The Adventurer's Guild had a baseline level of chaos, a sort of ambient din that was as constant as the smell of stale ale. But when Kazuma's party was present, that baseline was shattered. Now, with the addition of a fourth member, they had achieved a critical mass of dysfunction that bent the very fabric of social decency around them.
"Let me get this straight," Kazuma said, sitting at their usual table, his head in his hands. He was speaking slowly, as if explaining gravity to a toddler. "You are an Arch-Wizard, a class renowned for its vast arsenal of powerful spells…"
"The pinnacle of magical might!" Megumin declared, striking a pose in her chair, which nearly caused her to tip over.
"...and the only spell you know," Kazuma continued, his voice strained, "is Explosion."
"It is the only spell worth knowing!" she proclaimed. "Why dabble in feeble sparks and paltry fireballs when one can command the ultimate symphony of destruction? It is a matter of aesthetic purity!"
Deadpool slammed his palm on the table, rattling their empty mugs. "She gets it! See, Kazuma? This is vision! This is passion! We don't need a Swiss Army knife of mediocre spells. We need a tactical nuke! She's not a spellcaster; she's an artist, and her medium is catastrophic combustion!"
"Thank you, red person! You are clearly a man of discerning taste!" Megumin said, beaming.
"I am a goddess, and I can summon fountains of pure, holy water on command," Aqua interjected smugly, creating a small waterspout in her palm. "It is both elegant and useful for hydration. Can your 'Explosion' do that?"
"Can your 'water' level a mountain?" Megumin retorted, her eyepatch seeming to smolder with intensity.
"ENOUGH!" Kazuma roared, his voice cracking. He felt a blood vessel in his forehead throb ominously. "We are not leveling mountains! We are trying to earn enough money to eat! Which means we need a quest that our new… specialist… can actually complete."
He stomped over to the quest board with the air of a condemned man. The others followed, bickering amongst themselves. The board was the same as ever: a tapestry of poor life choices waiting to be made.
"Absolutely not," Kazuma said, preemptively slapping Deadpool's hand away from a quest titled 'Cull the Hydra Broodmothers.' "We need something stationary. Something that a single, massive, area-of-effect spell can solve in one go. No multiple targets, no chasing things, no objectives that require subtlety."
"Subtlety is the coward's art," Megumin sniffed.
Deadpool was scanning the board, his head tilted. "Ooh, what about this one? 'Clear the Abandoned Keep of the Undead Legion.' Big group of slow-moving targets. Sounds perfect for a little shock and awe."
"An abandoned keep?" A strange, greedy light flickered in Deadpool's eyes. "Abandoned, you say? That implies it was once… habited. People lived there. People who wore clothes. People who died and left behind… vintage apparel. Kazuma, my boy, you may be onto something! This is a two-for-one! We get paid, and I get to go on the fantasy equivalent of an estate sale expedition!"
Kazuma hesitated. It was a high-rank quest, but the logic was sound. A legion of zombies and skeletons bunched up in a castle was the perfect target. "Fine," he sighed, the fight draining out of him. He tore the parchment from the board. "But if this goes wrong, I'm leaving you all in the haunted castle and telling the Guild you were turned into ghosts."
The Abandoned Keep of Sir Reginald the Regretful (a name Deadpool invented on the spot) was a few hours' walk from Axel. It sat brooding on a hill, a craggy silhouette against a grey, overcast sky. It looked exactly how a haunted castle should look.
"Spooky," Deadpool commented, rubbing his hands together. "I love it. The ambiance is top-notch. Very gothic horror. I bet the previous owner had an amazing collection of argyle socks. The truly tormented ones always have the best taste."
They found a vantage point on a hill opposite the castle, overlooking the crumbling ramparts and the main courtyard, which was, as promised, teeming with the shambling undead. Skeletons with rusty swords and zombies in tattered livery milled about aimlessly.
"A perfect target," Megumin whispered, her eye glowing with manic energy. "They are gathered like wheat for the reaper's scythe!"
"Alright, kid, you're up," Deadpool said, patting her on the shoulder. He turned to Kazuma and Aqua. "Okay, team, let's secure the blast zone. I want a hundred-yard perimeter. Aqua, set up a hydration station. Kazuma, handle crowd control, which is just us. This is a major event, people, let's look professional!"
Megumin stepped forward, planting her staff on the ground. She took a deep, theatrical breath. The air around her began to crackle. A dark, crimson energy began to coalesce around her, and the wind picked up, whipping her cape and hair around dramatically.
"Oh, here we go! It's the light show!" Deadpool said, pulling out a small, stolen pouch of dried fruit and nuts. "Anyone want some pre-detonation snacks?"
Megumin began her chant. It was long. It was ridiculously overwrought. It involved phrases like "darkness blacker than black," "crimson lord of phantasmal chaos," and "the ultimate, final, absolute destruction."
Kazuma watched, nervously clutching his sword. "Is all this… necessary?"
"It is called showmanship, you uncultured swine!" Deadpool hissed, munching on a raisin. "You can't just press a button. You have to make them feel it. Build the tension! Let the anticipation marinate!"
Finally, with a final, earth-shaking scream, Megumin thrust her staff forward.
"EXPLOSION!"
A tiny speck of brilliant red light shot from the tip of her staff. It flew across the valley and struck the center of the castle courtyard. For a moment, there was silence.
Then, the world turned white.
A silent, expanding dome of pure energy vaporized the courtyard. The sound arrived a second later, a cataclysmic BOOM that shook the very foundations of the earth. The keep's main tower, which had stood for centuries, crumbled into dust. A mushroom cloud of rock, dirt, and finely powdered zombie rose into the sky. The shockwave hit them like a physical fist, knocking Kazuma and Aqua off their feet.
Deadpool, who had braced himself, just whistled. "Ho-ly… shiatzu puppies."
When the light faded and the dust began to settle, there was nothing left. The courtyard was a massive, glassy crater. The front half of the castle was simply gone. There was no sign of the undead legion, because there was no sign of anything.
"Well," Kazuma said, his ears ringing. "I guess… that's one way to do it."
"Magnificent…" Megumin whispered. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. She landed with a soft thump, completely rigid and unmoving.
Kazuma rushed over to her. "Megumin! Are you okay?" He poked her. She didn't respond. She was breathing, but she was as stiff as a board.
"What's wrong with her?" Aqua asked, peering down at the immobile girl.
Deadpool walked over, nudging Megumin with his boot. He then crouched down and waved a hand in front of her face. No reaction. He picked up her arm and let it go. It dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
"Ah," he said, a look of profound understanding dawning on him. "I see what's going on here. She's a one-shot weapon. She fires her main cannon, and it drains all power from non-essential systems. She's got the battery life of a first-generation smartphone."
"You mean… she can only cast that spell once a day?" Kazuma asked, a horrified realization dawning on him.
"And then she becomes a high-maintenance piece of furniture, yep," Deadpool confirmed. He grinned under his mask. "This is the best party ever."
Kazuma didn't scream. He didn't shout. He just stood there, a single, perfect tear of despair rolling down his cheek. His ultimate weapon was a glass cannon that shattered itself after a single shot.
"Well, someone's gotta carry her back," Deadpool said cheerfully. He hoisted Megumin onto his back in a fireman's carry. "Let's go collect our pay. And maybe I can sift through the crater for any… blast-resistant artifacts."
As they walked down toward the smoking ruin of the castle, Deadpool's foot kicked something in the dirt, unearthed by the explosion. It was a single, argyle sock. It was ancient, singed around the edges, but miraculously intact. A faint magical aura seemed to cling to it.
He picked it up, his eyes gleaming. "The Spoils of War," he whispered reverently, tucking it into a pouch.
And so, the party returned to Axel: a defeated leader, a smug goddess, a deliriously happy mercenary, and their unconscious artillery piece, carried like a sack of explosive potatoes. Their dynamic wasn't just dysfunctional anymore. It was a strategic nightmare.