Shirou climbed the last step of the inn's stairs, his body slumping with every motion. His face was drained, as if a lifetime had passed in a single night.
"How the hell," he muttered under his breath, "did a love story between a regular guy and some girls turn into an earth-shattering battle, zombies, and—was that a yellow horse?" He stopped midway, clutching his forehead. "Where the hell does she even get these ideas?"
The night before had been spent in the clutches of Miss Flora's relentless storytelling. A tale that was supposed to be romantic had taken a left turn into madness and never looked back. The session had gone on for nearly four hours, but it felt like an eternity. Just like inside the dungeon, time around Flora flowed differently. Reality itself seemed to bend around her narration.
By the end of it, Shirou didn't even have the appetite for dinner. His mind and stomach were equally overwhelmed. All he wanted now was sleep—a long, dreamless one.
And sleep he did.
The morning sun peeked through the cracks in the window, dragging him from the depths of rest. But it wasn't the sunlight that stirred him—it was the growling noise in his gut that demanded attention.
He groaned as he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and then splashed cold water on his face from the washbasin. After tying his hair into a quick ponytail, he trudged toward the door, ready to face the world—or at least the breakfast part of it.
Then he stopped.
He stared at the doorknob, hesitating.
A chill ran down his spine.
"Oh… hell no."
He turned on his heel, walked briskly toward the window, unlatched it, and in one smooth motion, leapt out. He landed softly on the cobbled street below, his boots barely making a sound.
Looking around both sides of the alley, he placed a hand on his chest.
"She's inside," he whispered with relief.
Then he placed his other hand on his stomach, which grumbled again. "Now to tame you."
Without wasting another second, he made his way toward the usual food stall he'd grown fond of during his time here.
"The usual, and make it quick," he said as he sat down.
"Of course, sir!" the cook replied with a cheerful nod.
After devouring a hearty meal of meat skewers, seasoned rice, and spiced broth, Shirou leaned back in his chair and let out a satisfied sigh.
"Now that hit the spot."
After paying for the meal, he stepped out into the bustling street. His first goal of the day was simple—get a new scabbard for Ashbringer.
He glanced at the sword on his hip. While the old scabbard was sturdy and decent enough for travel, it wasn't designed for Ashbringer's weight, length, or balance. The sword needed something more fitting—something that wouldn't scratch its blade or slow down his draw speed.
In this world, walking around with a sword wasn't out of place. People used mana in everyday life, and a blade was more of a tool than a weapon most days. It was common enough not to turn heads, but the elegance and crimson gleam of Ashbringer always drew a few admiring glances.
He also had another errand—to sell off Emberstorm, his old sword. The weapon had served him well, but it was time to let go.
"Now, where can I find a good weapon shop… and who should I ask?"
He was just about to approach a nearby shopkeeper when a familiar voice called out from behind.
"Heey, Shirou!"
He didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.
He sighed and turned his head, finding the pink-haired girl waving at him from across the street.
"Hey, Anemia."
"It's Amelia," she snapped, stomping over.
"I know. Just messing with you," Shirou smirked. "Small world, huh?"
"You live down the street. I live up the street. Of course, we're going to bump into each other," she said, rolling her eyes.
"I was just trying to make conversation," he replied with a shrug.
Her eyes drifted to the sword at his hip. "So… you finally bought one, huh? Can I see it?"
Shirou unsheathed Ashbringer with a slow, practiced motion. The red blade shimmered faintly, runes etched into its surface glowing subtly with ambient mana. Amelia's eyes widened.
"Damn, that's a nice sword. Red blade, rune patterns… that must've cost you a lot."
"Yeah, kind of," he replied casually.
"So… does it have a name?"
Shirou's lips curled into a faint grin. "Ashbringer."
There was a pause.
Then Amelia burst out laughing. "Ashbringer? That's the name? Couldn't you come up with something cooler?"
"Is Ashbringer that bad?"
"No, no," she said, covering her mouth as the giggles subsided. "Just teasing. It's a nice name. Suits you, actually."
Shirou sighed. He never quite knew how to respond to her mood swings.
"Anyway," he said, changing the topic, "do you know any weapon shops nearby? Not the one you recommended last time."
"What, you found more money lying in the street?" she said with a grin.
"Ha-ha. Hilarious."
Amelia looked up, thinking for a moment. "Yeah, there's one on Street 16. Ask anyone there and they'll point it out."
"Thanks."
"You want me to come with you?" she asked, smirking like she already knew the answer.
"Why not?"
"Too bad. I'm busy," she said, patting his shoulder. "Better luck next time. See you around."
Shirou stood there awkwardly. "The hell am I supposed to say to that?"
"Oh, and I'll see you the day after tomorrow!" she called back as she walked away.
"What? Why?"
She turned briefly. "You forgot?"
Shirou snapped his fingers. "The festival. Of course, I remember. I'll pick you up from your place."
"My hero," she said, clasping her hands together theatrically. "See you. Kinda busy!"
With that, she vanished into the crowd. Shirou stared after her.
"What is her problem?"
Eventually, he reached Street 16 and asked a local fruit vendor for directions. Following the instructions, he found himself in front of a modest but well-maintained weapons shop. A bell chimed as he entered.
A young man stood behind the counter. "What can I help you with?"
Shirou unfastened Ashbringer and gently placed it on the table. "I need a good, durable scabbard for this sword. Preferably black."
The man raised an eyebrow, then took the blade, measuring its length and width carefully before disappearing into the back. A moment later, he returned with a sleek black scabbard stitched with mana-conducting threads.
"It's a little expensive," he said.
Shirou tested the fit, sliding Ashbringer into it. The sword nestled in perfectly, with no rattle or resistance.
"It's a perfect match. I'll take it."
As he reached for his pouch, he paused. "By the way, do you buy swords?"
The man tilted his head. "Depends on the sword."
With a flick of his wrist, Shirou summoned Emberstorm from beneath his cloak and laid it on the table. The man's eyes lit up.
"Just from the craftsmanship, I can tell this is high-grade. Let me inspect it."
He placed the sword onto a glowing magic circle etched into the table. After a few seconds, runes flared and subsided.
"Excellent build quality, refined mana conductivity… impressive work. I can offer you seventeen gold aether and eighty silver aether."
Shirou nodded. "Deal. And for the record, its name is Emberstorm.
The young man muttered the name under his breath,as if committing it to memory.
After settling the transaction, Shirou stepped out of the shop, the new black scabbard strapped at his hip and his pouch significantly heavier.
"Now that's done."