A Familiar Ceiling

Han Ji-hoo opened his eyes as if surfacing from sleep, and the first thing he saw was a ceiling washed in red.

No way...

He rubbed his eyes until they stung, but the ceiling remained unmistakably red. He tried to bolt upright, only for a rush of dizziness to drag him back down onto the bed. All he could manage was to turn his head toward the window.

There, reflected with painful clarity, was the face of Blow Deblique—the face he had first struggled to forget, and later struggled just as hard to remember. The cheeks were hollow. The skin clung thinly to the bone. The lips were dry and bloodless. And yet it was, without question, Blow Deblique.

I'm back...!

Elation surged through him. He seized the heavy quilt in both fists—a quilt he had never once drawn over himself in all his years as Han Ji-hoo.

"I'm back."

The words scraped out of a throat gone tight, breaking into a cough, and at the sound the closed door flew open. A maid took one look at him sitting up, startled so badly she dropped her tray with a sharp clatter, and bolted down the corridor.

"My lady! The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠young master is awake!!"

Before long, hurried footsteps came thundering up from below. And then the person he had longed to see more than anyone—his mother—was coming toward him, tears streaming down her face.

"Mother."

"My son. Oh, thank the heavens. Thank the heavens."

Luce's tears, and the lines that had deepened around her eyes, burned themselves into Blow's sight. His father, Slot Deblique, leaned quietly against the wall and let out a long breath of relief.

"Strangely enough, there is nothing wrong with his body. If he devotes himself to recovery for a while, he ought to be well again before long."

That was the physician's verdict after a careful examination of the young man who had woken for the first time in half a year.

Given leave to go out for nothing more strenuous than a walk, Blow had barely taken a few steps before he stopped dead. The paintings that ought to have crowded the corridor walls were gone. That was not the only change. The household staff had dwindled to a fraction of what it had been, and the vases that once stood bright with fresh flowers held no blooms at all—only a gathering film of dust.

"We had no choice."

When he asked what had happened, his mother, Luce, told him carefully of everything that had passed since the day he collapsed—the day of the Spirit Summoning Ritual.

His classmates, who had entered with him, came back out. Blow did not. The rite sometimes ran long, so the instructors waited a full day before they finally stepped into the casting chamber. There they found him utterly consumed by mana.

He was moved at once to the school's recovery room and given every treatment they could offer. He never woke.

Incurable.

Judging that nothing more could be done, the school informed the Debliques that they were to take their son home. Luce protested bitterly, but all that came back was we cannot, or it would be difficult. And so, with a heart that felt as though it were coughing blood, she had no choice but to bring him to their domain of Blanya.

However much he had lived like a scoundrel, within that house he was a child more precious than any other. The couple called in every favor they possessed—gifted mages, alchemists shrouded in secrecy, physicians of great renown. Every one of them demanded astronomical fees for consultation, treatment, and medicine. Feeling as though she were cutting off her own arms, Luce sent the paintings she had gathered over a lifetime to the auction house, one by one.

She had wanted him back too desperately to do otherwise, and the cost of keeping Blow alive soon outstripped what the paintings could cover. They reduced the staff. In the end, even the flowers blooming in the garden had to be sold.

His mother recounted it all in a steady voice, and Blow could do nothing but cover his face with his hands.

"I didn't know. My room was just as I left it."

"I couldn't bring myself to sell those. You might still have come back..."

"Hah..."

"But you're awake now, so everything will be all right. Wealth comes and goes, and the domain had a fine harvest this year. We'll recover before long."

"Mother..."

"So you, Blow—think of nothing but getting well, and of returning to school next year."

Luce, her eyes brimming, was stroking Blow's gaunt hand when his father, seated at the head of the table, turned his gaze on him.

"If there is anything you need, say so. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠This father of yours will obtain it if he can."

He had already been far too great a burden. He could not ask them for anything more. Blow shook his head.

"I'm grateful, but there's nothing I need just now."

At that soft, courteous tone, the baron and baroness started and looked at each other. Luce, tears still held in her eyes, reached up and stroked his face.

"You still haven't fully recovered, have you. It's all right. It's all right."

Oh no...

Seeing her tears, Blow remembered the person he had been before he collapsed. The one who overturned bowls because the food did not suit him, who dismissed attendants on a whim, who drank himself senseless day after day and picked duels with the knights of the nearby training academy. Memories he could neither change nor erase.

A migraine came with them. When he pressed his fingers to his temple, his mother asked, worry sharpening her voice.

"Are you all right? You're not pushing yourself, are you?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Good. There's no need to rush, so don't overdo it..."

"Yes. But, Mother, there's something I want to ask."

"Tell me."

"What happened to Jane and Hervena?"

His mother hesitated, then answered in a voice gone low.

"Hervena is doing well at school. We've hardly been able to support her, but she says she's managing somehow on scholarships."

"I see. She always was brilliant."

"Jane..."

Luce could not go on. She bit her lower lip, and Blow felt his heart drop. A long moment passed, and still she did not speak. At last his father, perhaps unable to bear the guilt on her face, took up the words himself.

"A month ago, she was sold to the Splas merchant guild."

"What? What did you say?"

Blow's voice rose all at once, and everyone in the room could only stare, thrown. They could scarcely believe he would react like that over a single confidant.

"Her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠father came to me every day and begged. Asked if we couldn't let Jane go. I refused, again and again, at first. I'm sorry. Try to understand."

"Ah..."

The strength left Blow's body. He sank back against the chair.

He had missed everyone. Everyone in this world. But his longing for Jane—the one who had endured his scoundrel's ways right up until the summoning ritual—came second only to what he felt for the baron and baroness.

If he could ever return to his original world, what would he do first? He had asked himself that question thousands of times, and the answer had always been Jane. She, more than anyone, was the one he had wanted to beg forgiveness from with all his heart.

Regret for what had happened and remorse for what he had been washed over him together. When he covered his stricken face with his hand, the servants in the room tilted their heads as if they could not believe their own eyes.

His mother, sensing that something in his expression was badly wrong, floundered before she managed to speak.

"You'll be going back to school next year anyway, so perhaps another clever child..."

"...No."

"Hm? What do you—"

"...I think it'll be all right."

With that, Blow rose at once. Luce, worried, stood with him and searched his face. He let out a thin breath and gave her a smile meant to say that he was fine.

"I think I need to rest. I'll go up."

"Y-yes. Go on, then."

Dizziness made him sway, and a servant nearby hurried to catch him.

"I'm all right. You don't need to hold me up. I'll go on my own."

The servant, realizing too late what he had done, dropped to the floor and pleaded.

"F-forgive me. I dared lay a hand on the young master's person. I-I'm sorry!"

"I only said that because I've no strength in me just now. Thank you for looking out for me."

Blow patted his shoulder once, then moved his steps weakly toward the door. The servant was left staring, struck dumb by how different he was from the young master who had fallen asleep and not woken. Everyone else in the room met one another's eyes with the same look of disbelief.

Back in his room, Blow stood gazing at the sword on the wall: Drenor.

A blade that could cut even a dragon. The famed sword Drenor was one he had bought for a fortune, back when he still cared about swords. Sunlight spilled through the window and flashed hard along the steel.

What did I ever see in carrying that thing around?

He gave a hollow laugh at the shame of the memory and lifted the sword once.

Was it always this heavy?

His body had not fully recovered. The arm holding the blade sank helplessly, and in that instant a memory of Jane flickered through his mind.

Jane's face rose before him—flustered, unable to stop him any longer, mumbling in embarrassment—and in that moment he made up his mind.

"Is anyone out there?"

The door opened at once. The same servant who had apologized for touching him stepped inside and bowed.

"Yes. Did you call, young master?"

"What's your name?"

"Hans, sir."

"All right, Hans. Would you hold this sword for me?"

"I-if you need a sparring partner..."

The servant had gone pale the instant he laid eyes on Drenor. Blow let out a weak laugh and held the sword out to him again.

"I just haven't the strength."

"It would be an honor."

"Well? Can you lift it?"

"Yes! It's lighter than I expected."

Hans seemed to hear his own words a second time and rushed to correct them.

"No! It's heavy!"

"...So is it light, or is it heavy?"

"I believe it's heavy!"

"Can you carry it?"

"Yes! I could carry it for the rest of my life!"

Any more of this and he would only wear himself out further. Blow said nothing else and crossed to his wardrobe.

"Then I'll be going."

"As I thought—are you headed for the training hall?"

"No. I'm going to Splas."

Hans was thrown by words he had never expected from his master. But when he met Blow's eyes—brighter, in that moment, than they had ever been—he had no choice but to obey.