Vol 3 Chapter 44 – Boyhood: Winter, Age Thirteen

Bitter cold’s not really my thing, but I adore the razor-sharp winter air.

“Uu—”

“C-cold…”

When I draw a lungful of icy morning air deep inside me and blow it out as if expelling the chill, it feels like I’ve scrubbed every speck of soot from my lungs. That freshness snaps me awake, and with my senses clear I can finally pry myself from the bed that clings to me like hands around my ankles.

My boarding house in the Imperial Capital—kept for me by the kindly Gray Maiden—was steeped in the same chill and darkness. Winter days are short, and at my usual waking hour it’s still so dim outside that, without my Cat’s Eye night-vision spell, I can barely see a thing.

“Yeah, no question—it’s way colder here than back home…”

The water the Gray Maiden leaves for washing is always warmed just enough to spare my skin, and I’m truly grateful. Draw it straight from the well and it’s cold enough to peel your hide off.

The Imperial Capital sits in the northern reaches of the Triple Empire, and compared with Königstuhl it feels downright frigid. Then again, it doesn’t simply get colder the farther north you go; head southeast toward the Great Frost-tipped Peaks and it’s even worse. Geography can be tricky.

When I wipe my face with a towel, a tiny vial—definitely not there a moment ago—has appeared on the shelf. A faint mix of milk and olive drifts from it: an ointment for winter dryness, a lovely salve that locks in moisture and replaces the oils skin so often lacks. I’ve always wondered where she gets this stuff; it’s pricey for an ordinary person.

“Another token of the Gray Maiden’s kindness. Thank you.”

No sense fretting over sources—I gratefully rub the ointment into my fingers and face, station myself before the cloudy mirror the last tenant left behind, peel away the bandage hiding the cut on my cheek…

“Huh?”

The face in the mirror is spotless. Not that my looks magically improved—just that the scabs that covered me a short while ago are gone.

And the facial scar I was honestly looking forward to? Not a trace!

I mean, come on, a scar across the face has that seasoned-veteran vibe. Surviving a fight that fierce and walking away with a mark is cool—makes a great story for junior adventurers someday.

But no; the universe is cruel, and the mark I half-expected simply vanished. Fine, let the scabs fall off, but couldn’t you leave a little souvenir?

Another thing—back in my previous life, at this age I’d already started growing the faintest down of a beard. Dad kept his neatly trimmed, and my brother filled out nicely just before adulthood; the men in my family grow decent whiskers.

Yet my chin is baby-smooth. I stroke it and feel nothing.

“…Ursula.”

“Yes, yes, did my beloved call? Toiling before the moon hides her face—how diligent.”

My hunch manifests as the night-fairy herself, appearing in the dim room as though she’d been there all along. Today the Veiled Moon is waxing, so she’s the same full-height version I first met, her reflection grinning from the mirror. Annoyingly, she’s perched on my bed like she owns it, but welcoming guests is a host’s duty, so I let it slide.

“The vanishing scar and the beard that won’t grow—any idea?”

I know I can’t beat her in a battle of wits—why are all the women around me so good at verbal warfare?—so I ask straight out. She buries her face in my pillow and replies as if it were nothing.

“Oh, that wasn’t me, dear. I’m rather fond of a man’s scars. Frenzy shines best in moonlight, and remnants of wounds dealt in mad battle carry a poetic beauty.”

Right, right—you’re fond of them, I get it…

“Lott.”

“Hii-i-ii! Yes? Need something?”

Call out to the next suspect, and Charlotte the wind-fairy pops up, settling into my hair like a true fairy.

“The scar and the beard—did you do something?”

“U-uhm, well, you see…”

“Got it, say no more.”

Ursula’s loaded phrasing, and Charlotte’s sudden sputter—culprit identified in a heartbeat. I slump onto the table; Charlotte lifts off before she tumbles, peering down at me apologetically.

“Um, sorry, okay? Lott thought you wouldn’t want the scar to stay. Everyone gets upset if they have a mark on their face, you know? My friends all say facial scars aren’t cuuute…”

So every wound healed clean, thanks to fairy consideration. You two really can do anything, huh?

“No, it’s fine, really. I wasn’t that attached to it.”

Her tiny bow of apology makes me feel like the bad guy. I’m not that angry—and with no ill intent, I forgive her.

…but her sugar-cube snack allowance is down by one.

Sugar comes in on most-favored-nation terms from the southern coastal states, so it isn’t obscenely expensive in the Triple Empire, but it’s hardly pocket change either. Yes, my purse is shallow—because all I own is a shallow purse. The ten drachma Lord Faige gave me—half went to Eliza’s tuition, the rest to my family and a late gift for my new nephew.

Charlotte lets out a theatrical “gaan!” and droops. Something else in what she said catches my ear, though.

She mentioned the scar, not the beard.

“So that means the beard is…”

Voice the question, and behind me I sense a flinch and the clink of pottery. Glance in the mirror: the wash basin by the bed is gone, replaced by a steaming cup of chicory black tea.

She always sets out my morning tea without so much as a clatter; reacting this way can only mean one thing.

“…Gray Maiden—Grau Frau.”

“She says, and I quote, ‘Beards just aren’t cute.’”

Ursula kindly translates for the steadfastly silent maid.

…Right, fine, have it your way. Still, the serious, taciturn Gray Maiden pulling pranks? Then again, household fairies are said to enjoy a little mischief toward their residents.

Couldn’t she have picked something milder…?

Crunch—fresh snow that fell last night, untouched by any other soul. I stride through a city frosted white. The rich brick-red of fired masonry peeks from beneath the snow, streetlamps cradling magi-crystals wash everything in a faint blue gradient—utterly enchanting.

Draw in the air, cold as mountain spring water, and it’s like inhaling the paling pre-dawn sky itself. If winter nights could be bottled as liquor, this would be the mouthfeel: crisp yet lightly sweet, with a fleeting aroma that fades like good sake.

Romantic as it is, duty calls. Overindulge in the chill and I’ll regret it later. I raise a barrier—Isolation Wall with an Exclusion Filter add-on—to keep the cold at bay and repel water from my boots. That’s one way I spent the XP hoarded in the Demon Palace. Combat is the soul of TRPGs, sure, but every player dreams of using life-magic in real life.

Layering padded jackets and a leather great-cloak was getting old, so I bought a defensive barrier technique—not just that half-baked Space Shift. Isolation Wall at basic rank simply blocks physical and magical contact by conceptually peeling a sheet-thin layer of space away: a straightforward barrier.

Being simple makes it efficient. At basic rank it’ll only stop stray arrows or lazy blows, but that’s useful enough. Angle the wall and it deflects strikes above its rating; tweak it a bit and you’ve got a rain-coat-slash-parka that sheds water, diverts wind, and tempers cold.

Money well spent. Spread thin over my hands and even dish-washing won’t chap them—a trick I copied from Agrippina when she handled the Sword of Craving. Handy for physical experiments too.

I feed Castor and Pollux, then, as has become tradition, the stablehands line up after work, each pressing a copper coin into my palm so I can cast Clean Sweep on them. More and more folk greet me these days; it’s nice.

After that comes breakfast prep: upgrade Agrippina from a filthy degenerate freshly out of bed to—well, still physically crooked, but at least a ravishing beauty. Then I spend the morning holding Velcro-like Eliza on my lap while we listen to court-language lessons.

Ever since the supply errand, Eliza’s clinginess has relapsed. Tears in her eyes, she asks, “Anisa-ma, you won’t do anything dangerous again?”—and what brother could resist? Agrippina lets her sit on me during lectures because it’s simpler; so long as I’m the chair, her apprentice stays emotionally stable.

I stick with Eliza until lunch, timing my exit from the workshop with the arrival of our etiquette-lesson meal. Can’t eat with her on my lap, after all. I tell my sulking sister to be brave, soothe her with a kiss on the forehead, and leave. Shoving away a teary kitten of a girl feels like tossing my conscience into a blender, but… spoiling her like a house cat isn’t the only kind of love, I chant to myself.

“Oh—almost forgot.”

Just before I leave, Agrippina flicks me a sheet of paper—folded by magic into a butterfly and fluttering over. No clue why she does that, but maybe it’s her thing.

“That’s the reservation you wanted. It’s under my name, so just say you were running an errand for my experiment.”

“An errand for an experiment…?”

The note is a booking slip for a lab.

The Mage Institute has several rental labs packed with cutting-edge magi-tech. They come in various environments and, like the workshops, are spatially isolated so nothing leaks out.

Workshops are isolated, sure, but military magi-research tends to produce large-scale results; cramped workrooms can’t contain it all, so someone demanded bigger facilities. Beats letting people blow up fields and forests on their own time, I suppose. With biohazard risks on top of that, dumping money into a giant concrete box almost makes sense.

Naturally, I need one of these for testing my new combo. I’d asked Mika about somewhere safer than the courtyard, and she told me about these labs. Then I asked Agrippina to reserve one.

“Talk to the elevator like usual. Lots of users this season, so I could only get a shared lab—try not to do anything too crazy.”

What does she take me for? I do have restraint. It’s not some apocalyptic spell—more like thunder and flash, modest and economical.

“Rest assured, I know my limits.”

R-eally? she mutters, full of doubt. I ignore it, shake off my sister’s pleading eyes, and leave the workshop…