Chương 75: Weaponized Eighth-Grader Syndrome

[Time]: Day 47, Thursday, 04: 15 PM [Location]: Royal Rosas Club · The Grand Tour Hathaway was currently experiencing the profound, heavy lethargy that only comes from consuming four days' worth of premium aristocratic calories in under thirty minutes. She waddled slightly as she followed Rhode out of the revolving restaurant and into the bright afternoon sun.

"I can't fight," Hathaway mumbled, clutching her stomach as she approached the plaza.

"If we run into a tournament qualifier right now, I am going to have to cast [Fireball] from a strictly horizontal position."

"Relax, pipsqueak. You're not fighting today. You're sightseeing," Rhode laughed. After dinner, Rhode casually commandeered a sleek, open-air hovercraft for the official facilities tour. Hathaway climbed into the passenger seat with a soft groan. I went in expecting a training camp, Hathaway thought, sinking into the leather seat. I got a luxury resort that happens to contain weaponry.

They drifted past an open-air warm-up field where junior Witches were lazily swinging weighted training swords—the kind of relaxed, casual movement that implied they could demolish a city block with more enthusiasm later. They glided over an artificial lake where two Witches in expensive loungewear had set up deck chairs, opened something that sparkled, and were fishing with telekinesis while conducting what appeared to be a serious macroeconomic discussion.

On the opposite bank, three golden tails curled into a perfect, soundproof triangle. Inside it sat the Fox Witch from Nino's lecture, reading a thick tome with the exact same absorbed intensity. Makes sense. Her game designer brain effortlessly archived the realization: Yggdrasil's student roster wasn't a list of stressed twenty-somethings scrambling for credits. Anyone pulled from those lecture halls had enough lore to fill a biography.

The fox reading by a luxury lake was fundamentally identical to the fox reading in the back row. The background environment changed. The NPC behavior loop remained absolute. Then, the hovercraft drifted past a massive, reinforced glass pavilion. The relaxed resort atmosphere vanished, replaced by the sharp, concussive impacts of extreme kinetic force. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. It was an indoor squash court, but the two Witches inside were moving at terrifying, near-mach speeds.

Hathaway's Game Designer instincts fired up, automatically parsing the arena's complex geometry. The court was divided by a transparent half-meter wall. Standard squash layout — until the scoring zones registered. A central '1-Point Zone', four deep-corner '2-Point Zones', and a tiny '3-Point Zone' positioned directly behind the defending player. Sounds exploitable. It wasn't. Any ball bouncing out of bounds deducted a point. Raw power got punished. Whoever designed this was either a sadist or a genius.

Pure reaction speed. Spatial geometry. Absolute physical control. No brute-force path to victory. Elegant.

"Itching for a match?" Rhode grinned, noticing Hathaway's mesmerized expression through the glass.

"We can book a court after the tour. I haven't stretched my legs today. I'll spot you five points." Hathaway shuddered slightly. Play a hyper-kinetic geometric death-game against my own cousin? The same gorilla who casually dismantled a Mach-3 alchemy mech with one finger? Even with mana enhancement, playing squash against Rhode isn't a sport. It's an elaborate family execution.

"Maybe next time," Hathaway said diplomatically, keeping her eyes forward.

"I need to save my energy for the... coaching duties." Rhode snorted in amusement. This isn't just a luxury resort, Hathaway thought, her respect for the club immediately deepening as she listened to the explosive impacts echoing from the court. This is a hyper-optimized training ground disguised as a country club.

"Over there is the Quartermaster's vault," Rhode pointed to a sleek, fortress-like building near the main armory.

"Club Points system. You accumulate them by showing up to practices, running drill sims, or sweeping trash mobs in the qualifiers." Rhode leaned back against the hovercraft seat, casual as ever.

"The perks? As a rostered member, you have unrestricted, free access to any complete spellbook Tier-4 and below. And yes, that includes the 'Rare' variants. You just walk in and check them out." Hathaway stopped breathing. Tier-4 and below. Free. Including the Rares. Hathaway had assumed 'free access' only applied to standard spells. But then she mentally calculated the club's roster. Two genuine Arch-Witches. Two Ludwig Vanguards who treated physics as a polite suggestion. And Nino, a Lucent engineering prodigy.

This was a squad that probably wrote custom Rare spell modules on napkins while eating breakfast. To them, Tier-4 Rares weren't trade secrets; they were just basic open-source code. Her core survival tool, [Analytic Vision] —the Tier-3 Rare spell she had bled her wallet dry to buy—was basically complimentary hotel mints here.

"And for the points you earn?" Rhode paused for exactly the right amount of time.

"You trade them for custom-forged combat gear, one-on-one sessions with the Empress, or high-end Tier-8 and actual Legendary grimoires from the Milan'thir private vault." Hathaway's eyes dilated. Specifically, into the approximate shape of two Solar coins. Legendary spells. Full grimoires. And Tier-8s. Hathaway's gamer brain instantly appreciated the inclusion.

Any veteran magic theorist knew that a highly optimized Tier-8 spell—capable of rapid-fire chaining—was actually more valuable than a Tier-9 'Pseudo-Legendary' that drained your mana pool for a fraction of a true Legend's output. The anxiety about tournament readiness evaporated, replaced instantly by the cold, crystalline focus of a hardcore grinder who had just discovered a systemic exploit. I don't care if everyone else here treats this like a permanent five-star vacation.

I am going to min-max this points system until the club's treasury physically weeps.

"I need to farm those points," Hathaway muttered, with the quiet, focused intensity of someone making a binding personal vow.

"You'll get a passive income just for showing up to the qualifying matches," Rhode laughed, steering the hovercraft toward a bamboo-lined courtyard that smelled of incense, hot springs, and impending secondhand embarrassment. Hathaway scanned the courtyard. A group of junior Witches were gathered near a vending machine, clad in comfortable tracksuits and damp bathrobes. Her eyes immediately locked onto one of them. Shoulder-length black hair. Sparkling ruby eyes.

A sickeningly bright, Genki-girl smile that radiated pure, unadulterated luck. It was Rina, the sweet-faced savage from The Witch's House, currently wearing a fluffy white bathrobe with a towel draped over her damp hair. She spotted Hathaway in the hovercraft. Her face lit up. She raised a hand, her terrifyingly cheerful smile widening, preparing to call out a friendly greeting. Hathaway felt a phantom sting of hardcore gamer PTSD.

She instinctively raised a hand to wave back, bracing herself for interaction with the RNG demon— And then, the greeting was violently, dramatically severed. Because right next to Rina, standing in the absolute center of the courtyard, was a figure who appeared to have stepped directly out of a portrait painted approximately three centuries ago. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She was wearing a full, meticulously ironed, multi-layered aristocratic noble dress. Crimson fabric, heavy, embroidered in gold thread, utterly impractical for any known form of physical activity including sitting down comfortably. A shadow-woven velvet cape cascaded to her ankles in a geometrically perfect arc. Her silver hair was styled with aggressive precision. Over her left eye, she wore an ornate, leather-strapped eyepatch covered in silver sealing runes. She looked magnificent. She looked imposing.

She looked exactly like a JRPG final boss who had spawned into the wrong video game genre—and she was standing six inches from a vending machine that sold sports drinks. It was Bella von Ludwig. Position 2. And she was currently addressing Rina with the grave, theatrical gravity typically reserved for dying opera characters delivering last words.

"Do not let the mundane trivialities of this world cloud your vision," Bella intoned, her voice carrying the practiced, resonant gravity of someone who had been rehearsing this exact cadence since early childhood.

"The genealogies of mortals mean nothing. The Crimson Gaze you bear is proof enough," Bella continued, her unsealed eye gleaming with dark approval.

"Though scattered by the winds of fate, we, the true inheritors of the Dark Flame, carry the sacred embers within our very souls. The ashes of your enemies are the ink with which you write your destiny. Remember this, my lost kin." Rina beamed. She popped the tab on a premium sports drink that—given her track record—she had undoubtedly just won for free from the vending machine.

"Wow! That sounds super cool, Senior Bella!" Rina chirped, her voice dripping with terrifyingly sincere, sunshine-anime energy. She was completely, utterly immune to the gothic atmosphere. She even took a happy sip of her drink and continued waving at Hathaway with her free hand. Hathaway's entire body locked up. The full-body cringe hit her like a freight train traveling at the speed of repressed memory. Rina isn't a Ludwig. She has no relation to the bloodline. She is simply a girl who happens to have red eyes.

The horrifyingly familiar logic clicked into place like a key she had thrown away and somehow found again. Eighth-Grader Syndrome.

'Red Eyes = Bearer of the Dark Flame.' She hasn't made an error. She has unilaterally drafted a freshman into her cursed bloodline based entirely on character design. She had personal experience with this phenomenon. She knew exactly what it was. She had owned three notebooks full of drawings of Cursed Eyes and Sealed Demon Hands in middle school. She did not speak of them. She had made a solemn oath. Her toes curled so hard inside her boots she nearly cramped her calves. Holy mana. She's doing the voice.

She is doing the stance. But then— Hathaway's rational brain pulled the emergency brake. Wait. She was applying Earth's pathetic biological limits to Witches. That glowing right eye wasn't some cheap cosmetic prop illuminating the bamboo leaves. The complex, shifting kaleidoscope of mana geometry outputting a steady, measurable 150 lumens of crimson light was just standard Ludwig biology. Even Hathaway's own non-glowing eyes shared that exact same intricate pattern.

And the "sealed Crimson Abyss" under the eyepatch wasn't metaphorical. As an elite Ludwig, if Bella removed that patch and opened the throttle, she would, objectively and without hyperbole, cause a massacre of localized reality. She could, in practical terms, fire a localized tactical nuke directly out of her tear duct. A profound philosophical crisis struck Hathaway like a second freight train traveling slightly faster than the first.

If a middle-schooler says "my eye contains a dark flame that could shatter this fragile reality"—that is delusion. That is the Syndrome. Textbook. If a Ludwig Witch says "my eye contains a dark flame that could shatter this fragile reality"—and she is technically, verifiably, demonstrably correct—is she still a Chuunibyou? What is the clinical boundary between an 'edgy teenager with delusions of grandeur' and a 'literal weapon of mass destruction calmly reciting her own spec sheet'?

Hathaway stared at the glowing eye, her brain hard-forking on the question. Then she noticed her own toes. Still curled. Still cramping.... No. The conclusion arrived with the finality of a compiler error. The toes do not lie. I am cringing into another dimension. The facts are irrelevant. The vibe is universal. She is absolutely a terminal Chuunibyou. The power is real. The diagnosis stands. Rhode hopped off the hovercraft. Smack. Smack.

The flip-flops slapped loudly against the stone, immediately detonating the operatic atmosphere.

"Bella!" Rhode announced, volume calibrated for mild hearing damage.

"Still wearing the full corset to the hot springs? You're going to cook alive in that cosplay." Bella turned. Her kaleidoscope eye fixed on Rhode with the aristocratic disdain of someone who had been practicing that specific expression in a mirror since the age of four.

"It is the formal raiment of our bloodline, Rhode," Bella said, her voice frigid and magnificent.

"It demands respect. Unlike your garments —" her gaze swept over Rhode's oversized T-shirt, cheap sunglasses, and rubber flip-flops with visible, physical pain— "which demand an immediate apology to the entire concept of textiles." Before Rhode could even pop the lollipop out of her mouth, Bella's majestic composure slipped into genuine, agonizing frustration.

"Do you have any idea how hard I work to establish our aesthetic as the absolute pinnacle of high society?" Bella pointed dramatically toward the sky.

"We are the Crimson Sovereigns! We are supposed to outshine those gloomy, subterranean bats from the Wellington family with our blinding majesty! We are redefining elegance, and you are single-handedly destroying our campaign for aesthetic supremacy!" Rhode popped her lollipop out and pointed it at Bella's glowing eye.

"Comfort over majesty, Flashlight," Rhode grinned. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to reveal her own crimson eyes—blazing at the exact same, oppressive 150-lumen intensity as Bella's.

"Besides, keeping these high-beams on all day gives me a headache. Electricity bills aren't free." Then, Bella's glowing eye shifted past Rhode and landed on Hathaway. The imposing, radiant JRPG Sovereign persona instantly evaporated, replaced by a look of profound, operatic tragedy. Bella glided forward, her heavy velvet cape swishing majestically. She stopped in front of Hathaway, staring intently into Hathaway's dark, non-glowing crimson eyes. As her cousin, Bella was naturally in the Ludwig family group chat.

She had seen Rhode's blunt, unceremonious text message from a month and a half ago: [The pipsqueak mutated. Mana pool spiked, but her high-beams are broken.] To a normal family member, this was a slightly concerning physiological update. To a dedicated Chuunibyou, this was the exact moment a side character ascended into a tragic, dark-fantasy protagonist.

"Oh, my poor, tragic cousin," Bella whispered, raising a gloved hand to her chest as if her heart were physically breaking.

"The missives in the familial nexus... they were true. The sudden mutation granted you strength, but at what cost? The glorious incandescence of our lineage... the sacred high-beams of our pride... they have been extinguished." Hathaway opened her mouth to say she was actually perfectly fine with not being a human flashlight, but Bella didn't give her the chance.

"No... wait," Bella's expression suddenly morphed from pity to absolute awe. She stepped back, her glowing eye widening as she seamlessly, effortlessly wrote Hathaway into her own internal lore.

"It is not extinguished. It is inverted. You are not a broken spark, little Hathaway. You are the Eclipse! The Devourer of Light! Your eyes do not shine because your mana density has collapsed the light into an absolute singularity!" Bella reached out and patted Hathaway's head with unexpected, doting gentleness.

"Welcome to the mortal arena, our beautiful anomaly. We shall make the stars dim in your honor." Hathaway froze. Her famously thick skin, which had survived Victoria's absolute zero and Nino's industrial oppression, physically cracked. The slight, half-second delay in Bella's 'epiphany'. The theatrical gasp. The perfectly timed step back. The flawless, unhesitating delivery of the word 'singularity'. She didn't come up with this just now. She read Rhode's lazy text message six weeks ago.

She felt bad that I lost the family's signature glow, so she spent the last forty-seven days drafting this tragically overpowered DLC expansion pack for my lore, practicing this exact 'sudden realization' in front of a mirror—just to make sure I still felt included in the bloodline. It is so incredibly sweet. And it is so agonizingly, lethally cringe. Hathaway's face burned. She nodded stiffly, fighting the urge to sink into the floorboards.

"Uh... yes. The Eclipse. Right. Happy to be here, cousin. Let's... dim the stars."

"That is the absolute coolest title ever, Senior Bella!" a terrifyingly cheerful voice chimed in from the sidelines. Rina bounced on her heels, raising her premium sports drink in a supportive, completely unironic toast. Her ruby eyes sparkled with pure, weaponized wholesomeness.

"You're going to be amazing, Eclipse! Let's do our best to devour the light together! I'll cheer for you!" Hathaway's soul formally requested permission to leave her physical body. The cognitive dissonance was lethal. The absolute monster who had casually executed her unkillable 30-defense boss card with a one-cost, grey-border flask was now cheerfully hyping up her dark-fantasy DLC expansion pack. And she was doing it with the earnest, unblinking enthusiasm of a morning cartoon mascot.

Two Ludwigs, Hathaway thought despairingly, forcibly suppressing the desperate urge to aggressively rub her temples. One wears beach trash and ruins the family's campaign for weaponized light pollution. The other actively patches my missing textures with custom celestial lore. And then there is the RNG Demon, who is currently treating an apocalyptic chuunibyou manifesto like a fun team-building exercise. Am I the only normal person in this entire island?

"Alright, enough family bonding, you're going to make her cramp," Rhode interrupted, grabbing Hathaway by the back of her collar and steering her away from Bella's majestic cape and Rina's blinding smile.

"Come on, Eclipse. Vault's this way. Time to fix your build."

"Fix my build?" Hathaway echoed. The sheer physical distance from the courtyard acted like a hard reset on her brain. She winced at Rhode immediately adopting the nickname, but the panic was already fading, replaced by the cold, comforting logic of game mechanics.

"If you're going to sweep the qualifiers for us, you can't just spam [Fireball] like a brain-dead artillery turret," Rhode explained practically.

"Your mana pool is massive, but your spell pool is basically a puddle. We're going to grab you some proper spells." Rhode clapped her on the back.

"We have exactly three weeks before the qualifiers start—just enough time to shove those into your brain and turn you into a fully functional farming bot." Hathaway adjusted her VIP lanyard. Her gamer brain, previously overloaded by social absurdity, instantly snapped back to absolute attention. Right. Loadout optimization. Skill tree expansion. This was her coping mechanism. When the lore got too weird, you focused on the loot.

It didn't matter if every person on this island was completely unhinged in their own specific, highly personalized way. It didn't matter that she was objectively the weakest entity on a floating castle populated by a roster of walking natural disasters who fished for sport while drinking champagne. None of that mattered if she could game the system. The Ludwig blood in her veins was already running warm calculations.

I am going to optimize this loadout, she thought, stepping into the warm gold light of the vault entrance with a predatory smile, until this club's free repository is completely and utterly dry.