Chương 508: 241.Bet 2

I have a deep dislike for information delivered one drip at a time. If this were an actual battlefield, fine. Incomplete intel is standard out there — the front line can't see the rear, the rear can't read the terrain, and how much comms traffic gets through depends entirely on whether the universe feels like being generous that day. That kind of incompleteness at least has a reason behind it. This? No. This wasn't a lack of intelligence.

This was the committee deliberately slicing the truth into small pieces and spoon-feeding it to you, watching your expression sour with every bite, as a form of entertainment. Mega-Fungal Death World. 1. 45G. Spore Haze. Trace radioactive dust. Discovered last year. Data limited. If they'd added a cheerful backing track, I could have officially filed this draw ceremony under public execution, variety-show format. Standing on the stage, facing all those eyes, I said the only genuinely honest thing I had.

"I'm truly sorry." I meant it.

"I've had terrible luck since I was a kid." The arena held still for half a beat. Then — whether because the line was too sincere, or because everyone was still climbing out from under recently discovered high-radiation fungal death world — the expressions across the whole venue turned complicated all at once. Akari reacted first. She covered her face, her tone carrying the weight of someone who'd just been told her physical training hours were doubling.

"That's not bad luck anymore, Shimo." She said it.

"That's more like you come with a curse pre-installed." Jess jumped in immediately.

"Look on the bright side." She patted my shoulder, smiling in a way that had never once earned my trust.

"At least this saves everyone the time they'd have wasted hoping. Straight to despair. Very efficient."

"That is not comfort."

"It is." She looked entirely innocent.

"I'm comforting you by pointing out you're not suffering alone. We're all suffering together." What kind of collective honor is that supposed to be. D leaned nearby, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth curling into something distinctly unfriendly.

"I actually like it." He said.

"At least the schedule won't be boring. If whoever's running the anchor leg decides halfway through to blow up the organizing committee, I'll fully understand."

"Thanks." I answered, deadpan.

"That support sounds a lot like a sentencing defense."

"You're welcome." Irena, to her credit, didn't pile on. At least not visibly. She pulled her eyes off the main screen, glanced at me, and there was a completely unnecessary amount of ease in her expression.

"Don't sentence yourself to death yet." She said.

"It's just an ugly venue. We're not at the point where you need to draft a will on the spot."

"You say that awfully easily."

"Because if even I stopped being easy about it, you'd probably throw up right here." I had no rebuttal for that. Emily offered exactly one line. She stood there, black tank clinging to her frame, the prosthetics on her left arm and both legs catching the venue lights with a cold, hard sheen. Her expression barely moved, as if this level of bad news had only bumped the situation from annoying to slightly more annoying.

"If it can move, it can run." I turned to look at her.

"Not everyone treats their lungs as disposable the way you do." She snorted and didn't push it further. Strangely enough, that line — with zero gentleness in it — settled the room more than most of the kinder things said that morning. Probably because whatever came out of her mouth, unpleasant or not, rarely turned out to be empty noise. Maki's reaction, by comparison, was the smallest of all. No — the cleanest.

The moment the screen threw up high radiation and fungal spores, she looked at it for less than two seconds. Her expression barely shifted. Then she turned and walked straight out of the venue. No further explanation. No pausing to reassure me first. She just left, and started making calls. Fast enough that she clearly hadn't even bothered saying this needs handling now out loud — that would've cost time she wasn't willing to spend. Watching her back, I felt something both ominous and reassuring at once.

Ominous, because whatever moved Maki that fast was never small. Reassuring, because if she was already on the phone, she wasn't just stepping out for air. Not long after, the committee's follow-up notice came through. Assemble at the spaceport in two days. That was it. Not a single extra word. I stared at the notification and realized that my worst assumptions about the committee's process last night had, if anything, been far too generous. The venue was locked in. The assembly time was out.

After one more round of murmuring rippled through the stands, people began to scatter — some rushing to check data, some talking rapid-fire into their terminals, some simply deleting the next two days of rest from their mental calendars. I was doing the same. I was just about to find a quiet corner and call Dr. Steiner, to ask him — politely or not — to get my combat armor here no matter what, when she appeared again.

"Rough luck today, Hoshino?" I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. The voice was too composed — the kind that sounded like every sentence had been typeset in her head before she let it out into the world. I turned anyway, and there was Shinomiya, standing a short distance off, hair smooth, posture perfect, wearing the same smile that never quite justifies flipping a table on the spot, but only gets more infuriating the longer you replay it afterward.

"Leave me alone." I had no energy left for politeness.

"I'm in a very bad mood right now."

"Oh dear, are you." Her tone was light enough to soothe a child, but there wasn't a trace of genuine surprise in her eyes. This wasn't a coincidence. She'd picked this exact moment on purpose.

"I have intel." She looked at me, still smiling.

"Would you like to hear it?" I opened my mouth to tell her to get lost. The words hadn't even fully formed when the suit's line from earlier flashed back into my head. —located in the Dorado constellation, within a Type-III solar system. I snapped fully awake. Dorado. House Shinomiya was Dorado's house. I stared at her, and the simple irritation from a second ago was immediately shoved aside by something far more practical. Shinomiya looked satisfied that I'd finally caught up.

Her wrist turned, and a thin data card appeared between her fingers. Small in her hand. Heavier than the smile on her face.

"Give it to you? Of course, no problem." She watched me, clearly pleased with herself.

"But that would be a little dull, don't you think, Hoshino?" I looked at the card. I didn't reach for it.

"What you want?"

"How about this." She answered fast, like the line had been sitting ready for a while.

"Let's make a bet." I didn't so much as blink. Shinomiya continued. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"If we win this Long-Range Endurance Obstacle Course—" She tilted her head slightly, smile undimmed.

"Then you, Hoshino, transfer to Shinomiya Advanced Defense Academy."... Oh. Now that was interesting. I'd expected her to ask for an intel trade, a favor owed, or for me to loosen up on some topic. Instead she'd skipped straight to a school transfer. This wasn't ordinary trash talk, and it wasn't picking a fight. This was pure, escalating Shinomiya.

"And if you lose?" I asked.

"Simple." She said it without hesitation.

"I come to your school. Grunt work, whatever's needed — I'm fine with any of it." She said it too smoothly — smoothly enough to make me wonder whether she genuinely wasn't afraid of losing, or whether she'd already worked out a graceful excuse for how she'd stick around either way. I narrowed my eyes slightly and studied her for a long moment. She didn't look away. If anything, she looked like she was enjoying it. Finally, I forced out a line.

"Is stealing other people's things really this entertaining, Shinomiya?" She laughed, low and short. Not playing dumb. Not denying it. She didn't even bother covering it up.

"Exactly so." When that landed, I laughed too. Not from happiness. Because it was the first thing she'd said all day that was honest enough to actually be a relief.

"Interesting." I looked at her and held out my hand.

"Remember what you just said, Shinomiya." Something faint and bright moved through her eyes, like she'd finally gotten me to sit down at the table she'd been setting. The next second, I pulled the data card straight out of her fingers. Fast. Not gentle. Then I turned and walked away. No footsteps followed. Shinomiya probably knew as well as I did that one more word right now would only cheapen the clean little wager she'd just laid down. I turned the card over in my hand as I walked, thinking about what came next.

When I got back, Maki was probably going to yell at me. Not for taking the intel. She'd have taken it herself eventually, one way or another. What I'd actually catch hell for was making a bet with Shinomiya on top of it, at a time like this. Thinking about it, I nearly stopped, turned around, and threw the card back at her along with her smile. Reason won out. Barely. And very practically. Because no matter who yelled at me later, at least right now, the intel was already in my hand.

As for the bet— I'd settle that with her once I'd won. When I got back to 22 Platinum Bridge Street, the house was pitch dark. Not the gentle, quiet kind of dark. The kind of dark that means everyone's still out, and the whole house has temporarily stopped breathing along with the lights. No shoes scattered in the entryway. No lights in the sitting room. No mug abandoned by the sink because someone was too lazy to put it away.

Even the air seemed to have decided in advance that the next two days weren't going to be peaceful, and had tactfully chosen to stay silent about it. Normally, that kind of quiet should've been a relief. Unfortunately, my mental state today had reached the point where even silence felt like a storm warning. I went to my room, shut the door, and the first thing I did was pull out the data card and slot it into my terminal. The moment the screen lit up, I had a bad premonition.

With intel that comes through unofficial channels, the real problem is rarely that it's wrong. It's that it's too accurate. Because once it's accurate, you have to take it seriously. And once you start taking it seriously, your mood only travels in one direction. It didn't take long to confirm that instinct was right. The first thing that came up was geological data.

At the venue announcement, the committee had brushed past it in one light sentence: —a geologically stable world whose surface has been entirely overrun by organic life. At the time, that had sounded like the kind of official phrasing the committee loved — professional, vague, and practically useless. Opening the actual file, I understood exactly how many sleep-ruining details that one sentence had left out. Orpheia's surface wasn't a single environment.

It was a patchwork planet, stitched together out of several deeply unfriendly terrain types. The geology section wasn't especially deep — likely because the data really was incomplete — but scrolling through it, three terms kept surfacing over and over. Perpetual Night Fungal Pillars. Singing Clay Barrens. Boiling Acidic Mudpools. I stared at those three names for a few seconds. Every individual word was familiar. Every combination was openly hostile.

Perpetual Night Fungal Pillars sounded like the kind of place where one wrong step would swallow everything from your boot soles to your future plans. Singing Clay Barrens was somehow worse. Just putting singing and clay in the same phrase was enough to make you wonder whether whoever named it had a personal grudge against every competitor who'd ever have to cross it. As for Boiling Acidic Mudpools — that one didn't even need explanation.

The literal meaning alone was reason enough for any sane person to keep her distance. Wonderful. We weren't going to a race. We were going jogging across a planet that had stay away written straight into its own geological texture. I scrolled further. The geology file was thin, but the climate section, fortunately, had considerably more meat on it. The first line under standard conditions made my brow twitch. Standard Climate: Spore Haze. That wasn't even the important part.

The important part was the handwritten note appended right after it — not system text, clearly added by hand, after the fact. Visibility extremely low. Radar mapping subject to interference. I sat up straighter. This wasn't just an annoying environment problem anymore. This meant we couldn't fully rely on navigation systems.

In other words, anyone still holding onto the comfortable fantasy that standard route planning and terrain radar will patch over most of the problems could go ahead and bury that fantasy right now. Orpheia clearly wasn't the kind of planet that would sit obediently inside a digital map and wait for you to finish your route on schedule. I kept scrolling. The next page hit me with a headline in oversized text. Extreme Storm: Spore Mutation Surge. I stopped.

The name alone didn't sound like something with any interest in coexisting peacefully. The description underneath wasn't any more polite. During the onset of these irregular storms, atmospheric radiation spikes within seconds. Airborne spores, stimulated by the radiation surge, undergo rapid growth and adhere to the surfaces of protective suits and vehicles, initiating acidic corrosion. I read that line through once, and then, very quietly but with complete sincerity, cursed the screen inside my head. Fuck this.

No — that was too mild. Fuck this entire planet, along with whoever found it, whoever named it, and whoever thought it belonged in the venue candidate pool. This wasn't hell difficulty. This was the committee writing the environment will actively bite you straight into the spec sheet, and expecting everyone to accept it calmly. High radiation. Spore Haze. Navigation compromised. And when the storm hits, the spores accelerate and eat through your gear.

I hadn't even reached the full terrain data yet, and already I'd started feeling the red button deserved reclassification — not as drawing equipment, but as a premeditated assault weapon. I was reaching to scroll further when voices drifted up from downstairs. Faint at first — the front door had just opened, someone talking while trading shoes for slippers. Then the sound got clearer: heels on the floor, luggage wheels, and a few complaints I'd recognize in my sleep. They were back.

I got up, walked to the second-floor railing, and looked down. Sure enough. Maki stood at the front, carrying herself with the specific energy of a field commander taking over a forward position — even when all she was actually doing was bringing people home to crash. Hedwig stood beside her. Behind them, D, Jess, and Akari all filed in, talking as they came, and the entryway went from dead silence to lived-in space in about ten seconds.

What actually stopped me were the faces that had no business looking that at home in my living room. Three of them. Irena Dubois. Full-body cyberized second-year, who'd just ground an opponent down through pure technique in the Captain's match, now wheeling her luggage in like she was returning to her own dorm. Emily Smith.

Heavily mechanized second-year, radiating an aura that made every adjective I reached for feel insufficient, standing in the entryway like she wouldn't mind picking a fight with the house itself if it gave her a reason. And Charles Bingham. Lower House first-year, slotted as second leg in the Long-Range Endurance Obstacle Course — quiet enough, next to the other two, to look like a normal human who'd wandered into a predator enclosure by mistake.

"Shimo, come down." Maki spotted me the second she looked up.

"They're staying here for now." Since Maki had decided it, I naturally had no objection. Or rather — even if I did, one look from her would automatically make it a lot smaller. I came down, stood in the middle of the sitting room, and took stock. Irena waved at me like she'd arrived on holiday. Charles nodded properly, clearly still working out why he was standing here with this crowd of upperclassmen.

Emily leaned against her luggage, and when her blue eyes came over, they carried the exact look of someone checking whether the house rules had the nerve to apply to her. Good. In that case, I had a few things to say up front.

"Welcome, everyone." I said.

"It's only two days, but I'll need you all to observe the following rules." Jess laughed on the spot.

"Here we go. The Hoshino Household Entry Treaty."

"Not a treaty." I gave her a flat look.

"A survival agreement." I recited the rules I'd posted on the fridge, word for word — shared fridge zoning, bathroom time slots, no testing gear in the hallway after midnight, anyone who touches the basement equipment without asking writes her own will, trash sorting, and no running the water heater at full blast in three bathrooms at once at 0300. That sheet had started life as basic household rules.

Delivered in my current tone, it had picked up the flavor of internal conduct regulations for a temporary military base. Reactions varied. Charles listened carefully, looking like he actually wanted to take notes. Irena wore an expression of pure delight throughout, like she'd just discovered the tournament came with bonus side content. Akari, on hearing no high-noise equipment testing at night, gave Emily a look of deep, unspoken solidarity.

Emily herself stayed quiet through most of it — right up until I added the final clause.

"Also. The house is completely non-smoking." I looked directly at her, enunciating clearly.

"That includes your own bedroom, the bathroom, and the basement. If you want to smoke, go outside." Right on cue, Emily's eyebrows went up.

"Feels like that one's aimed at someone specific." I answered without missing a beat.

"Because you're currently the only person in this house who'd interpret there's a window as smoking is permitted anywhere." I said it calmly.

"Not targeted. Risk assessment." Akari burst out laughing. Jess turned away, shoulders shaking. Emily narrowed her eyes at me, clearly ready to fire something back. I didn't give her the chance — I got the finishing line in first.

"Once you can guarantee the smell won't stick to the curtains, the couch, the AC filter, and my life expectancy, I'll consider revising the clause." The room went quiet for a beat. Then D let out a completely undignified snort.

"Clean," he said.

"That landed clean." Emily was silent for two seconds, then just huffed through her nose and — remarkably — let it go. I allowed myself a small, quiet breath of relief. Once the housekeeping was out of the way, everyone settled around the sitting room table. I hooked my terminal to the main screen, pulled up the intel I'd just taken off Shinomiya's card, and walked them briefly through what was currently known about Orpheia's geology and climate. Perpetual Night Fungal Pillars. Singing Clay Barrens.

Boiling Acidic Mudpools. Spore Haze causing low visibility and radar interference. And the storm whose name alone said it had no interest in peaceful coexistence: Spore Mutation Surge. As they listened, expressions around the table shifted in ways ranging from subtle to obvious. Maki's first reaction, though, wasn't to the planet at all. She looked at the projection, her gaze holding there for barely a second before it moved to my face.

"Shimo." Her voice was even.

"What did you promise Shinomiya?" I froze. Of course. She hadn't been unaware for a second. She'd just been waiting for me to admit it myself.

"I didn't promise anything," I said.

"I made a bet with her."

"Wow." Jess drew an exaggerated breath.

"Shimo, you're gambling with your own body?" I turned and glared at her.

"Jess. If you want to die, just say so."

"I'm just helping summarize the key points."

"You're summarizing in a way that deserves a beating." Maki didn't join the heckling. Her expression barely changed. She simply took two unhurried steps around the table toward me — not a threatening advance, but precisely because she wasn't rushing, the pressure came through louder.

"What was the bet?" she asked. I looked at her. More accurately, I looked at her eyes, and then, with absolutely no dignity, let my gaze start drifting. Hedwig said nothing. D had already settled into this is about to be good mode against the sofa. Akari looked between Maki and me like she was deciding whether to start scouting for cover. Irena looked like she'd happily produce a snack and watch.

Charles sat very properly to one side, his whole face broadcasting: first-years probably shouldn't be allowed to witness this level of social death. Finally, I sighed.

"I bet her," I said, trying to make it sound less absurd than it was, "that if we lose the Long-Range Endurance Obstacle Course—" The sitting room went cleanly, completely silent. I closed my eyes.

"—I transfer to Shinomiya Advanced Defense Academy."

"Whoa." Jess produced an entirely unnecessary noise. D's eyebrows went up. Akari nearly choked on the water she'd just picked up. Charles went rigid, his whole first-year face spelling out one very clear sentence: Is that actually a thing you're allowed to bet? I didn't dare look at Maki's face right away. Because just standing there, I could already feel it. Whatever was coming next was going to be a lot more than just getting yelled at.