#26: 2-12 The B-Rank Exam — An Old Man's Remake Adventure Diary: Enjoying Life in Another World Starting from Auto Camping (WN)

The twenty-fourth day in this other world.

I woke up early today and got myself in good condition.

Yesterday, I rested hard all day, so I was feeling great.

That’s the most important thing.

Rule number one of the ten commandments of office workers.

Even though I ate a nutritious breakfast properly, I still dropped out because of my company’s illegal, shady top-down nonsense, but yeah.

My gear was leather armor, and I even wore a leather helm I normally didn’t bother with.

No shield.

Honestly, it just got in the way.

I wasn’t planning to do melee in the main tournament anyway.

I didn’t really have the ability for it, either.

My opponents today weren’t goblins or orcs.

They were seasoned adventurers.

Fighting humans was going to be a whole different set of problems.

If the opponent was an adventurer, it wasn’t like dealing with some trash bandits.

The guildmaster said it was fine to use storage during the exam, so if I needed a shield, I could pull one out at any time.

In other words, it was basically live combat rules—use every resource you had.

When I got to the Adventurers’ Guild, the wide training ground serving as the venue was packed with a ridiculous number of people.

Oho. Everyone was fired up.

Were they all aiming for noble status or something?

Before long, they announced the start of the exam.

“We will now begin the B-rank exam!”

“““WOOOOOOO—!”””

The adventurers roared at the simple starting gong.

This was practically a monthly festival, since it happened every month.

But reality was merciless.

People were getting tossed out one after another by former B-rank instructors gathered from across the country.

Apparently, there was a huge gap between C-rank and B-rank.

And it looked like they used practice swords.

So that “above the line” boundary really did separate the high-rank adventurers.

After all, these were people who’d been in the world’s top two hundred.

Even retired, their polished skills hadn’t dulled.

Well, this was a problem.

I was basically the only total amateur in a crowd of monsters.

Every participant here was the same rank as Ed’s party.

This was the level ordinary nobles and wealthy merchants hired.

I spaced out, and I ended up last in my group.

A fired-up B-rank instructor, face to face, had terrifying presence.

Still, it was nowhere near the pressure and weight the former S-rank guildmaster had.

And nowhere near that A-rank chimera, either.

I’d already loaded myself up with buffs.

With Fast stacked, I closed the distance in an instant and, with a sharp crack, knocked the instructor’s wooden sword clean away.

This was where my kendo experience paid off.

Right now, I had enough strength.

Even the experience of swinging a bamboo sword every day until my hands blistered was useful.

My skill level was nothing special, though.

Still—if it was a surprise strike right from the start, straight ahead, I could snag a point.

My favorite strategy worked again today.

But then, the next blow I threw—an opening straight down the center—got caught.

He caught it with a barehanded sword catch, like some real “live-blade” stunt.

You’ve got to be kidding me—former B-rank instructors were insane.

Sure, it wasn’t a real sword, but he still caught a C-rank adventurer’s full-force swing.

With a real blade, a strike like that could finish a C-rank monster—and with a party, even deliver the killing blow to a B-rank monster.

Even if it was wood, the training sword was sturdy.

It had enough weight to remind me of those vicious extra-heavy wooden practice swords used for swings—the kind that got thicker toward the tip.

If you took a full vertical swing of that to the skull, you’d die.

Normally, you’d dodge.

I’d put decent power into that strike assuming he would dodge, so I panicked a little.

I’d planned to hit him when he lost balance.

And if he took it head-on, with my current enhanced strength…

Even if I’d held back because the target was human, it would’ve been bad.

A barehanded sword catch was practically a secret technique even in old Japan.

Normally you just fail and get your skull split.

Some people even claimed it didn’t really exist, that it was a fictional move invented in stories.

Yeah—if someone told you to do it for real, it’d be at the top of the list of “no thanks.”

So there we were, staring at each other in that face-off posture, and I said with shameless arrogance:

“Hey. If I accidentally kill an instructor in the prelims, does that mean I fail?”

The instructor smirked and shot back, still holding the blade-catch:

“You’re seriously talking like you’re planning to kill the instructor. Normally, you’d just end up rolling around on the ground in disgrace like those guys, so there’s no rule that stupid. But you’re an interesting bastard. Fine—pass.”

I offered him my hand and hauled him up, and I advanced safely into the main tournament.

I couldn’t believe brute force carried me through.

I guess this was all thanks to the guildmaster and the instructors hammering me into shape.

They set up two rings, and the first set ran five matches each.

My first opponent was a swordsman.

A buckler and a one-handed sword.

Before the match, I finished stacking my buffs properly, and at the opening bell I dumped a bundled set of debuffs onto him all at once.

I cast the spells, stored them inside my item box, and packed them into dedicated “files.”

Then I could dump as many spells as I wanted on someone in a batch.

A filthy technique—like basket trading in stocks, but for magic.

I figured pulling out attack pods might be risky.

If I used those, I might accidentally kill someone.

And disqualifying myself would be the stupidest thing imaginable.

Fast and Slow were the core buff/debuff pair.

They hit so quickly he probably didn’t even understand what happened before his body stopped moving.

If this were a game, someone would report me to the admins for cheating.

I’d get banned instantly.

I closed in, knocked his sword away, and put my blade to his throat.

Match over.

Like hell I was going to fight the “honest way.”

I was a total amateur, after all.

At first I’d wondered why rank promotion required a test involving human combat.

But thinking about it now, that was a stupid question.

When I first fought humans in this world, the chaos I caused—

in no time, I’d inflicted casualties on twenty percent of the villagers, and injured nearly half.

If I hadn’t counterattacked and the damage had kept piling up, the village would’ve been doomed.

If it were an army, that would’ve been a wipe and unconditional surrender.

If it were survivors, it would’ve been total retreat.

If it were an escort mission, it would’ve been perfect mission failure.

There were escort jobs for merchant caravans too—if you relied only on magic, there would absolutely be situations where you’d fail.

Then my next match, I got a bye.

Probably because of the guildmaster recommendation.

Apparently, if you won once, you could get slotted into a bracket like that.

Blessed. Truly blessed.

My next opponent was a heavy warrior.

Metal armor, metal shield, and a greatsword.

No questions asked—I opened with an ultra-powerful Air Bullet packed with enough magic to blow away a chimera, and I launched him out of the ring.

The way he flew was beautiful.

Like hurricane-class wind that could rip off the roof of a gas station canopy—the kind that somehow survives earthquakes and ends up standing alone in the rubble.

If he’d been strong enough to brace against that wind, I could’ve used the advanced spell Great Tornado.

But if I used that seriously, it felt like the entire guild would get wiped out.

Sure, I could “use it gently,” but— he’d probably spin through the air like laundry in a washing machine.

In any case, after getting blown away by Air Bullet, he didn’t get back up.

He wouldn’t die from that, at least.

There was no way I was doing melee against a tank like that.

I was E-rank until yesterday.

Lightning spells would probably work well against metal armor, but if I used them he might die.

Having to constantly hold back was, frankly, a pain.

Honestly, just bring in a B-rank monster as the opponent.

If you can solo one of those, you should get B-rank automatically.

Because that’s what B-rank adventurers are supposed to be able to do.

Me? I’d drop that level of opponent with one finger.

Since he went out of bounds, he was disqualified by the rules.

That meant I had two matches left until the championship.

My third opponent was a mage.

He was muttering an incantation.

He planned to fire right at the bell.

If we weren’t crossing blades, neither of us needed to hold back.

I didn’t even draw my sword—I just pressed directional magic power against him.

It wasn’t an attack, so it wasn’t disqualifying.

Among mages, this sort of thing was basically pre-match intimidation and was allowed.

I’d asked around—other contestants, guild staff, anyone nearby.

But he didn’t notice.

Slow, huh.

Even I had to smirk.

How did a guy like that make it this far?

Maybe since it was an exam, he’d been focusing hard, gathering concentration.

That was necessary for a mage.

But in real combat, if you weren’t properly aware, you’d run out of lives no matter how many you had.

So I flooded the whole arena with even denser magic power—thick enough even non-mages could feel it.

Only then did he finally notice right before the match, turn pale, and forfeit.

If he hadn’t noticed even then, I’d planned to slam him with Dispel, coat myself in Barrier, charge full speed and body-check him out of bounds, then punch him out of the ring.

That put me into the finals.

Yeah, it was pretty dirty—overwhelming mana, and basically pure cheating magic again.

A parade of scumbag tactics.

Words like “straightforward” and “fair play” would never suit me.

But finals were finals.

And in the championship match…

I got an extremely bad feeling.

The young man across from me looked like a swordsman at first glance—but he wasn’t just some handsome pretty-boy swordsman.

He was powerfully built, yet carried an air of refinement—almost gentle-looking.

But “that thing inside me,” Seventh Sense, was screaming warnings at full volume.

That unbearable, distinctive impulse rose from the depths of my body and made me tremble.

‘Go in with absolutely no restraint!’

It was like a message ribbon on a PC screen, white letters inside brackets, sliding across my mind from left to right.

Normally, that almost never happened.

It literally used words.

That was how serious it was.

This was the first time in my life I’d felt both the whole-body impulse and the bracketed text message at once.

Meaning: he was no ordinary opponent.

I buffed myself thoroughly.

And I prepared Air Bullet infused with magic.

I didn’t want to reuse the same trick, but if I threw random spells and killed him…

My current mana, if I didn’t hold back, could probably kill even a dragon.

But Seventh Sense was basically telling me:

‘No, no, no. This is a full-power scene.’

I was going to crush him.

With that mindset, I prepared one spell after another.

After making it this far, I really did want the B-rank qualification.

Even though I hadn’t cared at the start.

Human psychology, right?

Something you didn’t really want, but it comes drifting down within arm’s reach—and only you have the right to grab it— like snacks you can reach from a lazy slump in a chair.

Of course your greed kicks in a little.

I loaded every type of mana-coated magic sword into the inventory on my left bracelet, ready to draw at any time.

I also made several kinds of spell “packages” that contained multiple spells, and I’d copied them in bulk.

“Tch. In that case, I should’ve made advanced spell packages too… They told me not to kill the opponent, so I held back—damn it. My favorite motto—‘better prepared, fewer regrets’—is crying right now.”

At the starting signal, I fired Air Bullet, and while maintaining full caution I dumped debuffs on him, deployed my shield at full output— and instead of using my prepared attack spells, I poured everything into shield construction.

Because he hadn’t been blown away at all.

He was already nearly on top of me.

Good thing I’d been wary after the Icoma fight.

If I’d spaced out, I might’ve lost at the first contact.

His pressure was so intense my shield almost felt like it would be blown apart.

And the debuffs weren’t working at all.

They were being nullified somehow.

From inside the shield, I built a High Shield and switched to it.

Then I layered it thicker and tougher.

I also coated my entire body in Barrier at full strength.

This guy was definitely A-rank level or higher.

I knew it—not by logic, but by instinct.

My usual sense.

A monster like this showing up in a B-rank exam… unreal.

Not like I could talk.

But still—this was outside expectations.

Damn that guildmaster.

Of course he knew this guy would appear.

Maybe he deliberately set us up to measure my true strength.

That old man was as slippery as ever.

Normally, a B-rank exam wasn’t this brutal—this wasn’t the kind of opponent you’d see.

You could tell just from the mediocre skill level of everyone I’d beaten on the way here.

This was probably a technique where you wrapped yourself in mana so dense it became nearly physical, exploding your durability, power, and speed—

not mere body strengthening, but more like a “magic armor” effect.

Like becoming one with a suit of magic armor.

And somehow, I observed his activation.

I gained a new skill: Magic Armor Lv. 1.

It must require massive mana, and precise control.

If you messed up, you might get blown away by your own power.

Yet this kid controlled it perfectly at his age.

He was truly skilled.

So what now?

That Magic Armor’s resistance to magic was absurd.

Worse, it might absorb spells to strengthen itself.

If it were me, I’d build Dispel into it too.

I couldn’t fire spells carelessly, and physical attacks didn’t feel like they’d work easily either.

Even if I activated the same skill to counter, it didn’t seem like something I could handle cleanly.

I knew it.

Not logically—instinctively.

If I tried it now, I’d probably lose control and end up with a pathetic out-of-bounds loss.

So I immediately abandoned the idiotic idea of trying “saturation magic bombardment.”

Instead, I switched to a wind magic sword and lightly tested whether it could cut that Magic Armor.

But the instant my blade touched him, the magic effect got erased.

Or rather—it felt like my mana was absorbed.

Just as I thought.

Good thing I didn’t do anything reckless.

So I decided to test physical weapons.

First, I dumped a massive amount of gasoline over his head and tried burning him.

In Japan, that would be unbeatable.

The opponent would definitely die, though.

And the area would be scorched too.

Amazing.

A pillar of flame wrapped around his mana armor, and he looked like an Ifrit.

Even he couldn’t take it—he raised an arm to shield his head, offering me a dance inside the flames.

This was what people called “something that burns violently.”

Also known as “an explosion,” right?

Naturally, the opponent inside was fine.

Huh.

So while it could block the effect of physical weapons, it couldn’t cancel physical impact itself.

Well, it wasn’t like it could interfere with chemical combustion.

Maybe I really should build a gunpowder firearm next.

Never thought I’d see a situation where a magic gun wasn’t useful.

In that case—

I reinforced my barrier and shields with about a hundred times more mana than before, and then I dumped a massive amount of nitrocellulose at him.

On top of that, I constructed a hemispherical shield between us, oriented opposite my own shield— to direct as much of the blast as possible toward him.

If I tried to narrow it too much like a blank shot, I might miss, so I aimed loosely— like using a shotgun.

Ideally, I wanted to shove a tubular shield right up to his face and “point-blank” fire.

But he’d dodge with that speed.

That Magic Armor was that kind of nasty skill.

Would the audience survive this?

If spectators got caught, would I be disqualified?

Even if I won, I doubted the later “review” would pass me.

That’s why I set up a “directional, dish-shaped large blank cannon.”

And of course, the “projectile” getting launched was him.

Since this was the final match, the adjacent ring was empty, so I fired toward that side.

Less collateral damage.

I used an absurd amount of propellant— against a guy like this, holding back would get me killed.

I half-seriously loaded one hundred kilograms of powder.

Not a shaped charge, just propellant—but if it hit, even a real heavy tank might get blown away.

Hey, kid—please don’t die.

“Fire!”

With my shout came a monstrous blast, and he flew beautifully.

The shield-reflector setup did its job perfectly— like a headlamp reflector bouncing light forward.

But unbelievably, even after rolling right up to the edge, he stopped just short of going out.

Tch. Still not out of bounds?

Maybe I didn’t use enough.

But if I increased it too carelessly, the guild might break, or spectators might die.

Also, I’d already been pushed deep into my own side of the ring.

If he’d kept pressing, I would’ve been the one to lose by ring-out.

That was close.

He probably didn’t have a scratch.

But he had no idea what had happened.

I’d used a weapon that normally didn’t exist in this world.

He crouched near the boundary.

He must never have imagined a “strong man” like himself would get tossed around like that.

With that absurdly unfair skill, too.

He looked confused, panicking—and with the thick white smoke from the gunpowder blocking vision, he couldn’t move.

In that brutal smoke screen, I relied on my zoomed radar display, sprinted in at super speed, and kicked him—Magic Armor and all—out of bounds.

Oh. A physical kick worked!

Well, he’d already been blown away properly by the powder blast, so I figured a full-power kick would finish it.

Thanks to that, I didn’t have to fire a second explosion.

I immediately used wind magic to blow away the smoke in one sweep, pointed at the guy who’d rolled disgracefully into the adjacent ring under the power of my insane kick, and while swinging my non-casting arm wildly, I shouted at the referee with everything I had:

“Heeey, ref! Out of bounds—out of bounds!”

Hurry, hurry.

Ref, call it already!

Or he’ll come back.

That guy was fast—really fast.

“Antonio out of bounds. Winner: Alphonse.”

Yes!

His ring-out was officially recognized.

Winner: me.

I threw a massive fist pump.

When I glanced at the guildmaster, he looked like he’d bitten into something bitter.

Ah—oops.

Because of how I won, I expected the review to get messy, but my promotion to B-rank was approved immediately, and I was issued a B-rank adventurer card with a flashy new design and color scheme.

So the guildmaster kept his promise to strongly recommend me.

I beat the guy he probably intentionally matched against me, so maybe that was my reward.

And of course—my opponent had not a single scratch.

What a bastard.

I’d hammered him with attacks that should’ve killed a normal man ten times over.

When our eyes met, he glared at me a little.

He’d probably been sure he’d win.

Too sweet, kid.

The world was harsh.

This was where experience counted.

Even if I’m a total novice adventurer, there’s no way this crafty old man is losing to some green-behind-the-ears punk.

Take this generous life lesson from your elder and make it part of your character.