"You slept for a whole day and night! And you call that 'nothing'?" Erza's voice trembled with lingering fear. "If you hadn't woken up, I really was going to get the master."
A whole day and night?
Shane's stomach flipped. He glanced at the window. Outside, it was just as dark as when he'd gone under.
Had the vision really lasted that long?
He pushed his surprise down and forced himself to look relaxed, fingers gently smoothing Erza's now-mussed hair.
"Don't worry. Just side effects from my magic. I'm fine."
She nodded, half-understanding.
She was naturally tough; seeing his expression calm, the tension in her shoulders finally uncoiled.
On the surface, Shane was cool enough to comfort her. Inside, his mind was a storm.
His thoughts sank back into that wasteland of fire and shattered blades.
Senji Muramasa…
He would never have guessed this Saber's True Name would belong to someone who should have been impossible.
Even more confusing, the final blade the smith named was—Tsumukari Muramasa.
If it had been "Myōhō Muramasa," he could have, barely, made peace with it.
That famous cursed sword, etched with dragons and the Lotus Sutra, had enough story and notoriety to pass as a Noble Phantasm.
"But Tsumukari… seriously?"
The Sword of Tsumukari.
In the Kojiki, that name pointed to the sword taken from Orochi's tail—the Ame-no-Murakumo, the Kusanagi.
That prefix carried the highest weight in island myth. How could it end up on a smith's work?
And Muramasa—no, Senji Muramasa—
Going by the records, he was just an Ise smith line, active from Muromachi to Edo, working out of Kuwana.
Their blades were legendarily sharp, later branded "demon swords" thanks to Tokugawa grudges. But in the end, they were still craftsmen—exceptional, but human.
Footnotes in sword history, barely a ripple in the river of time.
How could they forge a weapon worthy of the Tsumukari name?
He ground his teeth, fingers curling. He'd lost count of how many times he'd muttered "no way" in his head.
Worse, these visions usually showed the most iconic moments of a Heroic Spirit's legend.
And no matter how hard he ransacked his memory, he'd never heard of any story where Muramasa "forged a sword by sacrificing his own body."
Historically, the Muramasa line was just a bunch of artisans making murder tools. Not some towering, world-weary old smith with a heart full of pity.
Question after question stacked up.
"Something's off…" he muttered, feeling his brain overheat, eyes drifting toward dead-fish territory.
This spirit the Book had called felt nine parts wrong out of ten.
His inner turmoil was cut short by a muffled voice at his shoulder.
"Shane… can you maybe let go?"
He blinked and realized that somewhere between thinking and sinking, he'd pulled Erza onto the bed, one arm around her, her upper body almost completely folded into his chest.
Her warmth seeped through the thin cloth between them; her soft frame was pressed tight against him. He could even catch a faint scent of sun-dried grass from her hair.
But his mind was nowhere near that.
Hearing that shy, flustered request, his eyes actually lit up.
Erza was embarrassed about being in a guy's arms?
A rush of "my student's grown up" pride swelled in him.
All the lectures, all the "respecting boundaries" talks—had they finally stuck?
He'd earned this.
"Ahem. You're right." He loosened his arm immediately, very pleased. "Good. Keep that up, Erza. Always."
Instead, she tipped her head up with a puzzled look. "Keep what up?"
And then, with a flash of light, her sleeveless dress vanished—replaced by a plain white cotton nightgown.
She naturally climbed onto the bed, scooted close, found a comfy spot at his side, tugged the blanket up, and solemnly said:
"It's cold now. If you want to sleep together, it's fine. But you must change into sleep clothes. I hate wearing daytime clothes to bed—it's uncomfortable and it makes the bed dirty."
Shane: "…"
He stared at her already-closed eyes and ready-to-sleep posture, speechless.
After a long moment, unable to tell if she was teasing him or deadly serious, he rubbed his temples.
Did she think she was the one taking care of him?
His head throbbed harder.
He was starting to understand how the master felt.
Erza, who'd spent a day watching over him, finally relaxed. Sleep slammed down on her like a wave.
She muttered something half-coherent, scooted closer, slid a hand onto his waist to pin him—clearly to keep him from migrating to the foot of the bed and pointing his feet at her again.
Once she'd locked him down, her breathing evened out in seconds.
Shane eyed her instant knockout with a mix of envy and resignation.
He'd meant to test his new power immediately—but…
He glanced down. Erza, even asleep, kept a death grip on the corner of his sleep shirt. Getting out of bed quietly was not on the menu.
He studied her unguarded sleeping face and sighed, letting go of the idea.
"Forget it," he whispered, shifting to lean against the headboard more comfortably.
"Call it paying you back for today. I'll keep watch."
Only her breathing and the occasional chirp of insects outside filled the room, weaving a quiet lullaby.
At dawn, the sky outside was just paling.
Soft light seeped in. Erza felt warmer and more rested than she had in a long time, like a small, gentle heat source had curled up beside her.
She blinked lazily, vision still fogged with sleep.
And found Shane's face just inches away—eyes blazing with red flames.
Erza snapped awake in an instant, all drowsiness gone. She jabbed a finger at him. "Fire! Shane—your eyes are on fire!"
~~~
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