Vol 3 Chapter 28 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 6

Staring at a book that practically shrieks “danger,” my nerves fray until every instinct screams at me to bolt. I already know the system handling books like this: a hellscape where one careless glimpse of the truth drops reality-shattering landmines, driving even stouthearted human explorers mad next to the locals.

I once wandered such places with companions of dubious reliability, armed with spells too terrifying to learn and weapons that swung from indispensable to worthless in a heartbeat.

Those journeys were fun in their own twisted way—yet their endings were usually grotesque and beyond redemption.

Some went insane and took up chatting with the wall; some, merely on seeing Him, were hurled from the stratosphere to the ground; some were swallowed by foul rites that made them “devour themselves whole.” Every rotten finale lined up to greet me.

In that system, plain old death counts as a decent ending.

And the book Lord Fayge now holds is unmistakably a sibling to those horrors.

I don’t know whether some god from another world is involved, but it’s trouble, pure and simple. In the mildest case it shatters one mind; at worst, it ends the world.

Watching everything blink out in a bad ending is grim enough, but poking it and getting NPC-ified—losing my character sheet—never gets easier. Honestly, I’d rather it never even enter my line of sight.

“Hmm… A bit much for a child, was it?”

With that, Fayge tucks the tangible terror into his desk. Out of sight, the crushing pressure finally ebbs. Whether the book’s power only goes so far, or the desk is special—if clichés hold, it’s the latter.

“Now then, what price has your master set on this book?”

My heart hammers hard enough to hurt, but negotiations demand focus. I breathe deep, forcing my agitated thoughts to settle. The raw feeling of brain-sanding won’t fade soon, but for Eliza’s and my future, I keep going.

Sales rule one: go in with a non-negotiable baseline. If the offer’s comfortably above, take it; if it grazes the line, push back. That mindset decides everything.

Yet hearing “Name your price” is—let’s be frank—infuriating.

Sure, I used to wish clients would stop penny-pinching and leave some room in the budget. Nobody asked them to go this far.

If the client says it, fine; handing over a blank check demands resolve.

But dumping full authority in my lap is a headache—I’m being tested.

I could chirp, “We’ll buy it at your asking price.” That’s a child’s errand. Sure, the GM hands out XP, but half value, written in with a grimace.

Broad authority doesn’t mean I can slack off. Someone trusted me; I have to produce.

Right—time to shock Agrippina. She’s high on my “make-her-cry someday” list; catching her off guard inches me closer to independence.

“I’m fully prepared to meet your expectations—funds or otherwise—so long as it matches the value Lord Fayge deems fitting.”

“Hmm…”

When people hear “Name your price,” they scribble scandalous zeros even if they don’t value the item. Better they state a ballpark first; if they’re gouging me, I haggle, and if reasonable, I take it.

Now they’re the seller, so I’m free to ask the price. If he bounces it back again, I’ll lowball with a cheery “You don’t want it, do you?”

“To be perfectly frank, I could toss this thing into the fireplace for kindling and sleep soundly. I never cared for books like this beyond valuing them as rare tomes—and even less when they record a god the ancient Synod branded heretical.”

“I serve no supreme deity myself,” Fayge adds, snapping his fingers. A guest chair floats up; he clearly uses ＜Invisible Hands＞ for chores—and he’s settling in for a long talk.

“Most of all, this thing rubs me wrong. The literary flair tickles my aesthetic sense, but a near-duel with a client obsessed with materials ruined it. How anyone sees such monstrous deeds and thinks, ‘Let’s copy that,’ escapes me.”

That sounded disturbingly human-derived. Were those materials taboo? Cosmic-horror key items often call for skin or blood as casually as copy paper, but still…

Just hearing how His Lordship spoke of it makes me shudder to imagine the original text behind that black-trimmed thing. A nasty chill races down my spine.

Sure, this too is undeniably a fantasy—but the flavor I want isn’t some hideous relic brooding beyond Kadath or Yuggoth. Give me sparkly, heroic adventures, not eldritch side-quests, thank you very much.

“So, here’s my proposal: rather than negotiate with your master… may I negotiate with you directly?”

My brain, already worn thin by reality’s horrors, needed a second to chew on that.

I get it: instead of taking Agrippina’s money, he wants to extract something from me in exchange for the book—so long as the job still gets done, no harm, no foul.

In short, what I can offer interests him more than a wizard’s purse.

“You seem, at a glance, to have all sorts of interesting things hitching a ride on you.”

“Ah—well, yes.”

Can’t deny it: a black-and-green pixie here, an incorrigible pervert wraith there—stuff sticks.

“I’ve always loved tales of bright-eyed youths. I lack the talent to write stories myself, but listening to them never gets old.”

One look at this hobby-stuffed study proves the point: dragon-slaying sagas, steamy romances, anthologies of youthful tragedies—arranged for easy browsing. His taste is an open book.

“So! I’d like you to embark on a little adventure.”

“Ex…cuse me? An adventure?”

“Indeed. An adventure.”

Nodding sagely, Lord Fayge unfurls a local map—topo lines so precise it should be classified military intel. Wave that around abroad and you’d pile up large gold coins higher than trade tariffs ever would.

“Well, perks of the job—sometimes these fall into my hands,” he says with a mischievous grin. That’s not remotely a joke, my lord. Letting this leak overseas would be a capital crime! Why do you even have a spare—just for you?

Ignoring my silent panic, he extends twig-like fingers to a forest north of Vustro.

“Nothing special there—well, the odd bear.”

That is special! Compared with demons it’s mild, sure, but bears kill people just fine. Some can tank crossbow bolts—and at bad angles even shrug off a 5.56 round. I’d rather not duel that with a shortsword.

“Roughly a full day on foot.”

“…A bit far for a child’s stride.”

“Any youngster trusted with errands this far can handle it.”

Hard to argue, so the plot steamrolls on. Did muttering about that bandit “mid-battle” subconsciously summon a real “climax battle”? This flag’s sprouting awfully fast.

“There’s a lone hermitage there, once occupied by an eccentric adventurer…”

“And now—no word?”