The master always said it: it’s one thing to push through a little, but recklessness must be avoided.
Pushing through is fine because that’s in the mage’s domain. An apple falling from a branch is sent flying upwards, a ball thrown onto wet ground doesn’t roll, and a paper scorched by fire becomes frozen. Distorting the rules, forcing the world to meet our demands, and asserting our will is our duty.
But recklessness is not allowed. Twisting the whole world too much will result in oneself being corroded by the reaction. There’s also the danger that apostles may be sent after you.
Moreover, if you recklessly attempt to create a spell beyond your skill level, then the backlash will certainly be overwhelming, be it an advanced spell or an attempt to squeeze out depleted magic power…
Still, I believe that if the gains from such actions are significant, then some recklessness and pushing through are worth it.
No, depending on what can be gained, one should even do that.
“Friend… I will protect you.”
Suffering from a terrible headache, I disrupt my scattered thoughts and the last dregs of my magic to invoke a spell. My vision turns completely red, and my nasal passages feel clogged, probably because the stress has caused some of my blood vessels to burst. The overly loud sound of water echoing through the temple indicates that my ears are also bleeding.
However, the spell born at the cost of so much from me was a meager boost considering the fuel of life it consumed. Without verbal incantation support, and given my already exhausted state, there’s a clear limit to what I’m capable of.
At best, I can multiply the thickness of the countless spider webs hanging from the walls.
Spider silk is renowned in the Threefold Empire for being exceptionally strong, rivaling the toughest wires crafted by artisans to the point where spider silk woven armor is as strong as steel plating.
So, even delicate spider silk, when thickened, should be able to slow down a sword blow.
I don’t expect the simple threads hanging from the ceiling to be able to ensnare a sword, nor can I be certain how well they can resist the edge of a sharp blade. Still, I think it’s worth trying. It’s worth risking my life and future for the chance.
There was a soft sound, as though something was being adjusted.
And through my blood-blurred vision, I saw my friend prevail.
Ah, as I thought— he really is impressive. He might be covered in blood and ragged, but his unyielding heart makes him a sight to behold.
I’d like to look at him a bit longer, but I’m reaching my limit. My vision sways as though my head is tethered to strings being chaotically pulled in every direction.
Still, it was worth it. He won….
A faint clinking sound seemed to reach my ears.
And there, amidst the distorted vision stained by blood streaming from my tear ducts, my friend had triumphed.
Ah, as I thought, he really is admirable, even with his blood-splattered and battered state. His indomitable spirit makes him so.
I wish I could keep watching, but I’m reaching my limits. My vision begins to waver, as though my head is being jerked around violently on strings.
Still, it was all worth it. He won…
I love battles where resources are pushed to the brink, where the life of a companion is on the line, and the outcome hinges on the roll of a die.
It’s exhilarating every time, and even after it ends, the excitement continues. The GM’s job is to keep things balanced, letting everyone hover on the brink of death but not beyond, and such thrilling scenarios always leave you wanting more—whether it’s for the next session or for crafting a fresh storyline…
But no more. Never again.
After an intense battle, all I could think was that I was done with it.
Leaning on a Sending Wolf as a staff, before me lay the silenced undead, its limbs scattered. I couldn’t take the risk of it picking up its sword again, so I spent my last bit of strength executing a barrage of attacks, barely managing to dismember it completely.
Sweat mixes with blood trickling down my chin. My muscles and joints scream in protest from their overuse, and my head aches from the exhaustion of my drained magic power. It’s like a full-fledged factory of metalwork has been erected inside my skull, with lathes and presses roaring endlessly. This is how the characters always felt after a deadly battle, I suppose. The mere concept of a scene change now seems too easy.
“Mika…”
I crawl step by step toward my unconscious friend. I owe my life to him. I don’t know the specifics of the spell he crafted, but it must have been the one that dulled the sword’s speed. Even while bleeding from every pore and squeezing out his last reserves of magic, he stayed by me to the end.
Finally reaching him, I kneel and check his pulse in prayer. His breath is shallow but steady. Pressing my ear to his chest, I hear no troubling water sounds, so it seems blood has not filled his respiratory system or critically damaged any organs.
The problem, though, is his head—but this isn’t something within my power to handle. Healing magic is too expensive and my base theoretical knowledge is non-existent, so there’s no way for me to learn it. This is a situation where we might invoke a divine miracle, but unfortunately, miracles can’t cover the effects of magical exhaustion.
If there were a god of magic overseeing everything, things might be different. But unfortunately, there is no such deity. The guardians and the mages, who essentially exploit source code for magical effects, inherently disagree, so there is no God specifically managing magic.
I wipe the blood pooling around him with cloth, then carefully pour water from my flask into his mouth. He swallows weakly despite his evident discomfort. I can only hope this means he’s out of immediate mortal danger, but it’s probably best to consult a specialized healer—a professional dealing in magical and mystical treatments could help. Even if no bleeding occurs internally, failing to act could lead to regrets too heavy to bear.
But… my own limits are catching up. I slump next to my friend and take a large gulp of water from the flask. Ah, I had intended to drink more during the fight but I’m glad I didn’t. The satisfaction it gives now feels incredible, an affirming taste of survival.
Drinking like air was needed to breathe, I squeeze the last drop from my leather flask and finally feel some relief. The strength drains from my core, and I’m wrapped in a peculiar, cloud-like sensation. Moving anytime soon could be difficult.
Alright, I’ll make a stretcher once I’ve recovered some stamina. With some nearby wood and extra clothes and my basic carpentry skills, it should be easy to assemble. If Mika lies on it, we’ll be able to move without shaking his head too much. Adventures are not just about going, but also coming back safely.
…Still, what to do about that sword?
Upon inspection, the black sword I defeated still lay on the floor, silent and still, seemingly no different than a regular sword.
However, the fact that this palace has not collapsed suggests something might still be brewing—perhaps looking for “the next bearer” or something along those lines.
And thus, the concept of a ‘flag’ comes to mind. Whoever said it, but all possible negative outcomes in a person’s imagination are possible.
Though overly pessimistic, it is undeniably true.
Unexpectedly, the sword began to vibrate, then levitated into the air. It emitted something akin to an extremely potent thought-form.
The intensity of this thought-form was overwhelming, similar to the rare occasions when Lady Agrippina deigns to speak, or when divine messages are received in a temple, but far more sinister. An indescribable raw emotion hammered into my brain, making my stomach feel as though it’s being wrung out like a wet towel.
If it had to be put into words, the overwhelming sensation could only be described as “love”. Scattering words of love that could peel away one’s spirit, the sword took off—straight toward me.
“Aaaaaaaaah!?”
A scream escaped through lips that were already strained to their limits. Reflexively, I formed a spell. The almost nonexistent magic left within me drained as reality distorted at the cost of my sanity and brain matter.
To counter the sword rushing at lethal speed, the reception wasn’t by my body but through a portal opening into “a place of unknown origin” within the void.
A spatial transfer-based absolute defense consumed the blade, which disappeared into an unreachable dimension.
That… was close.
Sliding down the wall, I express gratitude that my reflexes had come through at the last possible moment. Looking back, the blade was aimed not at the “tip” but at the “hilt”—did that mean it wanted its new conqueror to use it? No, that’s pushing it—my life’s already crammed with enough emotional baggage from childhood friends; the last thing I need is to be stalked by a sword.
Besides legendary holy swords, or intelligent master blades, or even ones that transform into human form, I wouldn’t mind something a bit… heroically less entangling.
As if responding to my inner cry, moments later the backlash of an excessive spell hit me. Tiny, relentless waves of headache assaulted me like shattered glass piercing through my skull, clearly a punishment for abusing already depleted magic power through spatial transfer.
The world seems to spin. It’s not an illusion—it seems the magic palace is collapsing. The wall behind me begins to melt, and I feel my face submerge in something soft with a metallic scent.
Unsettling creaks and ominous sounds of disintegration fill the air, mingled with a steady heartbeat. Here, besides me, the only other person is Mika. Ah, my head has ended up resting on his chest.
But I’m completely unable to move. My body won’t respond, and I feel like my insides are being stirred, making it hard to even think clearly.
Ah, this time it’s been rough…
“…I don’t recognize this ceiling.”
A somewhat overused joke that, contrary to its lack of originality, helps calm my nerves. Despite the remaining dull pain and headache, I force myself to sit up. I find myself within a cramped little hut.
The wooden shack feels weathered but holds a timeless charm, and the remaining bed, fireplace, and modest writing desk speak volumes about the modest nature of its owner.
It seems my guess was correct. The palace was the transformed form of an old adventurer’s cottage, with its core being the ghastly sword that the adventurer once wielded. The gaunt mummy clutching the sword was indeed the owner of the cottage…
And the author of the journal left on the writing desk.
“…No, first, there’s something else I should do.”
Holding my extremely painful head, I turn my gaze to my friend lying next to me. He’s still unconscious, so I might as well let him use the bed. It looks old, but it doesn’t seem like it would collapse if he just lies down.
Fortunately, there’s no enemy presence nearby. Unlike some systems, where the small fry remain even after the boss is defeated, causing more trouble on the way back, it seems the collapse of the dungeon has wiped out all the undead that relentlessly chased us.
Still, the ability to rest is a great blessing. I pick up my friend—there’s no magic left to use for an invisible hand—and carefully lay him on the bed. He’s frail, frighteningly light, and though the urge to lie down next to him tugs at me, I resist. Just because I don’t sense enemies doesn’t mean corpses can’t have remained. We mustn’t let our guards down until the end.
For now, let’s push forward until my friend wakes up and we can switch duties.
In the meantime… given the quest item is here, let me savor this victory while reading through it. Surely, looking through it once won’t bring bad luck.
I take the aged journal into my hands, feeling a strange sense of fulfillment and contentment as though the weight of achievement manifests in the object itself.
We’ve triumphed. We’ve achieved our goals, and more importantly, we’ve survived.
Saying it out loud, it might be nothing more than a single session, easily buried in memories as trivial experience points.
But this satisfaction is real. Strangely enough, the brutal fight that I thought I’d never want to repeat earlier now seems not so bad in light of this gratification. Humans really do forget the heat once it’s passed. Even the scorch of swallowed boiling water can be forgotten as it ravages the stomach.
Meh, whatever. Buddha himself indulged in pride over his great deeds for a considerable time. So, my indulgence in a bit of self-triumph as a worldly and material-driven person doesn’t stray too far from the human condition.
Let’s enjoy this moment. If we view wounds as honors, this pain and headache is like a side dish of alcohol…
【Tips】 The magic palace, properly corrected, reverts to its original form. Whether it was a cursed land transformed over a long time or a cursed object that lost control due to some trigger…
The ending process has begun, and in the next stage, rewards will start rolling out.
And after that concludes, we will enter the last episode of the younger protagonist’s story.
