Vol 3 Chapter 39 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 17

I woke to a scene so indecent it would have gotten a novel banned.

“Up already, are we?”

Ursula was standing there in her usual “hair-only modesty” pose—utterly unguarded from certain angles. Barefoot, she was shamelessly using my face as a footrest.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Why, punishing my beloved for ignoring a friendly neighborly warning, of course.”

The impudent, night-dark faerie—a Svartálfr—buzzed her wings and hopped, choosing my forehead as her new perch. Seriously, would you move?

“…Was I asleep that long?”

“Hmm? Not really? Just five little days on the healer’s sleeping draught.”

Five days!? Since Lord Feige knocked me out, I’d been comatose for five whole days!?

“I was eavesdropping, love, and things sounded dicey. Your muscles and tendons were shredded. You overclocked your poor brain to numb the pain—one more step and you’d have been a vegetable.”

Terrifying. Hearing my problems spelled out makes them worse. I’d been running on a post-battle high, ignoring pain, rolling life-or-death checks every step. One bad roll and I’d have died—yeah, that’s horrific.

“Honestly… don’t pull reckless stunts when we can’t be there. Why do you think I gave you my lips? Mortal lives end the moment you look away.”

If you get buried, I won’t be able to gaze into those lovely eyes. She pinched my eyelid with dainty fingers to prove the point. It stung enough to draw tears, but I accepted the scolding; no adventurer turns back mid-quest just because of a warning.

But five days have passed—the new moon only just ended—so how is she here? Now that I look, she’s two sizes smaller and the fairy-light in her hair is faint. Judging by the curtained window, it’s night—her stage—yet her presence feels forced.

“…Sorry. And… thank you for worrying.”

Anyone who pushes herself to visit my sickbed deserves two things: an apology and gratitude. However exhausted I am, manners matter.

[blink blink]

She fluttered those lovely eyes, then offered a magnanimous nod.

“I have plenty more to say, but hearing that will do for now.”

A flick of her wings and a shimmer of phosphorescence later, she alighted on my knee. My head free, I sat up. For five days’ sleep, my body felt light—healing magic, no doubt. Someone had even cleaned me up and changed the sheets; the beauty of 〈Cleanse〉 is staying fresh in your nightclothes.

“Mika…”

I looked around the fragrant, high-ceilinged room. On the next bed lay my friend, breathing deep and even, no nightmares in sight. Her hair seemed a touch longer—maybe my imagination.

“Your friend woke two full days before you and can already walk.”

Good. Mika was up first. I’d thought she was worse off, but my double-whammy of mana and stamina depletion must have been uglier. As long as she’s well enough to leave the bed, that’s what matters.

“Now that you’re awake, take some responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

The word hit just as relief set in. I blinked; Ursula sighed and pointed beside the bed.

And there—

“………………!?”

I forgot we were in a clinic and screamed—though no sound shook the air. Ursula must have sound-proofed the room, wearing that “honestly” look.

Propped against my bedside were two swords. One was my faithful Okuri Ōkami, lovingly sheathed and belted as always.

The problem was the other blade—a very familiar sword I’d faced in that demonic palace, sitting there like it owned the place.

“Tough luck, getting courted by trouble. It took effort to keep her from misbehaving while you slept.”

[gape gape]

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. She sighed the way a classmate does at a hopeless peer. This is not a schoolyard problem.

Why is it here? I banished it beyond the void!

“I don’t know the details. It’s older than I am—you could say older than most things in this world.”

Chilling words. She explained calmly that this cursed, sentient lump and she—as a faerie—could communicate a little. To beings of flesh like us, it conveys only simple emotion—but even with a translator, I’d never want such a nuisance.

Apparently the sword created that palace to seek a new master equal to or greater than its last—pure, malignant sword logic that left me speechless.

“It wants to be loved, you see. To love and be loved—though its courtship is a public menace to mortals.”

A scream echoed in my skull—disgust, denial. Source? The hazardous object, of course.

“It claims it’s harmless, but it’s farther off the rails than we are.”

The walking corpses weren’t its power, she said, but the lingering regret of the adventurer who died clutching it. The sword’s lure drew people in; the dead adventurer’s obsession shaped the mana into trials.

So that was the palace’s truth.

I remembered a line in the journal—regretting he couldn’t find the sword a new bearer…

A perfect couple, huh? Take your eternal honeymoon somewhere else!

My soul-deep howl went unheard; the explanation rolled on.

The sword itself has no quirks beyond being self-aware—

—except that it always returns to its wielder.

Just like the divine blades in old myths. How did it get so cursed? Are you sure you’re not lying? Bet it eats your sanity.

Ursula said it came back because it fulfilled that very function. No, don’t assume I’m its owner—I don’t want it!

“But things like this stalk—no, haunt—you to the ends of the earth. Don’t get clever and try off-loading it for pocket change, okay?”

I am not running a pawn-shop racket on invisible murder-knives. Who would buy this obvious disaster? Even for money, I wouldn’t touch it.

“Harsh as it sounds, sometimes you just have to accept your fate.”

Easy for an immortal conceptual being to say.

I’ve accepted plenty: blond hair, blue eyes, faeries hounding me—it’s not all bad.

But this cursed chunk is different. Sure, in tabletop I min-maxed cursed swords, built broken characters, role-played the angst—with friends and laughs. Real life? No thanks.

I mean, love and be loved—you’re a sword. Am I supposed to cuddle you? Lick you clean during maintenance?

“Ugh, whenever love comes up it starts talking so fast it’s gross…”

[kiiin]—a shrill mental whine. Emotions compressed into ultrasonic spam—stop it.

Unasked, Ursula translated the toxic broadcast. Even the summary sandpapered my nerves. Please, just let me sleep.

No matter how I plug my ears, the voice gets in. Someone, fetch earplugs.

According to it, a sword’s “love” is to perform perfectly: unbreaking, unbending, forever razor-sharp.

That’s all a sword is—perfect edge, unbroken body, always returning. Specs worthy of Ascalon or Fragarach, yet imagining owning it leaves me cold. Same job, wildly different vibes—why?

If loving means excelling, then being loved means being used as a sword. Skill is devotion made manifest—flowers born of sleepless, single-minded practice.

A sword is a weapon. Whatever noble cause you claim, it exists to kill the enemy in front of you—distilled human malice.

So its job isn’t to hang decoratively at a noble’s hip or sit over a hearth—it’s telling me to go hack people up. Total psycho.

[keen-keen]—all that racket because it wants me to try it out. They say you can’t knock it till you try it, but…

“…Feels like it’ll make me sick.”

“Call it cursed rather than contagious, at least.”

Sulky brainwaves bullied me, so I crawled out of bed—apparently a spell kept my muscles from wasting—and, just to test, wrapped my hand around it…

Annoyingly enough, it was a magnificent sword.

The grip molded to my palm; the balance sat dead-center yet carried convincing tip-weight. Master the knack and it would whirl at terrifying speed. The sleek black blade shone cold enough to slice the autumn night itself; intimidation factor aside, there was nothing to criticize.

“Hmm…?”

Hunting for flaws, I spotted gold letters etched along the fuller. Most were worn, but in an archaic tongue ancestral to Imperial I deciphered one word:

Craving. Hunger so deep it bordered on madness—no wonder the sword’s deranged.

Let’s call it the Sword of Craving.

I’m out of ideas. If hurling it beyond dimensions doesn’t work, what then? If it were a dump-heap stray I could keep trying, but…

This is beyond my solo pay grade. I’ll have to ask Lady Agrippina, Lady Leisenitz, or Lord Feige.

And I can’t just lob it into a spatial barrier every time—it’d drain me worse than a missed nap. I’ll have to endure it for now.

I tossed the sword in despair—annoyed thought-waves be damned—and crawled back under the covers.

“Oh my, sleeping again, beloved?”

“I’m mentally exhausted… at least sing me a lullaby.”

The joke, somehow, was granted. Ursula chuckled, perched on the back of my pillow, and sang in a night-breeze voice:

“Hush now, precious one, and drift to sleep.

Slumber, be held, let your knots unwind.

Darkness on your lashes is a gentle hue.

Rock, dissolve, and let dreams remain.”

It was a kind voice—like lighting a cigarette after overtime and gazing at the moon, warm night wind stroking sweat-damp skin.

That fleeting instant when exhaustion almost felt rewarded.

“Cheek caressed by night-breeze fingers,

Darkness, your tender mother.

Sink, be cradled, forget it all.

Dreams embrace you; worries fade…”

Given the monstrous burden dumped on me, this at least counts as payment.

Yeah, I’ll take it. After sleeping forever, I’m still ready to drift off.

Oh right, I’m curious how much skill XP I banked.

“Good night, beloved. Next time, do rely on me properly, yes?”

Tomorrow’s fine. I’ll think about it… tomorrow…

【Tips】Sentient artifacts are rare but acknowledged realities. Some speak human tongues and are beloved, yet their minds need not resemble humanity. After all, they are neither beast nor spirit—much less human.