A B-Plus Is Not a Passing Grade

Ilsa Brandt was scrubbing blood from the competition-pool gutter when the System delivered her latest grade.

The report appeared in the air above the drain, bright blue and offensively clean.

**DROWNED BATHS — ENCOUNTER ASSESSMENT** **Result:** Defeat **Grade:** B+ **Challenge:** Excellent **Legibility:** Good **Catharsis:** Excellent **Novelty:** Adequate **Experience awarded:** 184

Ilsa read it twice, then went back to scrubbing.

The blood had come from a hero's split eyebrow. He had survived, as had the other three members of his party, though one had spent six minutes wedged upside down in the shallow end while a healing specialist argued with a locker. The party had beaten her in twenty-three minutes, twelve seconds. They had understood the final mechanism. They had made the correct sacrifices. One of them had even shouted, “For Hallsvik!” at the appropriate emotional moment.

It had been a good defeat.

It had also been, apparently, too much like the last good defeat.

“‘Adequate,’” Ilsa muttered. “That is a word for soup.”

The report changed before she could swipe it away.

**UPCOMING SCHEDULED CHALLENGE** **Party size:** 6 **Experience:** Mixed **First-time challengers:** 5 **Returning challenger:** Emre Kaya — seventh attempt **Arrival:** Tomorrow, 08:00

Ilsa stopped scrubbing.

Five first-timers meant five people who had never seen the Baths change its mind. Five people who would mistake the yellow tile corridor for a safe route, step onto a floor that was only pretending to be solid, and panic when the old sauna doors began breathing steam. They would look to Emre for guidance because he had been here six times, and Emre would attempt to carry the entire party through the dungeon by force of stubbornness.

He would fail at the same place as before.

Ilsa did not know whether to admire or arrest him.

The blue report folded itself into a smaller square and lodged at the edge of her vision. The blood in the gutter had thinned pink beneath her brush. It ran toward the pool in a wavering stream, joining the black-blue water that filled the old competition lanes.

She wanted an A.

Not for vanity, although vanity had its uses. An A-grade defeat would give her enough experience to purchase the filtration module. The Baths' water had been cloudy for three weeks, and the System's replacement chlorine tasted faintly of pennies. More importantly, a higher grade meant better arena equipment. Better equipment meant fewer accidents. Fewer accidents meant no dead heroes, no audit, and no question of whether the Drowned Baths remained a mid-tier dungeon or became something that crawled below the city and ate surveyors.

The filtration module cost 240 experience.

She had 217.

Ilsa looked at the number until it became irritating rather than frightening.

“Seven attempts,” said a voice behind her.

She did not turn. “You’re blocking the emergency exit.”

“I am standing beside it.”

“You’re blocking the view of it.”

The Tolltaker leaned against the tiled wall with the weary elegance of a man who had never once hurried for anyone. He wore his customary gray coat, though the brass buttons now displayed tiny System symbols instead of ordinary thread. A leather satchel hung from one shoulder. He had arrived through the staff entrance without permission, which meant the door had recognized him as a boss and decided permission was decorative.

“I brought you a token,” he said.

“I don’t need a token.”

“Everyone needs a token. The question is whether they admit it before the toll is due.”

He held out a flat brass disk. On one side was stamped a question mark. On the other, a swimming figure with its arms crossed over its chest.

Ilsa took it because refusing would prolong the conversation. “What does it do?”

“It reminds you that returning challengers are not the same party twice.”

“That is not what it does.”

“No, but it is what it means.”

The Tolltaker glanced at the glowing report. His mouth tightened at the corners. “B-plus.”

“Don’t.”

“Challenge and catharsis excellent. Novelty adequate. A classic tragedy.”

“I changed the south stairwell.”

“You moved the south stairwell three meters to the left.”

“It was a meaningful three meters.”

“To the heroes, yes. To the System, you rearranged furniture.”

Ilsa put the brass token on the pool’s starting block. “I cannot make the Baths unrecognizable every morning. It’s still a swimming facility.”

“That is your advantage. Everyone understands a swimming facility.”

“Then they understand too much.”

He smiled, satisfied that she had arrived at the point he wanted. “What do the records say about Emre?”

Ilsa hated that she had already opened them.

The System pulled up six encounter summaries. Emre Kaya had entered the Baths six times. He had been drowned once, frozen once, stunned twice, dragged through a maintenance hatch by his own boot, and defeated in the final pool by a mechanism he had personally explained to the rest of his party.

He had improved every time.

His companions had improved more.

“His swimming is still poor,” Ilsa said.

“He is a hero.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

“What does he want?”

“To win.”

The Tolltaker's eyes narrowed. “That answer is free. Try again.”

Ilsa looked at Emre's record. Each attempt had ended with the same note from the System: **Returning challenger demonstrates increased tactical comprehension.**

The note had not appeared in the reports of his parties. Only in hers.

“He wants to prove the loss wasn’t instructive,” she said at last. “He wants to prove he could have won if the others hadn’t needed him.”

“And your five first-timers?”

“Will make him worse.”

“Or different.”

The Tolltaker pushed away from the wall. “A riddle is not novel because the answer changes. It is novel because the person answering has changed.”

“That sounds like something you tell challengers when you’ve run out of riddles.”

“It is something I tell challengers when they have run out of answers.”

He left the token behind and walked toward the staff corridor. At the door, he paused. “Do not give Emre his victory.”

Ilsa's hand tightened around the brush.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Do not give him his defeat, either.”

The door swung shut behind him.

For several seconds, only the filtration pumps muttered beneath the floor.

Then the service hatch banged open, and Siv climbed through carrying two paper bags and a look of profound disappointment.

“You let the riddle man in again,” she said.

“He let himself in.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Not of doors.”

Siv set the bags on the lifeguard station. “Bread. Apples. Three tins of beans. The ordinary kind, not the System kind that claims to contain ‘complete heroic nutrition’ and tastes like wet plaster.”

Ilsa climbed out of the pool and dried her hands on a towel that had once belonged to the municipal swim team. “You’re a public service.”

“I charge in gossip.”

“Go on.”

“Emre Kaya booked the seven o’clock ferry. He’s traveling with a group from Veyr, all of them first-timers. One of them is a girl with a red scarf who has been telling people she’s going to be the first hero to beat you.”

“Good.”

Siv blinked. “Good?”

“Confidence is useful. Overconfidence is legible.”

“Your blood pressure is not a System stat, Ilsa.”

“It should be.”

She turned back to the pool. The lane ropes floated in six straight lines, though beneath them the water was already rearranging the depth of each lane. The old rules of the Baths were simple: lanes one and two were safe until the bell; three and four punished hesitation; five and six rewarded teamwork. The party never knew which rule mattered most until it was too late.

That was the problem. Her last party had understood the structure by the end. This party would be taught the structure by Emre, who believed teaching meant standing in front of every danger personally.

Ilsa opened the encounter editor.

She removed the south stairwell shift. She restored the yellow tile corridor. She sealed the maintenance hatch. Then she selected the final-pool module and changed its behavior from **single champion** to **relay condition**.

The pool would not yield to the strongest swimmer. It would yield when all six challengers completed one rescue: one person entering, one person guiding, one person trusting the rope, and three people holding the line. Every role would be necessary. No one could carry the others across.

It was more difficult than the old mechanism. It was also clear.

Emre would understand the failure immediately.

The first-timers might understand the victory.

Ilsa hesitated over the final setting: **Maximum opposition**.

Selecting it would make the water answer with its full strength. She would have to fight as hard as she could. If they failed, she would earn nothing. If they succeeded, she would lose the grade she needed. There was no room for kindness disguised as incompetence. No deliberate weakness. No hand extended at the wrong moment.

She selected it.

The Baths shuddered. The competition pool rose by four centimeters, and every lane rope snapped taut.

On the editor's edge, the System displayed the party name.

**KAYA PARTY — PROVISIONAL TITLE: THE SIXTH LANE**

Ilsa stared at it.

“Seventh attempt,” she said to the empty lifeguard station. “Fine.”

She picked up the brass token and slipped it into her pocket. Tomorrow, Emre would come expecting the same Baths, the same mistake, and the same woman waiting at the far end of the pool.

He was going to be disappointed.

So was she, if he lost for the wrong reason.