Unreal.
Creak
The bathroom door was opened by the girl who had finished bathing.
Perhaps because she bathed too long, the girl on the bed was already sweetly asleep.
Yvette’s head felt dizzy from soaking, and she groggily slipped into the covers, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl.
Rustle…
She must’ve soaked too long—her mind was getting foggy.
The girl cautiously lay down along the bed, feeling the soft mattress her teacher had been raving about.
The fabric against her skin brought an unprecedented softness.
It was indeed comfortable—no wonder Eleanor had been rolling around on it earlier.
But it felt… unfamiliar.
The soft sensation was strange to her.
And why couldn’t she find a pillow on the bed?
There were actually two pillows—one under Eleanor’s head, and the other… clutched tightly in Miss Eleanor’s arms.
Groggily, the girl tugged the pillow from Eleanor’s grasp and placed it under her own head.
The bedroom at night was eerily quiet.
Staring at the lavish, extravagant ceiling, Yvette felt an inexplicable sense of alienation, an unreal sensation.
This unreality had followed her throughout the journey.
She felt lost.
Then, a sudden wave of inexplicable fear surged, like icy tendrils from an abyss wrapping tightly around her heart.
Her heartbeat quickened, her breathing grew rapid, as if she were drowning.
Everything around her blurred, like bubbles in a dream.
Yvette reached toward the ceiling, trying to break free from the tide.
Blink—
The scene shifted, and her thoughts began to sink with it.
The unfamiliar ceiling morphed back into that withered, rotting one.
The soft bed became cold, hard stone.
The surroundings suddenly grew noisy.
“0721, hurry up and change into your clothes for the ‘show.’ A noble from the capital is here today. I hear the nobles there like your type. Perform well, and you might not stay a slave—maybe you’ll become someone’s concubine.”
The familiar commanding voice, sharp and grating, made her sick.
Yvette dazedly rose from the floor, taking in her surroundings.
The familiar basement—everything around her made her nauseous.
Was she back?
Back in that sunless dungeon?
She pinched her cheek hard, the sharp pain nearly making her cry out.
It hurt.
It hurt!
Why did it hurt?
She seemed to understand.
Perhaps she had never left.
There was no magical sword, no Eleanor Lillian. It was all just the dying delusion of a pitiful slave.
“So it was all a dream,” Yvette said with a self-mocking smile.
She’d been locked up for a full year, yet those adventuring days lasted only two.
The process felt so fantastical, without a shred of reality.
Yvette clenched her fists, wanting to be as brave as the dream version of herself.
But she couldn’t fight back.
The slave collar controlled her.
She couldn’t attack her master, couldn’t even defy their orders.
Then, controlled by the collar, she put on that somewhat pretty dress and stepped onto the display platform.
“0721, this one’s not bad. I’ll take her,” said a potbellied voice, its owner’s face unclear.
It seemed a repulsive noble had taken a liking to her.
So now, she should kill herself, right?
Suicide—she’d resolved to do it long ago.
On the way out of the basement with the noble, she quietly gripped a shard of broken glass she’d prepared.
It should be her wrist, right?
Or maybe her neck?
Yvette’s hand, holding the shard, trembled uncontrollably.
Raised in the air, yet she couldn’t bring herself to act.
The noble didn’t even glance at her.
No one noticed the girl trying to end her life.
But why?
Why couldn’t she do it?
She looked at her right hand, slowly seeping with blood.
Was she scared?
What was she afraid of? Death?
Yvette wasn’t afraid of death.
Her timid heart had died the day her parents abandoned her.
How terrifying, living alone in this world, where no one would care if she died.
Yvette had once swung her sword tirelessly, hoping for her parents’ return at 18 as promised, hoping they’d see a daughter worth relying on.
She’d heard from neighbors that her parents left because they were disappointed in her weakness and incompetence.
So she trained diligently, hunting magical beasts to prove she wasn’t weak anymore.
But her efforts were a joke.
No one cared, and she had no one to prove herself to.
Her heart was dead, frozen like ice, no longer beating.
She wasn’t afraid of death.
So why couldn’t she do it?
“Why…?” Her voice was hoarse.
Suddenly, she remembered that rainy night, that girl.
That cute, petite girl who, like a warm heater, nestled into her arms.
Calling herself a magical sword, yet so kind, her small, unintentional actions as adorable as a child’s.
Was that really a dream?
Could a dream feel so real?
She clearly remembered that night, the girl who didn’t mind her dirtiness, who held her tightly despite the mud and rain.
She remembered her warmth.
She remembered every detail of that day.
…I’m really scared…
If Teacher Eleanor saw this cowardly version of her, would she still stay by her side?
Maybe not—her current behavior was disappointing.
Or maybe yes—Eleanor was so kind.
“The master of a magical sword shouldn’t be like this,” the girl decided in her heart.
If she failed, she might lose her only chance to end it.
The noble would control the slave collar, leaving her no room for suicide.
She’d become their toy.
But she didn’t regret it.
Because some people were worth trying for.
Yvette held the glass shard before the slave collar and took a deep breath.
Crack—
Her action met no resistance.
The collar, like a mere decoration, offered no restraint and shattered easily under her strike.
This slash severed her past.
The collar broke like a bubble, and the glass shard in Yvette’s hand shimmered, transforming into the form of the magical sword Eleanor.
The girl looked at the sword and whispered,
“Are you worried about me, Teacher Eleanor? Don’t worry. I, Yvette, am no longer that crybaby from before.”
The blade flashed through the air, blooming like a flower.
The noble was sliced in two, and the scene shattered like glass.
When she opened her eyes again, her vision returned to that lavish ceiling.
She stared dazedly at everything until a soft voice reached her ears.
“Had a nightmare?”
A sweet, loli-like voice tinged with concern.
Yvette turned her head.
A warm, soft hand was tightly clasped with hers.
Teacher Eleanor was indeed worried about her.
Eleanor looked at the girl with concern.
Around three or four in the morning, the girl’s body had been trembling.
Feeling her forehead, there was no fever—it wasn’t illness.
But her hands and feet were ice-cold, and with her furrowed brow, she must’ve been dreaming of something bad.
So Eleanor raised her body temperature again and held the girl’s cold hand.
“Don’t be scared, Little Yi. Your teacher’s right here.”
Eleanor comforted the girl.
“Teacher Eleanor…”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re real, right?”
“Real.” Seeing the girl’s still-dazed eyes, Eleanor let go of her hand.
“If you don’t believe me… then feel it for yourself.”
She guided the girl’s hand to her chest.
“It’s beating, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sword spirits have hearts too.”
Feeling the soft warmth and strong heartbeat under her palm, the girl pulled her hand back.
Eleanor was right.
If someone as kind and lovely as Eleanor didn’t have a heart, how many people in this world could claim to have one?
“…I’m here.”
“You won’t abandon me and leave, right?”
She stared at Eleanor, like a drowning person clinging to their last straw.
She didn’t know why she felt this way, but she desperately needed the answer.
“Sigh.”
A slightly helpless sigh.
It was Eleanor speaking.
“Little Yi’s words are a bit cold, and Eleanor doesn’t like that. Eleanor’s going to warm you up.”
With that, Miss Sword Spirit raised her temperature to that familiar 42°C.
Just like that rainy night when they first met.
The two girls embraced tightly.
The soft, warm bundle pressed against the girl’s chest, Eleanor’s chin resting on her shoulder, whispering in her ear.
“No more asking that question, Little Yi. No matter how many times you ask, I’ll only have one answer.”
—I’ll always, always stay by Little Yi’s side.
Eleanor Lillian made her promise.