I woke up to find myself in the forbidden sight of radiance.
“Awake rather early, aren’t we?”
Depending on the angle, Ursula stood before me, completely unguarded, covering her limbs with nothing but her hair—an ever-repetitive style. Barefoot and unabashed, she was stepping on someone’s face.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s because you’ve chosen to ignore the kind warning of a considerate neighbor, my dear.”
The rude Night Fairy flapped her wings and hovered, then gently moved to perch on my forehead. Not that, please step back.
“…Did I sleep for a while?”
“No? Not at all? Just a little nap—only five days, thanks to the Healer’s sleep draught.”
Five days!? Since being knocked out by Lord Faige, I’ve been unconscious for five days!?
“According to what I’ve secretly overheard, you were in quite a sorry state, my dear. Your body was a wreck, both muscle and sinew. Your brain was overworking to mask the pain, and it seemed you were barely a step away from being completely incapacitated.”
Scary. It feels much scarier when specifics are mentioned. So, all this time I’ve been ignoring the pain in a post-battle high, unknowingly walking while under constant mortality checks. Knowing that I might have died the moment the dice roll failed fills me with dread.
“Not at all… you mustn’t overexert yourself when we’re unable to intervene. Do you know why we raised your life expectancy? Keeping an eye off you is an invitation to an early end.”
Buried in the earth, your beautiful eyes would no longer be visible. Complaining thus, she delicately pinched my eyelid with her fingertips. It hurt to the point of tearing up, but I shall humbly accept this reproach. Even though I thought that being warned at that point wouldn’t matter since adventurers never turn back mid-quest…
Still, if it’s been five days, it’s amazing she managed to come around not long after the new moon. Upon closer inspection, she seemed about two sizes smaller than usual, and the fantastic glow around her hair was considerably dimmed. The window, shrouded by curtains, indicated night, her stage. Given her weakened presence, she must be exerting herself significantly.
“…Sorry, and thank you for worrying.”
There are two things one should say to someone who has pushed themselves to visit a sickbed: an apology and gratitude. Even if I was exhausted before, I didn’t think I’d fallen so far as to neglect proper etiquette.
She blinked her adorable eyes slowly, then after a while, seeming to have processed my words, she nodded gracefully.
“I have a lot more to say, but let’s call it even with those words.”
Her wings flapped, and with a faint glow, she moved to sit on my knee. Now able to sit up due to feeling unusually light despite having slept for five days—probably the effect of healing magic—I realized it must be thanks to someone’s care that my current clothes and bed were comfortable. The beauty of “cleansing” is how it keeps nightgowns pristine.
“Mika…”
Glancing around in concern, I noticed our high-ceilinged room filled with a concentrated aroma. Adjacent to my bed, my friend lay sleeping peacefully. Her breathing was deep and steady, her face serene, with no sign of nightmares. Her hair seemed a bit longer; perhaps it was just an illusion.
“Your friend woke up much earlier than you, my dear. Two days ago, in fact, and she’s already walking.”
I’m relieved. Mika woke up before me? I thought she might have been more seriously injured. Perhaps the double hit of magic and physical exhaustion affected me more. Still, if she’s recovered enough to leave her bed, that’s all that matters.
“When you’ve awakened, take some responsibility, my dear.”
“Responsibility?”
Unexpectedly, Ursula asked me about responsibility while I was in a state of relief. She shook her head and pointed beside the bed.
And there…
“…………….!?!”
I forgot where I was and instinctively screamed loudly, but somehow my scream didn’t disturb the air. Ursula, looking somewhat exasperated, must have muted it for me.
Two swords leaned against the bed I had lain on. One was familiar—”Sending Wolf.” My cherished blade, carefully ensconced in a wrapped scabbard, was undisturbed.
The issue was the familiar sword resting nearby.
This was the Magic Sword I had confronted in that “Demon Palace.”
“Seems you’ve fallen for a problematic one. It was a hassle trying to keep it from causing mischief while you slept.”
Pointing at it, I opened and closed my mouth like a fish, asking for an explanation, but she sighed as if lecturing a problematic peer. No, this is not the kind of issue you think it is.
Why is this here? I thought I had banished it to the farthest reaches of nothingness!
“As for details…? None for me to know. This magic sword predates even me. For all we know, it outdates most things in existence.”
A shiver ran down my spine as she calmly explained. Apparently, this willful blade of doom can communicate with the fairy to some extent, though it is said that our race, and all beings of flesh in this world, can only perceive its simplest emotions…
Even with an interpreter, it’s a nuisance, and I don’t desire this at all.
Apparently, this Magic Sword created the Demon Palace in search of a new master. It was looking for someone suitable, one equal to or surpassing its previous owner in power. Hence its rebellious nature.
“The sword, it longs to be loved—to give and receive love… a rather inconvenient form of courtship, I’m afraid.”
A startled voice echoed in my mind, undoubtedly transmitting a sense of denial and repulsion. Its source? Naturally, an unclassifiable and dangerous item.
“Even when told it’s bothersome, it’s too disconnected from the world. Truly, it seems to know nothing of our concerns.”
Apparently, the Undead it created weren’t due to the sword’s abilities but rather the adventurer’s unfulfilled longing while carrying it. The sword lured people for a worthy wielder, and this adventurer’s strong longing imbued the Demon Palace with its directed essence. The fallen potential wielders were turned into trials to find the next.
This was the truth of that Demon Palace.
In the notebook I skimmed, there was a passage towards the end, where the adventurer regretted not finding the next wielder.
What a matched pair! Go off and do that somewhere else permanently!
My cry of despair fell on deaf ears as the merciless explanation continued.
It seems that this Magic Sword doesn’t bear unusual abilities beyond its nature as a sentient blade. Except, it has one trait—it always returns to its wielder.
Isn’t this just like the ancient myths about holy swords and renowned blades? How it radiated such a sinister aura back then is beyond comprehension. Are you telling me the truth? This sword surely depletes spirit energy, right?
Even though I banished it to the farthest reaches of existence, it has returned to my bedside as if claiming its rightful place. This, according to Ursula, is because the sword has fully executed its function of returning to its owner… Though I never agreed to be the owner, nor do I want to, absolutely not.
“Still, this kind of thing will always find you, even if you try to get rid of it… You can’t sell it repeatedly for pocket money, you know?”
Of course I wouldn’t. Who would buy this obviously dangerous thing anyway? Regardless of its reasons, even if it’s rare and powerful, I’d rather not profit from it.
“Though that aside… Sometimes, giving up is key, I believe.”
Being told this by a lifeless conceptual being feels less like advice and more like a challenge.
Indeed, I’ve let go of various things in life. I didn’t choose to have golden hair and blue eyes, and I’m used to being harassed by fairies for them. It hasn’t been all bad either.
Still, this is a different case entirely. Sure, in role-playing, we used to exploit the disadvantages of a cursed sword to build absurdly powerful characters. Even the struggle of being cursed by that sword was shared with my group—mostly laid-back folks—and it was fun. But when asked to do it for real, I absolutely refuse.
What even is this? A sword wanting to be loved back? What does that mean? Should I cradle it to sleep? Should I lick it every time I clean it?
“Eh? Whenever love topics come up, this one gets oddly speedy and uncomfortable…”
A high-pitched, unpleasant thought resonated in my mind but couldn’t quite be comprehended. Could this speediness be the reason? Everyone gets enthusiastic talking about things they love, but this is excessive. Stop compressing emotions and other things into high frequencies!
Ursula translated this involuntary telepathic signal. The convoluted explanation itself was mentally taxing. Stop, don’t tell me, please leave it alone.
No matter how hard I try to cover my ears to avoid hearing it, it finds its way in. Plugging my ears won’t achieve complete silence. Anyone, please hand me some earplugs.
Apparently, loving this sword involves bringing out its full potential. It must not bend, break, corrupt, and must remain eternally sharp.
That’s all a sword should be. A magnificent cutting edge, indestructibility, and the trait to return to its bearer—features akin to Ascalon or the Fragarach, admirable stats, but holding it is unappealing. We’re talking about the same concept, yet the difference is glaring.
If excelling in love means something, then what does being loved mean? Simply put, for the sword, it means being used “as a sword.” And the depth of love equates to the skill of the wielder, which blossoms briefly through dedication, forgetting even sleep and food.
A sword is a weapon. Whether it’s for taking, saving, or protecting, it was ultimately created to kill the “enemy” standing before it. It is nothing more than humanity’s distillation of the concept of killing.
Therefore, a sword’s job isn’t to hang as a decoration on a noble’s waist, nor to be placed on a mantle as a symbol of peace.
Apparently, it just needs to excel in cutting. Is that why it’s insane?
The shrill thoughts resound, telling me to try holding it before I judge. While it’s true that it’s wrong to dismiss something without trying it…
“…Somehow, it feels like it could get me sick.”
“At the very least, you’ll end up cursed.”
Oppressed by irritable telepathic signals, I resigned myself and crawled out of bed—feeling surprisingly light due to a spell ensuring restorative sleep—and gingerly grasped the sword. To my chagrin, it was indeed a magnificent blade.
It felt as if the handle was molded to fit my hand, allowing for effortless maneuverability. The center of gravity was excellent, slightly forward yet balanced at the tip, enabling me to swing it at incredible speed once I got the hang of it. The glossy black blade reflected the cool autumn air, its sharp edges dazzling. Visually, it was imposingly intimidating yet flawless.
“Hmm…?”
Looking for any flaw, I noticed golden characters engraved in the groove. Though mostly worn away, they were written in an older form of Empire script, or perhaps its ancestral dialect, making some decipherable.
“Desire,” the vague term implied by the inscription expressed a yearning desire. Carved with this emblem, it is no wonder the sword behaves so madly.
For now, let’s call it the “Sword of Desire.”
There’s no escaping it now. What can I do if it even comes back after being banished to the farthest reaches? If this was something that returned after I threw it away like garbage, I could have said “Let’s push our limits!” and tried harder…
At least this exceeds the scope of what can be dealt with single-handedly. Given the level of this artifact, I must seek Lady Agrippina, Lord Raizenitz, or Lord Faige.
It isn’t wise to use an exhausting space barrier to discard something that consistently comes back, consuming effort beyond a nap to restore…
Thus, I gave in. With despair, I flung aside the sword—eliciting a thought of complaint that I blatantly ignored—and crawled back into bed.
“Ah, still planning to sleep, my dear?”
“Emotionally, I’m exhausted… How about a lullaby while you’re at it?”
My sarcastic remark somehow came true. Ursula chuckled lightly, flitted over, and perched on the back of my head nestled in the pillow, then began singing, as if in a night breeze.
“Fleeting, beloved, sleep in the night. Drift into slumber, dissolve in ease. The darkness behind your lids is soft. Rocked gently, melt, let dreams remain.”
Her voice was tender. It reminded me of the inexplicable comfort after working late, of smoking a cigarette and gazing at the moon. I recalled the gentle night breeze caressing my tired, sweaty body while the moon silently watched over me.
In the midst of tiring work, it was one of those rare moments when I felt as if I’d accomplished something.
“Caress your cheeks, the wind’s fingers. The night, gentle, is your mother. Bury yourself, drift, and forget. The dream’s current carries away sorrows…”
Could this be counted as a reward for being given such a troublesome item?
Yes, I suppose it could. Even though I’ve been asleep for a long time, it feels as though I’ll sleep peacefully tonight.
Ah, yes, checking the advancement of my skills is something to look forward to now.
“Good night, my dear. Next time, please do rely on us fully, won’t you?”
But, let tomorrow be enough. Tomorrow….
—
【Tips】Sentient artifacts are rare but known to exist. Some can even speak and become intimate companions, though their consciousnesses aren’t necessarily similar to humans. After all, they aren’t animals or spirits nor humans.
An overcompensating scenario boss reward that returned in the end. Apparently, the scenario has since been revised for future players to throw the sword into a volcano seriously.
Thanks for the comments and typo reports, as well as RTs and follows on Twitter. It was very encouraging. As soon as I thought the hectic period was over, I had someone quit, making me nearly collapse. And then there was leaking ceilings—twice—and an air conditioner breaking down… Have mercy.
I believe I can provide an update on June 15, 2019, Saturday. Feel free to join along if you’d like.
