Isekai Dungeon Architect

"No." Her voice was firm. "There are methods to peer into another's status window, but they are extremely invasive and considered unethical within the Association." She spoke as if she was displeased with something unrelated to our conversation, but then shook the feeling off.

"Instead, you show your abilities as you understand them. A swordsman might spar with an instructor. A healer may close a wound. A mage will cast their spells. You will not be forced to reveal more than you wish."

My lungs unclenched a little. That was… surprisingly considerate of them.

'The old world corporate could never, I dare say.'

"And then," she said, her tone shifting, "the dungeon trial."

Her explanation was as simple as it could get: "Candidates are placed in a controlled section of the dungeon under supervision. You will be given a set time. Survive, adapt, demonstrate your usefulness. You may choose to avoid combat entirely or fight an appropriate monster. Either way, the evaluators will judge."

My brain was doing somersaults at the simplicity of these tests. "So… written exam, skills demo, and then live-action roleplay in a monster hell. Great. Just great~."

Her lips twitched again as she moved to the last important thing. "Afterward, you will be assigned your Role, your Class title, and your Rank."

"Rank?"

"Yes. Adventurers are graded from Rank-1 to Rank-9. One is a novice, nine is… legendary. The classification looks like this: Role, Class, Rank. For example: Combat Class, Support Healer, Rank-4."

I whistled low. "So like: Job Family, Job Title, Pay Grade." It was a pretty familiar classification system.

Her eyes narrowed. "If that helps you understand, yes."

'It did. It helped a lot, my purple Angrybird.'

We paused before a long table where neat stacks of parchment and quills waited. A row of clerks sat ready, already handing out test sheets. Other candidates were seated at desks, their faces twisted in varying shades of panic and concentration.

"This is where it begins," Riddle said, leading me to one of the desks. She sat at my side, posture perfect, already preparing to read.

I lowered myself into the chair with a mock ceremony. "Alright then. Show me the horrors of academia, fantasy world."

The clerk handed me a sheet. The paper smelled faintly of chalk dust and mana ink. I took it gingerly and laid it flat.

The first question was already written in a flowing script that looked more like art than language.

The exam hall was quieter than I expected. Just a wide chamber with rows of desks, a few Association proctors standing like statues at the front, and dozens of other hopeful adventurers hunched over parchment, some, of course, with a proxy of their own.

The scratching of quills filled the air like a swarm of tiny insects.

"Haaaa…"

I stared at the sheet in front of me, and my stomach dipped.

The words made sense— thank you, Otherworlder title, for translating all this into a language I could read. But when I picked up the quill? My hand froze.

The letters in my head weren't the same as the ones that came out. Every stroke looked crooked, backwards, like a toddler had wrestled the ink.

Riddle, sitting beside me as my approved "proxy," leaned in with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. You answer. I'll write."

That was a relief. Except…

"First question," she whispered, scanning the parchment. "You are in a party of four. One member is wounded and slowing the group down. The dungeon floor ahead is unstable, with known monster activity. What do you do?"

"Oh," I smirked instinctively once again. "Situational judgment, huh? This is just like a psychometric test. I used to make these back home."

She gave me a strange look but dipped her quill, her fingers ready. "Your answer?"

"Secure the injured party member, redistribute supplies, designate the fastest to scout, and stabilize the floor if possible. Risk management first, survival second, efficiency third."

Her quill squeaked as it dragged across the parchment. "Slower, please—"

"Next!" I chirped, tapping the desk excitedly.

Her head snapped up. "Aria, I haven't even—"

"Question two's about resource allocation, right? Easy. Prioritize mana potions for healers, stamina boosters for frontliners, and food for scouts. Rotate usage to avoid depletion curves. Boom! Next."

Riddle's eyes widened. She scribbled furiously, smudging ink on her fingers. "You're going too fast!"

"Welcome to corporate hell, sweetheart." I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms like I was dictating to an intern. "Back home, we had to do these under pressure, on no sleep, with bosses breathing down our necks. But this? This is like a vacation thanks to you."

By the fourth question, I was lounging like I was taking a Buzzfeed quiz, tossing out answers with the speed of someone reciting their grocery list.

A few ink stains had appeared on her face as well as her pristine dress. She looked exhausted as well, as if she were in the middle of a monster battle.

The awe and admiration that I could see on her face from time to time with each answer she wrote, as well as her confusion at some of my answers that even she did not understand the depth of, was a sight I had seen many times on the interns and new recruits.

Working in corporate was not that difficult, but working in some of the biggest firms, and that too, as a backbone of the virtual world, was no easy task.

By the eighth, Riddle's neat script had devolved into a barely legible scrawl, her braid slipping loose as she tried to keep up.

By the twelfth, she was staring at me like I'd grown another head.

"Done yet?" I asked casually, twirling the quill I wasn't even using.

Her rough hand trembled slightly as she set the quill down, ink staining the tips of her fingers. She turned to me, her deep blue eyes searching in my greenery, conflicted somewhere between admiration and disbelief.

"You…" she breathed softly, the words sticking in her throat. "…you used to make this?"

I grinned, tilting my head slightly. "Yup. Designed them, tested them, graded them. I was the evil overlord behind these kinds of exams at some point."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

And thus, once again, Captain Arcage— Westford's stoic, sharp-eyed, unshakable Guard Captain— had nothing to say.