Chapter 3

Crossroads Academy at night. The students lived on campus in a set of three dormitories, all built with the same sandy stone as the main buildings. The sword’s entire class was on two floors of a building, one floor for the boys, one for the girls. They were, he had been informed, first years, and the other four floors of the building were filled by the other first year classes.

The other two dormitories housed the second and third year students. If the staff lived on the campus, their quarters weren’t shown on the brief, bewildering tour the sword had been pulled into on his first day.

Cold leaked through the sword’s narrow window at night, and heat blasted from the metal furnace protruding from one wall. His body ached, his eyes burned, his mind felt stretched and twisted and compressed all at once. It used to be that nights passed quickly for him, depending on the wielder he was usually laid next to a bedroll, or, in very peaceful times, hung on a wall rack, and his wielder would fall asleep quickly, and time would pass. If the wielder wasn’t sleeping alone, things could be a little noisier, but such things also passed quickly, and then there would be quiet, but for crackling flames, exhales of breath, perhaps the occasional rumble of a wheeled cart, or the clack of a horse’s hooves.

Here it seemed that none of his classmates had any interest in sleeping. All the walls vibrated around him with the sounds of talk, and when they stopped, the buzz of the furnace hounded him instead. The room felt so large too. He couldn’t relax, couldn’t fill the space in any way that made sense.

He knew human bodies were supposed to sleep. He even felt tired, and would have liked to feel something else. But it was impossible. The blankets were so soft they were like nothing, the mattress sagged underneath him, and all of that noise…That night, the same as every other night, The sword rose, and began to pace from the end of his bed to the door, and back.

He had been human once, a long time ago. It shouldn’t be this hard to have a body again. It hadn’t been hard at all becoming a sword, at least, he didn’t remember it being hard.

They were supposed to stay in their rooms till the morning bell rang, after which they had an hour before breakfast, and then more classrooms.

The sounds of talk, coming from, it seemed, all directions, never ceased. What would his wielders have done? The sword frowned, he didn’t want to think like a wielder. He was a sword, a very good sword. But he didn’t have a wielder, and none had approached him as potential candidates.

What was a sword without a wielder?

He did not like having such thoughts. He would never have had them in the Anvil Temple. Even if he’d waited years, there was no question a new wielder would eventually arrive, needing a sword. Needing him.

So much noise, and yet, he heard it quite clearly, when, somewhere beyond his hallway, a blade left its sheathe.

A smooth metallic shing, clear and cold as the frost settling on the courtyard outside his window.

It was coming from outside.

A sword? In the Academy? He had seen none in the days since his arrival.

Not that the wielder would be acceptable, since they already had their own blade. But perhaps they knew someone who was looking for a sword. They couldn’t be that common here.

The sword hesitated at the threshold of his door, but at the second instance of that unmistakeable sound, he slipped out into the dimly lit corridor, down the drafty stairs, and out into the clear night.

The sound, he thought after a moment’s consideration, had been close to the main building. He walked in that direction and found an open door, plain, not one of the usual entrances.

He slipped inside.

He was in a windowless corridor, narrow, but he could see up ahead there was a stairwell that was brightly lit, even at night.

Faint streaks of dirt on the stairwell leading down. He followed their direction, arriving at another long windowless corridor, though this one was much larger, interspersed with lamplit alcoves, and great wooden doors, each locked with a heavy chain.

The sword looked down again, looking for more signs of the sword wielder, but didn’t find anything. He drifted down the corridor, his body reminding him with aches and twitching eyes that it really did want to sleep even if he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that.

At least it was quieter down here.

He leaned against a wall, pressing his forehead against the too warm stone. Perhaps if he just closed his eyes, he’d be able to sleep.

The Demon Lord is Near—You Must Fight.

The blue panel, the same color of Status, appeared in front of him, unprompted.

He’d fought Demon Lord’s before. Dangerous enemies, not just from the vast armies at their command, but they invariable were formiddable warriors, magic users more than swordsmen. But at a certain level, the magic made up for any physical deficiencies.

He wouldn’t mind fighting a Demon Lord now, it sounded like fun.

Was this what dreaming was like?

Had he actually managed to fall asleep?

He closed his eyes.

A voice, female, cold and even, spoke in his ear, “The Demon Lord is Near—You Must Fight!”

His eyes snapped open.

This was no dream. The message still hovered in front of his face, blue light, white text.

And all he had was Snuff.

The sword looked around, but didn’t see any obvious signs of the Demon Lord.

Were they hiding?

“Someone there?” A voice called from down the corridor. A boy’s voice, slow from sleep.

The sword approached silently, the blue message bobbing in front of him.

The voice was coming from behind one of the doors, though this one had two chains strung across it, tied with a padlock over the keyhole.

“Look man, there’s no use hiding, I get a status message too. Although yours is a little weirder; usually it’s all A Son of Man Approaches—Time to Feast!, that sort of thing. Never seen A Great Weapon has Appeared before.”

The sword still said nothing.

“If you’re not going to do anything, could you maybe go somewhere else? I’ve got classes early tomorrow.”

“You…have classes tomorrow morning?” The sword asked, in spite of himself.

“I know right? I told them over and over I’m useless before ten and they just ignored me. Cadmarius might seem laid back because he talks like he’s living in slow motion, but he has absolutely no chill.”

“You are…a student?”

“Yeah, man. A student with classes. So, if we’re not going to fight or anything can you go away?”

“But you are a [Demon Lord].”

The voice on the other side of the door yawned. “And you’re a [Unique Sword] apparently. And half your class are [Paladins] or [Knights] because the gods of the many worlds are all about as creative as rocks. This is Crossroads Academy, home for all the detritus that’s been thrown out of the better worlds and returned to boring old Earth. What were you expecting?”

Put that way, the sword supposed it wasn’t impossible. After all, he had become a sword when he’d gone to another world. Why couldn’t someone from Earth have been turned into a demon?

“What’s a [Unique Sword] anyway? Some kind of special title for swordmaster? It’s kind of lame.”

“Why are there chains on your door?” The sword asked.

“They don’t trust me to wander around on my own,” the boy on the other side of the door said. “You make one joke about lamb tasting better than mutton, and suddenly you’re under lock and key until morning bell.”

This did not entirely make sense to the sword, but he got the gist of it. The boy was really a [Demon Lord]. And the school didn’t trust him.

Still, [Demon Lord]’s liked power. He’d been a prized treasure of several of them. He’d at least found another wielder candidate. So this night was not a complete waste. The thought made him remember why he’d come here in the first place.

“Has a swordsman come by here?” He asked.

“Wuzzat?” The boy asked, voice a little slurred. “You’re still here?”

The sword repeated his question.

“A sword? No weapons on Academy campus. Must’ve dreamed it.”

“I didn’t dream it. I wasn’t asleep.”

“Sure, sure. It all seemed so real and all that.” Another yawn. “Look, I’m guessing you just came back from some rural-topia where every sister-loving peasant has a two-handed pig-sticker blessed by the busty [Goddess of Corn] or whatever, but, tragically, this isn’t the land of incestuous dairy-girl harems. It’s just boring old Earth, and Crossroads takes arms control seriously. They don’t let just anyone walk around with a sword, they don’t even let me use a steak knife in the dining hall.”

The sword would have said something in reply, but the volume of words was a little overhwelming.

Also, how had the boy known about the goddess of corn?

Soft snores sounded from the other side of the door.

The boy had gone back to sleep.

Maybe the sword should go back to his room.

But he didn’t really want to.

A crash came from the other end of the hall. The sound of glass breaking.

“What was that?” The boy snorted awake again.

The question was answered by the lizardman appearing at the end of the hall, short sword in hand.