The Cursed Extra-Chapter 117: [2.65] Tools, Weapons, and Other Things That Aren’t Supposed to Have Feelings
"The most dangerous weapon is one that starts thinking for itself."
***
"My body is a tool," I replied. My tone came out harsher than intended. The words were sharp. Edged with a cruelty I didn’t entirely feel. "Tools get damaged in use. What matters is accomplishing the objective."
Her shoulders tightened. A barely perceptible flinch that betrayed the impact of my words. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t lower her gaze in the submissive posture she usually adopted when I pushed back against her concerns.
The fire in her crimson eyes didn’t waver.
If anything, it burned brighter.
"And what happens when the tool breaks completely?" Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. Carried all the weight of genuine fear. "What becomes of our plans then?"
"Then you continue without me." I delivered the words with clinical detachment. Each syllable carefully placed. "You have the intelligence network. The skills. The connections we’ve built together. The Twilight Society doesn’t depend on any single person."
"It depends on you."
The whisper cracked at the edges.
Her confession wasn’t a weight in the air.
It was a crack in my armor.
I had forged a weapon. An extension of my will. A tool shaped to my purposes.
But the weapon was beginning to think. To feel. To fear.
And a weapon that fears for its wielder is an unpredictable thing indeed.
I turned away. Pretended to study the maps spread across my desk. The movement put my back to her. Created distance that felt like cowardice even as I told myself it was tactical necessity.
The pain in my ribs throbbed in time with my heartbeat. A constant reminder of how fragile this body truly was. How fragile all my plans were.
"Your loyalty is noted," I said finally. Kept my voice neutral through sheer force of will. "But sentiment is a weakness we cannot indulge. If I fall, someone else must take up the mantle. The narrative doesn’t care about individuals. It cares about roles. And roles can be filled by anyone with the right qualities."
Lyra’s fingers tightened around the leather-bound book she always carried. Her grip was white-knuckled. The leather creaked slightly under the pressure.
"You’re not just a role to me," she whispered. The words so soft I almost missed them. Carried on a breath rather than truly spoken.
The admission hung between us.
I’d crafted Lyra to be the perfect weapon. Loyal beyond question. Capable beyond expectation. Merciless when necessity demanded.
But weapons weren’t supposed to develop their own attachments. Their own fears about losing their wielder.
Another complication. Another variable to manage.
I made myself meet her crimson gaze. Her eyes held a vulnerability I’d never seen before. A rawness that made me want to look away.
Instead, I held the contact. Acknowledged the moment even as I redirected it toward practical ends.
"Then make sure nothing happens to me." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Watch my back in the warrens. Be ready to extract me if things go wrong."
"How?" The question carried frustration alongside fear. "I’ll be here at the academy while you’re underground. Trapped behind walls and wards and protocols that won’t let me anywhere near the assessment zones."
A slow smile spread across my face as the final piece of the plan locked into place.
The expression felt foreign on my features. Too genuine for comfort.
"No, you won’t. You’re going to volunteer for the support staff."
Lyra blinked. Confusion displaced the worry that had tightened her features.
"Support staff?"
"Every assessment has emergency personnel standing by at designated stations throughout the warrens. Healers. Extraction specialists. Communication mages. They’re the safety net that makes the whole operation seem responsible rather than reckless."
I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward me and began sketching the layout I’d memorized from the novel’s detailed descriptions.
"They need servants to assist with equipment and logistics. Moving supplies. Preparing bandages. Running messages. Menial work that frees the actual professionals to do their jobs."
Understanding bloomed in her eyes. Drove away the shadows of concern.
"I’ll volunteer through normal channels. A dedicated servant wanting to support her master’s first real test."
"Exactly. The academy encourages such devotion. They see it as proof that the nobility inspires loyalty even among the common folk."
I continued sketching. Marked the positions where support staff would be stationed.
"You’ll have legitimate access to the warren entrance. You’ll know the emergency protocols and extraction routes. If something goes wrong..."
"I’ll be positioned to help." She finished the thought. Her voice gained strength as tactical considerations replaced emotional turmoil. "But more importantly, I’ll be your insurance policy."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"If the professors get too close to the truth about your abilities. If Laurana’s investigation threatens to expose everything..."
I fixed her with a direct stare.
"You’ll know what to do."
The predatory gleam returned to her eyes. The weapon remembering its purpose.
"Yes, Master. I’ll know exactly what to do."
Good. Let her believe I’m suggesting eliminating threats.
Sometimes the most effective orders are those never explicitly given.
The ambiguity was deliberate. Lyra would interpret my words according to her own instincts. Which meant she would prepare for the most extreme contingencies without me having to order actions that might haunt me later.
If Laurana became a genuine threat, Lyra would handle it.
If she didn’t, the matter would resolve itself through less drastic means.
Plausible deniability. The coward’s best friend.
I returned my attention to the warren map. Already calculating angles and timing.
Seven days to prepare.
Three days before Laurana received the entrance records that could unravel everything.
One afternoon to save four lives and steal whatever skills I could from the ensuing chaos.
The mathematics of survival were unforgiving. Every variable had to be accounted for. Every contingency planned for. Every possible failure anticipated and countered.
The original story had Team 7 dying to fuel Leo’s character development. A tragic sacrifice that would harden his resolve and deepen his hatred for the monsters that infested the kingdom.
But narratives could be rewritten.
Characters could be saved.
Fate could be challenged by anyone willing to pay the cost.
And if I executed this correctly, I’d emerge from the warrens more powerful than ever while appearing as nothing more than a fortunate survivor. A pathetic coward who stumbled into heroism through pure accident.
No one would suspect the truth because no one would believe the truth.
The weakest student in House Onyx, saving lives through careful planning and stolen skills?
Ridiculous.
Impossible.
Exactly.
The story wanted Rhys Blackwood dead in seven days.
I smiled at the map. At the red ink marking deaths that hadn’t happened yet.
Let’s see it try.
Lyra watched me with those crimson eyes. The fear had faded. Replaced by something that looked almost like hope.
"Master?" She hesitated. "Do you truly believe we can change the narrative? Save people who were meant to die?"
I looked up from the map. Met her gaze without flinching.
"I already have," I said. "You were supposed to hang a few weeks ago. And yet here you are."
The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward through her expression. Shock. Then understanding. Then something fierce and burning that had no name.
"Then I’ll make sure you keep rewriting stories," she said quietly. "Even if it kills me."
"It won’t." I turned back to the map. "That’s not how this narrative goes."
At least, not if I have anything to say about it.
