The village of Parthen, Mount Porinth, the Euhrad Mountains...
After classes had ended for the day, we’d boarded an overnight train from Runerelia, arriving at our penultimate destination of Parthen early the next morning. From there, we made the short trek up to our lodgings, situated on a rather private ski slope just beyond the village. I was joined by every member of Class 1-A and a singular student from Class 1-B. Though there were other first-year students in the club, when I’d explained the gist of the training camp to them, they’d all apparently had “prior commitments” that they “couldn’t get out of.”
Finding a suitable place to stay had been surprisingly easy. Al (whose family hailed from the Endymion Region in which the Euhrad Mountains were located) had contacted Marquess Endymion himself, who’d reportedly been delighted to offer us the use of his private holiday cabin near Parthen. The alternative—renting a cabin within a commercial resort—would have meant keeping any youthful shenanigans to a minimum so as to not bother other holiday-goers, so we’d gratefully taken him up on his offer.
Incidentally, when I’d suggested we compare (and possibly exchange) some of our snacks during the train ride here, everyone had firmly replied with some variation of, “As if I’d waste such a precious resource this early in the battle!” and clutched their bags to their chests, glaring at me suspiciously.
Bunch of cheapskates...
“So...cold...”
“What part of this is meant to be fun again?! This is torture!”
“Slow down, Allen! We’re missing a bunch of people!”
Marquess Endymion’s cabin had come equipped with enough pairs of skis and related equipment for all twenty-one of us. However, despite the fact that I’d never stepped foot onto a ski slope in my previous life, one look at this world’s version of skis was enough to tell me that winter sport wasn’t much of a thing here. What this world referred to as “skis” were basically equivalent to snowshoes—used for traversing flat, snowy terrain rather than speeding down slopes—and their chunky, cumbersome design meant my dreams of soaring through the air after a perfect jump were immediately dashed. Obviously, there were no ski lifts either, which meant even if I did figure out a way to turn my high-speed dreams into a reality, I’d have a long uphill slog ahead of me afterward each time.
Regardless, I’d forced everyone into a pair of the clunky foot-bindings and led them outside for a bit of cross-country skiing through the snowy forest terrain. I started off by trying to cover as much ground as possible with as little effort (a habit from my usual club training), and before I knew it, I was completely engrossed. I started experimenting with different techniques, increasing and decreasing the amount of mana I used to Strengthen different muscles, and was soon zooming along the relatively level snow—until just now, when someone had called out to advise me of our apparently diminishing number. When I turned around, the neat single file formation we’d set off as was in utter disarray, with most of my fellow club members nowhere to be seen at all.
By the time Alice—the sole non-Class-A participant of the training camp—had finally caught up (and looking sorely frustrated as she did so) I’d decided that cross-country skiing wasn’t going to work out.
“All right, that’s enough warming up. Let’s move on to the main event!”
✦ ✦ ✦
“Are... Are you really going through with this, Allen? What’s even the point of it?”
Ignoring the question, I stood at the top of the course and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
After realizing I needed to show my classmates the true joy to be had in snow-based sliding, I’d dug a sled out of the storage shed beside the cabin, and (feeling somewhat childish) had dragged it over to a clear section of the slope. Unfortunately, the virgin snow was too soft, and the sled—which in reality was probably intended to be pulled by animals—barely moved at all. Unwilling to admit defeat, I’d then asked Al to use his ice magic to make something similar to a bobsled track, relying on my vague memories of watching the Olympics to instruct him in the course’s design. Of course, even with his relatively abundant mana, not even Al could simply transform such a vast amount of snow into ice, much less reshape it in the process. Instead, I got everyone else to mold the snow into huge mounds, leaving Al to finish things off by showering the mounds in water and ensuring they froze into the desired shape. In the end, we’d managed to make something pretty decent looking—if my memories hadn’t been fundamentally flawed from the beginning, that was. Obviously, sliding straight down wouldn’t have been much fun, so the course featured three prominent corners.
Looking at it now, though... Oh well. It’s pretty steep, but even if I do go flying off course, I should be fine thanks to Magic Guard.
I fastened the top button of my jacket (made from monster hide, with excellent water resistance and durability) and launched myself forward, my legs stretched out before me as though I was on a slide at the playground. The magically shaped ice was incredibly slippery, and I easily picked up speed—too easily.
Crap. This isn’t going to end well, is it...?
I tried to spread my arms out to increase resistance—to hopefully hinder my still increasing speed—but we’d made the course too narrow, and I could barely move them at all. Growing desperate, I spread my legs out too, so that I now resembled a high-speed starfish, but it was too late. The first corner was rapidly approaching.
Oh no...
I brought my legs together once more, and doing my best impression of a sea otter—flat on my back and hands clasped over my chest—I hit the first corner at what I was fairly sure was about sixty kilometers an hour. The lateral g-force hit me like a bullet train, sending me shooting up the higher walls we—okay, I—had hoped would prevent riders from going off course. Against all odds, I managed to shift my center of gravity just enough to keep me from flying out and made it past the corner. The danger wasn’t over yet, though. The second corner waiting just ahead was a hairpin turn—aka approximately 180 degrees—and I was still picking up speed. Sadly, I lost control around halfway through the second corner, catapulting me over five meters off course and bringing a premature end to my inaugural run.
“ALLEN!”
“Are you alive?!”
Concerned cries drifted down from the top of the course, and with a quick wave, I assured my classmates that I hadn’t died.