Chapter 32: Competitive Spirit

“What if… it’s a partnership?”

I paused, then spoke.

“Partnership? What can you offer me?”

Darryl scoffed.

“First, tell me what you want.”

“The Essence of Life Elixir—I heard it was found in Roen ruins, so I want clues from your ancient scroll,” I said bluntly.

Darryl’s gaze hesitated, words caught in her throat.

“Little girl…”

“What?”

I saw her eyes scan me from head to toe.

“Uh… if a kid your age feels anxious about her looks, that’s normal. Big sister here’s been there, a hundred years ago, just like you. No need to feel inferior—your face is fine, skin’s fair, features cute.

Eat well, sleep well, you’ll grow into a rare beauty. No need for shady potions—alchemists make those up to scam people…”

Why?

Why this sudden motherly tone, like soothing a tantrum?

My skin crawled, ears burning, and I rushed to explain.

“No, that’s not it! I’m not some little girl—”

“Eh? Such a cute kid, not a girl? That’d be a shame.”

“You’re misunderstanding! It’s not about me—it’s for a friend…”

“Yeah, I had a ‘friend’ when I was young too…”

“It’s not for me, really! I have a… friend, yeah, he’s disabled, and I heard this elixir can heal disabilities, so I want to help him…”

I blurted out, finally clarifying.

“…Really?”

“What else would it be?”

Darryl’s expression froze, her lips tight, eyes darting away.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Trying to dodge?

I stepped in front of the half-elf warrior, pleading.

“Please, help me—it’s really important.”

“So, this friend… means a lot to you?”

Darryl asked suddenly.

I froze, unsure how to answer.

“Well… I guess, probably important…”

No doubt, Nolan’s vital to this world.

But to me?

To Kritiya and me, is he that important?

When I control her body, teasing Nolan and watching his reactions is undeniably fun.

When Kritiya’s awake, just eating, strolling, living together in the house—even if she’s in charge, I don’t mind.

Sharing her senses, peering through her eyes, time flows like a clear stream, making me forget the days’ passing, sinking into it.

Like an audience immersed in a story, mistaking scripted actions for my own natural choices.

‘But are these feelings enough reason?’

I thought.

I don’t dislike Nolan’s company, but maybe that’s just the “main character” filter from the novel.

Readers side with the narrator, ignoring objective truths, blindly trusting deeper and deeper.

If it was someone else, doing the same things, saying the same words, would I still find it fun?

Feel nothing?

Or grow annoyed?

I couldn’t answer.

“You’re really thinking this through, huh?”

Darryl’s voice broke in, carrying a faint smile.

“Truth is, I do need a trustworthy mage for the ancient scroll, and what I’m doing next carries risks—could even cost lives. But ‘trustworthy’ means knowing what you need, what you want, so you can bear the risks willingly.

You said partnership? Fine, but once you’re my partner, I won’t treat you like a kid. No whining, no crying—if you get hurt or die, that’s on you.

So, think hard—does he justify that risk? Come back when you’re sure.”

Darryl shook her head and left the room.

***

Midnight, Nolan woke to rustling sounds.

He opened his eyes groggily, feeling his left arm weighed down.

The house had one big bed for Diya and Kritiya.

Nolan slept on a floor mat by the door, behind a curtain for privacy.

What’s going on…

Nolan thought, looking left, spotting a silver-gray, fluffy head beside him.

“Tiya—”

Nolan’s heart jumped, but before he could speak, his mouth was covered.

Her hand—so cold—

Nolan blinked.

Kritiya, still covering his mouth, sat up and straddled him.

Her weight shifted from his arm to his legs.

In the dark, her face was unclear, but she whispered.

“Don’t wake Diya.”

Nolan nodded silently, and she released his mouth.

Phew—

This scene felt familiar.

Nolan exhaled, about to whisper, when a rustle sounded.

A candle flared to life—no spark or flint, just a red flame leaping in the dark.

The thick curtain ensured Diya, used to studying behind it, wouldn’t wake.

In the flickering yellow light, Nolan saw Kritiya clearly.

Wearing only a light nightgown, bare legs, she knelt over him, the candle in her right hand lighting half her face—one side shadowed, one side bright.

Nolan opened his mouth, hesitated, and let her speak first.

But she just stared, green eyes holding an unreadable emotion.

Drip.

Melted wax ran down her fingers, dripping onto Nolan’s right arm below.

“Hiss—”

The burning sting made Nolan wince, sucking in air.

He realized they couldn’t keep staring like this.

***

I hadn’t expected Nolan to wake, but maybe I hoped he would.

Darryl’s words echoed all day, posing a dilemma: risk my life for a vague elixir?

If it was just me, I’d decide freely.

But this life isn’t just mine—I don’t even know if I have the right to gamble it.

I needed a reason, whether from myself or Nolan, didn’t matter.

Just a reason to push forward or give up.

Thinking this, I looked at the boy beneath me, wanting him to give me one, but unsure how to ask.

Nolan’s body twitched.

I frowned, unsure why.

Then he sat up, grabbed my hand, his fingers weaving into mine.

“Easy, don’t fuss—let go and set the candle down,” he whispered, breath brushing my ear.

I realized the wax had dripped on him.

Guilt flared, but then a strange, angry shame overtook it.

“Easy? Don’t fuss?”

Darryl did it, now Nolan—treating me like a child when I’m a reliable adult—

“You let go first,” I said, frowning.

Nolan’s brow twitched.

“Nope—you first,” he countered.

“You first,” I insisted, pushing harder, trying to make him yield.

But he pushed back, teeth gritted, eyes flashing with a cocky, competitive glint.

Oh—I got it.

This kind of thing’s common, right?

In my past life, before my heart condition in sixth grade, boys would compete over silly things—wrestling, hand-gripping, breath-holding, or staring contests where the first to laugh lost.

After my diagnosis, I became a fragile vase no one dared touch.

No sports, no games, just sitting with girls during breaks, chatting quietly.

That competitive spirit is contagious.

Nolan’s defiance sparked something in me, recalling carefree days before illness, roughhousing without worry.

Our hands, gripping the candle, locked tight.

We stopped talking, pushing silently.

The flame swayed—tilting to me, then him.

Melted wax dripped between our fingers.

We clenched our jaws, as if crying out meant losing.

The candle shortened, like a timer.

Kritiya’s a year younger than Nolan.

Despite years of sword training, she’s not a full warrior, her arms slimmer than his.

At our mortal level, gender and age gaps in strength showed.

My wrist ached, faltering—

The flame neared my hand; being higher, I’d burn first and lose—

I braced for one last push, then felt breath on my face.

Nolan—he blew out the candle.

“Fine, I give up.”

His voice made me look up, stunned.

I wanted to protest, but he grinned, laughing.

It should’ve been loud, but fearing Diya waking, it came out as stifled gasps.

Laughter, like competition, spreads.

I couldn’t help giggling.

“Pfft—what’s that face?”

“Shh—ha—if Diya hears, we’re done.”

“You—let go, pfft, I don’t need your pity… you win—”

“No—can’t, haha, what’s wrong?”

“The wax—it hardened, our hands are stuck, your fault—what now—pfft…”

“Your candle—ha, how’s it my fault?”

“Your fault, your fault—do something, we can’t stay… stuck, I’m out of strength.”

“Hey, you’re slumping? Hold on, push a bit… wax is brittle—”

My stomach ached from holding in laughter.

I doubled over, my wax-stuck right hand pressed against his, my head resting on his chest for support.

Nolan was likely the same, gasping to stifle laughs, head slumping unceremoniously on my shoulder.