"It's an activation-type Quirk," Arata said with a faint smile in his eyes.
"That's… actually not bad," Momo replied after a pause, trying to stay positive. "At the very least, it can help boost your physical performance. It's not as consistent as a mutant-type, but still useful."
She didn't say the rest out loud—but Arata could hear it in her tone. Not what we were hoping for.
For the next few minutes, Momo kept asking questions, but Arata only revealed the bare minimum: his Quirk was based on recovery. He didn't get into details. No breakdown of how it worked, no mention of the synthesis system, nothing about the risk.
He did, however, mention one side effect.
"My body secretes something like alcohol when it activates," Arata explained. "It gets me drunk."
Momo's eyes widened.
"You're serious?"
"Completely."
She frowned, clearly concerned—but Arata just shrugged.
"That's why I need your help, sis," he said casually. "Make me a hip flask."
"A what?"
Momo blinked. For a second, she thought she'd misheard him.
"A flask," Arata repeated, smiling now. "If this side effect is unavoidable, then I need to build resistance. Think about it—if I can adapt to the alcohol, maybe I can dull the effect over time. Or even weaponize it."
Momo stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. But her brain was already working. She'd always been a fast thinker. In a few seconds, she understood what he was getting at.
He wanted to train his tolerance. Force his body to adjust. It was reckless… but logical.
She sighed, and after some back-and-forth, finally produced a small white hip flask that met his standards. It was just big enough to fit in one hand, tied with a red string around the neck, its surface etched with intricate patterns. If you looked closely, there was a tiny engraving near the base:
"Now I have wine. Now I am drunk."
Arata inspected it with admiration. It had flair. He liked that.
Then he tilted it toward his lips—only to realize it was empty.
"…It's dry."
Momo crossed her arms.
"I haven't studied any alcohol recipes. I can't create what I don't know."
Arata just stared at her, slack-jawed. Then he groaned and rushed upstairs.
This world had the internet. And thankfully, it also had search engines.
"Romanee-Conti," he muttered, scanning the screen. "World's most expensive wine, refined, legendary, blah blah blah…"
His eyes sparkled.
Back in his last life, he'd always been curious about fine liquor—but dreams like that were out of reach. Now, with a genius sister who could literally materialize things…
"Here," he said, shoving the monitor toward Momo. "Just follow this formula. Shouldn't be hard, right?"
Momo looked at him like he was insane.
But he didn't back down. Not even a little.
Eventually, she gave in with a sigh.
"It won't be perfect. The wine I make is fresh. It won't have the same depth or aging."
"Doesn't matter," Arata said quickly. "I just need the alcohol."
A few minutes later, the bottle was done.
It looked almost black, thick and smooth like ink. But the smell—tangy blackberry, bold blackcurrant, a rich fruitiness—was incredible. Surprisingly refined.
Arata took a small sip.
"…Haah."
It burned going down. Definitely stronger than expected. Somewhere between red wine and white liquor. Probably the lack of aging. It didn't taste perfect—but it would do.
He didn't care about getting drunk. This wasn't about enjoyment. It was training. If he could build tolerance, he could suppress the dizziness. Keep control.
Hell, maybe even develop a combat style around it.
A Drunken Blade.
Still sipping, Arata returned to his room and sat on the bed. Several swords lay displayed along the walls—each resting in its own mount.
There was a Taidō, a Shintō, a Showa-era blade, and a modern steel katana. All different periods. All razor-sharp.
He reached for the Taidō. As he drew it, the moonlight caught its edge, flashing cold and silver.
"Still feels good," he murmured, running a thumb along the flat of the blade.
Swords required balance. Power versus speed. Push too far in either direction, and you lost control. But if you had the feel—the sense of timing—it could all come together.
Suddenly, a line of text scrolled across his vision.
[Taidō – Kiku Ichimonji Norimune]
Forged in the Kamakura period by master swordsmith Norimune of Bizen Province. Long, thin, and elegant. Said to cut without drawing blood. Engraved with the 16-petal chrysanthemum crest of the Imperial family.
"…The Smart Chip's still working?" Arata whispered, startled. "It's parsing metadata from physical objects now?"
He hadn't fed it that information. The sword was real, sure, but he hadn't uploaded anything. Yet here it was, feeding him knowledge—organizing it into something usable.
He turned to another sword on the wall, expecting the same.
Nothing.
That one didn't trigger anything.
So… it only works on items the chip can analyze in real time. Or maybe items with historical weight?
He wasn't sure yet.
But one thing was certain.
This Quirk—this system—was deeper than he thought.
And he was just getting started.