A Butcher's Blade for a Discharged Companion

Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High, infirmary.

The cicadas outside the window were irritatingly loud. Mizuki Makoto leaned against his hospital bed, his left hand encased in a heavy cast while his right held a cup of expensive matcha at just the right temperature. Beside his bed were several copies of Detailed Human Anatomy and a stack of brand-new blank drawing paper.

[At this point, I hope readers will remember our domain name: read novels every day ->]

"Mizuki, this is your 'emotional distress compensation,' along with additional compensation from the school for the intelligence error that caused you to encounter a Special Grade by accident."

Gojo Satoru sprawled in the swivel chair beside him, his sunglasses slipping down to the bridge of his nose and revealing cerulean eyes that screamed, "I'm pissed." He had just returned from Jujutsu Headquarters, still carrying the arrogant air of someone who had just flipped a table.

"Since that Special Grade was wrongly assessed as Grade 2, I squeezed quite a few benefits out of those old bastards for you." Gojo's voice sounded gritted with irritation. "Of course, if I can catch the bastard who wrote Bitter Summer, I'd be willing to double that amount and give it all to you."

Mizuki Makoto's heart skipped a beat, but he put on a smile fresher than the purest green tea. With his uninjured right hand, he quickly unlocked his phone, glanced at it, then reverently stuffed it beneath his pillow.

"Gojo-sensei, money really isn't important. Being able to share your burdens is my honor. I've heard of Bitter Summer too. That author is utterly insane, actually writing someone with a personality as lofty and solitary as yours into... uh, a lovesick fool? Truly delightful—no, I mean utterly insane. I'll definitely keep an eye out for clues."

Gojo stared at him for three seconds before suddenly speaking in a ghostly tone. "Then why is there a sketch of a white-haired pretty girl in a Jujutsu High uniform, looking heartbroken in the rain, tucked inside that workbook you're holding?"

"That's artistic creation!" Mizuki Makoto said solemnly. "Sensei, that's gender-swap art meant to capture one ten-thousandth of the 'loneliness' in your essence. How can that be called drawing a doujin?"

"Mizuki, congratulations on being discharged! And congratulations on officially advancing to Grade 2 Sorcerer!"

On the streets of Shinjuku, Panda's thick paw landed heavily on Mizuki Makoto's shoulder, nearly shaking his wheelchair apart on the spot.

"Sure, you barely escaped with your life during that mission, but you managed to pry a promotion slot and this 'stress response observation fund' out of those Rotten Oranges. Your assets are practically catching up to a Grade 1 Sorcerer's now, aren't they?" Zenin Maki teased bluntly as she walked beside him, carrying a long sword wrapped in cloth.

"And to celebrate such a monumental victory, a pre-meal ritual is absolutely essential, right?" Panda wore an honest smile disturbing enough to make one's skin crawl as he stared at the thick cast on Mizuki Makoto's left hand. "How are you supposed to fight for meat with that thing hanging off you? Come on, I'll help you 'release the seal.'"

"W-wait! Panda! That's imported plaster I bought with my own money... hey!"

Crack—!

Panda's exquisitely controlled force erupted in an instant. Mizuki Makoto only felt a chill run through his arm as the cast that had accompanied him for half a month, covered in "Get well soon" messages from his classmates, was shattered into fine white powder by a single Inch Force strike and scattered precisely into the wind.

Mizuki Makoto felt his newly liberated left hand, but before he could stretch it out, Panda pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his palm, saying gravely, "All right, the seal has been released. You now possess the perfect constitution to squander that huge sum of money."

Inside the yakiniku restaurant, charcoal crackled and popped.

"Um... waiter, was an extra zero printed on the price of this 'Premium Black Wagyu Platter'?"

Mizuki Makoto clutched the menu with trembling fingers, his face even paler than when Panda had demolished his cast. His usually calm eyes were fixed on the price column as if it were some abyss too dreadful to behold.

"No mistake, Mizuki." Maki naturally took the menu from him, her fingertip elegantly gliding across several of the most expensive options. "We're celebrating your 'escape from death.' Eating too cheaply would be disrespectful to that compensation money. Right, Yuta?"

"Huh? Ah... if Maki says so..." Okkotsu Yuta gave his signature, slightly troubled smile.

"Bonito flakes. Order everything." Inumaki Toge added solemnly, even thoughtfully flipping Mizuki Makoto's menu to the most expensive page of the drinks list and pointing at a long-aged daiginjo.

"Wait! That..." Mizuki Makoto's eyes widened. Like he had found his final lifeline, he hurriedly shouted, "We're not adults yet! The law says we can't drink alcohol, right? We definitely can't order that!"

"That law applies to humans, doesn't it?" Panda seriously took the drinks menu, his voice deep and smoky. "Panda isn't human, so that rule doesn't apply to me. Therefore, I'll have this bottle too."

Mizuki Makoto opened his mouth and looked at Panda's black-and-white round face, unable to find any logic with which to refute a self-aware cursed corpse.

"My money... that's compensation I earned with my own abilities..."

When the first plate of wagyu, marbled like a work of art, was brought to the table, Mizuki Makoto was practically turning the meat with tears in his eyes. Every time a slice sizzled on the charcoal, he felt like it was the agonized wail of his account balance.

"Mizuki, as a cursed corpse, I don't actually need to eat."

Panda seriously stuffed a huge slice of pork belly into his mouth, his smoky voice muffled as he spoke. "But what I'm doing now is helping you share the 'curse brought by money.' To keep your soul from being corrupted by this unexpected fortune, I've decided to order another bottle of the most expensive fresh-squeezed juice."

"Don't make that face." Maki elegantly picked up a slice of meat and put it into her mouth, narrowing her eyes in satisfaction. "Your cursed energy fluctuations are very stable right now. This feeling of 'heartache' actually makes you look more energetic, doesn't it?"

Hearing that, Mizuki Makoto slowly set down his juice and adjusted his monocle. An exceptionally punchable glint flashed across the lens.

"Oh my, Maki-chan~ What a thing to say. You normally can't even 'see' the flow of cursed energy, can you? And yet you're evaluating my cursed energy fluctuations. Your efforts to force your way into the circle are so touching they make my heart ache too."

The air froze for a second.

"Huh? Who are you calling 'Maki-chan'? And what was with that fake-sweet way of talking just now?"

A vein instantly bulged at Maki's temple. She sprang to her feet, stepped around the table, and before he could even scream, wrapped a strong arm around Mizuki Makoto's neck and slammed him against her chest—though this was absolutely not a perk. It was a rock-hard chokehold packed with explosive muscle!

"Ugh... cough! It's... it's going to break, I can't breathe! Maki...-sama! I was wrong!"

"Who are you calling sama? I'd say your cursed energy is pretty stable indeed—so stable you don't even need to breathe anymore, right?" Maki sneered as she tightened her arm, as though squeezing an oblivious soft persimmon.

"Mizuki, may you rest in peace." Panda calmly quipped as he poured himself a drink.

"Salmon. A moment of silence." Inumaki Toge calmly turned over the meat.

However, as Mizuki struggled wildly, his cheek accidentally brushed against the side of Maki's neck.

There was no sweet perfume there, only a faint clean scent mixed with cold metal and some kind of herbal shampoo.

His body stiffened, and he instinctively took a deep breath. Maki seemed to receive an electric shock as well, unconsciously loosening her grip around his neck by a fraction.

Through their thin casual clothes, Mizuki Makoto could feel the vitality-filled warmth beneath her skin. It was the heat unique to a sorcerer who had tempered her body for years, hot enough to make this physically frail artist feel a little dizzy.

"...Hey, why are you blushing?"

Maki noticed something was wrong. She lowered her head, and their gazes collided from less than five centimeters apart. Mizuki's eyes, slightly damp from lack of oxygen, reflected her face—a face that said "I'm going to kill you," yet had suddenly become lost.

"Because... Maki-chan's chest is... softer than I imagined."

Even at death's door, I still couldn't resist that brain-dead urge to court death, could I!

"...Go die!"

Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, Maki violently shoved him away. She returned to her seat with movements a little too exaggerated to be natural, though the tips of her ears were flushed with an extremely suspicious red beneath the lights.

While Maki desperately flipped the meat, Mizuki Makoto shrank miserably into the corner of his seat, his left hand sliding over his phone screen beneath the table like an afterimage.

Anonymous forum, latest update from Bitter Summer:

[Author's pinned post]:

Regarding today's insights from training:

The white tower remained arrogant, while today, in the glow of the setting sun, I tasted the flavor of "sacrifice" (meaning expensive wagyu).

Also, while attempting to touch "reality" (meaning mocking Maki), I unexpectedly encountered a Binding Vow as unyielding as iron law. That suffocating sensation of having my breath taken away reminded me of the mental vacuum experienced by the "god" within the tower after losing his sole bond.

This "pain that cannot be touched" will serve as the emotional tone for the next chapter, Snowy Night. Thanks for the treats. I'm not dead yet.

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