The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 810

Chapter 810: Shared Suffering

What followed the teenager’s success was a sudden and dramatic shift in the atmosphere of the arcade.

People began to gather.

At first it was subtle. A few curious glances. A couple of passersby slowing their steps. Then it escalated rapidly as more and more attendees were drawn in by the reactions of a group of clearly passionate young men who had decided this was no longer casual entertainment.

This was war.

Sleeves were rolled up. Jackets were handed off. Someone cracked their knuckles.

From the outside, one might have thought they were preparing for a ritual rather than a game. Stretching. Breathing exercises. Staring at the machine like it had personally insulted them.

Owen Mylor, for one, had won his first ever claw machine prize after stretching three times in place.

He had not stopped stretching since.

Every round, he repeated it with grave seriousness before touching the controls, convinced it was now a critical component of his success.

Princess Kira watched all of this with open delight.

And just as she suspected, the machines were not personally targeting her after all.

They were simply demons.

Absolute demons.

Some people were reduced to dramatic despair, collapsing onto the floor as their hopes were crushed for the tenth time in a row. Others were inexplicably pulling prizes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And among the latter was Marco.

For reasons no one could explain.

He simply... got it.

This was especially painful for Sam, who had failed over twenty times and was currently engaged in a heated negotiation with his chosen machine.

"Listen," Sam muttered, leaning in close, "I am being very reasonable right now."

The machine, however, didn’t respond.

Around him, people who had started at the same time were celebrating their wins. Sam’s breathing grew more panicked with every cheer that was not for him.

And he had been so focused that he didn’t even realize how Princess Kira had been looming nearby.

Then again, it was fine that he didn’t notice because she wasn’t there to communicate with him, after all.

She stared.

Pointedly.

She gestured.

Several gestures, actually. And all of them were directed toward Marco who had been watching from the side.

The interpreting soldier glanced between the princess, the increasingly distraught Sam, and the claw machine.

"...Let me try," he said finally.

Sam whipped around. "Fine!" he snapped, stepping aside. "You try, since you’re that confident!"

He folded his arms, face twisted in frustration, already preparing himself to watch Marco fail just as spectacularly.

Marco, on the other hand, only nodded.

He stepped forward and took the controls without ceremony.

Sam watched from the side, brows furrowed.

The claw descended into a deep and crowded pile.

It closed.

But just as the waiting ball of frustration was about to say something along the lines of "I told you so."

The buried claw rose.

With something in it.

Sam froze.

His brain stalled.

"That was your first try," he said faintly.

Marco watched the prize drop cleanly into the chute.

Then he picked it up.

And tossed it.

Sam yelped on instinct, barely managing to catch it as it hit his chest.

"What?" Sam blurted out.

"It’s yours," Marco said simply.

"Huh?" Sam stared down at the prize, then back up. "What?"

Marco shrugged, easy and unbothered. "As your date, I’ve been told it’s my responsibility to spoil you today."

Sam’s mouth opened.

No sound came out.

Marco glanced at him with a light smirk before turning back to the machine.

He swiped again.

He didn’t understand what was happening.

He didn’t understand why it was happening.

And he definitely didn’t understand why that bastard buddy of his suddenly looked... a little too sparkly.

That didn’t help.

The netizens were deeply unsatisfied.

But they did take comfort in one thing.

Watching people suffer at the hands of the claw machine.

In that regard, at least, it felt fair.

Seeing attendees writhing, pleading, and dramatically collapsing in defeat gave viewers a sense of shared suffering. A reminder that even the lucky ones could be humbled by mechanical cruelty.

For a moment, the machines felt like great equalizers.

At least until those two soldiers appeared.

They weren’t even the main focus but were just casual bystanders but in the midst of everyone’s tears, those confident words could only resonate even louder for everyone.

The chat froze right before they erupted in litanies that could be summarized as:

How could it be right that they were able to not only enjoy the arcade, but also be invitees?

And just when that was bad enough, how could the equalizer fail to work on them? Instead, they were even attacking everyone else with that kind of dog food?!

What about the poor people of the Empire?!

What about the single dogs?!

What about those unfortunate people about to go on a date and would now be forced to compete with something like that?!

How would they all survive?!

How could someone be shamelessly lucky with life and love?!

The despair was real.

The disbelief was palpable.

But somewhere deep within the delegation tour, the damage had unknowingly spread.

A certain deputy officer nearly fell down a flight of stairs after receiving a short clip from one very specific demon incarnate.

"Curtis," the Marshal asked calmly, reaching out just in time. "What’s happening to you?"

"It’s nothing, Marshal," Curtis replied stiffly, his left eye twitching violently.

The Marshal narrowed his gaze.

He clearly didn’t believe that.

But how was Curtis supposed to explain that he had just received what could only be described as a veiled threat delivered through a spliced video clip from a short, man-eating beast with a crazy inclination?

Some things were simply not meant to be reported.