Arsan's Agony

“…Looks like it’s definitely a skill.”

And not just any skill—the one and only of its kind in this entire world.

The contents were a chaotic mess, but once I stripped away the noise and focused on what mattered, the rough outline of the skill became clear enough.

The keywords were “defense” and “friend,” then “create,” “soul,” and finally “intelligence.”

In other words, the skill sealed inside this secret grimoire was a kind of crafting method.

Its overall effect, as far as I could tell, was the ability to create a soul and issue it commands. Soul was just the word they used—what this really seemed to be was an artificial method of creating a spirit, or the power to do so.

It’s a power I need, but…

It had appeared as if to patch the very flaw in the Book of Combination that I’d only been able to paper over temporarily with Shiz’s power.

And it carried a grade I’d never even seen before—Unique. That alone made it more good than bad.

The only real question was whether I could actually use it.

That was something I wouldn’t know until I obtained the skill and tried it myself. Even setting that aside, there was another problem.

“They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

The sparse, messy writing that looked like a child’s careless scrawl was a clear implication that someone—or several someones—could interfere with the system.

And that those beings weren’t limited to one or two. For all I knew, the entity I’d tentatively called a god, and even Lee Se-rin herself, might be among them.

I stared blankly at the grimoire for a while, then simply gave up thinking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠about it.

I had no information, and even if I asked, I doubted anyone would answer. I wasn’t even sure I could hear the answer right now.

I recalled the way Se-rin’s words had been silently censored the last time she’d tried to tell me something, and let out a sigh.

Worrying over things I couldn’t know was a waste of time. True to its name, the Agony of Arsan had already handed me a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fresh headache. I called Hive so I could store it away.

Whether I needed it or not was secondary—I had no desire to recklessly use something I didn’t even understand.

Besides, this was Se-rin we were talking about. If using this thing was going to screw me over, she’d show up uninvited to stop me or drop a pointed hint without me even asking.

So I’d just hold out until then. With that thought, I was about to hand the Agony of Arsan to Hive when my vision was once again blocked by a system alarm.

Unlike usual, it was flashing a solid, searing red—anyone could tell it was a warning.

The message was a warning, all right—and an absurd one at that.

“…”

Hive was a summon and a familiar, but at the same time he was treated as a skill subordinate to my Book of Summoning.

The fact that even handing the grimoire to him for safekeeping registered as relinquishing ownership meant that simply letting it leave my hand was itself interpreted as an act of abandonment.

It was far too blatant. That only made it more ridiculous. I was starting to feel that even the emotion I’d waste getting angry was too precious to spend.

“Tch.”

No need to dress it up—this was a demand that I use the thing right now.

This wasn’t a game, and I didn’t like having every single one of my actions interfered with.

No matter how game-like this world felt, it was still reality.

This was tyranny, pure and simple—and it was happening because I still lacked the power to stop it.

Of course, if I dug down to the root, it was also because I both doubted the item and coveted it at the same time.

I didn’t want to use it immediately, but throwing it away felt like a waste.

So I’d chosen to put it on hold—yet the one who had gifted me this secret grimoire apparently couldn’t even tolerate that much.

Well… yeah, that tracks.

Just looking at the contents made it obvious.

Young. Not “immature for their age,” but a mindset that was literally no different from a child’s.

So this was nothing more than a child’s tantrum.

They simply wanted to watch me—specifically me—use this power. A child’s thoughts are simple and straightforward.

Above all, they’re pure, so they stay faithful to their desires and tend to spit out whatever’s on their mind.

The only exceptions are the ones who break the mold of childhood and become prematurely mature.

Like me, for instance—someone who’d been called an old man in a kid’s body so often it went beyond “precocious” and into “something wearing a child’s skin.”

Which meant that whoever had arbitrarily revised the contents of this grimoire was, no matter how many years they’d lived, still thoroughly young.

“…Haa.”

I let out a long, heavy sigh. I felt like I was going to go crazy from the frustration, yet my head was strangely clear. Honestly, even fretting over this was weird.

If I were the protagonist of some ordinary novel, I’d have accepted the system’s gift as a fortuitous encounter and used it with joy.

But the first thing I do when I gain power is doubt it.

I don’t trust others as a rule.

That’s how my life has been so far, and that’s how it’ll continue. Even if my memories were wiped clean, the habit of sizing things up first would remain etched into my body.

People don’t change easily.

But standing out too much is the surest way to get noticed. What I want is a leisurely, peaceful daily life—not exhausting days reeking of blood.

Before I stick out so far that someone decides to stamp me out, a little flexibility is necessary.

Or else I rise so high that no one even dares to think of stamping me out in the first place.

I know my own personality perfectly well. No matter how much flexibility I force myself to show, if something truly pisses me off I just smash everything—classic contrarian. So the latter option is the right one.

Which means I have to get desperately stronger. I’m already on edge, racing against time because I have no idea when the next disaster will hit. I can’t afford to be picky.

Shhk!

Without further hesitation, I unrolled the secret grimoire.

The characters inside were a tangle of curling script I couldn’t make heads or tails of. The silver lining, I supposed, was that I didn’t need to decipher them one by one.

The ink-like letters wriggled as if alive the moment I opened the scroll, then crawled up my hands and onto my body.

I frowned at the eerie sensation of ants marching across my skin. The letters scuttled into every corner of me before finally settling with a ticklish feeling along my side and hip.

The cascade of skill-acquisition alarms wasn’t finished.

Shrrrk—

As if it had been waiting for this exact moment, my mana moved on its own without me calling it. A pure-white book appeared and began flipping its pages.

What appeared next was a branching point—something I’d thought only showed up for summons. The Book of Combination lowered its altitude until it hovered at eye level and began writing.

Once again, every option on offer was something I disliked. They weren’t bad, but none of them were good enough to satisfy me.

The Book of Combination itself seemed to know I wouldn’t settle for something this mediocre; without me saying a word, it prepared the empty third option on its own.

Having been burned by me once already, it was quick on the uptake.

A few of the letters had grown noticeably softer—signs that its own ego was beginning to stir.

I immediately shaped my shadow into a pen and stabbed my hand, drawing blood.

The Book of Combination called this a branching point, but to my eyes it was an opportunity. An opportunity that might even resolve the chronic unease I’d been carrying.

What should I wish for at this turning point? The deliberation was short.

What belonged in the empty option was something more fitting for Combination.

“I combine everything I possess.”

My status window was an absolute mess right now.

Just looking at it took a ridiculous amount of time. On top of that I had to keep track of every summon’s status window as well—far too much to monitor.

So if there was anything I could reduce, reducing it would only benefit me. And if that made things even better, all the better.

The moment I poured that thought into the writing, a white scale slammed down so hard it nearly hit the ground.

That only meant the potential of everything I possessed, once combined, was that high. I decided to take it as a good sign.

Shaaang!

The price began to be paid at once. Just like the Book of Combination, the Book of Summoning that had somehow appeared at my side spewed black letters and formed another scale.

On one side a black shadow vomited offerings; on the other, a lantern of green flame filled the shortfall in total soul quantity.

Clunk. Clunk!

The instant the scales balanced, a searing pain like a red-hot brand pressed against my wrist and side. It was hotter than anything I’d felt when I first obtained Doteron’s Masterpiece – Black. I clenched my teeth.

I knew what this pain was now. It was the pain of something being carved into the soul itself—something more fundamental than the body.

The same category of pain I felt when I temporarily sliced and kneaded a soul to create a summon.

No matter how many times I tasted it, I could never get used to it. I forced a bitter smile. Pain that cannot kill me only makes me stronger.

But even I get worn down if pain like this keeps going. My vision flickered as if the lights were shorting out. Every time it did, I dragged the corners of my mouth upward by sheer force of will and held onto consciousness.

I endured, and endured again.

At some point the scenery shifted from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠forest to bare dirt. I must have collapsed without realizing it.

Ding.

At the familiar system chime I lifted my gaze. My creaking body rolled onto its side, and I let myself fall the rest of the way so I could stare at the sky.

Letters. Letters. Letters.

My eyes swam. The dizziness made my head start pounding as well.

I reached out to sweep away the flood of text that kept appearing and vanishing, and lukewarm blood dripped onto my face.

I must have clenched my fists too hard while enduring the pain—my nails had dug into the flesh and blood was flowing.

There was no way scabs and pooled blood could form in such a short time, so I must have been out for a while.

Other changes caught my eye as well.

The thin thorn-vine tattoo of Doteron’s Masterpiece – Black that had been on my wrist was gone.

Checking everything one by one would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠take forever; better to open the status window and see it all at once.

I stretched out a hand that was slowly regaining strength and opened my status.

It was still long, but it had clearly been reduced and reorganized enough that the changes jumped out at a glance.

Time to check exactly what had changed. But right now I just wanted to rest for a moment.

Trusting Hive, who was watching me with a worried expression from the shadows, and Shiz, who was radiating a cold chill toward the surroundings, I closed my eyes.

“Haa…”

That was seriously fucking exhausting.