Fortunately, it hadn’t decided to sass me yet. No witty remark. No snide commentary. Just… there. Quiet. Content in its stillness. I really feel like it was enjoying itself.
But as I watched, a creeping, heavy thought slithered into my mind.
What if I’m wrong?
With things like this, that kind of doubt is never far away. I exhaled. The problem wasn’t the possibility of being wrong. The problem was what could happen if I was right.
I still remembered the damage my encounter with a manasanct caused. The way its host collapsed into a lifeless shell was one thing. Then there’s the way it tore itself apart under a flood of knowledge, it lashed out at everything, including itself. Yeah. I wasn’t about to repeat that. Not here.
I only needed to push it just enough. Tease out its potential. Determine whether it was something to nurture… or something that needed to be erased.
Slowly, I placed my hand on top of it, gently. It seemed to quiver with delight. Or maybe I am humanizing it a bit. But it felt… different. Dangerous, yes, but as far as I am aware, there was no other thing like this. It was Unique. Fragile, yes, but alive. To destroy it now would be a tragedy.
Instead of that line of thought, which I buried for now, I turned my attention to its ability, etched clearly above its shimmering surface:
Ability [Retort] = [Curiosity] [Surprise] [Knowledge] [X]
It wasn’t just words. Not also wholly a description. Not an instruction. It was an equal sign. A mathematical symbol.
Maybe that was the point. Curiosity, surprise, knowledge… the first three components of some grand equation. And then the last one, [X], the unknown. The hidden variable.
Combine all four, and perhaps one could “retort” in full?
Only problem?
I had no idea how to activate it. I didn’t know which event counted, or how large an event had to be. I didn’t even know if it required intent, observation, or something far stranger.
And with each thought, the weight of possibility pressed heavier on my shoulders.
This wasn’t just a skill, a title, or some magical trinket. This was… something alive. Something that could grow, adapt, and maybe even learn.
And if I misstepped… I could easily unleash more than I bargained for.
I shifted slightly, wrapping my fingers loosely around the glowing sphere, feeling the faint pulse of power radiating from it.
So, what now? I muttered to myself. Do I experiment? Do I wait? Or do I…
I stopped. The last thought was dangerous. Even considering it made the little spark in my chest tighten.
I exhaled again. Carefully. Slowly.
Just enough to test. Just enough to see what you could become. For now.
Inspecting my new skill could wait. My brain had already been fried enough today, too much stress on too little chocolate. If only there were a stash somewhere.
Hells, if the author had let me integrate this Knowledge Core with Master Cooking, maybe I could have whipped up a magical chocolate substitute. But no—more’s the pity.
I exhaled, letting the tension in my shoulders ease as reality reasserted itself. I turned, and Nana baa-san was staring at me with that “I see everything” intensity. I gave her a thumbs-up. She nodded once, approvingly.
That was enough. I leaned back in my seat and let the room’s chaos wash over me. Today was shaping up to be one of those interminable, soul-draining sessions. Retort, of course, piped up now and then, spouting nonsensical commentary whenever someone said something remotely interesting.
The would-be heroes, and even some adults, naturally gravitated toward magic. Naturally. Always magic. Predictable as sunrise.
Luckily, by some unknown mercy—or perhaps cruel joke—I was still under the “cannot gain experience” clause. Leveling up was off the table. I was exempt from heroic responsibilities. For now.
<
Did—did you just break into my story recap monologue!? Seriously.
I shook my head and refocused.
Some, like Trayn, who already had magic in their current class, opted to wait and see what new subclasses would appear. Others, like Arthur, dove headfirst into magic—why not? More power, more flashy spells, more points to show off.
Then there are also some, like the three idiots with magic oriented class to begin with, went the more hands-on route and picked classes like knights. The appeal was obvious: might and magic, wrapped into one shiny, prestige package.
I slouched further, letting my thoughts wander back to chocolate. At least mentally, that was a battlefield I could dominate. Skills, titles, Tiers, Retort chatter, magic this, knight that… all meaningless if you can’t have a proper chocolate bar.
<
Yeah, thanks for stating the obvious, Retort. I’ll add that to the ever-growing list of things that make me want to cry into a cake I don’t have.
“You good, Vi?” Arthur asked as the room finally began to settle, the earlier buzz tapering off into low murmurs.
“If you want, we can check the rest of your titles,” Trayn added with a grin. “You never know, we could even give you another one.”
“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks,” I replied flatly. “I tend to shy away from self-induced aneurysms.”
That earned a round of chuckles from the usual offenders.
<
Then Celestia’s voice rang out from the front.
“Lord Vi, we still have some time,” she said brightly, gesturing toward the windows where the golden light of late afternoon was beginning to fade.
Jesus H. Christ. This girl.
“Look, I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Still the same person—even if I can’t gain experience. And whatever promise you made my mother? I hereby declare it fulfilled. Mission complete. You’re free. Go bother someone else.”
“No,” Celestia replied calmly, far too calmly. “I understand that Lord Vi is… independent. Your mother also mentioned that you are quite difficult to handle.” She smiled politely. Fearlessly. “But I gave my word. And my word is my bond. Those are the words of my house. We follow them to the letter.”
I stared at her.
“Please?” I tried weakly, to the immediate snickering of the four idiot males nearby.
<
“Son of mine,” my mother called. I turned to look at her.
“She is offering to guide you without expecting anything in return,” she continued. “The least you could do is be a little more respectful.”
Yeah. Without expecting anything in return part was highly debatable. I opened my mouth.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
<
I very slowly closed my mouth. I turned back to Celestia.
“…Fine,” I sighed. “You win. What now?”
Celestia’s eyes sparkled, like a scholar who had just been handed a lost manuscript.
“Excellent,” she said happily, clapping her hands once. “Then let us proceed carefully. This time, there will be no more surprises.”
<
I slumped back in my chair, feeling my spine crack in three distinct places, each one sounding like a quiet protest. With a long, suffering sigh, I pushed myself up and dragged my perfectly smooth ass back to the front of the room, shoes scuffing faintly against the floor as I went. I wasn’t in a hurry. If fate wanted to embarrass me further, it could wait its turn.
I murmured the status command under my breath and began checking everything again, slowly, deliberately, like rereading a receipt you know is wrong but still hope it isn’t.
“See, my name is fine,” I muttered, mostly to myself.
<
“Level still the same. Experience: Zero,” I continued, pacing a step or two as my eyes skimmed downward. “Master class—empty. Job class—oh look! Still nothing.”
I let my hand fall to my side.
Celestia, infuriatingly, was still calm. Still smiling. The same patient, scholarly smile of someone who loves puzzles and had just been handed a very interesting one. I sighed. Even if I complained until my throat went dry, she’d still get to examine my titles. There was no downside for her. Meanwhile, I was actively burning calories just talking while she looked like she was having the time of her life.
<
“Yeah,” I muttered to my skill, scratching the side of my head.
Celestia, unfortunately, seemed to take that as a sign of surrender. Her smile widened—actually widened—and that alone should have been enough of a warning.
“Listen to me, lady,” I said, rubbing my face. “No matter how much you stare at my status, nothing will change. My name, level, master class, job class, subcla—”
I stopped mid-sentence as my eyes locked onto the display. The room, which had been filled with quiet chatter a second ago, went completely still. I could feel it—the weight of attention shifting, heads turning, curiosity sharpening into focus.
Celestia noticed immediately of course. If it was possible for her to beam harder, she did. Oh, my lord.
<
“Arthur,” I said slowly, without taking my eyes off my status screen. “I have a question.”
“No, Vi,” he replied instantly. “I won’t take your place.”
“Not that,” I snapped. “Maybe later. How many choices do you get when you select your subclass?”
Arthur blinked, thrown off by the question. “Uh… right now? Three. I haven’t picked yet because Lady Celestia said if I level up at five and maybe even ten, I’ll get other options.”
I nodded, then turned back to Celestia.
“If a person has available subclasses,” I asked carefully, each word measured, “can this machine see them?”
Celestia tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. “No, Lord Vi. As far as I am aware, the arcane evaluator cannot. It only displays a subclass after one has been chosen.”
“Yeah,” I said, scratching my head harder now. “That’s what I thought.”
I exhaled slowly.
“So how do I explain this? …I have, a lot, of choices,” I said slowly, every word dragged out as if saying it faster might somehow make it less ridiculous. “Like, a crap ton, of choices for subclass.”
Everyone stared at me. Not the curious kind. Not the impressed kind. Possibly the processing-error kind.
“You already have subclass choices? Shouldn’t you level up first?” Arthur finally said, breaking the silence. “How many are we talking about?”
I shrugged. “It’s in the title.”
“Vi.”
I sighed, long and tired.
“You know the tier system you’ve all been talking about?” I said. “I’ve got five tiers, for five slots.”
Celestia stiffened.
“And,” I continued, rubbing my temple, “there are fifty-five thousand, five hundred and fifty-five options per tier.”
Another round of silence fell over the room—heavier than the last. Somewhere in the back, some chair creaked because someone shifted their weight.
“Lord Vi,” Celestia said slowly, very slowly, her scholarly excitement replaced by something sharp and focused as she walked back to her podium. She snatched up the black notebook, flipped it open, and dipped her quill with decisive aggression. “I cannot accept that statement at face value.”
She looked up, eyes gleaming. “So,” she said brightly, “let us begin.”
“I am not listing fifty thousand subclasses for your personal amusement,” I snapped immediately, pointing at her. “Not now. Not ever. Not even if you bribe me with chocolate.”
The queen leaned forward, her expression thoughtful rather than amused. “Do you have any idea how such a thing could have happened?” she asked. “Is this related to the summoning itself?”
She turned slightly toward Celestia, silently passing the question along.
“Give me a second,” I replied, closing my eyes.
Celestia, meanwhile, had paused before she launched into a rapid-fire muttering—words like parameters, conditions, and compatibility conditions tumbling out of her mouth.
I tuned her out. Instead, I dug through my memory, past the chaos of the last few days, past panic and songs and chocolate deprivation, and into something older. It’s at the tips of my mind but I can’t quite—
“Wow, Vi,” Taka said softly, adjusting his glasses. “Your status is really… bugged.”
Trayn whistled low. “Fifty thousand? The system just dumped all that on you? Didn’t you get a notification or something?”
I opened my eyes and looked at them. “No,” I said. “That’s the weird part.”
I glanced at my status screen again, at the absurd, scrolling list that somehow, refused to end.
Wait. Bugged. Dumped.
The words clicked together in my head like badly aligned gears finally grinding into place.
“Wait!” I called out.
Celestia cut herself off mid-lecture, quill hovering above paper. The room’s attention snapped back to me in unison—like I’d just triggered another system prompt.
“When I was summoned,” I said again, slower this time, careful with every word, “I wasn’t supposed to be here. No destiny. No hero flag. No predefined growth path.”
I turned toward Taka.
“Taka,” I said, already moving toward the board and snatching up a piece of chalk, “what happens when a program encounters an unexpected runtime error?”
“It crashes,” he answered immediately.
“Yes,” I nodded, “but if you don’t want the program to crash, what do you do?”
He frowned, thinking—then his eyes widened.
“You throw an exception!” he said, excitement creeping into his voice. “Wait—are you saying—?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing at him with the chalk. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“Okay,” I continued, turning back to the board. “I’ll explain this as cleanly as I can.”
I started writing.
Three boxes. Three labels.
“My three class slots,” I said. “Master Class. Job Class. Subclass.”
My chalk screeched. The lines were uneven. One box leaned like it was trying to escape.
“Your penmanship is really awful,” Shizuku said flatly, squinting.
“Suzu thinks so too,” Suzu added helpfully. “Vi-kun should practice more.”
<
“Uhm, Lord Vi,” Celestia said diplomatically, peering at the board. “We… cannot understand what you are writing.”
“Achichipapatsutsupapatsupapa,” I replied eloquently, waving the chalk like a wand and dismissing all criticism.
I tapped each box in turn.
“This is the Master Class. This is the Job Class. This is the Subclass.”
I drew brackets under the Master Class and scribbled a zero inside.
“Now,” I said, “it’s weird that I’ve got no options for the first two, but an absurd number for the third. But that’s the clue.”
I added another set of brackets.
“According to Lady Celestia,” I continued, glancing at her, “this field can be changed or added later on. Meaning having a zero here is a valid value.”
“But, when I was summoned accidentally, I didn’t get a Master Class. As I said, this field?” I pointed at the zero. “It accepts zero as a value, zero as in no Master class. So, the system didn’t panic because it was allowed, therefore there is no error.”
Celestia nodded slowly.
Next, I moved to the Job Class and wrote -1.
“This,” I said, tapping the chalk against it, “is the problem.”
A few people leaned forward.
“The Job Class defines growth. Progression. Levels. But, I cannot gain experience,” I continued tapping my chest for emphasis. “So, the system tried to assign a growth path to something that mathematically cannot grow.”
I underlined the -1.
“That’s an invalid value—an unexpected variable. Normally, when you add something to zero, the result becomes whatever you added. But when the system tried to add something to that negative, the value stayed at zero,” I scribbled as I explained, making arrows that looped at one another then tapped the board for emphasis. “In other words, it was still nothing. The system had already tried to assign a value, but it couldn’t comprehend why it still showed as zero.”
I turned back to the room.
“And when a program encounters something, it doesn’t understand?” I said. “It compensates. The same happened to the system.”
I jabbed the chalk toward Taka.
“Taka.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Because the system encountered a logic error, or was in a state where it could not comprehend what happened, it tried to resolve the problem,” he said, practically vibrating. “In trying to solve the error, it collapsed and caused a total underflow into the next available node, third node.”
He pointed at the last box.
“The Subclass.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Dense. The kind that made my ears ring.
“In short, instead of crashing,” I said quietly, “the system threw an exception.”
I gestured to the board. “And dumped everything it could possibly give me… right there.”
Celestia’s was staring at me so much her quill slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the desk. She didn’t even bother picking it up.
The queen exhaled slowly.
Arthur stared at the board, then at me, slow smile spreading on his face. “So… you’re not bugged—”
“I’m a feature,” I finished the sentence proudly.
<
I glanced at the near endless subclass list again. Looks like my misdirection had unintended uses which was a plus. But as I continued to stare, another thought lingered in my head.
The opposite was also true.
Instead of an underflow, an overflow also worked in this instance. It occurs when a program tries to store a value or data that is larger than the fixed-size memory location. The system threw an exception into the subclass not because it does not want to, but because it could not. Because something was already there.
And I have a theory, a plausible theory about who or what that something was. I don’t know whether to thank it or not.
<
“…I really need chocolate,” I muttered.