The winter sun, pale and distant, seeped through a gap in the curtains and dappled the bedsheets.
When Shane woke up, the first thing he felt wasn't New Year's joy—it was… that he couldn't move.
His chest felt heavy, and a sweet, clean scent hovered at the tip of his nose—sulfur soapberry mixed with the girl's own fragrance.
He lowered his eyes with great effort.
Erza was wrapped around him like an octopus.
Probably to "follow through" on her so-called "strictness," she'd slept extra possessively.
One arm lay across his neck, almost locking his throat; her long leg was planted shamelessly across his waist.
Her sleep posture was so bold that her yukata had come undone into a mess. Half of her rounded shoulder was exposed to the air, rising and falling gently with her breathing.
"Mmm…"
As if she'd sensed her "pillow" moving, the girl let out a lazy nasal hum.
Her long lashes fluttered, and then those normally commanding eyes slowly opened.
Just-awake Erza was clearly still booting up.
She lifted her head in a daze, gaze slightly unfocused, and looked at Shane from inches away with damp, sleepy eyes—there was even a tiny glistening trace at the corner of her mouth.
"Morning," Shane greeted, holding back a laugh and keeping his face perfectly straight.
"…Morning."
Erza answered automatically, her voice husky and languid—soft in a way he never heard from her, almost like she was whining.
Then, the next second—
As her mind clicked into place and her focus sharpened, she suddenly registered how close they were—basically negative distance—and how disastrous her clothes looked.
Her pupils practically earthquake-shook.
It wasn't that she was embarrassed by the intimacy—
To Erza, that kind of contact wasn't a big deal. Her body wasn't something she felt she had to hide.
What truly made her want to die of shame was this:
Her sprawled-out, drooling sleep posture had been witnessed in full by Shane.
Erza wiped the corner of her mouth, eyes flickering.
For one heartbeat, she wanted to wrap herself in the blanket, crawl into the corner, and become an ostrich.
But right before her cheeks could fully explode red—
"No! Think about what Shane does in situations like this!"
Erza sucked in a breath and, through sheer willpower, crushed the urge to flee.
In the end, she decided…
to pretend nothing happened.
With that decision made, she didn't loosen her hold.
Instead, she deliberately put on a stern face, tightened her arm, and shoved the trying-to-sit-up Shane back into the pillow.
"What are you squirming for."
She forced her voice into something authoritative, trying to reclaim the "in control" vibe from last night.
But her slightly trembling lashes still betrayed the panic underneath.
"Today's New Year's Day. Lie down a little longer."
The moment she said it, she already regretted it.
Her mind immediately started spiraling.
Am I getting thicker-skinned because of Shane? Is that… bad?
Will other people think I've gotten worse?
"…"
Watching this girl—ears already crimson and still trying to act like a commanding officer issuing orders—Shane couldn't help it.
He almost laughed out loud.
He could tell she'd come out of that weird sulky mood from yesterday.
As long as she wasn't sulking, everything was fine.
"Roger that!"
He didn't expose her terrible acting. Instead, he obediently relaxed and lay back down.
"Mmh."
Hearing him comply, Erza's tightly held mouth twitched up into the smallest curve—then she immediately pressed it flat again.
Satisfied, she rested her chin on Shane's shoulder and rubbed against him a little, like a lioness who'd just finished patrolling her territory.
They really did stay like that for a long while with their eyes closed—until their stomachs both complained with an in-sync gurgle, and only then did they finally crawl out of bed.
After washing up, they went to the living room.
"Let's just eat something simple?" Shane yawned. He didn't feel like making a whole production out of cooking.
"No."
Erza was fixing her hair and rejected him instantly, face serious.
"Today is the first day of the new year. We have to eat properly. No half-measures."
As she spoke, she tied on an apron with practiced ease.
The strings formed a bow at her back, cinching tight and outlining an absurdly slim waist—there was something unmistakably domestic about it.
With her set on it, Shane—already about to melt into the sofa like a salted fish—had no choice but to sigh and go help in the kitchen.
Strictly speaking, Shane was the better cook.
But watching Erza's steadily improving skills, that "raising a character" feeling wasn't bad either.
…
After lunch, the wind outside howled, but the house was warm as spring.
Pinewood in the fireplace burned bright, popping now and then and driving off the winter chill.
Since it was a rare holiday, neither of them brought up anything mood-killing like taking guild requests or training in the cold.
They sprawled on the sofa like an old married couple, both of them lazy in their own way.
Erza sat cross-legged, pulling several commonly used sets of armor and swords out of her Requip space and carefully wiping them down, focused. Now and then she hummed a small tune under her breath.
Shane lounged sideways, spinning the newly acquired Assassin card between his fingers.
His summoning two days ago had been rushed—he'd focused mostly on the Vision and hadn't had time to properly feel out what the card could do.
Now that he had time, he let his thoughts sink.
"Hm…"
Without bothering to hide it from Erza, he summoned the Assassin's pair of black daggers right in front of her.
The moment they formed in his hands, they felt cold and light—tinged with a faint, unpleasant metallic blood scent.
He twirled them casually and tested a few swings, but his brow slowly tightened.
"Something's off…"
He quickly noticed the difference.
The "weapon proficiency" Assassin provided, compared to Lancer's spear skill carved into bone—or Arash's uncanny, hundred-steps precision—was… thin.
To normal people it would absolutely count as skilled, even master-level knife fighting.
But it didn't feel like "an Heroic Spirit who'd survived countless battlefields, technique refined to the level of the Way."
"Is it because he's a modern-era Spirit? Or is it the class?"
Shane quietly reasoned.
From experience, a Spirit's power wasn't just depth—it was also tied to their fame, how widely their legend spread, and the actual mastery they held in life.
"This guy… uh, Assassin…"
Shane glanced at the daggers.
"In the stories, there's not much about 'peerless martial skill' or 'sublime technique.' What makes him terrifying is cruelty, secrecy, and slaughtering the weak."
"Most of the time, he exists as a 'symbol of fear.'"
"So not giving me insane combat technique… makes sense."
Next, Shane tested the stealth skill again.
He realized Assassin's Presence Concealment didn't feel like it came from the daggers as a Noble Phantasm ability.
It felt more like a baseline skill granted by the class card itself.
Meaning Presence Concealment wasn't unique to this Spirit—but a standard ability that every Assassin-class Spirit should have.
"…He's 'weak' from every angle, huh."
Shane dismissed the daggers, disappointment creeping in.
Sure, this summoning was meant as an experiment—mainly to test the Vision rules—but he'd still hoped for something more.
Something practical and strong like Senji Muramasa.
Instead, so far Assassin felt nowhere near as good as even Arash.
It confirmed another rule of the Book:
Even at the same "depth," the gap between Spirits can be enormous.
"Right now I can only hope that once I release the true name, the Noble Phantasm will surprise me."
After all, aside from Arash's Phantasm—which had side effects too huge to use—
The only "big, reliable, anytime" trump card Shane truly had was Muramasa's Tsumukari Muramasa.
If Assassin could, at the Phantasm level, help patch his problem of having too few decisive finishers…
then at least it wouldn't be a total waste.
~~~
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