The moment I feel the familiar weight of my sword in hand, I know I'm ready for whatever chaos the day throws at me. I just don't expect my trusty System to chime in with its usual brand of aggravation.
"I'm glad that I met you. I'd be sad if it was some ugly dude that couldn't juggle swords," it announces cheerfully.
A vein pops up on my head, throbbing from frustration. "Really?" I mutter, rolling my eyes as I grip the hilt tighter. "You had to bring that up?"
I glance around the training area, and sure enough, Kira and Caleif are both watching me with raised eyebrows, their expressions a mix of amusement and concern. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, my cheeks burning with the embarrassment of the earlier sword mishap. How was I supposed to know that juggling swords would turn into an unintended circus act?
"Is the System talking to you again?" Kira asks, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm as she leans against the anvil, arms crossed.
"More like making me relive a moment of utter humiliation," I grumble, shooting her a glare that only makes her laugh harder. "I don't need this right now. I'm trying to focus on becoming a master blacksmith, not the town's punchline."
Caleif steps closer, her hand resting on my shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Hey, we all make mistakes, Kamen. You're probably just one epic juggling act away from becoming a legend."
"Yeah, if the legend is about the guy who turned his balls into a cement mixer!" I shoot back, the frustration spilling from my lips like an overboiled kettle. "I can't believe I let it slip. I should be doing something impressive, like saving lives or forging legendary weapons, not giving a comedy routine to villagers!"
Kira bites her lip to hold back laughter. "You're the one who thought you could juggle swords. I mean, come on!"
"I was trying to show off!" I protest, feeling the irritation bubbling up again. "Now I'm just a guy with a bruised ego and a throbbing head."
The System dings again, and I swear I can hear it snickering in my mind.
"Hey, at least you didn't drop any of those swords on anyone else. That would've been really awkward," it quips, and I can almost picture its smug little face in my mind.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I mutter, my patience wearing thin. "Can I just get a break from your commentary for a while?"
"Depends on how your next quest goes!"
I huff, glancing back at Kira and Caleif, who are both still chuckling at my expense. "Alright, alright! Enough of this. Let's focus on something productive before I end up juggling fire next."
"Or bombs," Kira adds, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Yeah, or bombs," I grumble, shaking my head in resignation. "Let's see what blacksmithing skills I can unlock today without turning myself into a disaster zone."
After what felt like an eternity hunched over the sweltering forge, sweat dripping down my back and stinging my eyes, I finally hammered out a sword for myself. The metal gleamed dully in the afternoon light, not quite the majestic weapon I'd envisioned. Still, I thrust it skyward with both hands, the unbalanced weight already telling me something was off. "Ha ha! I made a sword!" My triumphant cry echoed across the smithy. The fleeting joy evaporated as a translucent blue screen materialized before my eyes, displaying the sword's pathetic stats. [Stats: Damage: 1-5 Durability: 10 Speed: 25 Magical Properties: Horrible Juggler, Light Speed Strike, ????,??? Binding Status: Bound to Kamen Driscol]
My eyes widened, jaw slackening as I stared at the floating text. "Surprised this is a piece of shit!" I bellowed, hurling the misshapen blade against the stone floor where it landed with a disappointing clang before dissolving into particles of light that streamed into my inventory pouch. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I tilted my head back, staring at the smoke-stained rafters above. "One fucking day without humiliation, that's all I ask." The words barely left my mouth when Caleif's musical laughter and Kira's unrestrained snorting filled the air around me.
I try not to glower as the girls double over, tears streaming down their faces. At this point, all I can do is offer the universe a helpless middle finger and hope it gets the message.
"Look," I say, wiping my brow with a sweaty forearm, "I may not have created Excalibur, but at least it didn't immediately explode. That's an improvement, right?"
Kira cackles so hard she actually drops the hammer she's holding, and it lands with a satisfying thud right next to my foot. "Are you gonna put that stat block on your resume, Kamen? Professional Juggler of Garbage Swords?"
"Honestly," I sigh, shaking my head as the system overlays a little 'Achievement Unlocked!' banner across my vision: [Achievement: Juggle Your Troubles! +5 Embarrassment, +2 Determination, -1 Dignity]. "At least the system's sense of humor is consistent. Unlike the edge on this fucking blade."
Caleif saunters over, grabbing my hand and turning it palm up. She slides a finger over my callouses, inspecting the burns near the knuckles with a gentle touch. "You're so dramatic. I think the sword looks good—very... avant-garde. Maybe you're ushering in a new trend: The Unbalanced Menace," she coos, and despite myself, I can't help but smile. The look in her luminous eyes tells me she means it, or at least she wants me to believe she does.
"Thanks," I mutter, but my mind races with what the System said about 'Horrible Juggler' and 'Light Speed Strike'. Part of me wonders if these so-called defects are actually secret features, the way some games code in hidden perks behind joke weapons. Maybe I'm the only idiot in the universe who could turn a disaster into a superpower. Lucky me.
I glance sidelong at Kira, who's still howling. "Hope you're enjoying the show, because next time I'm forging underwear. Out of steel."
She grins, wiping her eyes. "Only if you promise to model it. I'll bring the crowd."
I open my mouth to retort, but the System interrupts with a new quest notification: [Blacksmithing Quest Complete! New Quest: Test Your Sword in a Duel. Reward: 10000xp, 2 Skill Points, 1 Mystery Box.]
"Of course," I announce to no one in particular. "Of course the System wants me to immediately test this disaster. Care to join me in another round of public humiliation?"
"Gladly," says Kira, snatching a club from the weapons rack and twirling it like a baton. "But only if you promise not to juggle this time."
I can't help but laugh, the tension bleeding from my shoulders. "No promises. Shall we dance?"
We step outside to the side yard, which now doubles as the de facto training ground ever since Rian banned 'combat activities' in the town square after the unfortunate crossbow incident last week. The sand crunches underfoot as I drop into a stance, sword in hand. The balance is all wrong—front-heavy, the blade vibrates with every twitch of my wrist—but the handle fits perfectly in my palm, as if my grip compensates for the metal's wild tendencies. Maybe that's the point.
Kira spins the club and winks. "You sure you're ready for this? You look more likely to pull a muscle than to land a hit."
"One way to find out," I say, lunging forward. The sword moves faster than I expect, a blinding flicker that nearly overbalances me, but Kira's quick—she ducks and counters with a jab that nearly clocks me in the temple. I twist, blade whistling through the air, and to my shock the tip vibrates so hard it leaves a faint afterimage, like a speedglitch in a bad fighting game.
"Whoa!" I leap back before Kira's club can bash my knuckles. "Did you see that?"
She squints, blinking. "Was that…? You left a trail, Kamen. That wasn't normal."
I look at the blade and now that I'm paying attention, it's almost like the sword is... trembling? No, that's not quite right. It's vibrating in place, so fast it's barely visible, a strange resonance that makes the air shimmer. The tip even gives off little motes of light every time I swing.
"System, explain this," I mutter.
The familiar voice responds immediately. "Your sword's magical property, 'Light Speed Strike,' allows you to attack 0.17 seconds faster than your opponent expects, but only if you commit to the bit and act like a total clown about it."
I nearly drop the sword. "You're kidding."
"Do you want the damage bonus or not?" System chirps. "Maybe try juggling it?"
Kira is already bouncing on her toes, clearly waiting to see if I'll try. "Come on! Let's see if you can actually use that snowflake sword for something cool."
I grit my teeth and, swallowing my pride, toss the sword from my right hand to my left, then back again—a clumsy imitation of juggling. The sword buzzes, and suddenly, a perfect afterimage follows it, like a phantom blade just a hair out of phase. I catch it in my dominant hand and lunge.
This time, the strike lands. There's a hard crack as the tip grazes Kira's club, but instead of bouncing off, the vibrating edge slices a chunk right out of her weapon. She stares at it, dumbfounded, then looks back at me.
"Well," she whistles, "maybe the embarrassment was worth it."
I grin, breathless, and raise the sword in mock salute. "Who's the clown now?"
The crowd of onlookers—villagers drawn in by the commotion—starts clapping, and a few even toss up shrill whistles. For a moment, I let myself bask in the unexpected victory. Maybe the System's right—sometimes you have to lean into your own idiocy to unlock anything worth having.
Caleif sidles up, her lips curling into a sly smile. "You know, I'm proud of you." She holds out a hand, and I hand her the sword. She inspects the blade, running her finger along the flat. "It's a mess. But it's your mess. And it gets the job done."
"For once, I agree with the system," Kira says, giving me a shoulder punch so hard I nearly drop the sword again. "You're actually kinda badass. In a sad, hilarious, deeply concerning way."
"And don't you forget it," I say, tucking the sword into my belt. The sense of accomplishment is weirdly satisfying, like finally beating the level you've spent hours dying on.
Back in the workshop, as the laughter dies down, Caleif pulls me aside and lowers her voice. "Don't let the System get to you. Not everything has to be perfect the first time." She wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me close. "Besides, I like you better when you're a little bit of a disaster."
I snort, rolling my eyes, but I can't help the warmth that spreads through me. "Remind me to make you something better next time," I say, and she grins, pressing her lips to my cheek.
Kira sticks her head around the door. "Don't get too mushy in there, or I'll have to start juggling hammers until one of you notices me again."
I laugh, flipping her off, and the world feels just a little bit lighter.
The rest of the day passes in a blur—tuning up the sword, fine-tuning the balance, and laughing every time it accidentally vibrates itself off the table. I even manage to help a couple kids make tiny practice blades, and their eyes light up at the finished product, making the bruised ego worth it.
After a few hours of contemplation and a minor existential crisis brought on by caffeine withdrawal, I decide the best way to distract myself from the memory of my embarrassing sword debut is to see what fresh nonsense the world has to offer. So, I stroll over to the local guild—a squat building wedged between the bakery and a place that sells questionable "elixirs"—and make a beeline for the infamous quest board.
The board is a chaotic mess, really. Years of neglect and "creative" repairs have left its wooden frame splintered and warped, giving it the proud posture of a man with three slipped discs. The surface itself is a graveyard of half-ripped parchments and faded announcements layered like the world's most stressful lasagna. I thumb through the top layer, careful not to slice myself on a rogue nail or staple—both of which feature prominently, because apparently OSHA doesn't exist in this universe.
A few regulars linger nearby, sipping bitter guild coffee and pretending not to judge my every move. One of them, a bearded dude named Geller, is famous for never accepting a quest with a lower reward than his shoe size. He side-eyes me as I read the notices, but I'm determined not to let his judgmental facial hair ruin my day.
First up, there's the classic "Investigate Orc Sightings At The Old Quarry South Of The Village." The reward is decent, but everyone knows those orcs are just a family of very hairy farmers who don't appreciate being run off their own land every other week. I briefly consider it, imagining myself bonking a pitchfork-wielding "orc" with my prototype sword, but nah—pass.
The next one is written in thick, desperate strokes: "Retrieve a cursed sword from the haunted manor." The ink is so heavy it's bled through the parchment, and the word "cursed" is underlined three times. I wonder, not for the first time, how many swords in this town are cursed, and whether someone is running an unlicensed curse-forging operation out of their basement. A mental image floats by of me sneaking through a creaky old mansion, poltergeists flinging candlesticks at my face while I try not to soil myself. Tempting, but maybe not today.
I'm about to resign myself to a day of mediocrity when the third quest catches my eye: "Explore the haunted burial ground to lift the curse of the bewildered knight." There's something tantalizing about the way it's written. The letters are sharp and precise, almost surgical, and the phrase "bewildered knight" is circled in crimson wax. Beneath, in spidery handwriting, someone has added: "No prior exorcism experience required." Perfect.
I'm not proud of how quickly I tear off the note and stuff it in my pocket, but I do it anyway. Geller snorts, "Careful, Kamen. That one's been up for months. Either it's a death trap or a wild goose chase."
"Probably both," I say, already mentally prepping for a day spent dodging vengeful ghosts and questionable wildlife. "But at least it's not another cat retrieval gig. My allergies can't take another week of fur-induced misery."
He laughs, but the rest of the guild shifts uncomfortably. The haunted burial ground quest is apparently notorious, though no one has actually succeeded—or even survived, depending on who you ask. Some say the knight's ghost appears every full moon, dragging random idiots into spectral duels. Others claim the entire cemetery is a dimensional rift, and reality gets "weird" the closer you get to the epicenter.
I, of course, have zero self-preservation, so I gather my gear—sword, utility belt, snacks, and a flask of "holy" water (which is just tap water blessed by the town's most tipsy priest)—and set off. Caleif and Kira are nowhere to be seen, which is just as well: I'd rather spare them the horror of my inevitable ghost-induced panic attack, at least for today.
The village outskirts are quiet as I make my way toward the burial ground. The morning sun is merciless, pressing down on my shoulders like a weighted blanket made of UV radiation. I pass the abandoned mill, the roof sagging in defeat, and cut through tall grass that whips at my shins. Every step forward is accompanied by a growing sense of unease, and the houses behind me shrink until they're little more than distant, sun-bleached rectangles.
About halfway there, I regret not bringing backup, if only for the sake of banter. I try to fill the void by talking to myself, but even I'm not entertained by my own jokes at this hour. The closer I get, the weirder the air feels—heavier, like the oxygen molecules have been replaced with low-grade anxiety.
By the time I reach the burial ground, the wind has died completely, and the world is eerily silent except for the occasional caw of a buzzard. The cemetery gates are wrought iron, twisted and rusty and overgrown with vines that look suspiciously like they might be sentient. A battered sign reads "Rest in Peace," but someone's scratched in "Or Else" underneath.
This is it, I think, pausing at the threshold. If I'm lucky, I'll just get traumatized. If I'm unlucky, I'll make front-page news as the idiot who got haunted to death by a disoriented knight.
But there's no turning back now. I tighten my grip on the sword, take a deep breath that tastes like ozone and old regrets, and push the gate open with a shriek of metal. The path winding through the gravestones is cracked and uneven, with weeds poking out at odd angles. The memorial statues, once noble, now leer down at me with weathered, half-melted faces. I swear one of them winks.
I follow the trail deeper, the sunlight growing dimmer with every step, even though it's still high noon. Shadows pool between the stones, dense and sticky. The world feels thinner here, like reality is stretched taut over a drum and every footfall sends a tremor through the membrane.
After a few minutes of wandering, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. A flicker of silver armor, the glint of a battered helmet. I freeze; the air hums with anticipation. Something is definitely watching, and it's not the birds.
The quest note said to "lift the curse." No instructions on how—just that I had to find the knight, and somehow fix whatever broke his soul. I'm not exactly qualified, but, hey, maybe I'll surprise myself.
I set my jaw, steel my nerves, and call out. "Sir Knight? I'm here to help!" My voice cracks and echoes, bouncing off the tombstones in a way that makes me instantly regret speaking.
The apparition materializes slowly, building itself from mist and fractured light. He's huge, even slouched as he is, and the armor looks fused to his body with jagged seams of spectral energy. His eyes glow blue-white behind a visor dented by centuries of bad luck. He doesn't look angry—just lost, and very tired.
I swallow, inch forward, and try not to look directly at the gaping sword wound cleaving his chest plate. "Uh, you need something lifted? A curse, maybe?"
He stares at me, and then, impossibly, speaks: "No one has come for me in so long. Are you a hero?"
I glance at my stat screen, which updates to reflect my current embarrassment level. "Not really. But I'm here anyway."
The knight laughs, a hollow sound like wind through a crypt. "Good. Heroes never last."
I'm about to respond with something witty, but the ground beneath my feet shudders, and a ripple of cold washes through me. The knight draws his sword—a phantom blade that hums with barely contained power—and takes a step forward.
I ready my own sword, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous it looks compared to his. But there's no backing down now. Not with the entire cemetery watching.
I take a deep breath and step onto the path between us, heart pounding. Somewhere, the System blings a notification: [New Objective: Survive the Ghost Duel].
Of course.
The knight raises his blade, and the duel begins. He moves with the ponderous grace of someone who's fought these battles a thousand times and lost every one. I duck the first swing, my own weapon vibrating like a tuning fork in my grip. We circle, trading feints and half-hearted slashes. He's not really trying to kill me—instead, it's as if he's testing me, waiting for something.
After a tense exchange, I realize the truth: the curse isn't about winning. It's about breaking the cycle. Every challenger before me must have come, fought, and failed, reinforcing the knight's prison. If I want to help him, I have to show him something different.
I lower the sword and step back. "You don't have to fight anymore," I say, keeping my tone calm. "You're not a monster. You're just lost."
For a second, the world goes completely still. Not just "quiet afternoon" still, but "the System is buffering and has left you hanging in existential terror" still. The windless hush is so absolute that even the birds decide to clock out and unionize. I half-expect the knight to make a move, but he doesn't—not at first. He just stares at me, the blue-white light in his eyes flickering like a cheap LED about to die.
"That's where you're wrong," he says, and his voice is so hollow it could have its own echo. "I am a monster." The last syllable is barely out of his mouth before he closes the distance—no warning, just a flicker of intent and then searing pain as his blade nicks my chest. I look down to see my armor split open, blood blooming into the fabric like an extremely unsubtle endorsement for chain mail.
Instinct kicks in. My options are: (a) scream and run, (b) faint dramatically, or (c) play it off like I totally expected this. I go with (c) because I am nothing if not committed to the bit. "We can talk about this, surely," I say, and try to smile, even though I'm pretty sure my ribcage is about to become a collaboration between Jackson Pollock and Freddie Krueger.
The knight stops. He looks me dead in the eye (a phrase I now realize is extremely literal) and intones: "We can't talk about this, and don't call me Shirley." Then he lunges again, and this time I barely block in time. Our swords meet with a clang that reverberates straight through my fillings, and for a moment, I almost lose grip.
I force back a laugh, because if I don't, I will definitely cry. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of Airplane. Got it."
He's relentless, pressing the attack with mechanical precision. Every swing is a test. He's not just trying to kill me—he's trying to prove a point. Maybe even to himself. The curse has twisted him into something less than human and maybe a little more. Each blow is heavier than it should be, like he's drawing on the weight of every regret he's ever had, and buddy, that's a lot of regret.
Round two: I dance back, sucking in air that tastes like ozone and the ghost of hospital disinfectant. I can feel the cut on my chest throbbing, warm and sticky. My hands are shaking, but not from fear—from adrenaline. Some tiny, suicidal part of me is actually having fun.
"Is this how you want it to end?" I ask, hoping to buy a second. "Just endless duels and bad puns?"
He squares his shoulders. "You misunderstand. It never ends. Not for me. Not for you."
He charges, and this time his blade passes so close to my ear I can hear it whisper. I counter with a clumsy upward chop, and for a second I think I've missed—but the knight staggers back, just a little. I feel the System's invisible applause: [Critical Hit!]. I grin, because apparently, even the afterlife is a numbers game.
He recovers instantly. "You could have left," he says. "They all could have left."
I realize he's not talking about me anymore. He's talking about whatever happened to him before he died. The curse isn't just spectral; it's personal. Damn, this got deep fast.
I try to leverage the moment. "You're not bound here by hate. You're bound by guilt."
He hesitates, just a tick—enough for me to see the spark of something human behind the visor. But then his ghost-brain resets, and he's back on offense.
We trade blows again. My arms are numb, my breathing ragged, and my vision is tunneling. If I don't end this soon, I'll end up as another cautionary tale for bored adventurers.
I breathe deep and use Sword Hail and throw my last ounce of strength into it—a desperate gamble, the sort of move that gets you canonized or cartoonishly eviscerated. The world blurs. Swords erupt in a cyclone, spinning from nowhere, crowding the space between me and the knight with a blinding storm of steel.
The afterimages multiply, each copy flickering with that same weird resonance as before, but this time I lean into it. I let the embarrassment fuel the magic, let the memory of every dumbass failure stoke the fire. The air howls with kinetic energy. The knight tries to duck, but I'm not aiming for the body. I'm aiming for the pattern.
The blades clash, knock his sword aside, and for one freakish second, I see the man behind the armor—hollow-eyed, ancient, sad as the end of the world. The vibration rattles his bones, shakes his form apart in a wash of blue-white static. He screams—not in pain, but in something like relief. The curse fractures. The knight drops to his knees, spectral sword dissolving into mist, and lets go.
I stumble back, nearly tripping over a toppled gravestone, and breathe. The cemetery exhales with me. Sunlight cuts through the haze, sharp and clean, and for the first time in decades, maybe longer, the memorial statues stop leering and just look tired.
A heavy, ghostly hand lands on my shoulder. The knight stands there, transparent, but no longer terrifying. He nods once, solemn and dignified, and then fades with the quiet dignity of a man clocking out after a very long shift.
The System chimes:
[QUEST COMPLETE! Reward: 10000xp, 2 Skill Points, 1 Mystery Box. Bonus: Sword of Lingering Memory, Ghostly Knight Title]
Another screen slides in, confetti and all:
[Achievement Unlocked: Break the Cycle! +10 Empathy, +1 Uncanny Luck]
I would roll my eyes, but honestly, I feel like I earned this one.
I lean on my vibrating sword, which now feels unusually warm, and try to process what just happened. My hands are slick with sweat and a little blood, and my lungs ache, but I'm alive. More than alive—I'm... weirdly hopeful?
On my way back to the village I pause, glancing over my shoulder one last time. The burial ground looks smaller now, less haunted, the air less oppressive. I swear I see the knight at the far end, arms folded, watching me leave. He raises a hand in farewell, and then he's gone.
The walk home is longer than I remember. My legs are jelly, my head is pounding, and the sword hums in its sheath as if it's trying to tell me something. At the village edge, the sun is just starting to set. The marketplace smells like baking bread and fresh-cut grass. I never thought I'd be so glad to see it.
Caleif and Kira are waiting on the porch of the inn, both of them pretending not to be worried but failing spectacularly.
"You look like shit," Kira says, but her voice is soft.
"Better than a haunted corpse," I say, and collapse onto the steps.
Caleif kneels beside me, hands gentle as she inspects the cut on my chest. "Was it that bad?"
I manage a smile, and for once, it doesn't feel forced. "It was worse. But I broke the curse." I leave out how close I came to breaking everything else.
Kira plops down next to me and reaches for the sword. "What's with the new glow?" She turns it over, eyes wide as it shivers in her hands.
"Apparently, it's the 'Sword of Lingering Memory,'" I explain, still not sure what that means.
The System chimes, as if on cue:
[Sword of Lingering Memory: Damage 10-40, Durability ???, Special: Echo Strike—each attack triggers a memory of its last wielder, Sword Hail—swords appear around you and strike the opponent multiple times in succession. Bonus: Unravel Curses; Resonate with Spirits.]
Caleif raises an eyebrow. "So... you're haunted now?"
"Probably always was," I admit. "But at least it's official."
They both laugh, and the sound is pure medicine. I realize, belatedly, that I'm starving, and the ache in my chest is matched only by the rumbling in my stomach.
Inside the inn, the rooms are packed. Survivors from the last disaster, merchants, a couple of off-duty guards—they all turn and clap as I shuffle in, battered but upright. Even Geller from the guild is there, raising his mug in salute.
I grab a seat, let the noise wash over me, and let myself forget, for a minute, that there are more haunted knights and cursed swords out there waiting for me. Tonight, there's stew, ale, and the warmth of friends.
The System chimes one last time, smug as always:
[New Quest: Rest. You've earned it. Seriously, take a nap.]
I ignore it, just for now, and instead raise my mug in silent thanks to the knight, wherever he was, and to whatever kind of idiot I've become. Tomorrow, I'll figure out what it means to carry a haunted sword. But tonight, I'm just glad to be here.
Caleif leans in close, her lips brushing my ear. "You did good, Kamen. Scars suit you."
Kira snorts. "He's gonna milk this for weeks."
I grin, feeling the ache recede just a little. "Damn right."
As the earth trembled beneath our feet, a swirling column of shadowy energy erupted from the ground beside us, casting an eerie glow. I instinctively spun around, my heart pounding in my chest. From the darkness, a knight clad in tattered, ancient armor emerged, the metal clinking with each movement. He gracefully descended to one knee, his head bowed so low that the tip of his dented helmet nearly touched the ground. His voice resonated deeply, "I am yours to command, Master."
A wave of confusion and disbelief washed over me, my mind racing to make sense of the sight before me. Above his head, a translucent nameplate floated, the letters shimmering: 'Garius: The Cursed Knight.'
I stare at the kneeling knight, my brain trying desperately to find the file labeled "What to Do When Ghostly Minions Swear Fealty." We're on a dirt path not thirty feet from the town's edge, the sky all orange and blood-red behind the clouds, and Garius—once the stuff of every bored peasant's nightmares—is now waiting for me to say... what? "Rise?" "Speak, friend and enter?" I'm pretty sure I don't have the clearance for this level of weird.
My first instinct is to bolt, but I'm so sore and tired that my body just kind of defaults to "awkwardly shuffle backwards." Caleif and Kira both hang back, wide-eyed but feigning cool, as if they see ancient cursed lieutenants materialize every day and are simply waiting for me to stop being a wuss about it.
"Uh, what are you... doing here?" My voice cracks like a prepubescent nerd at a Ren Faire. "I thought I had lifted your curse?"
Garius's head remains bowed, his voice resonant and hollow through the battered helmet. "My curse is broken, but my purpose remains. I am bound to serve the one who freed me. Until your days are spent, or mine are called anew."
I glance at Caleif, who just shrugs. Kira, ever the helpful sidekick, flashes two thumbs up then mouths, "You got this, boss!" Like that ever helps.
The System, because it cannot resist a chance to rub salt into my existential confusion, pops up a notification. The flashing gold banner is way too cheerful for the situation.
[Congratulations! You have now recruited Garius, The Cursed Knight, to your roster. Summoner Skill Acquired! (Summoner - Lvl. 1)]
I almost drop my sword. "Summoner? Are you serious?" I mutter under my breath, the words tumbling out like a series of mild concussions.
The System chimes in with all the subtlety of a kindergarten teacher on sugar:
[Look at you, Kamen. You're a Summoner now! Ain't that cool? Just don't juggle near him.]
The little smiley face at the end of the message is saltier than my entire personality.
Garius hasn't moved, and for a weird second, I wonder if I'm supposed to, like, give him a treat or scratch behind the helmet. Instead, I take a cautious step forward, half-expecting him to go full poltergeist and rip my arms off.
"Okay, uh... Stand up?" I say, because nobody gives you an instruction manual for spectral labor relations.
The knight rises to his feet in one smooth, alarmingly elegant motion. The joints of his ancient armor creak, dust motes swirling where his body should be. I feel the temperature drop by a couple degrees. He's taller than I thought—easily a head over me, and I'm not short. Up close, the helmet's visor is cracked, and you can see the faint blue glow of something not entirely dead inside.
"Awaiting your command, Master," he intones. It is both the coolest and most horrifying thing anyone has ever said to me.
"Holy shit, he really is your minion," says Kira, sidling around to check out Garius from all angles. "You could make him do your taxes. Or, like, haunt your enemies!"
I snort despite myself, and then realize: this is my life now. I am the guy with the haunted sword and the ghost butler. The system prompts are already getting cockier, which means I should probably set some boundaries before things spiral.
I clear my throat and try to sound like someone who knows what they're doing. "Garius, at ease. Uh, you can call me Kamen."
The knight relaxes about an inch—still formal, still terrifying, but maybe less murderously rigid. "As you wish, Kamen."
Caleif steps forward, curiosity outweighing caution. "Does he follow orders? Or is this, like, a monkey's paw situation where he only pretends to obey and then turns on you at the worst possible moment?"
I consider. "Only one way to find out." I look at the knight. "Garius, can you... recite the alphabet?"
He hesitates, the blue fire in his visor flickering. "A... B... C..."
I cut him off at "D" because suddenly it feels like I'm bullying a substitute teacher. "Okay, that's enough. Thanks."
System pops up another note, this one with a little "Learning in Progress!" status bar:
[Garius has gained +1 Loyalty! He also now knows the Human Alphabet. Progress!]
Kira loses it, nearly doubling over with laughter. "If he's your summon now, does that mean you can call him during fights? Like in the middle of a boss battle, you just say 'Garius, get 'em!' and he appears?" She pantomimes summoning a giant sword-wielding ghost and swinging him at imaginary goblins.
I glance at the system's new "Summoner" submenu, and sure enough, Garius's icon is there, floating next to my own sorry avatar. I'm a little disturbed by how much the icon looks like a Funko Pop, but I file that away for later existential horror.
"Apparently, yeah. I can summon him for combat, or possibly to help with home maintenance." The idea of this grim ancient knight unclogging my shower drain is so incongruous that I snort again.
But then a thought strikes me. "Wait, does this mean he just follows me everywhere? Like a puppy, but with a bigger sword and more trauma?"
Garius answers the question before I can even finish thinking it. "I am yours to command, in all matters," he says, the words so formal it's almost heartbreaking.
I take a long look at him, then at my hands, then back at the System notification still hovering in my peripheral vision. It's official: I now have a ghost knight, a sentient sword, and a trauma bond with both.
"Is this permanent?" I ask the System, because I know how these stories go.
[Until death do you part. Or, you know, until you trade up for a better knight.]
Thanks, System. Real helpful.
I look at Caleif, who is clearly trying not to laugh. Kira's already started plotting ways to use my new sidekick for increasingly elaborate pranks. I can feel the plot thickening around me, like pudding that's about to be weaponized.
I turn back to Garius, who just stands there, waiting for a purpose. "So, uh, what do you want to do now, big guy?"
He pauses. "I would like to serve."
That catches me off guard. Not "avenge," not "destroy," not even "find peace." Just "serve." There's a sad dignity to it that makes my chest hurt a little.
"Okay," I say, because what else can you say to that? "Let's go home. We'll figure this out as we go."
The knight bows his head, and the three of us start walking. The sun sets completely, the path ahead dark except for the faint blue glow from Garius's armor. I try to imagine what the neighbors are going to say about our new houseguest.
The system chimes again, but this time the voice is softer, almost gentle:
[Achievement Unlocked: Death's Door Greeter. You may now summon Garius in or out of battle. Caution: May not fit in compact vehicles.]
I sigh, but there's a smile under it. Maybe this isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me. Maybe, somehow, I'll make it work.
Just don't juggle near him, I think, and the System's smiley face winks back.