The katana had emerged from a page of Untitled.
“I knew you wouldn’t just sit there and let me slice you up!” Karamori yelled without even pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Naturally, Untitled didn’t reply. Instead, words danced atop its open pages and combined to form swords, axes, knives, and other sharp weapons that flew at Karamori.
“Hey! Are you really going to be okay?!” Fujinaka cried out behind him.
But dodging projectiles was a walk in the park for Shin Karamori. Having objects thrown at him was nothing compared to all the ridiculous things that could happen fighting a vanit.
Karamori seemed to glide through the small room, dodging the weapons as he made his way toward Untitled. He furrowed his brow. All sorts of different types of bladed weapons were flying at him, even ones that were rarely seen, like morning stars and lances. Eventually, the storm of blades stopped, but Karamori only had a brief respite before Untitled sent a massive stone wall sliding across the room at him.
“O-oh?”
One might have thought that Karamori’s surprise came from seeing the small book produce such a large object, but that wasn’t the reason for it. Instead, he was startled by the Western-style mural on the wall that depicted what looked like angels and gods. The painting was as wide as the room and charged at him so quickly he didn’t have time to think.
“We can’t have that now,” Archive said from behind him.
She gathered her string in her hands and squeezed it tight. As she did, the mural became as thin as paper and was crushed up into a ball.
Untitled determinedly continued to spit out walls, fighting to prevent Karamori from approaching. Even with Archive transforming each one into a wad of wadded-up paper, Karamori was slowly pushed back toward the door.
He frowned as he watched the walls appear and crumple in rapid succession. Each one was painted with a mural. They looked as if they came from all over the world; some were Buddhist, some were contemporary Japanese, and others were of Western styles, past and present. He even felt like he’d seen some of them before.
There was a clink as Karamori’s foot brushed against something hard, and he looked down to see the katana that had been sent flying at him earlier. He cocked his head. There was something about the sword that also looked familiar.
It had a distinctive golden handle and a black guard with gold embellishments…
“That is Chiyoganemaru, a katana currently in the possession of the Naha City Museum of History. It is not an imitation, either. The scratches and other signs of wear perfectly match the real artifact. All of the murals it has created are real as well,” Archive explained as she continued to deal with the approaching walls.
“…Which means?”
“The book is likely producing objects described by the writing it has consumed. That is how it is summoning the weapons and murals. That katana must also have been written about in a book.”
“Ah, okay…”
So that was how the book was creating such a wide variety of weapons and murals. Karamori had noticed that it hadn’t produced the same object twice—once it summoned something, it lost the corresponding text.
“…I see,” Archive said to herself. “I thought this property seemed excessive for the president of a relatively small company, but he was hiding an endless source of funds.”
Untitled could reproduce anything described in the writing it consumed. With that ability, there was no limit to the fortune one could accumulate.
Karamori’s earlier guess had been correct, and Untitled stopped producing murals. It must have run out of text to draw from. He dashed forward to seize the opening—but nothing could have prepared him for what the book produced next.
It was a horde of grotesque monsters. Karamori saw a minotaur, a gargoyle in the shape of a devil, and an unidentifiable six-legged beast.
It can summon fictional creatures, too?! These monsters must have come from fantasy novels the book had consumed.
The monsters outnumbered them two-to-one, and they rushed toward Karamori.
“Aaah!”
Fujinaka let out an involuntary cry behind him. Archive, meanwhile, remained perfectly calm, and even the scout showed no sign of concern.
The youth nimbly dodged every sharp fang and claw raining down on him and kicked one of the monsters into the opposite wall. The room transformed into a storm of violence with Shin Karamori at its center. He didn’t draw the chained sword but, instead, pounded the monsters into the floor with its sheath and with his fists. There was no special power at work here; Karamori relied solely on his martial arts abilities.
“That’s crazy…,” Fujinaka murmured as she watched him overpower the monsters like some kind of ferocious god.
“There is no need to worry,” Archive reassured her. “He will not die. He cannot die.”
More terrifying monsters appeared, and Karamori slaughtered them all. His movements were restricted to the realm of humans, yet he appeared otherworldly as he fought.
The still-sheathed sword glittered as it caught the light coming in through the window. As Karamori swung the weapon, a bluish-black mark shaped like flames extended from underneath his sleeve to his palm.
“He wields Tyrfing, a magic sword which grants anyone who draws it a wish in exchange for ruining their life and eventually killing them. His wish to the sword was ‘I want to live.’”
It was a contradiction, but a wish was still a wish. The sword had granted it, making Karamori able to survive anything by giving him combat skills far beyond those of any normal seventeen-year-old.
The screams of the monsters filled the house. A creature that was half-wolf, half-man howled in agony as its arm was severed. Karamori had partially drawn Tyrfing and sliced through its flesh.
The glimpse of Tyrfing’s blade made Fujinaka uneasy. Its dull blue color gave off the impression that it was enveloped in a miasma.
Light gleamed off the azure blade a second time as Karamori once again swung it without fully drawing it, mercilessly cutting through multiple monsters.
“That is why he will not die so easily. The sword will not allow it.”
Karamori wove through the attacking monsters and made for the supernatural book.
According to Norse mythology, Tyrfing had been forged by dwarves threatened into crafting a sword that could cut through anything. In the process, they had channeled all their resentment into it and cursed the weapon.
True to the legend, the blade was so sharp that it could slice through any object. Even if the target was an Unbreakable.
Karamori unsheathed the blade halfway. The chains wrapped around it should have gotten in his way as he swung, but every flash of his sword was so smooth it was as if they weren’t even there.
He closed the distance to Untitled in a single bound, then swung the half-drawn sword, which left an azure trail of light in its wake. But just before the blade reached the book, a monster flew out of its pages and knocked Karamori backward off his feet.
“Gah…!”
Chiding himself for being too hasty, Karamori quickly got up and took his stance. He immediately struck again, this time lopping off about five centimeters from the edge of the book.
The monsters and the katana on the floor all began to blur, revealing a huge amount of text inside their forms—proof that damaging the book would also harm its constructs. If the book were destroyed, the monsters should disappear as well.
Looking around, Karamori noticed that many of the decorations in the room were also blurring. It seemed that Fujinaka’s father had indeed used the book to produce many of his possessions, just as Archive had predicted.
Damaging the book slowed down the monsters. I can do this!
By some logic he didn’t understand, Untitled was shaping text to make up its missing section, trying to regenerate itself. He had to finish this now.
Karamori lifted his sword and was about to strike when—
“Mr. Karamori! Wait!” the scout called out from behind him.
He stopped, surprised, and looked over his shoulder.
Karamori’s eyes went wide.
“Ah… Aaah…!”
It was a girl’s voice, crying out in anguish.
Hitsugi Fujinaka’s figure blurred, showing a mountain of text inside her body.
“What?!”
Karamori felt as if cold water had been dumped over his head.
A horrifying conclusion arose in his mind: Untitled’s owner, Asahi Fujinaka, had used the book not just to produce a variety of objects, but also to create his daughter.