In my palm, a flimsy plastic sword hung limply with a dejected downward slope. Even for plastic, this sword could only be considered a low-quality product, without any thought put into its integrity or structure. It was never designed to last for a long time; as long as it looked good when it was first purchased, that was all that mattered.
If zero effort was put into it, the result was destined to be a zero effort product. One that easily gave way to gravity after one weak swing.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face as I did my best to hold back the torrent of blood clawing at the back of my throat.
"As some random cheap kid's toy, these would work perfectly, but right now..."
Coming from someone who grew up without the luxury of being able to afford expensive toys or partake in activities that would require any significant amount of money, I understood the value of seemingly bad items.
Junk.
That would be a fitting term for them.
While the connotation for the term might be negative, that matters little when it's all you can afford.
I used to love junk. Not because it was good, but because it demanded imagination. When a toy broke, you didn't throw it away—you gave it a new role. A headless action figure became a terrifying monster. A busted racecar became battlefield wreckage. The cracks, the peeling stickers, the cheap paint—that was where the magic lived.
For those of us who can't buy wonder, it had to be invented.
Imagination is a versatile, miraculous, and even world-changing tool.
But right now, it served just as well as my quickly failing body. It was yet another challenge presented to me.
I needed to find actual magic. Imagination simply doesn't cut it.
And this—this pathetic plastic sword, this hollow husk of petroleum and apathy—was giving me nothing. I shook it, half hoping it would rattle with some hidden mechanism, like one of those knock-off toys that accidentally contained a loose spring or marble. But my hopes were dashed. What you saw was what you got. There wasn't anything more than what met the eye.
This sword was an ordinary, unremarkable piece of junk.
With a grimace, I let the sword slip from my grasp.
As it nosedived into the dirt, a piece of myself lingered on its descent, clinging to a stray hope that my final act might reveal some hidden truth.
Alas, the sword only proved its mundaneness. It didn't even provide a satisfying thud as it hit the ground. And now it lay flat and unmoving in the soil.
'On to the next.'
I pressed my weight into the battered sword I was using as a crutch, leaning forward in preparation to grab the next sword.
As I reached, my ribs groaned in protest, and the muscles in my arm felt like they might tear. My knees trembled beneath the strain. If I weren't using a sword to keep myself stable, I may have collapsed from the surge of pain.
Those few seconds felt like a painful eternity. Eventually, though, my trembling fingers wrapped themselves around the brownish pommel of the next sword.
The plastic of the sword was slightly thicker compared to the last, molded in a different hue, the faint shine of paint attempting to imitate steel. But in truth, it was no different than the first.
I slid my hand down its length until my knuckles touched the guard. Then I secured my grip. As I pulled it from the dirt, I could feel how lightweight it was.
Unlike the last blade, this certainly went for more of a realistic medieval 'sword' look.
Its wide guard and pommel were a shiny brown that mimicked wood, and the painted blade was a glimmering platinum. It gave off the feel of being a valiant knight's trusted weapon.
'One... Two... And—!'
Woosh!
I raised my right arm, pointing the false sword directly up toward the false sky. Without hesitation, I swung my arm down.
As the sword struck the ground, the force of the swing and the sudden impact resulted in a harsh, splitting crack. Half the blade spun off, shooting into the air and wobbling once before it nosedived into the dirt. The remaining stump quivered in my hand as the impact of my swing reverberated within my own body.
A numbing jolt traveled through my body. It entered through my fingers, rushed through my wrist, clattered every bone in my forearm, and finally landed cruelly in my shoulder.
"So much for gravity," I thought bitterly. I had swung downward in hopes that the earth itself would shoulder the weight for me. If I let the momentum take the reins and do the lion's share of the work for me, the burden on my weakened frame would decrease. That was my theory at the very least. When put to the test, it failed miserably.
Had I been in a better state of mind, I might've realized my mistake.
The first part of my idea was correct: A downward swing was certainly easier than an upward or horizontal one. All I had to do was raise the sword, then let the natural pull of the world handle the follow-through.
I simply didn't follow the threads of logic to their natural conclusion.
As I swung downward, gravity had increased my momentum, but after it struck the ground, the increased force hadn't disappeared; it had simply shifted. When the flimsy plastic met resistance, there was nothing in its structure to disperse or absorb the energy. That energy had to go somewhere, and much of it traveled through my arm.
Normally, a person wouldn't have felt much harm from the energy bouncing back to their body. In fact, they might not have even realized that any energy had traveled back to them in the first place. In my case, however, the result wasn't so unnoteworthy.
My entire arm throbbed, pulsing with spasms of hot pain.
The pain bloomed sharp and merciless, radiating outward, swallowing the entirety of my right arm. My grip loosened, and the sword slipped from my grasp before I even realized it.
It landed flat in the dirt beside the other, its once-bright paint catching the false light for an instant before dimming into stillness.
My hand didn't follow it in any attempt to pick it back up. I couldn't.
Even as I gave a command, all of my fingers remained locked in place. My entire arm hung dejectedly. I tried to lift it, but there was no response. When I tried for a second time, a surge of fire ripped from wrist to shoulder.
I gasped through clenched teeth. I had to maintain my composure the best that I could.
But it was already too late.
The sword I leaned on as a crutch shuddered beneath my weight as my knees buckled. My chest lurched forward, and the world spun in a strange way that I couldn't keep up with.
"Huh? Wha—?!"
The handle slipped from under my palm, and in that instant, both my balance and strength were lost.
I fully tilted forward, and as I did, the left side of my temple fell directly on the pommel of a sword, causing me to shift midair and land on my side.
I didn't even have time to process the newfound pain in my skull by the time that I hit the ground.
The impact rattled through my battered frame. My lungs seized, the taste of iron bursting fresh across my tongue. Blood spattered from my lips onto the earth in a messy spray, seeping into the soil.
I rolled weakly onto my stomach, clutching my ribs with my left arm. My right dangled at an unnatural angle, stiff with uselessness. An endless stream of blood began pouring from my nostrils, forcing me to breathe through my mouth.
"Damn it... All of this because of one little miscalculation."
Using my left arm, I attempted to lift myself.
As I exerted force on the ground, my body lifted a few inches and trembled. The instant that I felt a sharp pain in my forearm, I gave up.
"Can't go losing both my arms."
My body sagged back into the dirt, the feeble strength in my left arm spent in a single push. The ground welcomed me with its cold, grainy embrace. Specks of soil clung to my lips and cheeks, soaking up the spit and blood that had begun to leak freely.
I stayed there for a moment, pressing my body into the soil and allowing myself a momentary rest. As I did, pain raged throughout every corner of my body. In particular, the left side of my temple ached ferociously.
As I lay there, the silence around me was unbearable. All signs of life were extinguished in this cursed place. No wind. No bird. And no clamor of people going about their days.
"And all of it is due to this damnned ghost... and that mastermind."
I wanted to spit a curse at them, both the ghost and the unseen enemy, but even that required more air than I could spare.
With no choice left, I rolled onto my back, every shift of weight sending fresh spikes of pain into my ribs.
Just like before, I found myself staring up toward the unholy eye consuming the night sky. The spiral of colors swishing back and forth within its pupil was still mesmerizing, and from its sclera bled an eerie light capable of erasing existence itself.
Just as I'd seen before.
'The Empress said that when that light hit her, it damaged her soul directly. But, it also left some physical wounds on her body... Maybe that could be some kind of clue?'
I deliberated on that fact for a breath, letting the idea stew in my mind.
'The light can target both the soul and the flesh. Was it some hybrid of destruction, a weapon that refused to choose between the immaterial and the material? Or maybe it really did only attack one, and the damage caused to the other was an unintended side effect.'
'Either intentional or unintentional, to be able to attack the soul and the body at the same time... Was the border between the two fuzzy? The distinction between the body and soul may not be black and white... Soul damage, physical scars… two sides of a coin.'
I sighed.
I couldn't come up with anything past that point. Without the knowledge or experience of a seasoned mage, that was the limit of what I could do. Worst of all, I couldn't think of a way to connect it to the problem at hand.
'Guess that's not my smoking gun...'
Weakly, I tried once more to lift my body off the ground. Using the muscles in my back, I began curling upward to sit up. Before I could even lift my shoulders completely off the ground, though, I found that I was lacking strength.
Gravity reclaimed what little progress I had made. With a soft thud, I found myself firmly lying in that same patch of dirt staring up into the eye staring down at me.
Huff-Huff
My chest rose and fell shallowly. Unable to breathe through my nose, deep exhales escaped from my bloodied lips. Each breath rattling out like the bellows of a dying forge.
Pitiful as it was, the most that I could do right now was lie down and wait for my body to recover enough to continue pushing forward. If I rushed the process and forced myself to get up, the chances of another unceremonious collapse were high.
Well, even with rest, I'm sure the chances of my collapse were still high. But I still held onto the hope that it would do me some kind of good.
"All that reasoning and logic—Huff—might just be an excuse to not move for a while."
No. Nope. It most definitely wasn't that last one. Not working hard in a situation like this... The Empress would likely have to give me another pep talk.
"Heh-heh—Huff—heh."
In all seriousness, I need to maximize my time here, even if I'm just lying around.
The house… or the swords.
The thought gnawed at me. On one hand, dragging myself toward the house might uncover something. On the other hand, the swords lay in reach, pathetic though they were; each one held the potential to be extraordinary.
'Which one will bring me closer to the solution?'
At this point, I couldn't investigate both of them. With my body the way that it was and time not on my side, I had to choose between the two.
I should take into consideration the time that I've already spent investigating the swords and how fruitless it turned out to be.
'There's a good chance that all the swords here will be mundane... There isn't any evidence to prove otherwise.'
So then I'll go to the house.
The solution was obvious, and I made up my mind without much fuss.
But in this case, the body knew better than the mind.
My arms hung uselessly, my ribs screamed in protest, and my legs trembled like wet paper whenever I even imagined moving. The house was far away, and a single crawl toward the house felt like it would peel my skin from the inside.
Even if I overcame the pain and crawled my way over there, how much time would it take? And what if the house, like the other homes on this street, was empty and devoid of any possessions? In that case, I would have to crawl my way back to the backyard and back toward the swords.
'Actually, even if I did find something inside the house, I would still have to crawl my way back here anyway.'
I moved my left arm and wiped tears of blood that were forming in one of my eyes.
Neither option was appealing, but I had to do something.
...
...
Was there really anything to be found?
Before it became the Null Streets, this place was normal.
Everything here came from the real world; it's just that now the ghost is possessing this street and twisting it into its current state. Even the house and the backyard that I was lying in were real and not constructs created by the ghost.
So then… what was I really looking for?
If the house held a secret, it wouldn't be the kind of secret you find just by rifling through drawers or toppling over furniture.
'Though there isn't any furniture in this terrible subspace.'
The ghost wouldn't leave behind an obvious clue like a glowing secret notebook with the words HOW TO DEFEAT ME scrawled across the front. The only truths here would be the kind that hide themselves. Truths that require more than curiosity to pry open.
I exhaled through gritted teeth, the sound rattling like a broken flute.
'Even that hypothetical isn't possible. The Empress said that the ghost can't create matter, so making a secret notebook isn't possible.'
"Damn it… Then what good is crawling into that house if I can't even tell what I'm supposed to be searching for? No, it's more like there's almost no shot that anything of value can be found in that house."
If the ghost truly was incapable of creating new matter, then that means that the swords, the house, and the lawn chair at the center of the backyard existed here before the ghost's arrival.
In short, this place's odd appearance wasn't due to the Null Streets; it was due to whoever had been the owner of the house.
'Similar to that house of the FIU fanatics or that house with the cat-themed mailbox.'
Whatever sets this house apart from the other two won't be found in its walls or yard ornaments.
'So then, is it something magical?'
Staring straight above, I watched brilliant hues collide and bleed together within the iris of the monstrous eye. Unfortunately, the blood clouding my left vision stained everything a deep crimson, leaving only my right eye to glimpse the truth unfiltered.
For now, at least, my right eye was spared the fate that my left had succumbed to.
As I gazed at it, it gazed back. It carefully observed my every action with patience, deliberation, and total concentration. It measured each of my movements and shifted accordingly in response, ensuring that I was never out of sight.
I couldn't prove it, but the feeling wouldn't leave me: somewhere behind that vast, spiraling iris lurked a sense of satisfaction.
The eye proved its intelligence with everything it did.
And everything that it didn't do.
As frightening as it was, in this case, that strange intelligence proved to be helpful.
'The secret that I'm looking for isn't magical!'
The eye above wasn't just some blind weapon; it had shown signs of intelligence. A will. And if it had the will to erase everything else, then it could also choose to spare one house. In this case, it didn't have to be governed by rules or limitations.
It could make that decision for a reason that was purely logical—or purely illogical.
If it's a choice… then this house might be special to the ghost for a personal reason.
The thought landed heavy in my chest, making it even harder to breathe. I remembered the Empress's certainty—that the eye could be forced to descend. If she believed that, then it wasn't bound by some iron law. Which meant my conclusion was right.
So if the answer to my plight wasn't magical… and if it couldn't be spotted in the shine of a sword or carved into the walls of a haunted home… then what else could it be?
My lips parted, the words clawing their way up my throat.
"…What could a ghost still want to protect, even with its mind rotting away?"