Vol 3 Chapter 34 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 12

A rare treasure—that is what a true friend is. A friend who genuinely cares about you. When the moment comes, they draw their blade and stake their life on your behalf. Is there anything in this world harder to come by than such a friend?

“Graaaah, damn you!”

Words he would never use in everyday life burst out, yet, moving with polished grace, my friend dances. Erich Königsstuhl, who treats me as his equal and lets me call him friend, looked truly beautiful.

A single downward stroke slips beneath what should have been the first swing and slices the animated corpse’s wrist clean off. He turns his head lightly to dodge the spray of blood, then kicks the armless corpse away and, in the same flow, smashes the jaw of the corpse lunging at his back with his elbow.

The corpse trying to stab his neck from behind staggers back, jaw shattered by hardened leather and studs, while the one booted in the solar plexus topples over, staring up at the ceiling.

I raise my short staff and, though I usually skip the hassle, chant aloud. By layering safeguards so that neither magic nor sorcery jars the world, I can shave down the mana cost.

Imperial magi of the Triple Empire like to sneer that “spoken incantations are flashy and lame,” but if it helps my friend, I’ll do anything.

“Foundation stone and pillar, beam and cross-piece—yet still it is not enough. Let an unwavering watchman stand.”

I force out mana, shape the formula, and let the chant help twist the world. The corpse that has backed to the wall is wrapped in pillars, bound tight.

People like me, aiming to be construction mages, are said to lack direct combat power—but there’s more than one way to fight. Warping the composition of beams and pillars and bending them to my will is our forte. Indoors, if you want something to trip your foes, we’re pretty handy.

“Give him a pipe, let him sip his tea, and keep his eyes wide till dawn!”

Lacing in the idea of turning a victim into a living pillar boosts the binding force. The undead, already poor at resisting magic, vanish into the wood in moments.

“Saved me there, Mika!”

“Anytime! I’ve got your back!”

Half swallowed by the pillar, the corpse needs no more attention. Far brighter is my friend’s happy grin over such a small assist.

This is the third chamber stocked with undead. Erich handled the first without effort; the next, though it held three corpses, scarcely slowed him. While parrying one blow, he’d fling it into another—pure artistry.

His blade is still sharp here. Even with the corpses now five strong and pressing an ugly encirclement, he has already dropped two. I throw up fences to shield him, thin their numbers, and, when timing allows, bind them. If that keeps their arms from reaching him, it’s worth every drop of mana.

The headache creeping along my temple—mana depletion knocking—doesn’t matter.

Look—he’s done it again. Parrying a spear with a sword is supposed to be hard, yet he doesn’t knock it aside; he catches it, runs along the shaft, and before the wielder can pull back, severs the tendons under the arm with the dagger in his left hand.

Magnificent. Flowing like a dance, he never pauses as he corners his foe. The spear slips from the limp right hand; with a swift thrust he pierces the left flank, cuts more sinew, and an “invisible hand” plucks the spear away.

It’s a trivial utility spell, yet in his grip it is pure artistry. The spear rises, wriggles for an instant, then drives the headless armored torso that once held it into the wall and stays there when he bends the shaft at a right angle.

“Phew… five down…”

At last the corpse whose wrist he severed earlier tries to rise, but he dismantles all five like routine work, and the fight is over.

My friend fights solidly. It looks graceful, refined, yet every motion is aimed at killing—so honest it leaves me in awe.

No heroic flourish where a single blow scatters foes. His sword is wielded sincerely, shielding himself and felling enemies, so no blade will ever reach those behind him.

Ah, Erich, my friend—you’re such a good guy.

You call someone like me friend, let me call you the same, and even stake your life so the two of us can make it out alive—though I’m practically dead weight by now…

“Mika, you’re looking pale. Here—drink some water.”

“But Erich, the skin’s almost empty…”

“No worries. Worst case, I can pull moisture from the air. Drink—your collapse would cost far more.”

You must be exhausted yourself. You’ve fought non-stop in heavy armor, blade always swinging; of course you’re thirsty.

Yet you…

I take one sip, but his eyes say “more,” and after the second I can’t stop. When sense returns, the water-skin is much lighter.

I’ve done it. My trouble is only mana depletion; physically, I’m fine…

“So you left me some after all—thanks.”

He takes the skin—barely a mouthful left—and, without complaint, drains it. Then he casually refills it, drawing moisture from the air. Mana is worth gold when you don’t know how far is left, yet he spends it without a word.

Then I have to try harder. The headache is still mild, and the water helped. With the chant’s boost, I can push on.

If you’ll risk your life for me, I’ll risk mine for you.

That’s what friends are for………

【Tips】Symptoms of mana depletion are classed in five stages. One: light dizziness. Two: a tightening migraine. Three: severe headache or fainting. Four: bleeding from the ears or nose. Five: definite “cerebral dysfunction.”

Since we started this dungeon crawl, my friend’s eyes have seemed a bit feverish.

It might be my imagination, but Mika’s gaze on my back feels different. I can’t describe it—only that it isn’t the usual.

Is it like me, when blood rushes to my head and unprintable curses pop out? Maybe he’s high on battle too.

I can relate. Even I, with barely a handful of true life-and-death duels, feel the rush. Our first dungeon dive, and close combat no less—of course it’s stronger for him.

“All right, shall we move on?”

“Yeah, Erich. So, what’s next?”

Egged on by my friend’s eager—if slightly ominous—line, I push open the next door.

“Ugh…”

A groan slips out.

Several rooms’ worth of walls have been knocked down and copied into one large space, and inside stand seven undead. I’m already full, thanks.

If these were a “troop,” counted as one mob, it’d be fine. Troop mobs are usually speed bumps or meat shields with low fire-power.

But the undead here are different.

Each one is strong enough that calling them fodder would be absurd. Balance check, Dungeon Master—we’re only two people.

A closer look shows them all decently armed. They’re missing a limb—or even a head—but they’ve lashed something on to compensate.

Their weapons and armor aren’t bad, either, and as we progress, their numbers and skill rise. The message is obvious.

This is an arena.

For whom and why, I have no idea. But someone is testing us—watching how long we last as the difficulty climbs. All I can do is pray this isn’t an endless experiment where they observe until we die.

A game that can’t be cleared is garbage. I always vowed never to make a scenario only a telepath could solve, but in this world that logic is meaningless.

The enemy here literally tries to kill you.

A GM’s job is basically to “lose in style,” like a certain bean-paste-headed villain.

Closing in is fine, troubling the party is fine, even winning once in a while is fine—but in the end you get blasted offstage. The GM has infinite resources; they could win any time, but what’s the point?

A nail-biter decided on the brink is “fun,” sure—but that line belongs to the players. The GM is there to be defeated, twisting scenarios so we all enjoy ourselves.

Yet every enemy in this world is hardcore, with zero sense of entertainment. The first monster house would have wiped us in two minutes without my cheat skills, and the bandits earlier were tough enough to raid a guarded caravan.

Right—these aren’t NPCs puppeted by a GM. Each one acts like a player convinced they’re PC 1, so of course they try to kill us.

That logic surely applies to whoever—or whatever—created this labyrinth.

“Ha-ha… this is pretty… lavish, huh?”

“Yeah… my heart’s about to break.”

Seven undead hold the room. Two files of three flank the path to the lone figure at the far end, swords raised like a guard of honor. Male and female, differing armor, differing blades—but their stances scream competence.

At the very back sits a withered corpse clutching a single sword while slumped in a collapsing chair—this must be the adventurer in question. His bark-like skin is stretched over bones, yet his gray beard and hair are full.

Despite the ragged clothes, the lamellar he wears is quality, well-used but fine. And the sword he holds is… “bad news.”

The point is buried in the seat, the blade hugged like a treasure: something black yet gleaming. The blade alone is well over a meter—call it a Zweihänder?

I won’t ask if that’s sixteenth-century tech. In this world, warped by countless predecessors, dating gear is pointless.

What matters is the sword’s alien vibe—black glossy steel, worn runes in the fuller, an oppressive weight that knots the stomach just by existing.

Plainly cursed. If someone set that sword beside the book we saw yesterday and asked “Which do you choose?” I’d hesitate.

“That has to be the core… right?”

Mika squeezes out the obvious, as though telling himself that once we take that, it’s over. If someone claimed it could warp space and birth a labyrinth, I’d believe them. It’s no understudy or mob.

“I’d rather not imagine anything worse… though we can’t swear it doesn’t exist.”

Sometimes the boss pops as a random mob, so you never know.

“Ease up on the pessimism, my good man.”

“Letting your guard down just because you see the goal is dangerous too, friend.”

With one last joke, I step forward—and the six corpses standing like a personal guard all turn as one, raising their weapons.

Here we go—the climax fight. Time to dig deep. I doubt they’ll hand out a third character sheet………

【Tips】Generally, to conquer a magic labyrinth, you must destroy—or seize—the item at its core.