Vol 3 Chapter 36 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 14

I couldn’t shake the image of my friends, gathered around the table more times than I could count, snorting in derision, “What’s so valuable about just moving faster?”

I’m looking forward to seeing him go through the same thing I did and learn—hard—the folly of scoffing at the initiative stat.

The death-rattle of clashing metal rang out at my fingertips, sparks flashing to paint the dim arena in stark relief. Driven backward, I caught—in the sliding frame of my vision—the reanimated corpse holding perfect zanshin while swinging a massive greatsword as if it were a twig.

I could really have done without that.

Initiative: a stat in many systems that boils down to one thing—who moves first.

And unless you’re in some busted system or at a truly high level, a character acts only once per turn, and at the proper level you won’t die from a single hit; no wonder the number gets overlooked.

Right—he barely ever showed up at high-level tables. He preferred that pro-wrestling-style system with its revival gimmick.

By contrast, in a fight like this—where a single fatal blow ends everything—speed alone is a menace.

The instant its battle cry faded, the reanimated corpse lunged at me. A simple advance into a reverse diagonal slash, and I was hurled away with laughable ease.

I couldn’t see the start of the move. The enemy was that fast—and the blow that heavy.

It wasn’t luck that I managed to block it.

【Biri Biri】

An unfiltered murderous aura traced my spine, a dense scent of death licking my skin as a warning of the slash. It had to be that sword—so visibly cursed and ominous that holding it could only spell trouble.

That’s why, instead of taking the hit head-on, I stayed alive by leaping back and letting its force bleed off in midair. Had my reaction been a hair slower—or had Okuri-ōkami been a dull blade—I’d have parted ways with my innards, top to bottom, painting the floor red, then rolled across the arena for good measure.

Yet you—this blade—now shield your bearer so loyally after your first owner fell and you were claimed. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I triggered 《Invisible Hand》 in rapid layers, cushioned my landing, and rolled into a guard. Holding back was no longer an option; I poured every drop of power into the ritual.

I unleashed every “Hand” add-on, wringing out the last dregs of mana in a stunt that scraped the bottom of my limits. My vision flickered dark red, my frontal lobe felt crushed, and a dull throb—like a boot to the back of the skull—pounded hard.

No need to think it through—my brain was already shrieking at me for overusing magic. My body, desperate not to shatter, stapled my fragile self back into my skull with pain. We impatient creatures can’t defy it; even the joy of a good meal, the relief of, well, nature’s call—this governor pulls every string.

But that wasn’t something I needed right now.

I crushed the pain beneath raw will, cursed my instincts to shut up, and finished the spell. Seven phantom arms burst forth, snatching fallen weapons from their dead masters and adopting optimal guards via 《Battlefield Sword Technique》.

Swords, a spear, a dagger, a curved blade—all suddenly turning on the commander they’d served moments ago looked so darkly comic I almost laughed.

After all, those weapons had rested in dead hands; now they’d risen again to bite the dead. If they filed for overtime, I couldn’t blame them.

The spear still needed two hands, but even so, my attack count was sevenfold. A common foe might grin at that advantage… yet against a corpse that shifted smoothly from zanshin straight into its next strike, there was no time to gloat.

The corpse charged—kicks deep enough to crack the floor, steps heavy enough to crater it. From that mummy-thin frame came a slash fierce enough to sweep aside seven blade points at once, tear open a gap, and ram its body through, straight at me.

The two-handed sword—so heavy it looked unmanageable—moved like a storm. A diagonal slice flowed into a full spin, became an upward cut, then another whirling arc; each motion radiated unshakeable martial precision. It deflected thrusts from all sides, blocked with its armor, dodged by pure skill—the polish of its art undeniable.

Mastering a weapon’s weight without letting it drag you down, using centrifugal force to the fullest—this was craft honed for that blade alone. He had to be that famed adventurer. Not a soldier’s technique for fighting in ranks, but the solo artistry only thrill-seeking adventurers forge to overwhelm lone foes or hordes alike.

I never dreamed I’d be getting lessons from a veteran in the depths of this hell!

Even the Lightning Blade’s full-force vertical strike—too much for Okuri-ōkami to catch alone—met a three-pronged block of greatsword and twin blades. When spear and curved sword thrust at its apparently open torso, the flat of a single anchoring blade snuffed them both. And the dagger scything for its ankle shattered like sugar candy under a stomp brutal enough to mimic a quake-kick.

This is beyond monstrous! How many killing blows is it going to shrug off!?

For a heartbeat I let go of one weapon, then used all six remaining arms to shove its chest, forcing distance and a reset. I snatched another fallen sword and raised a fresh wall of steel.

The corpse, knocked back, landed with effortless grace and flicked its blade clean. Flecks of my own edge—shaved away by its sharper steel—scattered in spectral sparks.

Closer inspection showed many of the blades that had saved me again and again now chipped to the point they looked like saws.

Heavy, razor-keen, and unbreakable—on paper, the sort of sword you’d envy. Drop it in front of me, though, and I’d still pass. Weapons that strong always come with drawbacks the size of a fortress. I’m not about to reenact that story of the prince who keeps slicing down every friend and sweetheart with his cursed blade.

Then again, such worries only matter to those who live long enough.

I steadied my breathing after the fierce exchange and tightened my grip on Okuri-ōkami. The headache worsened; my shoulders rose no matter how deeply I inhaled, and the usually tasteless air picked up the metallic tang of dried blood from sheer dryness.

Meanwhile, my opponent’s corpse was calm beyond belief: no heavy breathing, no wavering core—only austere resolve, standing ready to strike once more.

“No, no… that’s just plain cheating…”

I can’t help envying that 《Fatigue Immunity》 skill—something a human could never unlock no matter how hard he tried.

All right, here it comes: a stamina-less monster, eager to crush one sorry mortal with those obscene specs.

High-RPM slashes born of nonstop circular motion lash down on me like rain. A chopping blow—I dodge by gliding my blade flat across its belly. An upward cut—I block with the spear’s shaft held like a makeshift shield and divert the force into the void. A full-power diagonal—bundled swords form a barrier while I slip away.

I’m alive. Barely, but alive.

Narrow escapes, lethal swings, death-aimed thrusts hurled in the instant I gasp for breath—every shard trims flesh and skin, and blood beads up. Somehow, the moisture sliding from my split cheek to my lips tastes… welcome.

Yes—water. Once I drop this thing, I’m chugging gallons. Water sipped on shaking legs is delicious; water sipped on death’s doorstep must be heavenly.

The spear’s shot. Too many gashes—one thrust, and it snapped like a used toothpick.

The greatsword’s done. After doubling as a shield, its spine zig-zags so badly it’s useless.

Curved sword—snapped. Dagger—shattered. Overworked longsword—sheared in two.

Every trusty blade I puppet-danced with mana now lies cleft and silent.

Figures—the lone sword is all that remains. With my hand half-numb, I’m not even sure I’m gripping it right, but it’s all I’ve got.

Who knows how long we’ve been dancing? I gave it my best. I’m covered in nicks, bleeding from who-knows-where, yet I did land a few blows—nothing deep, more like scuffing the rags and armor draped over it.

Yeah… lone-wolfing a boss was never a bright idea.

Leisurely—almost taunting—the corpse raises its sword. I recognize that favored diagonal stance; it rests the blade on one shoulder, ready to whip it around on raw centrifugal force. A chill slithers from my collarbone to my hips.

So that’s the next target. If I don’t stop it, I’m dead.

No tricks left, no fancy angles. Oddly, my head feels razor-clear. My body’s at its limit; I’m nose-bleeding dry from mana depletion, yet my vision stays crisp—maybe because the last dregs of my “Hand” wiped the blood from my face.

Fine, if the dice kept snubbing me, at least roll me one miracle crit—show me those beloved six-and-six eyes.

Otherwise, this is where it ends.

【Clatter】

Dice rolling? Hallucination, surely. The idea of someone outside actually shaking dice makes my skin crawl. Shut up—I’m the one making checks here. Watch quietly.

Success or failure—my call. So give me the critical, at least the critical…

…Ah. Nope—this is where I die.

How absurd: expecting boxcars, I instead see two bright red pips. Snake-eyes of doom.

Fumble of misfortune—my own blood makes me mis-step. My shoe skids; the up-slash I’d queued from below—my desperate bid to lop the corpse’s wrist—ends before it starts.

I can probably recover, but a blink is plenty for that greatsword to carve me apart. What happens if it cuts me? Judging by looks—and its former wielders’ fates—nothing good.

Damn it, call me contrived, call it deus ex machina—just let a miracle bail me out!

No, a luckless guy who fumbles at do-or-die shouldn’t pin hopes on miracles. My dice have spoken. Bad roll.

“Friend… I will protect you.”

The moment I nearly closed my eyes, my friend’s voice rang out.

The overwhelming blade that cleaves even air… slows. Threads of faint light cling to it—what are those?

Doesn’t matter. If the sword’s slow, death flips back to life.

My arm already arcing upward—without losing speed—I reverse Okuri-ōkami to an ice-pick grip. Instead of slicing up, I tilt it; the enemy’s decelerated edge smashes into my slanted blade and skids harmlessly to the ground.

I refuse to waste the heartbeat I’ve bought. Skidding on blood and shock, I lunge, ramming the reversed fairy knife into the corpse’s right flank.

A blade that severs matter itself never dulls, even under a new-moon’s pallor. It slices tendon, scores bone, obliterates the dry-twig machinery of that shoulder. No need to sever the whole arm: even a corpse’s motion rests on bone and sinew.

The strain of its own swing snaps those sinews; the arm crumbles away. The eerie-glowing sword clatters and skitters across the stone.

“Ma…gni…fi…”

【Tips】 Fumble — an absolute failure, the system’s brand of absurdity. On 2d6 it’s snake-eyes; on 1d100 it’s 95–100. When the low-odds roll of misfortune peers over your shoulder, even the simplest act can fail: reciting a well-worn poem, tossing a tissue into a bin one meter away, sometimes even breathing. Yet somewhere beyond failure… lies the doorway to the opposite miracle.