Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 60 - 59: The Sword That Purrs Beneath the Bloodcy and the Fire Mage’s Reward

Chapter 60: Chapter 59: The Sword That Purrs Beneath the Bloodcy and the Fire Mage’s Reward

Chapter 59: The Sword That Purrs Beneath the Blood

A year and a half had evaporated like breath on frozen glass.

I was in the training chamber, shirtless and sweat-slick, flipping through data logs on my bio-pad while catching my breath. My latest sparring session with Kimchi had just concluded—a lovely little bout of ritualized murder-foreplay where she tried to remove my spleen and I tried not to disappoint her.

And today? She won.

Barely.

The scar across my chest was still wet.

My limbs ached in that yes-I-survived-but-it-cost-me kind of way.

But I was smiling.

Because finally—after all the grinding, sweating, bleeding, and recovering—I was ready.

I was leaving.

Not forever, not recklessly, but for real this time. An expedition. My first true solo venture out into the wider universe that didn’t involve crash-landing onto a hostile alien world and accidentally becoming a cult icon for a flesh-consuming mega-intellect.

Y’know. Growth.

When I’d first broached the subject with Crystal, I had fully expected screaming. Begging. Tactical emotional blackmail. Possibly an emergency lockdown of my biological systems "for my safety."

But instead, she’d gone full Mom Ultra™ and told me—with joy—that she’d been preparing for my departure in secret. Planning. Plotting. Coordinating. Stockpiling resources and routes. For me. ƒreewebɳovel.com

At the time, I assumed it was some multi-layered reverse-psychology trap to make me feel supported so I’d chicken out and stay wrapped in her many-armed embrace forever.

And it almost worked.

But no—Crystal was genuinely excited. Her only real condition? That my destination be deemed ’peaceful’ enough by the Hive’s standards.

Which, for reference, are stricter than a goddamn death cult’s dating policies.

So I did my homework.

I filtered out every hotspot, dead zone, and galactic barbecue pit currently marinated in interstellar fuckery.

I learned that any system with "Weapons of Galactic Destruction" (or WGD for short) was an automatic hell-no. Those were hot zones. Hive law said I wasn’t allowed within a hundred light years of those chucklefucks unless I was personally wielding my own star-killing horror.

Ker’min space? Also off-limits.

Turns out after our little joyride, their military had quadrupled its frontline density and switched to a strategy best described as "scorch everything and hope the Hive gets indigestion." They’d been torching border planets and only engaging in maximum-extermination combat tactics.

Which, while flattering, meant I was officially banned from going anywhere near them until further notice.

That left three viable options.

Option One: An ocean-heavy solar cluster. Twenty-plus waterlogged planets, all blissfully primitive and filled with biological resources. The Hive had dubbed it a nutrient goldmine, a future harvesting site.

I passed.

I wasn’t about to reformat my body into some deep-sea abomination just to swim with primordial fish gods. Not unless I got gills and abs out of it.

Option Two: A psionic reach node located within a "Galactic Conclave of United Biostructures."

Read: Rock men. Tree men. Sentient coral that practices law.

Fascinating stuff. Evolution had clearly gotten drunk and played mad scientist. I wanted to study them. Desperately. But unfortunately, I looked like a fleshy jellybaby to them, and squishy bipeds apparently violated some kind of aesthetic zoning law.

I’d stand out.

And standing out in a council of chlorophyll demagogues is a one-way ticket to vivisection.

Option Three? The galaxy I was born in.

Home sweet fucking chaos.

The Hive presence there was minimal—just a few elite operatives, some sleeper bio-cults, and a constant war between a bunch of paranoid hyperpowers.

But the good news?

Nobody knew how the Hive worked.

Not really.

The bio-infiltrator cults were still burrowing deep. Only two had been discovered in almost thirty years. One got torched during a Spartari civil war that ended with the entire planet getting glassed. The other got sniffed out by a Seer from the Coalition of United Species—who purged it before it could report anything back.

In short: I’d be unknown. Hidden. Safe.

And that made it perfect.

---

"Kimchi, enough." I groaned, glancing down at her tongue still pressed to my chest wound like a horny medic with boundary issues. "Pretty sure it’s healed by now."

She gave it one last, exaggerated mleeeeeeh—a lick so dramatic it should’ve had orchestral accompaniment—then leapt onto me like an amorous spider and locked her legs around my waist.

"You taste irresistible," she whispered, face buried in my neck. "Orchid must drink deeply of her mate~"

"Sure, sure," I muttered, rubbing the back of her head. "Or you could stop cheating, you absolute bugged-out brat."

She stilled.

Dead silent.

Because she knew.

"You think I didn’t notice?" I said, voice rising like a disappointed dad about to deliver the ultimate middle-school punishment. "You sped up right at the end. Way past the agreed limit."

Silence.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought. No treat for two days. That’s your punishment."

Kimchi gasped. Pure theatrical horror.

"NOOO! Tonight was Orchid’s scheduled mating night!"

I grabbed her cheeks and pulled them apart like a disapproving squirrel god. "Well, then you should’ve thought about that before opening my ribcage, stink bug."

I sighed and stretched. "Now come on. I’ve got pre-departure packing to do. If you help, I might shave some time off your punishment."

Before the words had fully left my mouth, she was gone. A blur of pheromones and manic speed, sprinting off to gather supplies like the horny little gremlin she was.

Honestly, I probably was just in the way at this point.

---

To my left, hovering in the air like a holy relic with unresolved trauma, was Kiya. The blade. My partner.

My good sword.

I glanced at her.

"Got time to kill. Wanna get oiled?" I asked.

The moment the word "oiled" passed my lips, she flew into my hand with a mechanical vrrrrm, vibrating like a cursed sex toy designed by a goth blacksmith.

"Eager today, are we?" I teased, strolling toward the maintenance alcove.

I laid her reverently on her custom table. Picked up a cloth. Doused it in a rich, gleaming lubricant compound designed for bio-conductive weaponry.

"Looking forward to our big trip?" I asked, voice casual.

Her vibration intensified. The resonance tickled my palm and echoed into my bones.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

I began polishing the blade’s surface, slow and loving. Her face gleamed. Her core hummed. But when I ran my oiled index finger down the fuller—that gorgeous blue groove that ran along her length—she went silent.

Dead still.

This always happened.

Every damn time.

"I’m fingering a sword," I muttered to myself, voice dry. "Yep. That’s where my life’s at."

I flipped her over.

Gave the flat of her blade a playful slap.

She buzzed again.

"Fucking mental," I chuckled, before finishing the oiling process.

Kiya didn’t need oil.

She was a power weapon. She regenerated. Maintained herself. Burned impurities away with psionic harmonics.

But maintenance wasn’t about need.

It was about respect.

She was my partner. Not just a tool. Not just a blade. A being. A relic. A memory.

I held her up to the lights and watched her shimmer.

"My belle of the battlefield," I whispered. "Feared by all. Envied by many. Gorgeous even when bloodstained."

---

Inside my Mindspace, the fractured consciousness within Kiya stirred.

She wanted to give me something. Something real. Something warm.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

She needed biomass. Fresh. Wet. Alive. Only then could she shape something of herself into a gift. Something worthy of her wielder.

---

"Ah. Found it," I said aloud, crouching and pulling something from under the bench.

A scabbard.

Not just any scabbard.

This one had been made from the hide of that monstrous Ker’min we’d slain together. Tanned and alchemically hardened, inlaid with psionic runes and biological glyphs.

"I know you like to float, sweetheart," I said to her, "but not everyone’s used to seeing haunted weapons hover like horny ghosts. When we’re outside Hive territory, subtlety matters."

Kiya didn’t fight it.

She slipped into the scabbard without resistance.

Inside her consciousness, the memory of that battle surged. The moment she pierced that creature’s core. The taste of its essence. The brief clarity it gave her. The rush.

Strapping her to my back, I tested the draw.

The sheath had a side-cut slit along the left—custom-built for quick-draw theatrics without the usual contortionist bullshit.

I pulled.

Whoosh.

A perfect draw. Gleam, tension, flare.

I struck a pose.

Behind me, a random passing warrior saw the flourish and let out an excited gasp like a fangirl at a concert.

I bowed slightly, smirking.

Then released Kiya, who floated behind me, spun once, and gently sheathed herself like a maiden slipping into bed.

I exhaled.

"Good sword."

---

To Be Continued Chapter 59: The Sword That Purrs Beneath the Blood

A year and a half had evaporated like breath on frozen glass.

I was in the training chamber, shirtless and sweat-slick, flipping through data logs on my bio-pad while catching my breath. My latest sparring session with Kimchi had just concluded—a lovely little bout of ritualized murder-foreplay where she tried to remove my spleen and I tried not to disappoint her.

And today? She won.

Barely.

The scar across my chest was still wet.

My limbs ached in that yes-I-survived-but-it-cost-me kind of way.

But I was smiling.

Because finally—after all the grinding, sweating, bleeding, and recovering—I was ready.

I was leaving.

Not forever, not recklessly, but for real this time. An expedition. My first true solo venture out into the wider universe that didn’t involve crash-landing onto a hostile alien world and accidentally becoming a cult icon for a flesh-consuming mega-intellect.

Y’know. Growth.

When I’d first broached the subject with Crystal, I had fully expected screaming. Begging. Tactical emotional blackmail. Possibly an emergency lockdown of my biological systems "for my safety."

But instead, she’d gone full Mom Ultra™ and told me—with joy—that she’d been preparing for my departure in secret. Planning. Plotting. Coordinating. Stockpiling resources and routes. For me.

At the time, I assumed it was some multi-layered reverse-psychology trap to make me feel supported so I’d chicken out and stay wrapped in her many-armed embrace forever.

And it almost worked.

But no—Crystal was genuinely excited. Her only real condition? That my destination be deemed ’peaceful’ enough by the Hive’s standards.

Which, for reference, are stricter than a goddamn death cult’s dating policies.

So I did my homework.

I filtered out every hotspot, dead zone, and galactic barbecue pit currently marinated in interstellar fuckery.

I learned that any system with "Weapons of Galactic Destruction" (or WGD for short) was an automatic hell-no. Those were hot zones. Hive law said I wasn’t allowed within a hundred light years of those chucklefucks unless I was personally wielding my own star-killing horror.

Ker’min space? Also off-limits.

Turns out after our little joyride, their military had quadrupled its frontline density and switched to a strategy best described as "scorch everything and hope the Hive gets indigestion." They’d been torching border planets and only engaging in maximum-extermination combat tactics.

Which, while flattering, meant I was officially banned from going anywhere near them until further notice.

That left three viable options.

Option One: An ocean-heavy solar cluster. Twenty-plus waterlogged planets, all blissfully primitive and filled with biological resources. The Hive had dubbed it a nutrient goldmine, a future harvesting site.

I passed.

I wasn’t about to reformat my body into some deep-sea abomination just to swim with primordial fish gods. Not unless I got gills and abs out of it.

Option Two: A psionic reach node located within a "Galactic Conclave of United Biostructures."

Read: Rock men. Tree men. Sentient coral that practices law.

Fascinating stuff. Evolution had clearly gotten drunk and played mad scientist. I wanted to study them. Desperately. But unfortunately, I looked like a fleshy jellybaby to them, and squishy bipeds apparently violated some kind of aesthetic zoning law.

I’d stand out.

And standing out in a council of chlorophyll demagogues is a one-way ticket to vivisection.

Option Three? The galaxy I was born in.

Home sweet fucking chaos.

The Hive presence there was minimal—just a few elite operatives, some sleeper bio-cults, and a constant war between a bunch of paranoid hyperpowers.

But the good news?

Nobody knew how the Hive worked.

Not really.

The bio-infiltrator cults were still burrowing deep. Only two had been discovered in almost thirty years. One got torched during a Spartari civil war that ended with the entire planet getting glassed. The other got sniffed out by a Seer from the Coalition of United Species—who purged it before it could report anything back.

In short: I’d be unknown. Hidden. Safe.

And that made it perfect.

---

"Kimchi, enough." I groaned, glancing down at her tongue still pressed to my chest wound like a horny medic with boundary issues. "Pretty sure it’s healed by now."

She gave it one last, exaggerated mleeeeeeh—a lick so dramatic it should’ve had orchestral accompaniment—then leapt onto me like an amorous spider and locked her legs around my waist.

"You taste irresistible," she whispered, face buried in my neck. "Orchid must drink deeply of her mate~"

"Sure, sure," I muttered, rubbing the back of her head. "Or you could stop cheating, you absolute bugged-out brat."

She stilled.

Dead silent.

Because she knew.

"You think I didn’t notice?" I said, voice rising like a disappointed dad about to deliver the ultimate middle-school punishment. "You sped up right at the end. Way past the agreed limit."

Silence.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought. No treat for two days. That’s your punishment."

Kimchi gasped. Pure theatrical horror.

"NOOO! Tonight was Orchid’s scheduled mating night!"

I grabbed her cheeks and pulled them apart like a disapproving squirrel god. "Well, then you should’ve thought about that before opening my ribcage, stink bug."

I sighed and stretched. "Now come on. I’ve got pre-departure packing to do. If you help, I might shave some time off your punishment."

Before the words had fully left my mouth, she was gone. A blur of pheromones and manic speed, sprinting off to gather supplies like the horny little gremlin she was.

Honestly, I probably was just in the way at this point.

---

To my left, hovering in the air like a holy relic with unresolved trauma, was Kiya. The blade. My partner.

My good sword.

I glanced at her.

"Got time to kill. Wanna get oiled?" I asked.

The moment the word "oiled" passed my lips, she flew into my hand with a mechanical vrrrrm, vibrating like a cursed sex toy designed by a goth blacksmith.

"Eager today, are we?" I teased, strolling toward the maintenance alcove.

I laid her reverently on her custom table. Picked up a cloth. Doused it in a rich, gleaming lubricant compound designed for bio-conductive weaponry.

"Looking forward to our big trip?" I asked, voice casual.

Her vibration intensified. The resonance tickled my palm and echoed into my bones.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

I began polishing the blade’s surface, slow and loving. Her face gleamed. Her core hummed. But when I ran my oiled index finger down the fuller—that gorgeous blue groove that ran along her length—she went silent.

Dead still.

This always happened.

Every damn time.

"I’m fingering a sword," I muttered to myself, voice dry. "Yep. That’s where my life’s at."

I flipped her over.

Gave the flat of her blade a playful slap.

She buzzed again.

"Fucking mental," I chuckled, before finishing the oiling process.

Kiya didn’t need oil.

She was a power weapon. She regenerated. Maintained herself. Burned impurities away with psionic harmonics.

But maintenance wasn’t about need.

It was about respect.

She was my partner. Not just a tool. Not just a blade. A being. A relic. A memory.

I held her up to the lights and watched her shimmer.

"My belle of the battlefield," I whispered. "Feared by all. Envied by many. Gorgeous even when bloodstained."

---

Inside my Mindspace, the fractured consciousness within Kiya stirred.

She wanted to give me something. Something real. Something warm.

But she couldn’t.

Not yet.

She needed biomass. Fresh. Wet. Alive. Only then could she shape something of herself into a gift. Something worthy of her wielder.

---

"Ah. Found it," I said aloud, crouching and pulling something from under the bench.

A scabbard.

Not just any scabbard.

This one had been made from the hide of that monstrous Ker’min we’d slain together. Tanned and alchemically hardened, inlaid with psionic runes and biological glyphs.

"I know you like to float, sweetheart," I said to her, "but not everyone’s used to seeing haunted weapons hover like horny ghosts. When we’re outside Hive territory, subtlety matters."

Kiya didn’t fight it.

She slipped into the scabbard without resistance.

Inside her consciousness, the memory of that battle surged. The moment she pierced that creature’s core. The taste of its essence. The brief clarity it gave her. The rush.

Strapping her to my back, I tested the draw.

The sheath had a side-cut slit along the left—custom-built for quick-draw theatrics without the usual contortionist bullshit.

I pulled.

Whoosh.

A perfect draw. Gleam, tension, flare.

I struck a pose.

Behind me, a random passing warrior saw the flourish and let out an excited gasp like a fangirl at a concert.

I bowed slightly, smirking.

Then released Kiya, who floated behind me, spun once, and gently sheathed herself like a maiden slipping into bed.

I exhaled.

"Good sword."

---

To Be Continued

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