs him up. “Ms. Nanalie, there’s no mistaking it—he is twenty-four years old.”

“Excuse me?”

Ms. Weldy slinks over and slips an arm around Rockmann’s, looking more confident than I’ve ever seen her. “Goodness darling, didn’t you know? The Captain and I are the same age. Ah, he and I should have been classmates! Isn’t that right, Captain?”

What is happening here?! They can’t all three be lying with straight faces like that—which means—

“Y-You, you’re really—”

“I only started attending school once His Highness Prince Zenon was old enough to do so as well. I was his bodyguard.”

Four years older? Held back from attending school so he could be the Prince’s bodyguard? I think back to all those days when I’d lost in every competition we had, in magic and in academics. How bitter I’d felt about that. Each year, I’d been so determined to knock him down a peg and show him who the real winner was—but all the while, he was older than me? Four years older?

The man before me is not twenty, but twenty-four.

I still can’t quite believe that, even though he’s just told me himself. True, he did always seem a bit more mature than the rest of the boys. Even during our first year he struck me as a little older than the rest. But four. Years. Older?!

How come none of the noble kids ever said anything? Did no one else know?

There’s nothing I can really say about the fact of his being older, but as to how I feel about it—

“You’re older than me too?! Why do I have to lose to you even when it comes to age!!”

“Here we go again.”

I collapse down on my knees, covering my face with both hands. The shock of learning he and I are not the same age is too much for my poor stomach. It pains me, deeply.

All this time, he’s been thinking things like “this young brat is awfully whiny” or “what a child” whenever we talked! No doubt about it! I grow utterly convinced that he’s been taking me lightly for the entire time we’ve known each other.

One of my fellow receptionists comes up from behind me and begins rubbing my back. “Hey now, look what you’ve done to our poor Nanalie, she’s quite put out. What do you intend to do about this?” Thank you, Miss Pidget. I’m not put out, just...the shock of learning that was too much for me to handle. Nothing more.

“It’s not like I concealed that fact, and I definitely never lied about my age.”

A shadow looms over me as I kneel moping on the ground.

“I just never told you because you never asked.”

I know, alright, I know! I never asked. Not like we ever talked much anyways.

“I had some problems with my magic growing up, so my body ended up taking longer than the average person’s to mature. I look about four years younger than I actually am, in fact.”

Well, he does have a point there: he had too much magical power as a child, and struggled a lot with it.

“Someone needed to be a bodyguard for Prince Zenon, and since we were the closest in age, our parents had us start school together.”

Is that how it was?

“Physically speaking, I don’t think that I’m any older than you or Satanás are.”

Now I get it.

“Come on, hey—look at me.”

I thrust out my lower lip to pout. What am I doing? Aren’t I acting like a complete child right now? Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. He’s crouched down next to me, finally looking me in the eyes.

“Did you really want us to be the same age that badly? To be together?”

“Ugh. Don’t say gross stuff like that.”

“I did feel gross saying that, admittedly...”

Both of us have the same expression on our faces, like we just bit into a particularly nasty bit of food.

Just to make sure he doesn’t understand, I repeat myself: “I am not feeling put out because we’re not the same age, so don’t you think of it like that.”

“Oh is that so?” Rockmann looks completely bored when he hears me say this.

“Yeah. So why don’t you run along and lose in the first bout,” I spit out at him, jumping on Lala’s back and flying away. Until the opening ceremonies start, I’m busy working the spectator reception desks, ready to sell tickets, although hardly anyone’s still buying them by this time.

There are two reasons why we’re still over here: first, there may be last minute stragglers who need tickets, and secondly, because there needs to be a security detail at each entrance of the stadium. We’re receptionists, not security guards—why do we have to do this work too?

Sitting next to me, Mr. Yakkurin and one of the people from the Royal Court are chatting with each other.

“Not much to do now there, is there?”

“No, not much indeed.”

Unexpectedly, I find myself enjoying talking with them to pass the time while we wait. A Guild receptionist and a Royal Court attendant have taken our spectator registration sheets and are delivering them to the administrators backstage.

It’s too bad I can’t watch from the stadium seats. At least we have these simultaneous imagers—simagers—developed by Doran’s Royal Ministry of Magical Research. Inside our reception area are simager screens about the same size as the glass windows. With them, we’re able to see what’s going on inside the stadium even though we’re not there. They’re kind of like moving picture books. I heard at the orientation meeting that they use thoughtography magic, but unlike a usual thoughtograph I can see everything that’s going on inside quite clearly. The rest of the Kingdom, those who couldn’t make it to the stadium in person, will be watching the events via these screens. Apparently, larger versions have been set up in several places about town, so that everyone can watch together. It’s like one big party.

The King gives an address at the start of the ceremony. He describes how the recent increase of demons in the Kingdom has caused problems. He goes on to describe how a new continent, full of demons, has been discovered on the other side of the sea, far from our own home continent of Keedolmani. When he says this, the whole stadium of course goes abuzz with chatter. He ends his speech by saying, “Humanity may be in for dangerous times ahead. The whole continent must come together as one, and strengthen our bonds of friendship and cooperation as we train in magical arts to overcome whatever challenges may come, whether they be our opponents on the field or the demons across the sea.”

Everyone applauds when he finishes saying this, but I can’t help but think that he’s just trying to gloss over the fact that there exists an entire continent full of demons in our world. Hello, everyone? Let’s get serious about this, shall we? Aren’t we being a little hasty in dismissing this new threat?

But the tournament’s starting now, so there’s no time for discussion or deliberation about what humanity’s going to do about the demon continent. That’s not the only danger we have to worry about. There’s that strange Devil, the one bandying about the name “Städal.” I certainly can’t sleep perfectly soundly at night knowing all that I do.

Standing on a table next to the King is the platinum Champion’s Cup, which only the winning team is allowed to touch. Bathed in sunlight, it scatters brilliant sparkles of light over the whole crowd.

There’s a theatrical play that happens during the opening ceremonies. It’s based on the first chapter of Genesis, and has been adapted for the stage by the famous screenwriter Lord Piring. The actor for the demon is amazingly convincing. Didn’t he get some major acting award a little while ago?

One of the people from the Royal Court looks really excited to see him on the screen. “I wonder if I’d be allowed to go and get his autograph later?”

The ceremonies finish, and night comes on. All of the foreign visitors are staying at Doran inns, packing all the available rooms, which leads to the nightlife being a good deal livelier than usual. Older men and women travel from inn to inn, peddling famous Doran goods to the travelers. Some of the guests have even rented out the large event halls to hold a banquet, entertained by dancing girls.

I and the rest of the employees from Harré, including Zozo and the other members of the Guild team, as well as Cheena and the other junior receptionists, have all rented out the Vegetarian Wolf for the night, and are giving the servers and cooks a lecture-demonstration in “bad manners” as we cavort and drink away the evening. The proprietress, familiar with all of us given how close her restaurant is to Harré headquarters, scolds us all by telling us to “refrain from drinking so much that we get hungover” tomorrow, but the only people who seriously listen to her are the six competitors.

“All right you six, listen here: OVERTHROW THE KNIGHT’S ORDER!!”

“Yes, yes, Director.”

“Alkes! Sound like you mean it!”

“Now, now Director, let’s not get carried away...”

Zozo and the rest of the Guild team members are spending the night in a special facility for tournament competitors, so we end up heading home from the restaurant earlier than we might have otherwise. I and the other receptionists working for the Wall Helenus, like Mr. Yakkurin and the people from the Royal Court, also have special accommodations set aside for us just outside the stadium itself. After splitting up from Zozo’s team and the other Harré employees, I fly back up to the Royal Isle to spend the night.

“Come here.”

“Not enough, not enough.”

“Satisfy me.”

The words I heard in my dreams that night reverberated deep within me, louder and more insistent than ever before.

＊　＊　＊　＊

Today, on the second day of the Wall Helenus, the team matchups are finally announced. There are even more people here today then there were yesterday. They must all want to see the first fight.

“Fifty pegalo, please.”

“Whew! That’s a lot... Ah, here ya go.”

“Please proceed to seat number 1100.”

A ticket for today’s events costs about as much as I earn in one day working as a receptionist. Fairly expensive. Part of the ticket money collected from the spectators funds the prize money for the winning team, so the competing teams want as many people as possible to come, both to cheer them on and to make the award that much bigger. They should be happy with the turnout today.

“Miz—hwat—mahney—forrr—leetle—paepurr?”

The person in front of me speaks to me in somewhat different Tekkru than what I speak. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re from one of the countries on the west side of the continent, where they speak Biahnon. “Umm...d’yu speek...Biahnon?”

“Yeh! Biahnon!”

Well, looks like I guessed that right. There are several languages spoken on Keedolmani, like Tatan in the east, Chaite to the south, and many others across the continent. Back when I’d been in magic school we’d only studied ancient runes in class, but I’d mastered several foreign languages on my own time, just in case I’d ever have a need to know them in the future. There hasn’t been too much reason to use them while I’ve been working at Harré, but we did get the occasional sorcerer coming in from abroad to earn some valuable pegalos, so my efforts hadn’t been all for naught.

“ALL COMPETITORS, PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE ARENA FLOOR.”

Someone must’ve used a voice magnification spell. I hear the announcement echoing throughout the whole coliseum. The King had done the same during his speech, and so had the actors during their play. They must be planning to use that spell for doing commentary on the matches as well.

In total, there are three hundred and sixty competitors, or sixty teams, all of which will be fighting each other in the Wall Helenus.

The first “match”—battle royale, really—is designed to eliminate over half of the teams from the competition. Based on what I heard at the orientation meeting, I’m expecting only twenty teams will still be in the running by the end of the day. That said, they never did mention how they’d be eliminating those teams. I’m definitely interested in finding out how that’s decided...

Spectator reception has calmed down for the moment. The three receptionists who had been working competitor reception are doing roll call for the teams down on the arena floor. If any team doesn’t gather on the floor in time for their names to be called, they’re removed from the roster.

The three of us receptionists working competitor reception look up from our desks to watch the events unfold on the simagers while we work.

“They’re starting up!”

“Here are some drinks for the two of you.”

One of the palace administrators had given me a cask at the beginning of our shift. “Please, drink this if you become thirsty.” I hand cold cups of black tea to one of my senior colleagues and to the Royal Court receptionist working with us today.

“Thanks, Hel.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Hel. Oh, look—the Knights of Doran and Harré’s team are both on screen.”

He’s right—I can see Zozo and Mr. Alkes.

When the team of Doran’s Knights comes on screen, more than half the stadium erupts in cheers. “Go Doran!” “Do us proud, Knights!”

Screens have been placed even in the top levels of the stadium seating, so spectators can get a closer look at what’s happening down on the field. When he appears on screen, I hear more than one frenetic young lady scream out in a shrill voice, “Sir Alois!”

I catch a glimpse of Satanás and Benjamine on screen as well—just a glimpse, but it’s a relief to know that they made it out there. These magic screens really are useful. There are about five spherical objects slowly circling around the stadium, capturing all the visuals inside. It looks exactly how I remember it from when Lala and I flew over it.

“Sir Alois remains popular as ever, it seems.”

“I-Indeed,” I nod. My eyes narrow at the screen. “Ugh, just listen to all of that screaming and squealing.”

“Hm? Did you say something, Nanalie?”

“Oh, nothing at all.”

The Royal Court receptionist has a big smile on his face, eyes wide with anticipation. “I wonder what sort of rules they’ll use for the battle royale. It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

Right then, someone comes up to our desks to purchase a ticket, and the three of us avert our eyes away from the screen. The young man, who looks to be about twenty years old, is carrying a fistful of cash and coins in one hand. He holds it out to me, saying, “O-One ticket, please.”

“Certainly. I’ll—hold on?”

I peer closely at something in the air next to the young man. Could this—? I snap my fingers.

“Oh no!”

Another young man appears. He must’ve been using a Partinteton charm to stay invisible. I’d dispelled the charm’s effect with a simple snap.

The now-visible youth is dumbstruck, gaping his mouth open and shut. “How did you know?!” Well, mister, you were being quite obvious in the way you kept making repeated glances to your right, as well as looking generally uneasy. Then, of course, the air itself seemed out of focus, which led me to try a dispel—and look! There you were.

Incomplete Partinteton charms can conceal someone, but the space they occupy becomes twisted, making all who look in their direction feel uneasy. You can think that you’ve nailed the spell by becoming invisible, but if someone can still tell you’re standing there because of the way the space around you ripples, well, you’ve failed to conceal yourself, haven’t you?

The only entrance leading to the spectators’ seats open to the general public is the one beyond our reception desks. Should a spectator try to get inside the stadium via another entrance, or just by flying in from above, the Knights on their patrol would quickly send them packing.

A spell could be cast to prevent any intruders from entering the stadium, but after discussing it over at the orientation meeting, it had been deemed too difficult to do properly. After all, how would you calibrate such a spell? “Remove all individuals who haven’t paid the entry fee?” That wouldn’t work, because then those of us working to manage the event wouldn’t be able to get inside. Then, of course, there was the issue of modifying the magic circles to make them accept more complicated conditions for entry—which ended up being too much work. In the end, the administrators relied on the most primitive security measures to prevent trespassers: human receptionists.

Although, couldn’t we have used a barrier like the Rockmann family uses for their residence? No untrusted acquaintances are allowed inside their mansion, and are automatically removed if they try to get in. A spell like that would allow us to filter out the legitimate attendees from the trespassers like these two.

Apparently, these two young men don’t have enough money for tickets for both of them. They could’ve just watched from the simager screens set up around town—but they felt like they absolutely had to come see the match live, and so had tried to deceive us into letting them inside.

“You haven’t gone inside yet, so technically speaking you are not trespassing...but try this again and it’ll be straight to the prisons for you.”

“Y-Yes, ma’am!!!”

“We’re so sorry!”

Both young men give me a clean, snappy bow of apology, then turn tail and run back to their carriage, flying off the Isle to return to the ground below.

Just in case any others like them try gatecrashing, I take ten minutes to draw up a repulsion magic circle on a scrap piece of paper, coding it so only those using a Partinteton charm will be repulsed. I have the Dare Labdos absorb the paper, which I then use to cast it over the entrance. Hmm, now that I’ve seen some more of the weapons the Knights use, the Dare Labdos is really more of a “mace” than a “club”...

“Thanks, Hel. I’m guessing we’ll be seeing more like that tomorrow.”

“Let’s be sure to be on our guard for any further trespassers.”

Mr. Yakkurin and the man from the Royal Court sip their tea as they watch me work.

“Ah, Ms. Hel—it looks like the match is starting.” The Court receptionist is watching the simager screen, and I direct my attention there as well.

“I, Marge Terrence, editor-in-chief of the weekly Heaven magazine, have the honor of being your host for today’s match! Joining me in the commentary will be the Commander of the Order of Royal Knights, the Minister of Customs and Foreign Trade, and Princess Mislina.”

So all of them will be commentators for the events. I see and hear all four of them via the simager screens.

“For the Battle Royale, the three hundred and sixty competitors in their sixty teams shall be headed towards that special sphere way up in the sky above us on a rather special race track! The first twenty teams, every member included, to make it up there shall proceed onto the next match. They are allowed to use magic to obstruct other teams from ascending, but they are not allowed to ride their familiars. They must go, on foot, up to the sphere—no levitation magic, no magic circles, and all six must get there. They are allowed to use magic to return those who fall from the track back up to their original position.”

So this is... “A foot race?”

This is like one of those ridiculous contests we did as fifth years in magic school. Why are they placing so many rules on using magic? Isn’t the point to have the competitors demonstrate their magical abilities? Perhaps they want to judge their strategic sensibilities first, to see how they balance offense and defense as they make their way up there... Whatever the reason is, I really do find it odd that they couldn’t have the contestants do something else.

The sixty teams are lined up from end to end of the arena, standing on the dirt floor. Before their eyes, a wide, wide yellow path materializes, beginning at their feet and spiraling up into the sky.

“Competitors! You are to run up this track, and the first twenty teams to arrive at the top shall qualify for tomorrow’s match! Prepare yourselves... ReAdY?!? SeT?!? GO!!!”

Ms. Commentator, please, calm down. You’re going to give everyone a heart attack. Also, who says “ready, set, go” for a Wall Helenus? This isn’t a kid’s relay race.

Despite the agitation of the commentator, all sixty teams are focused and determined, launching off and up the path at once. Instants later, there are explosions everywhere and competitors are flying all over the place. What chaos!

My eyes are drawn to a particularly large hole in the middle of the path. Competitors keep falling through it, one after the other.

“The Royal Knights have magicked the path right out of the gate...to create a pitfall!”

Cheaters.

“Later, losers!”

“You cheating scum!”

Filling the screen is Rockmann, smiling wide. He must’ve been the one to set the trap. He has a gloating smile on his face as he races past Satanás, who’s levitating one of his teammates back onto the path after they fell through the hole. Benjamine is standing beside him, helping their fallen comrade stand up, and then they restart their running climb up the path. Fierce as an enraged god, Satanás’s face is captured on-screen as he curses his opponent.

“I’m gonna knock that stuck-up bastard to the ground!”

Yes, Satanás, go, go, go! Send him flying right off the Isle!

＊　＊　＊　＊

Through the trials and perils of the foot race up the yellow magic road, after catching up to and being overtaken by other competitors, Harré’s team successfully locks in third place with their arrival inside the glass sphere. All six of them, upon finishing the race, sit down in a circle, visibly exhausted. Zozo sprawls out her arms and legs, closing her eyes.

“It’s finally over.”

She glances down at those still struggling to make it up. Their looks of anguished exertion makes it quite clear to all watching that they do not want to keep running on the yellow magic road.

Zozo reflects on her team’s frantic battle up the path. The other two teams who arrived before them, the Knight teams from both Doran and Vestanu, are far off from where she sits.

Explosions in all directions, from the very instant we started running. All six of us made it up here, somehow, but those Knight teams sure gave us a run for our money.

“Deen? Are you feeling ill?”

“I...I don’t know why... I suppose I’m feeling a bit anemic.”

Deen, the Ice mage for Harré’s team, is holding her head in her hands, curled into a ball on the floor. “I feel like I’m about to black out.”

“We ran too much,” Zozo says, patting her back. “Just rest now.” She begins casting a healing spell on her ailing teammate.

Anemia is the most troubling symptom of disease that can befall a mage. The thinner your blood, the weaker your magic. It can grow so weak that, eventually, you become unable to use any magic at all.

“It’s okay. We’ll get you healed right up.”

“Thanks.”

Deen’s cheeks regain some of their color. Zozo gives them a peppy pat and smiles.