The Author's Playground
Chapter 39: Trust Issues (1)

Chapter 39: Trust Issues (1)

The birds chirped, signaling a new morning.

Slowly...

The green-haired lad blinked his eyes open, feeling oddly refreshed and strangely at peace. It was one of those rare mornings where everything just felt... right.

Varden felt aches, no exhaustion, just a cozy sense of restfulness wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

Then the first thing that greeted him was...

A face.

A close-up, unholy grin stretched across that face. Where the sheer look alone made Varden’s brain short-circuit.

His sluggish mind took a moment to process what he was seeing, and for a fleeting second, his sleep-addled brain whispered,

’A devil?...’

For another fleeting second, he considered the possibility that a demon had come to claim his soul.

After all, those eyes, that unsettling smirk, the way this person loomed over him... it was the textbook definition of nightmare fuel.

And then, just to make things worse...

"Morning, sleepyhead~"

The moment it spoke, Varden’s soul left his body.

"GRAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"

Pure, unfiltered survival instinct took over. His body reacted before his mind could catch up.

BAM!

It made his forehead crash into Elijah’s with the force of a rampaging boar.

"ARGHH—WHY?!" Elijah howled, clutching his now-reddening forehead as he dramatically flopped onto the floor.

Varden, still gasping for air, clutched his own head in pain. "W-WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!"

"Oh come on, I just wanted to wake you up like in most romance dramas." Elijah groaned, rolling on the floor. "Why does it have to be violence as your first love language?"

"Who does that?! What book title tolerates that?!" Varden snapped, still gripping his head. "Oh right! The match? What happened to our match?"

"Obviously, you lost."

"..." Varden’s gaze dropped depressed as he gripped the blanket tightly. "I see..."

"Hey, that black gem, who gave you that?"

Varden tilted his head, confused. "Black gem?"

"As expected, you forgot, huh..."

"?"

"Oh yeah, before I forget..." Elijah paused for a while before extending his hand expectantly.

"Give it to me."

"Give what? Black gem?"

"Your finger," Elijah replied, completely deadpan. "The bet. Remember?"

...

"Hurry up."

At that moment, Varden’s entire body locked up like a malfunctioning mannequin. His eyes twitched, his lips quivered, and a cold sweat drenched his face.

He gulped.

With the bravery of a condemned man walking to the gallows, he shakily extended his left hand. His other hand clenched into a trembling fist, nails digging into his palm.

Slowly...

Ready...

...

...

...??

Despite the agonizing minutes ticking by, nothing happened.

Varden cracked one eye open and peeked at Elijah.

Who was—

Struggling. To. Breathe. From. Holding. Back. Laughter.

That stupid, infuriating grin remained across his face.

"W-WHAT? Do it quick!" Varden stammered, flustered and increasingly suspicious.

"You should’ve seen your face," Elijah wheezed, wiping a fake tear. "You looked like you were about to shit yourself."

"Y-You—!" Varden sputtered, caught between rage and sheer embarrassment. "Whatever! Just do it already!"

"Eh, I lost interest." Elijah waved him off with a smirk, lazily sheathing his sword. "Besides, what would I even gain from taking your finger?"

Varden blinked. "Then why the hell—?!"

"Just so you know..." Elijah added, stretching lazily, "I’m not into ’gore.’"

Elijah was about to turn to leave, but before he could, Varden grabbed his sleeve.

"I don’t like owing debts," Varden muttered, voice firm despite his previous humiliation.

Elijah arched a brow before grinning.

"Oh, don’t worry. I’ll think of something special instead of your finger—once the Succession Ceremony is done."

"Succession Ceremony?"

"Oh right, you don’t know." Elijah clapped his hands together. "It’s the first tradition in the academy."

"To get your first Artifact, you need to undergo several tests."

"The first is..." Elijah paused mid-sentence, his expression shifting as if he’d just realized he royally screwed up.

"Exam..."

****

’Fuck....’

’Fuck... Fuck...’

’Fuck my life!...’

Elijah sat frozen in his seat, gripping his quill like it was his last lifeline. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as the realization hit him like a brick to the face.

’I didn’t study a single thing!’

The sheer horror of it all.

He who had faced terrifying monsters, fought against overwhelming odds, and even threatened by death multiple times.

But nothing... absolutely nothing could compare to the sheer existential dread of an exam.

Back in his student life (his past life)—he would sob into his coffee, regretting his life choices as he pulled all-nighters, trying to cram an entire month’s worth of knowledge into his overworked brain.

Now? Now, he had no coffee, no notes, and worst of all—no Google.

If he failed to get at least 20 correct answers, he was done. Expelled. Thrown out into the streets like yesterday’s trash.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even glance at the study material.

"Phew... calm down, dear me..." Elijah whispered to himself, cracking his knuckles. "We just need to get at least 20 correct answers. Out of 100 questions, surely we’ll get at least one right? After all, we wrote this novel."

"You may flip your test papers now," the proctor announced. "Remember, if we catch you cheating, we will tear your test paper apart."

Elijah gulped and turned his paper over.

First question: Can every map be colored with just four colors so that no two adjacent regions have the same color?

"Huh? What is this question supposed to mean?"

He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the jumble of words before moving on.

Second question: Explain the Diophantine Equations.

"I don’t know... Is that a drug?"

Third question: If God exists, what would their nature be?

Elijah scoffed.

"I don’t believe in God, but at this moment, I am praying to someone."

"Definitely not that damn devil."

With growing dread, he skimmed through the rest of the questions, his eyes widen with every passing second.

Each question was worse than the last.

Some seemed like they were ripped straight out of an advanced mathematical research paper, others required philosophical debates he wasn’t mentally prepared for.

And after several agonizing moments, he calmly placed his quill down and muttered under his breath.

"Nice... I’m cooked."