14. Ferd's Fang (2)

My body feels heavy.

That's probably because Maeve has settled into my arms and fallen into a deep sleep.

My throat ached from passing out earlier, and a cough rose naturally, but I clenched it down with effort, afraid she might wake.

"…Mmm."

As I struggled painfully to suppress the cough, some faint tremor must have reached her—she murmured and shifted her body with careful slowness.

…How do I escape.

I'd considered biting my tongue hard enough to draw blood and killing myself that way, but that method would be neither efficient nor quick—just pain—so I abandoned it.

But if I endured until morning like this, I'd end up as Maeve's slave, caught somewhere between living and dying.

Knowing her, she'd encase my body in wax and turn me into a living doll.

A life spent as a decorative object, unable even to die—that was far worse than any fugitive existence. I had to escape somehow.

Carefully, I moved my hand toward her waist, reaching for the musket she kept on her, keeping every motion so quiet that not even the faintest rustle could be heard.

With that gun, I could end this cleanly.

My cautiously moving fingers made contact with the grip—a soft thud.

The handle was made of fine ebony wood. I closed my hand around it, and self-destruction felt almost within reach.

"What are you doing."

"…!"

"Trying to kill yourself?"

Maeve's eyes opened mechanically the moment she sensed a hand on her weapon.

"Gkh—!"

"Go back to sleep. Otherwise you'll be tired tomorrow."

She grabbed my throat and tightened her grip, trying to knock me unconscious again.

I yanked the musket free from her waist and pressed the muzzle to my temple.

I had no desire to let this encounter drag on any longer. I pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Click—.

"……."

Click. Click—.

No matter how many times I pulled the trigger, the gun didn't fire.

It clearly had weight to it—loaded, powder and all—and yet.

My grip on the musket faltered as the lack of oxygen from her chokehold set in. Maeve released me and explained in a flat, expressionless tone.

"If you don't have enough mana, the powder won't ignite. That's why it won't fire."

…Stat requirements.

A weapon that can't perform unless you meet a minimum threshold.

For me, barely at level ten, the musket Maeve carried was nothing but a pretty, useless prop—incapable of firing a single shot.

"Dean is incredibly weak. Can't even fire a gun."

She'd stopped choking me just before I blacked out, and now her fingers grazed my cheek with idle curiosity.

I tried to pick the musket back up and resist with the blade, but Maeve simply moved it out of reach, as if to say: stop struggling.

"Don't worry. Even if Dean is weak, I can protect you."

"I don't… need that…."

In the end, with no other options left, I resorted to my last means of self-destruction—biting down hard on my tongue.

Not the shallow bite from before that only brought pain without result. This time I pressed deep with my molars, trying to open a wound fast enough to finish it quickly.

"Don't even think about it."

"Kgh—!"