The Regressed SSS-Rank Water Mage Wants To Live a Calm Life-Chapter 35: A Morning Without Frilo
See, the morning hours were extremely unfriendly to Maxwell.
First of all, the harsh rays of the morning sun that filtered through his open window poured directly on his face, heating his eyes even as they were closed.
Then came the cold. The breeze blew against Maxwell, who was dressed in only underwear, causing goosebumps to flood his entire skin. This act of sleeping without any clothes on was becoming a habit, it seemed. A bad one. But not one he planned to quit anytime soon.
To Maxwell, the feeling of coming home at night, drunk to a stupor, barely able to make out left or right, and having to find his way to his own bedroom in a daze was unmatched. There was no way he was going to dress up in a pretty nightdress just to sleep, so of course, he just dumped his clothes somewhere on the floor.
And speaking of his room...
Maxwell’s eyes finally fluttered open, and he covered his eyes with a hand, filtering the amount of rays that made their way to his bright blue eyes.
Blinking and yawning, he stretched on the bed, rolling lazily until he finally decided to sit up.
He gazed around the room.
A smirk curled up on his lips.
Indeed, this was a significant step up from the mundane wooden room in the shared mercenary accommodation.
Maxwell had escorted home the drunken Vin last night. The Silver Swordsman couldn’t even make out his left or right, and Maxwell, who was drunk himself, had to wrap the middle-aged man’s arm around his shoulder to lead him home.
After he did all that, Max, barely remembering the words of the receptionist, had to track down his own home with shaky, puzzling clues that his mortal, drunken brain had chopped up.
That was how he located this house in a daze. Deep in the inner districts of Ludia, where most low-tier nobles lived.
Maxwell’s gaze found the ceiling. It wasn’t wooden. Instead, it was made up of blocks. Painted white, with a crystal chandelier hung upside down.
His room was painted teal, a soft accent of milk contrasting with the overall color of the room. And his bed, at the southern end of the room, sat close to the window. Little wonder he felt so cold.
Suddenly, Maxwell winced, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and index finger. A headache had attacked him mid-sightseeing, banging against his skull, and causing the young man to feel as if he carried a weight on his head, way too heavy for him.
Sighing, he stood up, shaking his head.
It was an effect of last night’s drinking.
Maxwell chuckled. He would endure it. A minor headache was nothing to him.
But–
"What am I going to eat?" Maxwell asked himself, a bit lost. He breathed in deeply. "I have no idea how to cook. I never needed to cook. I could stay twenty years without eating, after all. And if I so needed to eat, I had attendants to–"
He cut himself off, blinking. Then he remained quiet for a while, until he shook his head, smiling.
"You’re human now, Maxwell." He muttered to himself.
Making his way out of his bedroom, Maxwell groaned.
’Does the fact that I’m human mean I have to cook?’ He asked. Although he already knew the answer to his question.
He had to cook.
There was no Malik here. No Eithan to preserve food for him. Now, getting what to eat for breakfast was his life-or-death battle.
Just before he could open the door handle, Maxwell paused.
"Or I can just get something to eat in a tavern nearby. Or a restaurant. I could even eat there, but–" He held his words.
A calm voice flashed through Maxwell’s mind. To Maxwell, the voice was the sweetest one he’d ever heard. Memories of this voice had served as a lullaby to the Cacospheric guardian, Maxwell, for centuries, drowning out the sorrow of his heart every single night just to enable him to sleep. The voice was his sweetest embrace, his softest spot.
It was a feminine voice. Tender, hushed, and whispered. The lady sounded like a delicate damsel who would never hurt a fly. But Maxwell knew better. Rita was anything but delicate.
Her voice echoed through his mind:
’You know, one day you’ll have to learn how to cook for yourself, Max. It’s a valuable skill, honestly,’ her voice grew more tender, and Maxwell could feel her fingers scratching and caressing his hair smoothly as she spoke. ’It’ll help you out a lot. Even save someone’s life. I’ve once saved an almost dying child just by giving him food.’
Remembering her words and actions that tender evening, Maxwell smiled.
What had been his response to her? If Maxwell really tried to remember, it was probably something along the lines of–
Know what? He didn’t want to remember.
There was no reason to ruin this good moment with annoyance at his past, naive self.
Speaking of annoyance—
Maxwell opened the room door that led to a wide hallway.
—Where was Frilo?
The last Maxwell had heard from the spirit was...
’Uh, when was the last time I heard from Frilo again?’ He thought, walking down the wide, spacious hallway that led to the living room.
Maxwell placed a hand on his chin.
"I think it was when I needed to take the cores out of my pocket dimension," he spoke, voice all raspy. "Ah! Yes, Frilo’s still asleep."
He closed his eyes as he approached the sparsely furnished living room, adorned with various decorations.
Reaching his mind into his soul, he sensed his soul-link with Frilo.
Maxwell opened his eyes.
"Ah," he exclaimed.
Frilo had gone into a cyclical slumber. A siesta spirits took from time to time to recharge the essence of their beings, and to harmonize the strength of their souls.
It was sad because Maxwell planned to present the spirit with his plight, to judge if he should eat in a restaurant, or just learn how to cook, as Rita’s sweet voice had reminded him.
Well—
Maxwell shrugged, relaxing on one of the couches in the living room.
—He would have chosen to learn how to cook no matter Frilo’s choice.
And Frilo’s slumber wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It deserved the rest; it had been working itself out tirelessly ever since Maxwell regressed. Although it meant Maxwell would be somewhat powerless for a few days.
