Tsumiya slid the cloth along the blade of the last sword with a final stroke, the gleam of the newly polished steel catching the last glints of twilight filtering through the window. He had finished his task just as Lyson, with that calm Tsumiya secretly envied, was conversing in a low voice with Irene by the door. An almost unconscious smile lingered on his lips, not of overflowing joy but of something more specific and stranger: recognition. To know he existed for someone who, three days ago, didn't know he existed was, in ways he didn't bother to analyze, enough for now. The cold anvil through the fabric of his sweatshirt, the lingering scent of metal oil mixed with the cabin's medicinal herbs, the barely audible murmur of a voice he already recognized though he couldn't yet predict, all formed a present that, for the first time since his arrival, didn't need to be reframed as part of a larger narrative to feel valuable.
(«She's too cute... and that staff. Definitely a mage.»)
The thought came unbidden, unasked for, with the naturalness of something that had already been there, waiting for the right moment to formulate itself. Tsumiya leaned his back against the anvil carefully and let speculation take over for a moment. It wasn't the anxious speculation that had kept him awake thinking about stats and guild ranks. It was something calmer, more focused, the mind of someone who has finished their work and allows themselves the luxury of thinking about what truly interests them.
Her snow-white hair. Her stormy gray eyes. The composure that didn't break even when looking at a stranger in strange clothes, petrified next to an anvil. Everything about her suggested magic, and not the discreet or utilitarian kind. The kind that changes the outcome of things before anyone understands what just happened.
Lyson had been about to finish his explanation of the magic system before she arrived. Tsumiya mentally reviewed the fragments he had managed to hear, searching for what best fit the image he had been building for three days without sufficient materials and without admitting he was doing so.
Atmospheric Magic. Ice, fire, oxygen temperature manipulation. Her cold aura would theoretically fit. The idea of Irene unleashing icy barriers or controlled flames had a certain visual logic. But something in that image didn't quite convince him. Too noisy for someone who moved as if she didn't want to occupy more space than strictly necessary. Too obvious for someone whose presence was already extraordinary without needing special effects.
Wind Magic, then. Freer, independent of oxygen, predominant in demi-humans but not exclusive to them. That ethereal agility she possessed even when walking towards an ordinary door suggested something frictionless, something that didn't need resistance to function. An Irene who moved with sharp gusts before her opponent could orient themselves, who created distance at the exact moment where others would create pressure, was an image his genre-fan mind accepted with an enthusiasm he didn't try to moderate. It fit with the black cloak, with the gloves, with that outfit designed to camouflage in the dark and move unimpeded.
Or Yang Magic, like Lyson. Healing, manipulation of physical and emotional states, Prana connection between people. The way she called the old man "master" with a respect that was neither protocol nor custom but something older and more real, something earned in years of shared learning that Tsumiya hadn't witnessed but could intuit in every exchange between them, suggested an affinity learned under the same guidance. Perhaps she had inherited his same natural inclination. An Irene who could soothe pain with a touch, induce calm in the midst of chaos, or conversely, boost her allies' resistance at the critical moment, was a vision Tsumiya found moving in a way he couldn't quite name.
Yin Magic briefly crossed his mind—illusions, perception manipulation, environmental corruption—but he dismissed it almost instantly. Not because it wasn't powerful, but because it didn't fit what he had seen of her. Irene didn't seem like someone who operated by altering the reality of others. She seemed like someone who operated by being exactly who she was, without needing the world to perceive her differently than she was. That silent honesty she emanated was the opposite of illusion.
(«Any of the three. Any of the three would be perfect for the main mage of my company.»)
Tsumiya allowed himself the thought without his usual embarrassment. He was relatively alone with the anvil and the freshly polished swords, Lyson and Irene far enough away that their murmurs were unintelligible, though their presence filled the cabin space in a way Tsumiya still couldn't fully process. No one saw him building the future in his head, no one saw him placing Irene at the center of a vision that still lacked clear contours but already held a specific weight that generic harem fantasies had never possessed.
As he speculated, his mind constructed and deconstructed possibilities with the meticulousness of someone who had spent too many years playing RPGs and classifying skills on imaginary character sheets. Each type of magic added a new layer to Irene's figure projected in his imagination, not as an abstract object of desire but as a combat companion, as a piece of a tactical system he was beginning to take more seriously than he would have admitted aloud. Magic was the canvas, she was the work, and he was the strategist who would have to understand both before it truly mattered.
Because sooner or later, it was going to truly matter. The world still didn't follow the correct script, there were still too many variables beyond his control, and that would force him to strive harder than he had planned. Lyson, with his quiet strength and those effortlessly carried boxes—a capability Tsumiya himself had envied just hours before—was living proof that strength was not just brute, but also wise. Irene, with her outfit designed for darkness and that staff whose gem had pulsed with a light Tsumiya hadn't known how to interpret, was a clear sign that advanced skills were the norm here, not the exception. Everything indicated that things in this world were unpredictable, but even so, he would not give up.
(«At least...»)
Tsumiya thought with renewed confidence tinged with that arrogance inherent in his role as the chosen one, he would have to strive, and strive hard. Not to be a mere mortal, but to accelerate the process, to force destiny to manifest itself. To achieve his own glorious "Deus ex Machina," his unique ability that would elevate him above all others, that would make him the hero he was destined to be. The magic of this world was not just for others; it was a tool, a path he would also master. And with that determination, Tsumiya opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Irene, a new fire burning within him.
(«I have to understand how she fights before I have to fight alongside her.»)
The thought had an unusual practicality for Tsumiya, less tinged with heroic fantasy and closer to something genuine. It wasn't the desire to impress her, although that desire was still perfectly intact. It was something prior to that, more functional, more honest.
It was exactly then that Irene, without warning and without raising her voice, slightly turned her head in his direction.
Tsumiya didn't know if she looked directly at him or merely glanced towards the anvil where the freshly polished swords rested. The difference was important, and he had no way of determining it without appearing as if he had been monitoring their conversation from the anvil for the past few minutes, which was exactly what he had been doing.
He put away the cloth with a naturalness he hoped was convincing and pretended to check the edge of the last blade with the absolute concentration of someone who hadn't been thinking about anything in particular, and whose cheeks weren't acquiring a slightly warmer tone than usual.
(«How embarrassing...»)
The thought burst into Tsumiya's mind, sharp and merciless, like a blade he couldn't escape. He was perfectly aware of what his own face projected at such moments. The intense, fixed gaze that, back in Japan, had caused his coworkers to prefer walking around the aisle rather than crossing his path, now combined with the forced concentration of the previous moment as he feigned meticulous dedication to polishing. No, definitively, that combination did not paint the picture of someone innocently checking the edge of a sword he had already left pristine ten minutes ago. If Irene had noticed him—and the slight turn of her head, almost imperceptible but laden with intent, suggested something had caught her keen attention—the impression she was forming was probably that of a stern, almost intimidating stranger pretending to be absorbed in a metal blade while furtively observing her from across the cabin.
It was not exactly the memorable first impression he had rehearsed.
Tsumiya lowered his gaze to the sword with renewed and completely unnecessary dedication, running the cloth over a surface that needed no further treatment, waiting with the forced patience of someone who trusts that, if they don't move quickly enough, the awkward moment will resolve itself.
And for a moment, it seemed it would.
The conversation between Lyson and Irene continued in their unintelligible murmurs, the cabin maintained its characteristic quiet, and Tsumiya began to silently calculate how many more seconds he would need to pretend to be busy before it was reasonable to get up and head towards the door with convincing naturalness.
Lyson: [—Young Tsumiya, you may return to your affairs now...]
The old man's voice arrived with his usual low, calm tone, without particular inflections, without additional warmth or coldness; simply the practical statement of someone who notes that a task has concluded and its executor can withdraw. To any external observer, it would have sounded perfectly neutral.
To Tsumiya, it sounded exactly like: "Goodbye, I no longer need you."
Tsumiya stood up from the floor with the sword still in hand, returned it to its place among the others with a care no one was observing, and began to orient his gaze towards the door with the expression of someone who has important matters to attend to elsewhere and who, absolutely, is not processing the fact that the only reason he had been in this specific cabin tonight had just been declared concluded.
—But...
The word escaped his lips without his permission, a choked mumble that barely broke the silence. It wasn't meant to be spoken aloud, it wasn't an articulated objection or a coherent question. It was more an instinctive reflex, an uncontrollable whimper from within him, a silent lament for the lost opportunity to prolong that moment. Tsumiya let it die in the air, unfinished, feeling the warmth of subtle embarrassment and a strange longing. For, despite feeling a little nervous, clumsy, and profoundly uncomfortable under Irene's gaze, he had somehow enjoyed the brief interaction, the sensation of having shared a space, for at least an instant, with the ethereal figure who represented a large part of his motivation in this new world. It was a fleeting connection, a thin thread, but he had felt it.
He took a step towards the door, an almost mechanical movement, as if his legs had a will of their own, urging him to retreat.
(«The day is over...»)
The thought floated in his mind, simple and direct, devoid of the philosophical depth or grand speculation that used to characterize his internal monologues. This time, there were no analyses of "cheat skills" or projections of heroic futures. Just a plain realization. Somehow, the day had exhausted him. Not only physically from the work of polishing swords, but emotionally and mentally from the whirlwind of new experiences, unfulfilled expectations, and unexpected encounters. Irene's presence, the interruption of Lyson's explanation, his own Iaido performance, the subsequent embarrassment... all had contributed to a fatigue that was now beginning to take its toll. He felt as if he had run a marathon, not only in the physical world but also in the intricate labyrinth of his own emotions and ambitions.
Lyson: [—Tsumiya, I have a gift for you, for all the help you've provided these past few days. After all, you were a guest here.]
His step stopped.
(«What...?»)
Tsumiya turned slowly, with the caution of someone not entirely sure they had heard correctly and who preferred not to react with too much enthusiasm before confirming. Lyson looked at him with his usual expression that revealed nothing in particular but somehow communicated everything necessary; his calm blue eyes, his gnarled hands resting on the table with the same serenity with which they had sharpened swords for an hour and a half.
A gift.
Tsumiya slightly parted his lips, the prepared farewell dissolving before it was uttered. Near the old man who had now spoken, in the space between Lyson's words and his own astonished silence, something else happened that he registered only peripherally, but which, nevertheless, he did register.
Irene, who until then had been standing by the door with the silent restraint of someone accustomed to occupying exactly the space she needed and no more, shifted her gaze from Lyson to Tsumiya with a subtle movement that lasted perhaps two seconds. It wasn't curiosity exactly—or at least not the announcing kind. It was more the particular attention of someone recalibrating a detail they had already filed under a certain heading and now wondered if that heading was entirely accurate.
The strange young man in unusual clothes and with an expression her brother's friend had called monstrous had spent an hour and a half polishing tools without being asked to stay, without complaining about the task, and without making his presence felt in a way that demanded recognition. Lyson, who, in Irene's experience, did not offer gestures of recognition lightly, was now offering one unprompted.
She said nothing. Her expression did not change in any way that would have been visible to someone not paying close attention. But something in the angle of her gaze, the slight pause before she looked away again, suggested that the information had been received and placed somewhere more accessible than before.
Tsumiya noticed absolutely none of this. His consciousness, completely hijacked, was anchored to a single point: the word "gift." The resonance of that syllable, uttered by Lyson, vibrated in every fiber of his being, displacing any other perception or thought. It was a concept that, in his previous life and in his nascent "new life," had rarely presented itself in this way.
For the first time since his arrival in this world, someone was offering him something he hadn't asked for, something that didn't fit into any pre-established box of his mental "script." It wasn't a quest item, it wasn't a reward for completing a specific task, it wasn't the next logical step imposed by the narrative of an isekai protagonist towards his inevitable and glorious destiny. No, this was different, fundamentally different.
It was a gesture. A gesture from Lyson, the elderly healer who had watched him with unwavering patience as Tsumiya tried to impress him with basic Iaido, and who had responded to his display with a deliberate, almost eternal pause, before articulating the word "diligent." A qualifier that, at the time, Tsumiya had felt was a pious euphemism. However, that same Lyson had decided that the past few days, his presence, his help, his silence in polishing other people's weapons, deserved something concrete, something tangible that went beyond a mere exchange of services.
Tsumiya Higeri, the self-proclaimed protagonist of this adventure, the possessor of an unknown "cheat skill," for the first time in this new and disconcerting world, had earned genuine gratitude. Not the gratitude of a character responding to programming, but that of a human being who had no narrative reason, no plot imperative, to give it to him.
The feeling that overwhelmed him was considerably stranger than any fantasy or RPG simulation could have taught him. And, somehow, it was also infinitely more satisfying than any character statistic, any experience point, any level or skill he had imagined for himself. It was real. It was an authentic connection, not forced by circumstances or by his "role."
And near the door through which he intended to flee with his wounded pride, observed by gray eyes that had become marginally less certain about which category to file him under, he remained completely oblivious to the subtle, yet profound, change his presence had caused. The recalibration of Irene's perspective had already begun, a silent and internal process that Tsumiya, absorbed in the novelty of an unexpected gift, did not perceive at all.
While Tsumiya was still immersed in a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and an incipient hope at the mention of a "gift," he watched as Lyson moved away from the door. The old man, with that calm that seemed to govern his every move, headed towards a side room that Tsumiya deduced was his private space, a sanctuary where he kept his most personal belongings. That room, unlike the main room illuminated by the glow of the embers and the filtered moonlight, remained in almost complete darkness, without the warm invitation of a torch or the soft halo of a lamp. A simple but solid wooden door separated it from the rest of the space, marking a boundary between the public and the intimate.
Lyson reached the door with his bare hand and, with a gentle turn of the handle, slipped inside the room, disappearing from the sight of both young people for an instant. The faint sound of the closing left Tsumiya and Irene alone in the cabin.
Tsumiya briefly turned his gaze, almost impulsively, to meet Irene's. She, standing near the entrance, her slender silhouette still outlined against the faint outer light, was looking at him. Her expression was unreadable, a tranquil surface that revealed no hint of thought or emotion. It was a fleeting encounter of gazes, barely a blink, but in that brief instant, Irene's deep, serene gray eyes met his. And for Tsumiya, the fact that her expression didn't change at all, not the slightest alteration in her perfect features, was perhaps the most disconcerting. A strange mixture of relief and a pang of something akin to disappointment invaded him. Perhaps out of a sense of shame at the possibility of having been caught in his enchantment, or perhaps out of the sheer discomfort of holding such an enigmatic gaze, Tsumiya decided to slowly avert his own, as if he had suddenly noticed something extremely interesting at a distant point, in the very spot where Irene's figure had previously rested.
(«You must maintain your composure... I-I mustn't do anything foolish right now.»)
The thought hammered in Tsumiya's mind, an urgent command to his panicking brain. A subtle blush spread across his cheeks, the warmth of embarrassment from the brief, but intensely felt, mutual interaction. His gaze returned to the door where Lyson had disappeared, a kind of visual anchor. However, his posture, though attempting to convey calm, revealed a subtle tension. His shoulders were a little stiffer than usual, his hands slightly clenched. The awareness of being alone with Irene, the girl who both drove and intimidated him, generated a wave of nervousness that manifested in every muscle of his body. The anticipation of Lyson's return, with his promised "gift," mingled with Irene's overwhelming presence, creating a dense atmosphere of expectation and contained anxiety.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What would they do? What would others do in my situation? What would my idols do? The Spiritual Knight would not surrender to such base emotions. He would stand firm, his unwavering spirit a beacon against the storm of awkwardness. He would face any challenge, even one as daunting as an unreadable female gaze, with courage and grace. He would probably trip over his own words, say something utterly foolish, and humiliate himself in the most spectacular way possible, but he would try again, and again, and again. His perseverance is legendary. His indomitable spirit, even in the face of death and madness, is what makes him great. And here I am, in my first real encounter with the woman who is my primary objective, about to collapse! Where is my perseverance? Where is my never-give-up spirit? I'm not worthy of comparing myself to him if I let nervousness paralyze me like this!
Then there's The Weakest Adventurer. Oh, he would definitely know what to do! With his shamelessness, his lack of embarrassment, his sheer confidence... Even if he's a complete good-for-nothing and his plans are garbage, he always manages to get by, and above all, to say whatever he wants. He wouldn't blush! He would throw an insolent remark, or try a stupid joke, but at least he would speak. He would speak! How can a guy so pathetic have such confidence? And I, who am supposed to be the protagonist of this world, with a latent special power, with a destiny awaiting me, can't even hold a conversation with a girl? It's frustrating. I need The Weakest Adventurer's confidence! I need his audacity to not overthink things and just act. But I'm too cautious, too aware of how I look, of how I could ruin everything. The fear of ridicule is an insurmountable barrier.
And, of course, The Omnipotent Slime. He wouldn't have this problem. He would analyze the situation, process the information, calculate the probabilities of each word, each gesture. He wouldn't stay silent, choked by embarrassment and nervousness. His intelligence is unsurpassed. He would see the details I'm ignoring, decipher the meaning of her unreadable gaze. But I'm an idiot! A fool. My brain seems to have melted into a puddle of eagerness and panic. Where is my analytical capacity? My cunning? Where am I... me?
The only real sound in the cabin was his own breathing, slightly faster than it should be. Tsumiya noticed it. He couldn't not notice it.
I'm a fraud. An absolute fraud. A cheap isekai protagonist who doesn't even possess the resilience of the Spiritual Knight, nor the confidence of the Weakest Adventurer, nor the intelligence of the Omnipotent Slime. How am I supposed to lead a company if I can't even talk to my first potential member without panicking? Shame consumes me. My face must be redder than a tomato. She'll notice. Of course, she'll notice! Her gaze, though unreadable, must be registering every one of my nervous tics, every drop of cold sweat. She's judging me. She's definitely judging me! And I don't blame her. I'd judge myself too. Damn it! I need to regain control. I need that aura of a cool, distant protagonist that I've cultivated in my fantasies. That image of the guy who doesn't flinch, who always has a plan. But my body won't obey me. My muscles are tense. My mind is a battlefield. Lyson, please, come back! Come back and break this torture! I can't be alone with her, not like this, not when my brain has decided to betray me in this way. I just want this to end. I just want her not to think I'm a complete idiot. Alright, Tsumiya, just ignore her. Try to ignore her, concentrate on the door, on the wood, on the grain... Yes, concentrate! Don't you dare look at her. Don't look at her, you mustn't look at her. Just wait. Time passes. Lyson will return. This torture will end. Don't move. Don't speak. Just breathe. Don't say her name, don't look at her face, don't think about her. Just stay calm.
While Tsumiya kept clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white, an almost painful tension spread through his forearms. A slight tremor, almost imperceptible, ran through his body. It wasn't the cold of the cabin, but the anxiety that consumed him from being alone, immersed in a silence that felt endless, next to Irene. She, with that calm that Tsumiya so admired, that serenity that seemed so unattainable, was ignoring him. Or at least, that's what his brain, already in a state of high alert, told him. Her gaze was fixed on some undefined point in the cabin or perhaps beyond, towards the outside, towards the night. The peace that Irene radiated, which at other times would have seemed a blessing, now made him feel more insecure, smaller, more inept. It was as if his own internal turmoil clashed against the icy wall of Irene's composure, making him feel the magnitude of his own agitation. Every second that passed, every silent breath Irene took, was a hammer striking the fragile facade of his confidence, reminding him that he wasn't someone special, someone capable of being admired. Tsumiya was just Tsumiya, an average person with latent power he didn't yet know how to use, and paralyzing nervousness in the face of serene beauty.
Then, the blessed sound he longed for. The wooden door opened with a soft creak, breaking the tension that had built in the air. From the threshold of Lyson's private room, the old man's figure emerged, his hands holding something. What he held seemed to be slightly rolled up, a cylindrical and elongated shape, and made of brown material. Tsumiya strained his eyes to distinguish the details in the dim light. It was leather, thick, good quality leather, carefully tanned. It wasn't a simple strip, but a wide, robust strap, with specific parts and meticulously sewn loops. He could guess its purpose: apparently designed to carry a classic knight's sword, perhaps his own katana, though with a more Westernized design.
Tsumiya let out a loud sigh, an "uff" that burst from deep within his chest, almost without his consent. The relief was so palpable and sudden that it seemed Lyson's arrival had not only interrupted the silence, but had sucked all the previous anxiety, leaving him momentarily empty, but at peace. It was like waking from a nightmare, where the invisible monster dissipated with the first light of day.
Irene, for her part, stopped humming, or at least the subtle murmur that accompanied her state of concentration was interrupted. Her gray eyes, previously fixed on the void with that enigmatic concentration, moved towards Lyson and the object in his hands. A subtle curiosity emerged in her gaze, an almost imperceptible glimmer that, despite her normally relaxed and calm expression, indicated that her attention had been activated. It was a minor detail, an almost imperfection in her perfect composure, but Tsumiya caught it.
Lyson: [—Here's what I wanted to give you, young Tsumiya.]
Lyson said in a gentle tone, his voice resonating with a familiar cadence that was like an anchor in Tsumiya's storm of emotions. He softly closed the room door with a barely audible click, before approaching Tsumiya. The young man, who was still standing with an expression mixed with awe and anticipation, watched as Lyson extended his bare hand. In an instant, the old man placed the thick leather strap in Tsumiya's palm, a simple gesture that carried an unexpected weight.
Lyson: [—That's all for today. Irene and I will go train in the forest.]
And without further ado, Lyson turned, signaling the end of the evening.
(«A strap?»)
The thought floated in Tsumiya's mind, slightly deflated, but with an undercurrent of gratitude. The leather, soft and robust, felt warm against his fingers, with the earthy scent of worked skin. He examined it, running his fingers over the polished edges and reinforced seams. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, not a trinket. But... a strap? In his isekai mind, a significant gift from the "wise old man" might have been a magical artifact, a legendary sword, an ancient grimoire with forbidden spells. A strap, however well-made, seemed... mundane.
His mind, always inclined to the pragmatic and, at times, the selfish, quickly began to search for its intrinsic value. «How could I use this in my adventure?» He wondered. It wasn't a direct upgrade to his stats, it wasn't a weapon that gave him an immediate advantage. It was, in essence, a support for a weapon. An object that, for the moment, had no critical use, as his katana was of a size that didn't require such elaborate transport, and for the rest, he already had his own makeshift sheaths. But Tsumiya's logic went further. It was about more than the object itself.
What made him value the gift, in a much deeper way than an enchanted sword or an arcane spell would have achieved, was the underlying meaning. It was a gift from Lyson. A gesture of genuine recognition. And, more importantly, it was a bridge. A bridge that now provided him an undeniable excuse to, in the future, approach Irene. "Ah, Lyson gave me this strap, do you know where I could get a sword that fits it?", "Lyson told me you could help me with this...", "Since Lyson introduced us, how about you teach me to use this with a real sword?". The possibilities for interaction, now, multiplied exponentially. He was no longer a stranger. He was the boy Lyson had given a gift to, and with whom Lyson had decided to share a moment. This, in the intricate unwritten social code of isekai, meant a lot. He could use this to justify his presence, to start conversations, to begin building the longed-for "company."
And beyond practical or social utility, gratitude settled within Tsumiya, a gratitude he hadn't anticipated. He wished he could thank Lyson in another way, in a way that a master would be proud of a student. Not just with empty words, but with actions, with results. He didn't want to simply be the recipient of his generosity, but to show that Lyson had invested in something worthwhile. He wanted to be worthy of that gift, of that implicit trust.
Because, deep down, Tsumiya wanted to train. He wanted to become strong. Not just for his own glory or for the success of his "company," not just for power itself, but to be able to, in the not-too-distant future, defend his loved ones. Irene, Lyson, perhaps the inhabitants of this village who, despite their eccentricities and their apparent slowness to understand the "protagonist," had offered him a place, a purpose. It was a commitment forming within him, a silent oath that transcended simple isekai ambition. This gift, this simple leather strap, was the first tangible step on that path, the first link of a bond that would go beyond the superficial. It was an anchor for his purpose in this world. It was the real beginning of his journey. And with the leather in his hands, Tsumiya felt that, finally, there was something concrete to fight for, something real to protect.
As Lyson and Irene turned, their silhouettes already framed by the doorway, ready to immerse themselves in the promising darkness of the forest, a word echoed in the cabin, stopping them dead in their tracks.
Tsumiya: [—Wait!]
Tsumiya's voice, injected with a confidence he hadn't possessed even a minute before, was firmer than he himself remembered. A subtle smile of satisfaction spread across his lips, not the nervous or forced smile from before, but a genuine one, born from the epiphany that had just struck him. His eyes shone with a new determination, fixed on Lyson and Irene, who had stopped mid-step, turning to look at him with a mix of surprise and that quiet curiosity.
In that instant, holding the leather belt, Tsumiya's mind had clicked. He had seen the strap. No, he had seen the belt. This was not a simple piece of leather given out of charity. This was the catalyst. The linking object. The missing link in the chain of his greatness. It was an artifact, yes, an artifact that, in his video game logic, would be the precursor to something much larger. «With this belt,» Tsumiya thought, a silent laugh echoing within him, «I'll be able to carry any sword and bring it to an unimaginable power level!»
No, it wasn't just a sword belt. Now, with this belt—no, this Sword-Boosting-to-Level-99999-Belt, as he had instantly christened it in his mind—that would be his magical equipment piece, his anchor to the reality of his destiny. Its name would be no less than the "Belt of Zeus." Tsumiya, the bearer of this newborn divinity, the chosen one who, with this humble leather accessory, would channel the fury and power of the heavens, or at least, the potency of his future swords. The idea electrified him.
In his mind, the analogy was crystal clear. In video games, even a seemingly mundane object could be a key component for a legendary relic. A "rusty key" that opened the way to the "Sword of a Thousand Truths," or a "piece of old cloth" that, once imbued with mana, became the "Cloak of the Shadow King." This belt was like that. It was the starting point. The foundation. It was the symbol of his commitment to excellence, to power.
And the name... "Belt of Zeus." Why Zeus? The connection seemed obvious in his state of euphoria. Zeus, the father of all gods, the wielder of lightning, the one who represented supreme power. While he didn't plan on throwing lightning bolts (not yet), the idea that his belt would emanate divine authority and strength fascinated him. It wasn't just a name; it was a mantra, a declaration of intent. He, Tsumiya, would not be just any hero. He would be a hero with divine connections, a demigod in the making, his belt as the symbol of his sovereignty over his own destiny and over the weapons he would wield. This belt wouldn't just carry swords; it would channel them, empower them. It would turn any common blade into a weapon worthy of a god. The exaggeration was part of the charm, part of creating his own legend. This was his "starting artifact," his "Hero's Relic" that would evolve with him.
In his mind, he already saw himself wielding swords that cut through the air with supernatural force, his blows resonating with the power of Greek mythology, all thanks to the influence of his "Belt of Zeus." It wasn't the sword that was powerful, but the wielder, and the artifact that connected him to that power. It was an idea deeply rooted in his gamer psyche, where equipment not only added numbers but also granted skills or passives. This belt, without a doubt, would be his first "passive skill."
Lyson and Irene, seeing the transformation in Tsumiya's posture, stopped completely, their eyes fixed on him. For Lyson, it was the young man's sudden vitality, a spark he had only glimpsed before. For Irene, it was something more. The boy who just a moment ago had squirmed in silent embarrassment, now stood with a kind of radiant conviction.
Tsumiya, with newfound audacity, had placed the belt around his waist. He adjusted it in a deliberately "casual" position, a little loose, so that it hung slightly. He wasn't looking for perfect military functionality, but for style. A personal touch. A distinction. Outwardly, to others, it might seem messy, even a little careless for a "knight" or "adventurer" worth their salt. But for Tsumiya, in his own narrative, it was a rebellious touch, a stamp of individuality he desperately needed in this world. It was his way of saying: "I'm different. I'm unique. And I don't conform to your rules." It was the first piece of his personal armor, his style statement in a world he didn't yet fully understand.
(«This is how a legendary belt is worn.»)
Tsumiya thought, as the leather settled on his hip. He could already imagine other adventurers, in the future, asking him where he had gotten such a peculiar and personal belt. He, with an enigmatic smile, would tell them: "Oh, this? It's the Belt of Zeus. A gift from my master." The image made him smile even more.
Tsumiya: [—Please, Master Lyson, let me train with you!]
Tsumiya's voice came out with a tone that was a perfect blend of newfound confidence and the deep respect he felt for the old man. It wasn't the hesitant voice from before, but one with a clear resonance. He looked at Lyson with a calmer, more direct gaze, devoid of previous embarrassment, but filled with ardent determination. It wasn't the gaze of the average isekai protagonist who just wanted to go unnoticed, but that of the "hero" who had found his purpose.
His hand, almost instinctively, made a gesture of subtle playful arrogance: he used his thumb to point at himself, as if saying "Me! Here! I'm ready!" It was a pose he had seen countless times in anime and video games, the hero who introduces himself with a mix of charisma and defiance. It was the kind of gesture his previous idols and current role models would use, though Tsumiya did it with a newfound solemnity, convinced that his request was not just an opportunity, but a declaration of his destiny.
(«This is the moment.»)
Tsumiya thought, «the moment the protagonist rises from inaction and demands his training. Lyson is my sensei. Irene is my kohai or my rival whom I must surpass, and protect, of course. This is the true beginning.» There was no room for doubt. The Belt of Zeus had imbued him not only with leather but also with a new layer of confidence, one that emanated from his deep belief in his own isekai destiny. He was no longer the embarrassed boy. He was Tsumiya, the bearer of the "Belt of Zeus," and he was ready to train. This was his first demand as a protagonist. And he knew that, one way or another, Lyson couldn't refuse the unwavering determination of a hero.
Lyson: [———]
Lyson fell silent. A silence that spread, dense and contemplative, contemplative, through the cabin. His blue eyes, usually serene and piercing, observed Tsumiya's figure. He was no longer the nervous, embarrassed young man who, minutes before, had been on the verge of fleeing. Now, Tsumiya stood with a vibrant, almost defiant confidence, his thumb pointing at himself in a gesture Lyson recognized. It wasn't the pose that captivated his attention, but the energy emanating from him. There was an unusual softness in the old man's gaze, a layer of melancholy and nostalgia he rarely allowed to surface. It was as if, seeing Tsumiya's renewed confidence and that touch of youthful arrogance, he was remembering someone, a figure from the past who had not inhabited his memory so vividly for a long time. It was a confidence, an arrogance even, that very few knights of the current era dared to possess, especially those just beginning their journey. Times had changed; nobility of spirit and boundless audacity were relics of a golden age of chivalry, almost myths in themselves. But in Tsumiya, Lyson saw an echo. An echo of what once was.
Lyson observed Tsumiya in silence for an instant that lasted longer than anyone would have noticed.
He remembered that fervor. Not as a distant or idealized memory, but with the specific clarity of something that had been costly to learn to let go of. The absolute certainty of being at the center of something important, the conviction that the world expected one to prove their worth at every available moment, the need for someone, anyone, to see them try. He had known it well. Too well.
In his youth, before years and scars taught him the difference between bravery and recklessness, before he understood that the heroes who survived were those who knew when not to fight, he too had asked for fights he didn't need to have. He too had looked into the eyes of others for confirmation that he was worth something. He too had confused audacity with competence.
The world had eventually called him the Hero Ripper. But that title came after many years, many defeats, and many lessons no one taught him because he had to learn them alone on the cold ground of battlefields that hadn't waited for him to be ready.
Tsumiya was not him. He was cruder, less polished, with an innocence that sometimes bordered on the comical and other times on something Lyson had no clear name for. But the spark was recognizable. Not talent, which was still too early to assess, but something prior to talent. The willingness to try even when the odds were bad. That, in Lyson's experience, was rarer and more valuable than any natural ability.
He looked at the young man who awaited his answer with that expression that tried to project confidence and succeeded in projecting exactly how much the answer mattered to him.
For Irene, the scene unfolded with a different intensity. She too had fallen silent, her gray eyes fixed on Tsumiya, but her expression was one of disbelief. A rare, almost precious, crack in her usually imperturbable facade. It was the first time, since Tsumiya had known her, that he had managed to break that stony calm, that "I am prepared for anything and nothing surprises me" attitude. Irene's calm was her armor, her stronghold. But now, faced with Tsumiya's audacious declaration and theatrical posture, genuine astonishment had painted itself on her face, revealing a layer of her personality rarely shown.
She had seen him enter the cabin, a nervous, awkward stranger, with a gaze that sometimes met hers, other times fled. She had watched him polish the swords, with a diligence her master, Lyson, had noticed and appreciated. She had heard his stutters and his failed attempt to leave the cabin. And suddenly, this same young man, this "stranger," had put on the leather belt Lyson had just given him—a useful object, yes, but without the grandeur of a relic—and had transformed. Not only in his posture, but in his aura. There was a confidence bordering on insolence, a radiance Irene had not anticipated at all. Where did that come from? Was her master's gift so significant? Or was there something more to this Tsumiya than the surface? It was perplexing. It was... interesting. A puzzle piece that didn't fit with the rest. And that, for Irene's analytical mind, was a challenge.
Suddenly, a laugh. Lyson burst out laughing. Not a mocking or cruel laugh, of the kind that seeks to humiliate or belittle. It was a frank, deep laugh, bubbling from the old man's chest, tinged with familiarity and genuine joy. It was the kind of laugh one emits when seeing something that brings simple, pure happiness, something one feels deeply connected to, almost intimate. The laugh of someone who has seen much, and who recognizes in the present an echo of their own past or an ideal.
Tsumiya, despite Lyson's laugh being an unexpected sound, did not change his posture. He maintained his smile, now even more confident, almost smug, despite what Irene might be thinking or the incredulity still clinging to her features. For him, that laugh was a confirmation. A validation. The master had recognized the spark in his student. He had accepted the challenge. Lyson's laugh was the equivalent of an "I accept!" in the universal language of shonen. The "Belt of Zeus" had worked. His confidence, fueled by the fantasies of his own isekai greatness and the admiration for figures like The Weakest Adventurer (who would never be ashamed), The Spiritual Knight (who would never give up), and The Omnipotent Slime (who would always have a strategy), had been rewarded.
Lyson: [—I'll bring a wooden sword, young pupil.]
Lyson spoke again, and his tone of voice was now different. There was a lightness, a contained joy, that he had not shown earlier in the night. It was a more amused, more jovial tone, that matched the resonance of his laughter. He knew perfectly well that Tsumiya was a novice, that his sword skills were rudimentary at best. He had seen him wield the katana with more enthusiasm than technique. But he could not deny him training. He could not extinguish that flame. He could not ignore that request, not when he himself, at some point in his long life, had been just as arrogant, as full of that same overflowing confidence and youthful arrogance he now saw reflected in the "hero" standing before him.
Irene watched her master. Her expression, though still serene, now held a nuance of surprise mixed with comforting familiarity. She rarely saw Lyson laugh like that, or adopt such a jovial tone, save perhaps with the village children or when he recounted old stories. This young Tsumiya, the "stranger," the "monster," had achieved something few others had. He had ignited a spark in Lyson, a spark from that past the master guarded so jealously. And that, for Irene, was even more relevant than Tsumiya's training request itself. It indicated a potential, a connection that could not be ignored. Her analytical mind, always seeking patterns, was already registering the complexity of the situation. This Tsumiya was not a mere outsider. He was someone who, in some way, had the power to change the dynamic of the cabin, of her master Lyson, and perhaps, of her own brother, Jorgen. The idea intrigued her deeply. Training with her master, her own mission, could become more interesting. The night was just beginning.
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