Chapter 49 – Academy (13)
The Academy got louder before exams.
Not with shouting—most of the nobles had enough self-control not to scream in panic in public—but with the kind of focused noise that came from too many people trying to cram too much into too little time.
Chairs scraped.
Pages flipped.
Quills scratched like an army of insects.
Someone downstairs in the common area kept repeating, "No, no, that formula has three terms, *three*—" until a professor told them to take their breakdown outside.
I had claimed one corner table in the Sword/Divination common room before the rush started. By now, the sun had dipped, lamps were lit, and my own stack of notes had become a defensive wall around me.
Divination patterns.
Basic tactics.
Mana resonance.
A thin sliver of history, glaring at me like an accusation.
History was the weakest pile.
I stared at a line about the Third Demonkin War until the numbers blurred.
"In Year 712, the—"
My brain politely shut the door.
"Enough," I muttered, dropping the quill.
The System stayed quiet, which was kind. It could have popped up a [ Study Longer For Optimal Results ] hint, but even it seemed to understand that there was a point where more ink meant less retention.
I stacked the notes by subject, squared the edges, and pushed them away.
Melody's projection sat on the table's edge, skirt spilling over the side, legs swinging through the wood without resistance. Her blade-self rested against my chair, grip within easy reach.
"You're stopping?" she asked.
"For history?" I said. "Yes. If they want me to write exact dates, they can be disappointed."
She tilted her head.
"You fought in some of those dates," she said. "Didn't you?"
"Different lives," I said. "Different… numbering. And I'd rather not fill the exam sheet with 'I was there, actually' and traumatised commentary."
She made a tiny, sympathetic face, then glanced at the other students scattered around the room.
None of them spared us a glance.
To them, I was just a boy talking quietly to his sword, or to himself.
"Then what now?" Melody asked.
I reached into my bag and pulled out Tassel's book.
Forged Sentience: A Treatise on Awakened Steel, Bound Spirits, and Other Bad Ideas.
Its leather cover was warm under my fingers, like it remembered the last pair of hands that held it.
"Extra credit," I said. "On not accidentally killing you."
Her eyes widened, bright as the tiny forge-lights inside them.
"I'm not that fragile," she said, a little defensive.
"I know," I said. "That's the problem. People tend to abuse things that survive."
That shut her up.
I opened the book.
The first section was theory—dense diagrams of mana flows through different materials, notes about how long enchantments lasted on iron versus steel, the effect of blood on rune stability. I skimmed it; I'd seen enough similar charts in other worlds.
A few chapters in, black ink changed shape.
The symbols got sharper, the handwriting more aggressive.
A new header sprawled across the top of the page:
SPIRIT SWORDS
– Field Notes, Hero's Edition –
Melody leaned closer, chin almost in the text.
"It's about us," she said.
"About you," I corrected. "I'm just the idiot holding the handle."
I read aloud, quietly enough that only she and my own ears caught it.
> *Spirit Swords differ from most documented spirits in one critical way:*
> *They possess a permanent, physical anchor.*
Melody straightened imperceptibly.
> *Whereas spirits of land, flame, or the dead may drift, fade, or be bound to shrines, a spirit sword is housed in steel. It can be lifted, wielded, broken, repaired. The spirit itself may manifest, but its 'body' is that blade.*
> *Only three kinds of people can truly touch a spirit sword without backlash:*
> *– Its chosen master.*
> *– Those with unusually high affinity for spirits.*
> *– The extremely lucky, once, by accident.*
Tiny notes were scribbled in the margin beside that last line.
— and the extremely dead, if they try twice.
The signature under the paragraph was short:
– H.
One of the Heroes, then. The book didn't bother to specify which.
Melody's fingers ghosted over the page, passing through it.
"Only you," she murmured. "And… maybe some others."
"If they try, I'll yank you back," I said.
She gave me a brief, small smile.
I kept reading.
> *Spirit swords can, with sufficient mana and will, manifest externally as a humanoid form (or other shapes, in rare aberrant cases). This is a convenience for their masters. It does not mean they have left the blade.*
> *Important:*
> *Destruction states:*
> *– Shattered: The blade is broken into pieces but not unmade. The spirit compresses, becoming 'smaller'. Speech, memory, and projection may weaken, but do not vanish. With time and mana, the steel can knit. The sword returns to its pre-awakened shape, and the spirit regrows like a tree from a cut trunk.*
> *– Scarred: Deep damage, corrupted runes, partial melting. The spirit may twist. Proceed with extreme caution. Some of my worst enemies started as mishandled companions.*
> *– Unmade: The blade is wholly destroyed – melted to slag, dissolved, or unbound on the conceptual level. In this case, the spirit dies. There is no known recovery.*
Melody had gone very still by the second line.
My eyes flicked up at her.
She was staring at the word "Unmade" as if it might jump.
"I don't intend to throw you into a volcano," I said. "Or a conceptual dissolving circle. Or anything else in that third category."
"You say that now," she replied, voice thin.
She pressed her hand lightly over the word. Her fingers passed through, of course, but she did it anyway.
I nudged the book a little further away from her line of sight.
"Look at the first part," I said. "Shattered isn't death. You heal. Just… smaller for a while."
"That doesn't sound comfortable," she muttered.
"I've done worse," I said. "At least you get to sleep while it happens."
She shot me a look. It said, You are not helping.
Fair.
I went on.
> *Note from the Fourth Hero:*
> *Do not panic if your sword cracks. Do panic if it starts talking to strangers in your sleep.*
More margin scribbles.
— Also, if it tells you to "trust the whisper," you throw it in a church font and make the nearest priest do their job.
"Some of these swords sound… rude," Melody said.
"Some people are rude," I said. "You're… mostly polite so far."
"Mostly?" she repeated.
"You did drag yourself closer to my bed without asking," I said.
"That was self-preservation," she said. "You keep putting me against walls."
Her tone held the slightest, almost teasing edge.
Progress.
I flipped a page.
A sketch took up most of it—rough but clear. A sword, broken into three big chunks, lay arranged on an altar. Wisps of light curled around the pieces like smoke. Beside it, a figure sat cross-legged, eyes closed, calm.
> *Case Study: "Lark" – Spirit Sword of the Second Hero.*
> *After a direct hit from a demonkin behemoth, Lark's blade shattered into three. Hero survived. Barely. Lark's projection shrank from adult to child, speech slurred, and she slept nearly a year while the pieces were reforged.*
> *Result: Upon full repair, her cutting power doubled. Her personality… did not become easier.*
Underneath, in different ink:
— Stronger after breaking. Terrible metaphor. Do not apply to people.
Melody touched the drawing, almost fascinated.
"She's smaller," she said. "But she came back."
"My point," I said. "You're not a glass ornament."
She nodded slowly.
"But if you… die," she said quietly, "what happens to me?"
The book had an answer.
> *If the master dies while the blade remains intact, several outcomes are recorded:*
> *– The spirit falls dormant, "sleeping" until a new compatible wielder lifts the sword.*
> *– The spirit rages. This is bad. See: "Scarred" section above.*
> *– In rare, documented cases, the spirit learns to stabilize itself and chooses its next master directly.*
Melody's projection folded in on itself, hands clenching.
"I don't want a next master," she said.
I leaned back in the chair, staring up at the wooden ceiling for a moment.
"Then I'll try my best not to die," I said.
It came out lighter than it should have.
She saw through it anyway.
"You say that like it's a joke," she said.
"It's either that or scream," I said.
A group of students at the far table laughed at something, dragging my attention away.
Noel's pale hair bobbed among them. Tamara's blue head was bowed over a textbook. Lyra sat near the end, quill moving steadily, as if she were copying the whole library into her notebook.
Normal.
Today, at least.
I looked back down at the book, letting the noise fade.
Another heading caught my eye.
> *Growth and Change*
> *Spirit swords do not remain static. As they and their wielders fight, travel, and survive together, both the steel and the spirit adapt.*
> *Documented developments include:*
> *– New forms.*
> *– Additional abilities (elemental channels, resonance tricks, "singing" that disrupts spells).*
> *– Clearer projection and communication.*
> *Warning: If the wielder's will is weak, the sword's personality may dominate their joint decisions. This can be useful in battle and disastrous everywhere else.*
Margin note:
— If your sword starts picking your friends for you, seek help.
Melody brightened at the mention of "new forms," then scowled at the last line.
"I'm not going to 'dominate' you," she said flatly.
"I know," I said. "You'd ask nicely first."
"That is not—" she started, then stopped, catching the faint smile tugging at my mouth.
She sighed.
"Fine," she said. "You're making jokes. So you're not completely unsettled."
"I'm… partially unsettled," I admitted. "But that was true before you woke up. This is just a new category."
She hesitated, then leaned forward until her forehead nearly touched mine.
The air between us tingled, like the space just above a charged surface.
"If you strain yourself again like you did in that duel," she said quietly, "I will be angry."
"Noted," I said.
"Angry, not afraid," she added. "You do enough fear for both of us already. I'll cover the other parts."
"Is that how that works?" I asked.
She nodded, very solemn.
"It is now," she said.
The book's pages rustled as I flipped to the next chapter.
The script changed again—tighter, more formal.
> *Spirit Swords – Summary (for fools who will not read all of this)*
Whoever wrote that had my sympathy.
> *1. They are both weapon and being. Treat them as such.*
> *2. They can be touched truly only by their master and rare others.*
> *3. Shattered ≠ dead. Unmade = dead. Don't test the difference.*
> *4. Given time, mana, and care, both steel and spirit will mend and grow stronger.*
> *5. If you are lucky enough to hold one, remember: they will likely outlast you. Decide what kind of memory you want to leave in the steel.*
The last line sat in my head a little too comfortably.
I closed the book around it.
The lamps had burned lower while I read.
Most of the other students had drifted off—either back to dorms or to find more notes to cram.
The common room was quieter now. Just a few persistent scribblers and the soft creak of wood.
Melody sat back, her skirts settling into nothing against the table surface.
"So," she said. "You know what I am."
"More than I did this morning," I said.
"And?"
"And you're harder to kill than I thought," I said. "Which is good, because this world keeps trying."
She huffed.
"You should worry more about you," she said.
"I have a plan for that," I said. "It includes dwarves, illegal skeletons, and probably more pain. You'll get a front-row seat."
She gave me a look that said that was not reassuring.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
Small. Crooked. Real.
"I will watch," she said. "And if you forget how to be afraid, I'll remind you. And if you forget how to stop, I'll… nudge."
"Threatening to nag me," I said. "Truly, the greatest of spirit sword abilities."
She rolled her eyes.
"We can work on the dramatic parts later," she said.
"Later," I agreed.
I slipped a strip of paper into the book to mark the page and closed it gently.
"Midterm in a week," I said. "If I fail Divination because I was reading about you instead of the god's favourite wars, I'm blaming you."
"I'll apologise to the priests," she said. "From inside your scabbard. Very convincingly."
I snorted.
Stood.
Stacked the notes, the book, the pieces of my current life into manageable weights.
Melody flickered and then moved to stand just behind my shoulder, half a pace to the side, where she could see both my back and the room.
Her proper place.
As we left the common room, the System flickered, just once.
[ System ]
[ Route Update: Spirit Blade – Early Understanding Acquired. ]
[ Hidden Flag: "What Kind of Memory?" – Set. ]
I didn't ask for details.
There would be time for that.
For now, there was an exam coming, a skeleton to build, a world to derail, and a spirit sword who now knew what she was and had decided to stay anyway.
It was enough.