Vol 3 Chapter 29 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 7

Instead of trekking off to fetch a wicked scripture, I’d been handed a downright respectable errand tonight. Reeling from a money sense cracked down the middle, I drifted back to the flophouse and found my roadmate already gone to the world of dreams.

Come to think of it, he’d said that after tasting something close to his homeland’s cooking for the first time in ages, he’d better hit the sack now to catch some sweet dreams. We’d been camping for a while to save coin—both Mika and I surrendered to the lure of pocket money—so a real bed for the first time since we set out must be giving him spectacular dreams.

The invitation to adventure can wait till tomorrow. There’s no rush, and I’m not about to wake him up for it.

I noticed Mika had cast ＜Cleanse＞ on the other mattress. A wooden-lodging cot that usually promises lice and fleas turns spotless under that spell. It can’t fix the thinness, of course, but it beats sleeping on bare ground by leagues.

I whispered thanks to my considerate friend—he wouldn’t hear it in dream-space—and crawled under the covers. Still, why does his hair shine almost as much as mine right after a bath? When I borrowed his lap earlier, a lady warned me not to admit how little we actually groom, but honestly, he’s just as bad.

Even a thin futon and a flimsy blanket feel like cloud nine after travel, a bath, a fight, and a big event. I don’t own fancy sleepwear—highborn culture, that—so I slid in fully dressed and was out in a heartbeat.

In that dreamless, blissful sleep, a wrongness nudged me awake. Drifting between waking and slumber, unable to tell dream from reality, I felt something unpleasant around my hips.

Ah. I know this… the sensation of wetting the bed.

Embarrassing as it is, I remembered it well: though my past-life memories surfaced at five, I didn’t stop wetting the bed until seven. No lack of willpower—I’d empty my bladder and skip water, yet still leak. My bladder must’ve developed late.

Because of those mortifying years, the feeling is burned into me. I jolted up, expecting that cold, clammy dread below…

“…Come on, God, I did joke about You earlier, but isn’t this a bit much?”

Maybe it was payback for declaring “God is dead” in a world where deities are very much employed. Divine punishment, sure, but this is petty. A single tear escaped.

Or maybe staring at that trauma-grade manuscript, even unopened, rattled me more than I thought… Whatever the cause, the shame made me want to die. Thirteen years old, bodywise, and this? Cruel.

I glanced at the next cot—no Mika. His gear was there, so he’d made it in time. Lucky him.

First, damage control. I slipped out, lashed my still-low mana, cast ＜Cleanse＞ on the bedding—no visible stain, but sanity demanded it—pulled out spare bottoms, and shucked my trousers.

Clean these, then… hmm?

Ah—right.

Once the pants were off, I realized: wrong kind of accident. Crude comparison, but if I were a girl they’d be handing me red rice.

“Ah… makes sense. I am thirteen.”

Utterly pathetic, apparently.

Look, I was an adult male in my last life; I knew and had firsthand experience with those activities. But with better distractions and a younger body, I hadn’t exactly indulged since the rebirth.

Sure, the skill tree flashed options that screamed “Is this an eroge?” and I might’ve wasted points someday, but until puberty kicked in I’d shelved the whole affair. The psyche really does dance to the body’s tune.

Still, embarrassing. No erotic dream that I recall, yet neglect the pressure long enough and—boom. Sheesh.