Mushoku Tensei: Edge of a Borrowed Fate

The courtyard was open.

Stones had sunk into the mud, water pooled between the slabs. In it—splinters, scraps of cloth, and someone's teeth. The walls still stood in places, but without their tops. Just jagged stumps hanging down. Vaults were breached, no roof. Doors shattered. One doorway was still burning.

Bodies lay in a heap. Not neatly—just dumped. Some in armor, some in shirts, one child with a slit belly, half an eye open. Nearby stood a spear, a sack tied to it, something moving inside. Alive, but no longer screaming. Just whining, breaking into coughs.

The raiders wandered the yard. No formation, no rush. One slung a sack over his back, looking for something to tie it with. Another kicked a body to check if it was breathing. A third held a jug—something sloshed inside. From the hall came banging—someone smashing open a chest.

Their clothes were torn and soaked through. Blood on the pants, grime to the waist, one had a torch burn—flesh peeled off, left unbandaged. It stank of smoke, guts, and sweat. One laughed hoarsely. Another sharpened a knife against stone, not looking.

On the wall, near a breach, a young man sat.

Breathing through his mouth. Slowly. Through the thick stench of smoke and chewed-up blood. Knees drawn to his chest, back pressed to cold stone. The stone was rough, dusty, chipped in places. His fingers trembled—but just a little. His whole body was tense, like a wire.

He was watching below. From the side, through a crack in the wall. They were coming. Heavy steps, uneven. One, then another. Spoke little, but loud. Spat on the stones. Laughed loud. Dragged a woman by the hair. One moved a few steps away.

A chance.

The boy leaned forward. Careful. Elbows first, weight on his thighs, step—his foot slid. The stone gave a little, but made no sound. He knew where to step. The wall corner was broken—he could climb down.

He wanted to live.

Not heroism. Not duty. Just wants to live. To eat with his hands again, sleep under a roof, hear a voice that isn't screaming. He didn't know how he'd make it—but he knew: if not now, then never.

Inhale.

Body down. Hands to the edge, heels in the cracks between bricks. The stone tugs his shirt, scrapes skin from his side—doesn't matter. He lands on all fours. Freezes. A sound to the left—a jug shatters. Laughter. Someone swearing.

The boy crawls along the wall. Quiet. Pressed to it with his chest, his chin, his stomach. Knees raw, fabric soaked through. Ahead, a narrow gap between two collapsed piles. It's darker there. That's the chance.

He wants to live until nightfall. For the wind to cool. For them to drink and pass out. For the rats to come out and start gnawing again. Then—he'll move. Past the corner. Down the slope. Into the woods.

He waits. Breathing nearly gone. Listening. Waiting for one to pass by, for another to get distracted by the sack, the scream, anything.

And suddenly—a jolt inside. Now.

He scrambles forward, almost running. Dust in his face, sharp stone in his palm—doesn't matter. The gap is right there. A narrow slit between ruins, beyond it an open stretch, broken road, and then forest, or a gully, or whatever—anything but here.

They didn't notice, he thinks. His heartbeat's pounding in his ears. One more step.

He pushes through the gap, nearly leaps out—his foot slips, but he catches it. And then—he runs.

Runs. Without looking. Without thinking. Stones underfoot, mud, air—it all blurs. Freedom. He's safe. He made it. He got out.

Joy crashes over him like sunlight. Wild, loud, to the point of screaming. His body doesn't believe it yet, but it's already filling up.

Whistle.

Air tears.

Impact.

He falls. Shoulder into mud, side scrapes stone. Rolls—once, twice, three times. Stops.

A second—everything freezes. He blinks.

Doesn't get it at first. Tries to get up. Hands shake, back won't obey. Tries to brace himself—can't.

Only now he sees it.

An arrow. Entered through his back. Came out his chest. Thin, straight, no barbs. Like a needle.

Blood flows slowly. Warm. Comes out of his mouth. He coughs. Gurgles. Less and less air.

His eyes still see the sky. A bird floats there. Far away. Very high.

The light narrows. His eyes are still open, but everything thins, darkens, like a hole pulling in the edges. Fog creeps in from the sides.

He hears laughter. Off to the side. Muffled, wet, joyless. Footsteps. Closer. Through the mud, through rubble. A man with a bow. Boots soaked in blood. He crouches. Says something—lips move, teeth crooked, tongue heavy. But he no longer hears.

Doesn't understand. Just that filthy smirk remains. Like a brand.

Rage bursts inside. Rips out what breath is left. He wants to lunge, to bite through his throat, to shove the arrow back in. But he can't. The body goes dead. Only the fury stays alive.

And then—movement.

Splack.

The head is sliced off without a sound. Flies sideways, hits a stone. The body stays standing. Hands clenched. Knees shaking.

Blood jets from the neck, shoots upward, falls on the chest. Then—it drops.

He looks up. What's left of his sight clings on. The last thing he sees—a girl.

Alone. Standing over him. White hair. Flowing in the air. One eye open. The other covered by a band. In her hand—a sword. Long. Droplets fall from the blade to the ground.

She looks at him. No expression. No words.

Then turns. Walks toward the castle.

***

Ghislaine walks without hurry.

The stone underfoot crunches and sticks—blood pooled in patches. She doesn't care. Her legs move on their own. The sword pulls her arm down, blood still dripping, but the arm doesn't tire.

Her ears twitch—catch movement inside. Voices. Metal on wood. Thuds, footsteps, short commands. She hears one laughing, another swearing. Smells drift in too—smoke, guts, wine. All tangled together.

She keeps going. No tension. Back straight, head tilted slightly, like a predator who knows: the prey is close, and it has nowhere to run.

The boy lying behind her doesn't interest her. He died—so he's useless. No pity. No importance. She didn't come to save him.

There's only one thing here. The target. The blood.

A body in rags lies at the gate. She steps over it. Doesn't even look. Ahead, a shadow—someone exits the hall. Her body shifts slightly to the side, ears react before the eyes. The sword follows her gaze.

Inside, they already know someone's here. But not yet who.

Ghislaine doesn't rush. Her tail flicks once.

Inside her, everything starts to burn.

The aura stirs like a beast in a cage. Dense, hot, smelling of meat and metal. It slides over her skin, wraps her muscles, sinks into her legs, her arms, her spine. The tail tenses. Pupils narrow.

With every step, her body fills with animal fury. Legs heavier, but stronger. Fingers trembling—not from weakness, from anticipation. This isn't magic. This is her. Power locked in her blood.

The aura of a beastkin isn't a flow, not a calm stream. It's a roar. It's hunger. It doesn't rise—it bursts out.

She enters the hall.

They turn. They scream—not in anger, in fear. But it's too late.

The aura detonates.

Sundering Flash.

Her body vanishes.

Thud!

Sound breaks—sharp impact. The eye doesn't see—just the shadow it leaves behind.

Blood's already in the air, body parts mid-fall, eyes still blinking.

The sword smokes. The floor bears claw-like streaks.

Ghislaine breathes slow. The aura gathers again. One more step. One more strike. More blood.

Laughter.

It bursts from her—first low, then louder, cracking. Hoarse, feral, fractured. Not a human sound. Laughter slides into growling, tears through her teeth. The aura ripples with it, spasms, lashes across her body, searching where to rip next.

Blood everywhere. Walls, floor, face, chest. Slashed bodies fall one after another, like cut grass. Limbs underfoot, someone still twitching, trying to breathe. She doesn't look. Doesn't stop. Just moves. Cuts through like a white whirlwind.

In that moment, a blade flies at her. Fast, clean, precise. He appears out of air—a man in a cloak, hair wild, as if he stepped from the wall. A leap. A swing. Steel flashing.

But her face doesn't change. Doesn't even turn fully.

Divine Reversal.

The sword moves on its own. Not a command. It parries in the same instant the blade touches steel. Like a mirror. The force rebounds—exact, sharp, amplified by aura. A wave rips through the hall.

But he slips away. Slides like soap. Bounces aside, skids through the blood, lands on his feet, laughing.

"Almost got me!" he shouts. Laughs loud, like a festival. His eyes blaze, hands shake—but from thrill. He's not afraid. He wants the fight. He wants the blood.

Only the two of them remain in the hall. Everyone else is dead. Only pieces remain.

He draws his sword—long, patterned, stained, but sharp. Moves fast, body coiled. His gaze clings to her shoulder, her arm, her tail.

Silence.

The laughter fades. For both of them.

Lunge.

The blades meet. First strike—misses. Second—catches a rib. Ghislaine shifts sideways, shoulder digging into the blow, and in return—slashes at his thigh. The jester jumps back. Laughs again.

They spin across the hall. Stone cracks underfoot. A table's overturned, chunks of bodies flying, steel rings on steel, hands slipping, sliding, clashing again. He strikes with sudden speed, at unpredictable angles. Slick. But not better.

Ghislaine takes a hit—on the side, skin splits. Blood. Not deep. Another—across the forearm, the blade leaves a gliding line. A third—on the thigh. Her stance shifts. Center of gravity thrown. But she stands.

The blood doesn't flow—her aura wraps the wounds at once. White, dense, thick like smoke off a fire. It halts the bleeding, dulls the pain.

Speed builds. Their movements blur beyond the eye—only echoes remain, shadows, impacts in stone. The jester screams. Laughs in her face. Even wheezing. Even with sweat flooding his eyes. Even when her blade knocks him sideways, breaks his stance, takes his balance.

Then—she raises her sword.

The aura compresses. Doesn't flow—it drives inward, like air tightening before a storm. The blade glows white. Her body tenses. Everything goes still.

Falling Star.

A cleaving blow from above. As if the sky itself crashed through her. The sword drops, tearing the air. The aura wave hits first. Then the blade. Then the sound.

The jester tries to dodge. Too slow. The runes on his armor flash. Don't save him.

The plating cracks. Stone beneath shatters. Air explodes from pressure. The sword drives through—splitting everything. Him, the floor, the hall.

Only a white streak remains. And silence.

***

Behind closed doors—breathing. Woven from dozens of mouths. Fighters packed tight. Foreheads sweating. Fingers tense. Everyone waiting. A step, a glance, a sound—held. All attention on the hall.

Inside—it goes quiet. Sudden. As if someone cut the sound away. No shouts. No stomping. Just footsteps, somewhere deep beneath the floor.

A second.

Explosion.

The door bursts open—not from a strike, not a ram—but a body. It flies in spinning, faceless now. Smashes against a front-line shield. A moment's pause.

Flash.

A white burst rips through like lightning. Not seen—felt: pressure, shock, death. Arcs of bodies flung apart. Carved torsos. Guts spilling. One didn't even realize he'd lost his head. Blood hit the ceiling, ran down the walls.

At the center—Ghislaine.

The stone beneath her feet sank, like it turned soft.

Then—a shift.

The ground beneath stretches. A second—and she leaps back.

Explosion.

From the earth—spikes. Thick, sharp, twisted. A crack, chunks of rock flying. Where she stood—now a pit.

In the same instant, her fingers go to the band. One motion—the cloth tears free. Beneath it: green light.

Magic Eye.

The eye glows. Not just vision—awareness. The entire courtyard becomes a web. Mana streams crawl along the walls, drip down to the floor, stretch through the air. She sees them. Sees where the power gathers. Sees where it pulses. Where it comes from.

The mage's position. Behind a column, near a shattered window, in shadow—white cloak.

Lunge.

Explosion.

Another lunge.

Her body rips through space. Sword sweeps diagonally. She sees where the spell is forming, where the channel opens.

Strike.

But the blade passes through. The cloak collapses, falls. The body—gone.

In its place—movement.

Spiders. Glowing. Dozens. Crawling from folds of fabric, from the shadows, from within. Swelling. One pauses and—

Explosion.

Laughter. Nasty, scraping, inhuman.

"Got you, bitch!" the spider-voice screeches, ragged and hoarse. A ring on his finger flares. Crumbles. It saved his life.

Silence.

For a moment, the battlefield freezes. Everything goes dull. Like the world held its breath.

Dust settles slowly, like ash after fire. The air is thick, like the hall exhaled and can't breathe back in.

Ghislaine is on one knee. Her body torn, a gash across her shoulder, chest pierced in multiple spots, skin ripped, blood flowing from a dozen points at once. Breathing heavy. Hands trembling. Her aura dims.

And then—something flares inside. Not light. A call.

Fur bursts from the wounds—not as defense, but as flesh. The wounds don't close. They change. Disappear beneath new muscle. Claws extend. Her chest arches. Pupils narrow, glowing.

Behind her—a figure takes shape. A giant cat. White, half-transparent, like a spirit, like a knot of fury and will. It stands like a shadow, but you feel it. Like heat.

Ghislaine is changing. No longer human. Movements turn sharp. Her gaze is forward.

"You fucking monster…" he shrieks, eyes wide. All his swagger gone. The spiders around him start to move. Glowing. One after another—they're ready to blow.

He turns and runs.

The spiders crawl toward her. A wave. Across floor, walls, air. Each of them flaring inside.

But Ghislaine's no longer there.

Speed spikes. Her body—a flash.

In one move she dives through a crack. Stone shatters. A leap—up. In a blink, she's on the second floor. Behind her—explosion.

Fire, dust, debris. Everything collapses.

Mid-run, she pulls a potion. The vial is cracked, neck broken, but there's still some left. Fingers snap it, lips catch the edge. She drinks.

The mutation fades. Aura steadies. The fur recedes. Wounds close.

Ghislaine breathes hard. Spits on the floor.

"Stupid little fuck…" through her teeth. "Now I'm actually pissed…"

Her eye glows again. Heat trail. Mana pulse. Direction. He's headed into the east corridor.

Lunge.

Leap.

She bursts into the passage. Long, narrow. Stone walls, arches, all blackened with soot.

"W-wait!" a shriek. Spider-voice cracking.

Ahead—him. Shaking. In his hands—a girl. Small, thin, covered in dust. Hair tangled. Face hidden in her hands. A trembling claw at her throat.

"She's the Count Foss's daughter!" he screams. "The only one left! You move—I kill her! That's why you came, isn't it?!"

Ghislaine stops.

One step—and silence. No growl. No pulse. No words. Just a stare. She looks at the girl. Then—at the Spider.

He's breathing in gasps. Claws trembling at her neck. Sweat rolls down his throat. His eyes dart. He won't look her in the face.

"Yeah! That's right!" he yells. "Drop the weapon, and we'll talk! Make a deal, got it?!"

Ghislaine doesn't answer. The sword still in her hand.

"Please… help…" the girl breaks, voice thin, sharp, like a frayed thread.

Ghislaine looks at her. Silent. One eye. Bright.

That's enough.

The Spider shakes harder. His hand tightens—but doesn't strike. Just holds. Holds her too close. Any blow would hit the girl. No clean angle.

Click.

Sword sheathed.

"So now we—"

He doesn't finish.

Light Slash.

No strike. No swing. A line of light. Like a crack in the air. Everything halts. Time locks. Sound vanishes.

Ghislaine is no longer in front of him.

She's behind him. Standing still. Dust still drifting. Her hair moves in the aftershock.

The Spider's body falls. Slowly. The upper half separates from the legs. With it—the girl.

The strike passed through both. The blade chose nothing.

The cloak's torn, hair tangled, face soaked in blood—now hers. Chest opened. Death instant. Her hands still clutch at air. Fingers twitch. Then freeze.

They fall together. One mass. Flesh, bone, scraps of cloth. Cooling fast.

Ghislaine stands nearby. Doesn't look down. Looks away.

"Who told you I gave a fuck…"

The last thing he ever hears.

***

P.S. Next chapter tomorrow.