Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 2 - Chapter 7

Late Spring of the Twelfth Year (I)

Connection (II)

Different systems utilize connections in different ways, but some can play such a direct supporting role that they sway the PC party’s tale. They can award money, lend items, and even directly assist the party using their own skills.

At times, they develop intimate relationships with PCs as lovers or mortal enemies, and they are helpful storytelling tools that add a splash of color to any adventure.

A week had passed since our journey had been put on hold by a divine feast. The uneventful time that had followed made the pandemonium of the first day seem like a distant dream.

While I didn’t know why Elisa had stopped crying and begun interacting with Lady Agrippina more normally, I had no doubt the magus had done something clever to tickle my sister’s desire to learn. Our entire family had tried telling her she’d get to be a teacher, that we’d be very proud of her, and more, to no avail. I didn’t have the faintest clue how Lady Agrippina had managed to convince her, but all’s well that ends well.

A terrible chill had run down my spine at one point, but I’d chosen to ignore it as the spring air was still rather cool.

I stretched my back while sitting in my usual spot: the coach box. For the past few days, I’d manned the front of the carriage and the two marvelous black steeds that pulled it along. The vehicle was a standard stagecoach, like those ridden by noblemen in comics and movies.

Usually, the handling of the craft was left up to a spell—magic was almost too convenient—so there was no need for me to be here. This was my way of removing myself from the room to let Elisa study in peace. When I was around, she had trouble focusing because she’d try to get my attention.

All that said, my first journey by carriage wasn’t so bad. Rolling along while looking up at the open skies was enjoyable, and we passed by patrolling hussars every now and again whose gallant appearances were pleasing to the eye. They marched in minimalist garb, forming perfectly orderly lines, their long spears held at practiced, watchful ease. It was hard to put to words how dependable these disciplined symbols of peace and safety seemed to me.

I even got to see bands of what I could only presume to be adventurers. I saw an armor-clad man and a young girl shouldering a staff packed in the back of a passenger cart. Beside them were a woman clutching a holy crest and a peculiarly short bowman restringing his weapon—judging from his height, perhaps he was a floresiensis. Seeing an archetypal beginner party had my heart dancing with enthusiasm.

Adventuring doesn’t look as awful as everyone says, I thought. My expectations swelled. One day, I too hoped to gather my companions and set off like them. I would put forth my best effort to exterminate bandits, bask in the glamour of diving into forgotten ruins, and solve the kinds of trouble that would get my campaign recorded in history.

As I had thought, the royal road had its own unique charm. I once again resolved myself to do my best going forward.

In the past week, I’d received a great deal of instruction on the arcane in my spare time. Unlike miracles like Purify that could instantly cleanse anything from a dirty flask of water to a polluted river with the power of gods, magic did not have easy solutions. Housework handled with magic instead required me to assemble several spells into a complex formula.

What my magic text (aka the chore guidebook) failed to touch on, Lady Agrippina taught me herself. Specifically, she explained that magic could be broken down into three broad properties: mutation, migration, and manifestation. No matter how complicated the spell, these three elements could be used to describe it.

Mutation referred to the alteration of something that already existed. One could tweak the details of preexisting phenomena, like strengthening or weakening the flame of a bonfire. Otherwise, one could take a positive amount of kinetic energy and invert it into an equal deficit; in another example still, one could cause chemical reactions or physical severance. As the category that dictated changes in form, this could be said to be the most overtly magical property of the three.

Next was migration. As the name suggested, this pertained to the movement of a body. Shifting a mass physically through space naturally fell under this section, but it also included redirection of energies of all kinds. It even involved the transfer of properties from one thing to another, and one could overwrite an object’s characteristics entirely in this way. Flashy spells that raised walls and let the caster move in inhuman ways most commonly fell under this category.

Lastly, there was manifestation. This too deviated little from what one might expect: this was the property that explained how one could artificially bring something into being—from Is Not to Is. Manifestation was the most sophisticated branch of magic. Although spells were prone to twist the laws of physics, the general principle was to respect them while invoking an unbelievable effect. The world did not take kindly to Nots being, and to bend reality to one’s will to this degree was practically the work of gods.

Thus, manifestation was effectively the practice of giving one’s mana physical form and creating matter from it. By supplanting nothingness with mana that actually existed, mages told the world, “No, see? There is something here to make a new thing with.” Alternatively, they fooled reality into thinking that they were simply using magic to bolster something that already existed.

However, the theoretical explanations for how exactly manifestation worked varied wildly between the different cadres and subfactions at the college. It would be easy to fill an entire book if one were to study the matter too seriously. In fact, two or three lifetimes apparently wouldn’t even come close to enough time to understand it fully—and coming from a methuselah going on 150, that was saying something. I decided to keep it at an elementary level and store it in memory as “you can make stuff.”

Broadly, I had five major chores: cooking, cleaning, laundry, organization, and needlework. Of those, the ones that I primarily used magic for were cleaning and laundry. Cooking with magic could bring about unpredictable results (say, for instance, that a spell to create a fully prepared meal reverted after it was already in your gut), so it could only be used for auxiliary tasks. As far as organization went, I’d been told not to bother past keeping things orderly. Lastly, it was difficult to leave any lasting physical effect on anything I stitched together with magic, so my mana was relegated to powering a sewing automaton.

It seemed that the world blended together the convenience of TRPGs with the inconvenience of physical existence. Of course, if a spell alone sufficed to make a meal, that would cause the balance of the whole setting to come crashing down. Plus, nobody would bother buying portable meal kits (now with a full week’s rations!) ever again.

Besides, things would start feeling cheap if it were too easy to do everything. I’m sure some would disagree, but personally, I thought this razor-thin line between convenience and hardship gave the world flavor. The adjustments were so superb that I was certain I could share a wonderful drink with whoever designed the fundamental properties of this world.

My mind played host to both fancy and calculation as I picked up a handful of spells that I knew were it. Thankfully, my experience stockpile was deep in the black thanks to my run-in with the kidnapper and my existing savings.

The first one I picked up was a non-combat spell found under the job category of Arcane Attendant: Clean. As the name implied, the spell removed all filth from a location and amassed it together in one location. Additional mastery let me target a wider surface area and new types of grime. Even at III: Apprentice, this handy spell allowed me to pick up all the dust, dirt, sand, and mud on a wall that was about six tatami mats large. I imagined every mother in the empire would love to learn this spell.

It was genuinely amazing. I wished I’d had it in my past life. I ended up splurging to boost it to V: Adept, and now I could break down any kind of uncleanliness short of something being broken. Not only that, but it did so for the area of an entire studio apartment all at once. Dust and dirt was a given, but it even got rid of the stubborn grease and soot stains in the kitchen. The spell was the stuff of envy for anyone that appreciated hygiene.

The only issue was the quirk that required me to have the exact type of filth I was trying to clean in mind as I cast it; this meant I needed to investigate the origins of stains and the like before tackling them. The flaw stemmed from a fail-safe built into the magical equation to prevent someone from accidentally “cleaning up” the wallpaper—or worse, the wall itself—as opposed to the dirt on it. Considering that it was always more difficult to rebuild than destroy, this seemed like a necessary feature.

Still, I could have used it for quite the M-rated gorefest if I wanted to. Not that I would, okay? I’m sure anyone could come up with the kind of magic I had in mind: by peeling someone’s skin right off their body, I could turn a living person into an anatomical model. It was an intoxicatingly potent “last word” sort of spell, but I was well aware it was also the sort of thing someone who belonged on the pointier end of an adventurer’s sword would use.

I turned my attention away from this little trick. The Clean spell let me break down grime in laundry without even needing to soak the cloth in water using the process noted earlier. With this in hand, I would at least be able to fulfill the bare minimum of my duties as a servant. I figured I would learn more skills as they became necessary.

I looked up toward the heavens. The sun was already high in the sky, meaning we were due for a short rest.

“Madam, if I may?”

I spoke into a spell I’d woven and received an instant reply. As an aside, there was apparently some legal minutia that made it an issue for me to outright call her “master,” I couldn’t justify using her name considering our gap in social class, and we were far from friendly enough for nicknames. In the end, I’d chosen to keep it simple and refer to her as “madam.”

Interestingly, she’d demanded that I absolutely not call her “my lady.” Perhaps there was some sort of trauma buried there. As an unwed woman who held immense authority, I’d thought the term to be a perfect fit, but her glare had been curiously intense when I’d suggested it.

The Voice Transfer spell I was using allowed me to send a whisper into a mystic symbol and deliver it straight to the person who’d created it; it was perfect for an Arcane Attendant. Its only shortcoming was its inability to initiate two-way communication, so private conversations would require both parties to have the same skill.

“What is it?”

On the other hand, the voice echoing in my mind was being beamed into my head using the Thought Transfer spell found in the magus category. This one could initiate a two-way conversation, and forwent the need to physically speak, cutting down on the risk that one’s lips might be read. Between the two options, this one was superior in every way.

That said, to acquire Thought Transfer at I: Fledgling required as much experience as it took to bring Voice Transfer to VII: Virtuoso, so I couldn’t help but feel the feature gap was an accurate reflection of its cost. As helpful as Thought Transfer seemed, I had other priorities; the knockoff version would have to do. It was troubling how absurdly expensive every spell that had to do with the psyche was.

Setting that aside, I notified my liege that the day was getting along, and she decided that it was time for lunch. I pulled the carriage over on the side of the highway and began preparing for break time. Not to say that I had to do much, though.

Lady Agrippina was not so fond of the outdoors that she would include camping as part of her trip, hence our frequent stops. In the same vein, the rustic recipes of campfire meals offended her tongue; her meal was something she’d purchased at the last inn. Kept both warm and free of rot with an incantation, I hesitated to reduce the luxurious feasts she enjoyed at noon to a mere lunch box, but that was basically what it was.

My only job was to return to the carriage after its interior had been changed to a dining hall to set the table. Once I did so, Elisa was made to study manners over their meal. She’d never gotten a chance to attend the magistrate’s school, so our master was going out of her way to teach her these things. In truth, Elisa’s lessons were still on the basics of the basics: she was learning letters and the palatial tongue, and today’s lunch seemed just as stuffy as always.

Magic was not so kind or safe that an uneducated pauper could learn it well, according to Lady Agrippina. Her argument was rather convincing.

Me, you ask? I couldn’t stand eating the same things they did, and settled my meals with cheap breads and dairy products. I used a knife to split a giant loaf in two and stuffed it with whatever I had on hand to make a sandwich, which was more than enough. Truthfully, I wished for a bit of mayonnaise or mustard, but I figured I’d test creating those with a cooking skill down the road.

I shrugged off Elisa’s disdainful glare as she watched me prepare my unburdened commoner meal and returned to the coach box to enjoy my sandwich under the blue sky. The bread found at quality inns was made from only the best rye; unlike the loaves at cheaper motels that sat out after being baked in bulk, the texture was nice and fluffy. The subtle sour note paired well with the saltiness of sauerkraut or ham. I bet this would go great with oiled sardines or anything else with a bit of fat to it.

I finished up my simple yet delicious meal and decided to engage in a bit of exercise. The suspension of the carriage was exquisite—now that I looked, I saw that the axles weren’t even connected to the main body; how on earth was this thing moving?—so I wasn’t worried about my back aching or anything, but I needed to stretch my legs a bit.

We were quickly approaching the end of spring, and in any other year I would have been helping out with the pre-summer rush. The thawed ground needed to be tilled, seeds needed to be sown, and there was still a whole list of other chores to get done. My well-conditioned body was ringing the alarm bells, screaming, “Hey, why aren’t we moving?! It’s time for farmwork, isn’t it?!” If I remained sedentary now, I would have a hard time sleeping later.

The madam was the type to thoroughly enjoy her meals, and I figured I had at least another two hours before we resumed our journey.

I removed the cloak that protected me from dust and sand. I let Schutzwolfe dangle from my hips at all times in order to get used to my shifted center of gravity, but here I pulled her from her sheath.

My well-loved sword was over half as long as I was tall—unsheathing her required a delicate touch. Although she measured shy of most longswords, Schutzwolfe felt like a proper two-hander to my childish frame. Had either my Strength or Hybrid Sword Arts lagged behind, I suspected I would have been unable to wield the blade in one hand.

I gripped the handle with my right hand and held the sheath with my left. Instead of pulling with my arm, I turned my entire body to free the steel from its confinement. While it wasn’t quite easy, this technique let me pull out the blade without any unnatural movements.

I went through my training routine as usual, letting my body grow accustomed to the swings. A slash from above, the side, below, and a thrust were followed by a shift in posture and a rearrangement of the same attacks. I swung at the imaginary foe that stood before me.

My target was the joints: even the hardest of armors could not cover the whole of a body. Armpits, elbows, and inner thighs had to be kept open to preserve range of motion, and could only be protected by chain mail. With enough precision and skill, slicing through these weak points was a simple task.

The stronger an invisible opponent I could summon with my mind, the better. Like a certain martial artist, my ideal would be to envision a skilled foe who would come at me with pure intent to kill. Unable to accomplish this myself, I settled for fabricating a Sir Lambert++ to spar with.

Good, I’m all warmed up.

It was time to test out a few movements I’d had in mind. As was tradition, I’d spent over half of my accumulated experience points on one giant purchase: Parallel Processing.

This trait was indispensable for the style of magic-slinging swordsman I aimed to be. I wanted to take the kinds of spells usually reserved for major actions and cast them as my bonus actions.

There was no getting around the fact that magic required a good deal of thought. Who is the target? How will the spell function? When? How much energy should I use? These questions were just the things one needed to ask themselves to avoid a critical miss or fumble. With this many moving parts, it was a daunting task to get everything in order without serious concentration. The level of multitasking on display was well beyond that of texting while talking on the phone.

In which case, it didn’t matter how quickly I could cast a spell, how easy it was to use, or even how mana-efficient it was. I would always be one beat of broken focus away from losing access to the mystic half of my kit—and with it went the experience I’d dedicated to it.

My answer was Parallel Processing: it allowed me to knead together several unrelated trains of thought in my mind. This wasn’t the same as drifting into daydream while pretending to listen to someone speak; my brain now had the ability to activate a full-fledged second processing unit.

Magic wasn’t the only task that required thought. Swordplay had a whole host of its own intricacies to it. Knowing that no amount of Intelligence would give me the computing power necessary to do both simultaneously, I had treated myself to something I was sure to need in the future.

I hadn’t yet gotten used to the sensation of thinking two things at the same time. There was a peculiar discomfort that accompanied it, and it brought about strange internal conflict. Regardless, I figured that both strands of thought were me at the core, so I would inevitably get used to it.

One half of my consciousness wove together a spell and activated it. Mana spewed forth from the lunar ring on my left middle finger to take the form of an Unseen Hand. With a third appendage that couldn’t be seen, I would be able to—

That very instant, a terrible sensation took hold of me. My Adept Listening skill caught a familiar sound in the distance.

This...is the sound of an arrow being fired.

[Tips] One-handed swordplay of the West differs from the Eastern tradition. The reason a swordsman wields their blade only in their right hand is to allow them to carry a shield. Similarly, Hybrid Sword Arts follows the same principle: whether the left hand holds a shield or is merely a fist for an impromptu counterattack, leaving one’s non-dominant hand free is encouraged.

I could no longer remember when in my past life I’d heard this, but I knew that the speed of an arrow was forty-five meters per second, give or take depending on the quality of the bow. That meant it would travel at least forty meters the instant after being fired.

However, its speed couldn’t compare to that of electricity. The neurological signals that zipped between synapses in the brain yawned at the average projectile’s heel-dragging pace. Further, drag and gravity chipped away at the arrow’s initial velocity; with enough training, anyone could reasonably react in time.

With my impeccable Lightning Reflexes, I was moving by the time I’d heard the sound. I squatted down and turned to face the source of the noise, using my Parallel Processing to reroute my active Unseen Hand.

The arrow flew from the edge of a small forest a ways out from the road, but sank into my Unseen Hand before it could land its mark. This hand was mana given physical form—more than mere amorphous force—which meant that it could block things in midair. In essence, I could use it as a makeshift shield.

That aside, what the hell is going on?! Did I do something to deserve this?! More importantly, that was awesome! I’m so cool!

While praising myself for successfully stopping the arrow (in a mild state of panic), I looked out to the forest, where I could see shadows moving in the distance. There were several of them, and they’d realized their sneak attack had failed. A handful of figures rose from the thicket and began to approach.

Bandits! Their clothes and skin were dirty, and their hair flowed freely. Their hodgepodge of weaponry solidified their image as the most textbook muggers I could imagine. There was no other possible explanation for what they could be.

They numbered... Urp, that’s a lot. There were six of them: the one who’d fired the first shot stayed behind, but the other five were all sprinting toward me.

Argh, why are you guys posted out here of all places?! We’re far from the main road and there’s nothing around to rob! Wait, maybe they haven’t been caught precisely because we’re so out of the way? The imperial patrol needs to do its job!

A million thoughts raced through my mind, and I admit that I was in a state of disarray: otherwise, I would have hesitated instead of immediately deciding to throw down.

Later, when I’d calmed down, I would end up realizing something: nobody needed a servant like me to put my life on the line facing opponents like these. The madam was an unabashed powerhouse; I should have simply left them to her. Surely she could deal with these bandits with a snap of her fingers.

But she didn’t, because I didn’t think to ask. My mind was busy overheating from the nerves of my second real fight.

The first to charge at me was not a mensch, but a blue-skinned ogre. Is that what male ogres look like? He paled in comparison to Lauren, the bodyguard that I’d met long ago. Despite being remarkably muscular, his head only came up to where her chest had been, and his equipment was pitiful: his armor was in tatters, and his weapon was a rock fastened to a handle—a crude ax or mallet, maybe? His bloodshot eyes and drooling mouth hardly lived up to the ogreish reputation for dignity and discipline in war.

Above all else, he was artless—and mind you, this comes from a child with no real experience in battle. Everything from the way he ran to his overall appearance exuded a lack of training.

We crossed blades for but an instant. He’d abandoned the idea of striking and tried to tackle me with his sizable frame, but I stepped forward at an angle to dodge; as I did, I lifted Schutzwolfe with minimal force to slice through his underarm. My blade felt heavy, like when I cut through a particularly rigid target. Though the metallic skin and bones of ogres were tough, my swordplay and Schutzwolfe’s blade won out.

I glanced behind me to see blue blood (which I guess made it copper based, like with horseshoe crabs?) spurt from his wound as he writhed around on the floor. I’d cut from below the arm up his torso, nearly severing his shoulder.

“GURUAAAAAA!”

Does he not speak the common tongue? Although I found the ogre strange, I didn’t have time to get lost in thought. There were still five enemies left.

The next to approach were four goblins. They were one of the smallest of the demonfolk races, but while their stature was close to mine, they each had as much strength as a full-grown mensch. Short and light, they were famed as explorers of ruins and collectors of relics of all kinds. With reproductive properties second only to mensch, they were a common sight throughout the continent.

There had been goblin families in my hometown, and a few of their children had even been a part of our usual playgroup, so I recognized them right away. Yet something about them was off. Their weapons were shoddy—no metal, only carved wood—and I detected no semblance of strategy in their frenzied assault.

Are these really bandits?

I twitched the blade of my sword to follow my right flank, deflecting a thrust from one of their wooden spears—little better than pointy sticks. Knowing that he would have a chance to use the momentum to swing the butt of his spear at me if I pushed it away too hard, I gave it a soft tap. My aim was only to create an opening I could abuse, though with how out of their minds these goblins seemed to be, perhaps my skill was wasted on them.

Still, it would be no laughing matter if I got injured or died out of arrogance. Negligence had no place here; I vowed to treat every combat like I was the underdog.

“GYUAAAAA?!”

My parry was quickly followed by a restrained overhand swing that severed its left hand holding the sorry spear. The goblin crumpled, clutching its wrist with its remaining hand. It was in no state to continue; two down, four to go.

Up until this point, I’d engaged in two separate one-on-one fights. However, this time, two of the remaining goblins rushed at me from the flanks of the fallen spearman. One had a rusty dagger, and the other was equipped with a rock, but with an adult’s force behind them, those weapons were more than enough to kill me.

The last of the front guard was unarmed, but he’d evidently stumbled upon an ingenious idea. When one of his allies squatted down, he sprang off their back to leap for me. Though I doubted this maneuver was the result of teamwork, I ended up facing a three-pronged attack. How unlucky can I get? Who the hell is rolling these dice?!

Not even I could defend against this. Had it been two at a time, I could parry one and dodge the other with my current mastery of the blade. However, the oncoming strike from above complicated matters. Usually, this scenario would call for me to hop back a few steps to give myself some breathing room; I would have too...if this encounter had occurred last week.

I slashed at the brawniest dagger wielder without skipping a beat. Taking him down was easy: he’d been running straight at me to stab me with his knife in a reverse grip, and my sword’s reach was far longer than his. A stab to the shoulder was enough to neutralize him. The question was what came next—and I made my move without hesitation.

“GUA?!”

I channeled the spell that I’d been familiarizing myself with as of late and an impossible sensation filled my brain: it was tactile, coming straight from the force field summoned by my Unseen Hand.

Let it be known that this spell was more than a nifty tool to pick up spoons from behind the oven. A few custom tweaks were all it took to turn it into combat-ready magic. To begin with, a flimsy arm meant for picking up silverware wouldn’t be able to stop an arrow, now would it?

The unarmed goblin flailed helplessly in midair, unable to find his footing. My Unseen Hand had him by the head, and I tossed him straight at his compatriot who’d been running at me with a rock.

The force of impact was significant. Despite the fact that goblins only weighed in at around thirty kilograms, the stacking forces of my throw and gravity turned the demonfolk into a fine blunt weapon. Rightly so, since the thought of three sacks of rice falling on one’s head would cause most to say their final prayers.

Sounds of flesh pulverizing flesh echoed out as the two bodies tumbled away. It was so surreal that I might have laughed at them if a whizzing arrow hadn’t replaced their presence. Of course, judging the trajectory of an arrow was easy so long as I saw it leave the bow. Sir Lambert regularly caught the things and threw them back.

Still, I took a much more elegant approach. Magic is a field that understands the concept of augmentation: the spells mages cast are mystic equations in every sense of the word—as coded programs to deceive the world and bend it to one’s will, they can be rewritten to suit any number of interests. As with any user with a practical need and a silent, uncooperative dev team behind their software of choice, all I had to do was take matters into my own hands.

I’d truly been surprised when I’d first taken a look at my skills sheet after acquiring magic. Each spell had room for a slew of add-ons to alter its functions; at this rate, magic alone would fill a bookshelf with thick sourcebooks. Yet the mind-numbing mountain of information was an all-you-can-eat feast for someone like me. I had added three modifiers to Unseen Hand.

First came Steadfast Arm. Under normal conditions, the effective force of the hand scaled with Strength and Strength alone, regardless of how much experience I showered the spell with. However, this modification allowed me to expend extra mana to bolster its power.

Secondly, I’d taken Giant’s Palm. Again, the standard spell only allowed me to create appendages as large as my own, with similar reach, but this add-on allowed for extra mana to create more mass. If I pushed myself to my absolute limits, I could create a hand nearly as big as a twin-size mattress, and its range was based purely on line of sight, to borrow the terms of my favorite games.

Lastly, I’d taken Third Hand. The first two were rather reasonable (they were unassuming add-ons for an unassuming spell), but this last one was a little pricier. This allowed me to add the sense of touch to my Unseen Hands. To clarify, the hands did not originally give any tangible feedback; they were mere force fields that carried out their orders to specification. However, this meant finely controlling their power and speed was an insurmountable challenge. Perhaps I can express how difficult it was by likening it to an arcade claw machine where the claw is invisible.

With this trait, my see-through hands would have a tactile response, letting me control them more accurately. You may ask what I intended to do with this. While I’m sure some would immediately think of more lecherous uses...I thought it was best used as a powerful long-ranged attack.

“GUO?!”

My Hand flowed forth faster than sound and grabbed the ogre archer by the neck as he tried to nock another arrow. I’d mimicked the technique of the flashy swordsmen who crossed sabers in a galaxy far, far away. I’d been quite a fan of all the Darths as a child, you see...

Still, I refrained from following in their footsteps by choosing not to strangle the ogre to death. Instead, I kept a tight grip on his neck to limit the flow of blood for a few seconds until his struggling faded as my grip rendered him unconscious. Cutting off the carotid artery necessarily prevented new blood from flowing up, and any sentient creature that uses their brain to think is helpless against this technique.

Thus, the carnage of my first standard encounter came to a close in less than twenty seconds. I’d once thought that TRPG rounds ought to represent far more time than five or ten seconds, but now I had to eat my words. Each and every second was far richer than I’d ever imagined. Even with a handful each of adventurers and enemies, five seconds was an eternity in mortal combat.

My hands were quivering. The weight of the life I’d put at stake finally began to set in. I had only managed to hold myself steady during the battle thanks to Sir Lambert’s harsh, nearly life-or-death training.

I’m so glad... I’m so incredibly glad to be alive, and that I didn’t have to kill anyone.

“What are you up to now?” said a curious voice from the heavens. I peered up to see Lady Agrippina sitting on a dimensional tear, much like she’d done on the night of the hideous moon. It was at this moment that I first realized I should have stood back and let her deal with our attackers.

Wait a second. Why didn’t you help me if you noticed? Just as I prepared myself to give her a piece of my mind, she cut me off with a statement from left field.

“Why are you playing around with these daemons?”

What?

[Tips] Although demonfolk and daemons are made to be distinct, they are physiologically identical.

Agrippina du Stahl, first heiress to the Stahl Barony, was a gifted magus. Naturally, she knew well how she might meet her own demise and never let up her guard at any time. Although she acted listless and carefree, she always maintained the bare minimum of caution.

Her body was enveloped in protective magic at all times, and she never ceased casting detection spells as a preventative measure. These hidden defenses wrapped around her like a fortress; if one were to catch her off guard with a knife by some miracle, they would fail to even cut a hair from her bangs.

And, as ever, her mystic bastion was active while she scolded her pupil and gracefully enjoyed lunch.

“Elisa, soup should not be slurped.”

“Ugh...”

“Neither are you allowed to bite at your utensils.”

“Whaaa...”

“Sticking the whole spoon in your mouth is unthinkable.”

“Buh...?”

Agrippina watched her student tilt her head in confusion as if to say there were no other ways to continue the meal. At the same moment, one of the magus’s many strands of consciousness picked up on an abnormality. The detection spell she’d woven to surround the carriage had triggered a response from a handful of lifeforms nearby.

This, in and of itself, was nothing out of the ordinary. While they were far removed from the main road—in service of their stop at a nearby hotel—the route they were on still saw decent traffic, especially at this time of year. Usually, she would have written it off as a caravan or passenger carriage, but that would hardly explain the figures she sensed coming out of the woods.

Agrippina refused to ignore a threat, even if it were but a trifling daemon. Yet that wasn’t to say this encounter was trivial. There were four goblins and two ogres, all armed (albeit rather shabbily), and one was even prepared for combat at a distance. Each of the six assailants could easily win out against an average mensch. While the methuselah wouldn’t even need to snap her fingers to handle them as it struck her fancy, the daemons would easily wipe the floor with a beginner party of adventurers.

Even ogres of the lesser sex were nigh-impervious to physical attacks, both blunt and sharp. A half-hearted mutation or manifestation spell would do little to overcome their toughness.

Meanwhile, a goblin only matched the strength of an average mensch, but far outwitted them. Furthermore, rapid movements of smaller masses were generally perceived to be faster by the naked eye.

In opposition, Agrippina’s carriage was defended by a young boy who was on the receiving end of the element of surprise. He was a measly twelve years of age, still far from fully developed. He was equipped with a single sword and a handful of peaceable spells that he had only just begun to study. What was more, he hadn’t even slipped on his chain mail before stepping outside; his travel clothes would offer a paltry defense.

Had there been a gambling ring present, the bookie would have called off the bet—the odds were simply too low for the boy to win. A bet for how long it would take the poor child to be reduced to mincemeat would take its place.

“Elisa,” Agrippina said, “gently tilt your spoon to let the soup flow into your mouth.”

“Hard...”

The magus remained as elegant as ever, in spite of the dire situation. It was lunchtime, and her meal was too well-made to wolf down in a rush.

The first arrow flew forth, sure to hit the boy someplace or another... Yet, curiously, it didn’t.

“Hm?” Agrippina said. Here she had thought to whisper a wall into reality to shield him, but the arrow had stopped in place far before the need arose. With eyes trained to see magic, she spotted an Unseen Hand. The spell was ordinarily meant to be used to pick up things a short distance away, but remarkably, it had managed to catch the arrow mid-flight.

“Oh?” she mumbled in slight awe.

“What happened, Mas’er?”

The effects of magic were in the hand of the caster: even the exceedingly common Clean spell could be used to “clean” someone’s skin off in the middle of combat. The only weakness was that its simplicity meant it was easy to resist, but that issue could be circumvented with enough mana behind it. In fact, Agrippina herself had an acquaintance amongst the polemurges who employed such grotesque tactics in combat.

“Nothing at all,” she said to her apprentice.

Well, in any event, mere tissue paper could suffice to kill a person with enough ingenuity. The breadth and depth of magic guaranteed the same could be said of it. It only spoke to the fact that her servant’s bloodthirsty streak was wider than she’d expected.

Agrippina had long noticed that he spent his time gazing up at the open skies and mumbling to himself when alone, but she hadn’t thought that all that time had been spent preparing a spell like this. Perhaps he was in need of a reevaluation.

The boy’s mind was directed in all the ways a magus’s ought to be. He looked at ideas from multiple angles to seek out ways to apply spells outside of their intended use—a skill that was critical to any magus worth their salt.

Agrippina began to consider the possibility of employing him as a proper attendant once his servitude was done, and decided to quietly watch over him as he fought off their attackers. While her initial plan had been to wipe them away, the boy himself seemed to be raring to go.

The methuselah had read about this in a book: when a child is motivated to do something, it is best not to impede them. Not wanting to nip the little mensch’s curiosity and ambition in the bud, she chose to heed the advice of those who had come before her.

In the end, her servant did a splendid job in cutting down an enemy that would have surely decimated a beginner adventuring party. However, one question remained: why in the world had he kept them alive?

Had they been normal bandits, Agrippina would have understood—they were worth more that way. She would have gone out of her way to help knock them unconscious and drag them along, had that been the case.

Yet no good could ever come from letting a daemon live. This bewilderment discomforted the methuselah, and she put a hold on her meal after finishing her soup.

“Elisa,” she said suddenly, “be a dear and stay put.”

“Huhwha?”

In order to confirm her servant’s true intentions, the magus tore a hole through space and hopped in.

[Tips] Polemurges are the most tuned for battle out of all the mages at the college, and make their living via arcane murder. They are prized by all manner of authorities, as one can do the work of hundreds upon hundreds. Mere mages with offensive capabilities do not dare to don the title, lest they embarrass themselves; true polemurges can blow away legions with ease, and their mere presence is enough to pressure opposing armies into negotiation.

When I told Lady Agrippina that I’d never heard of daemons before, she was truly shocked. “First magia, and now this? Do all the peasantry truly live this way?”

To summarize her explanation, transformation into a daemon was the inevitable end for demonfolk who found themselves exposed to too much ichor—a substance as thoroughly incomprehensible as the False Moon. All that was known was that it was found in mana, and when highly concentrated, it drove those who came into contact with the stuff mad. It was the subject of great fear, deserving of its grandiose title.

However, we humanfolk and demihumans did not collect ichor naturally. We lacked the necessary organs to store it, so it simply left our bodies whenever we expended mana. Awkwardly enough, the whole process sounded to me like a kidney and its role in urination...

On the other hand, demonfolk were classified as such precisely because they had an organ to contain raw ichor, and they invariably were blessed with exemplary physiques and an intuitive understanding of mana as a result. This made sense to me, as I doubted standard evolutionary theory could explain metallic skin and bones or tiny creatures that matched the strength of full-grown men.

As the level of ichor grew in their bodies, so too did they grow larger, tougher, and stronger. If they sought after the substance in the name of power, they were sure to eventually reach a point of criticality: they would find themselves like the six half-dead bandits—or rather, daemons—writhing on the ground before me.

“Ichor tends to accumulate in one of three ways,” Lady Agrippina explained. “Using magic that requires undue amounts of mana, residing beside a horrific source of arcane power, or continued contact with the lingering aftermath of a powerful spell. Well, a normal life ought to be devoid of such opportunity, and the greater part of all demonfolk die the way they were born.”

In the countryside, this event was euphemistically referred to as being “touched with madness.” If nothing else, this let demonfolk grieve for their fallen kin as people after they were put down.

Current knowledge suggested that the derangement caused by ichor was irreversible. What escaped them was not reason, but ethics, and they were reduced to savage beasts who attacked and ate non-daemons for the sole purpose of further incrementing their numbers. As a result, there were some nations beyond the Trialist Empire’s borders that persecuted demonfolk of all kinds, refuting their rights as people.

The story was...bleak. How utterly horrible.

“Anyhow, put them to rest, will you? Nothing good can come of letting them be, so there isn’t any need to burden them with meaningless suffering.”

I finally looked down to meet the eyes of the daemons writhing around on the ground. They seemed pained, but the overwhelming bloodlust of their gazes had not waned in the slightest. They gritted their teeth and ignored their grave wounds to try and crawl their way over and kill me—sanity had assuredly left them behind.

Had I been a naive hero, I would have wavered. Is it really all right to kill them? I’d have asked. Is there really no other way?

However, I did not hesitate as I brought my blade down on the closest ogre’s neck. My reasoning was simple: no one would benefit from my mercy here—not I, not Lady Agrippina, not the local townsfolk, and not even the pitiful daemons that I would have “saved.”

Lady Agrippina made every attempt to shirk her responsibilities and was an incorrigible munchkin in her own right, but I could tell from our short time together that she took intellectual matters deathly seriously. Furthermore, the Imperial College taught the highest grade of wisdom the world had to offer.

I couldn’t even claim to have begun my scholarly journey. What good could come of me asking for the impossible? If my earnest prayer was enough to save them, it would be a different story; it wasn’t. I could do nothing to help restore these brutes to their senses. To leave them alive was undeniably the greater of two evils, as it would end with someone, somewhere, getting hurt.

Personally, I could think of nothing more despicable than to let another suffer because of my own inaction. Had I been powerless to stop an atrocity, or totally unaware of the consequences of my actions, I could forgive myself. However, to know of my own folly and to refuse action anyway was indefensible. This was not a matter of whether I would balk at the thought of killing another; I simply could not stand the guilt I would shoulder if I were to walk away.

Maybe one day there would be a treatment or cure for this ichor overdose...but such holier-than-thou platitudes would do nothing to assuage a family slaughtered by a monster that I let roam free. Thus, I simply surrendered myself to my will—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I surrendered myself to what I thought my will ought to be.

The world was not made of absolutes. Someday, somebody could develop preventative measures or even a reversible cure for daemonic taint. However, today was not that day, and I was not that somebody. All I could do was limit the casualties as best I could.

“Splendid, splendid,” Agrippina said leisurely. “I thought a boy of your age might shirk the task, but you truly are a bright one.”

“I am delighted to receive such praise,” I said. This woman was bursting with talent when it came to stirring up my emotions. Truth be told, I couldn’t tell if she was doing it on purpose or not. If she was, then that was infuriating; if not, then that only made conversing with her more difficult.

“Now,” she said with a snap, “it’s time for the harvest.”

The refreshing sound of the click of her fingers was accompanied by the horrendous scene of exploding torsos.

“Waaaaah!!!” You may think me spineless, but I’d like for you to take a moment to imagine what I’d witnessed. Without warning, all of the men I’d cut down burst into a nauseating blast of gore. This happened to six different bodies all at the same time.

The half-crunching, half-squelching sound that followed was poison to ear and mind alike as their ribs opened wide to expose their hearts. Beside the now-still organ, an ominous black crystal could be seen in every chest cavity.

“U-Urp! Why?! What in the world did you just do?” Even after years of desensitizing myself to farmhouse slaughter, this was too grisly. Seriously, give me a break!

“Look, this here is what I’m after,” she said as the six crystals floated out of their original hosts. “Demonfolk amass ichor in an organ located right beside the heart.”

The precious rocks twirled about dreamily, but all I could think about was where they had just come from. Seeing them whimsically twinkle was disturbing, and I prayed that she would stop moving them soon.

“We call these mana stones. They’re quite the dandy little things.”

“How so?” I asked.

“They are used as building materials for tools powered by mana.”

When smelted into metals, these crystals increased their magical conductivity. When paired with proper gemstones, they enhanced their catalytic abilities. They could also be used as batteries to store away mana for later use. Their utility was reflected in their price, as mages traded them for sizable chunks of change.

I began to see a more pragmatic reason as to why foreign states persecuted demonfolk. By marking them as prey, they would enter the national economy as yet another resource among many.

“At this size, hm...” Agrippina mused. “I wager these would sell for five librae apiece.”

“Five librae?!”

You’re telling me I have thirty librae on my hands? Thirty silver? What?! Seriously?

I had to take a step back. This was a juicy source of income. Of course, sane or not, daemons generally weren’t pushovers, and their savage bloodlust was terrifying...but five librae was a lot. Why are these things worth more than living, breathing bandits?!

“Oh, let me note that this would be the market price at which I would buy it for. As a seller, you should expect to earn ten to twenty percent of that.”

My wild excitement was readily put in its place. I should have known better. If they went for that much on the supplier’s end, there would be no shortage of adventurers. Rather, no one would bother to mock the ones that already existed for their poor choice in career.

Ten to twenty percent would yield somewhere between fifty assarii and a libra, not to mention the split with other party members. Ultimately, it totaled out to be about the same as, if not a tiny bit more profitable than working as a day laborer. Ah, but what are the odds of finding a lone daemon? Hmm, but then again...

I turned the mundane equations of impoverished finances in my mind and internalized the fact that this line of work really wasn’t worth it. When weighed on a scale against the value of my own life, the numbers simply failed to add up. Only those with a calling for the task or those taken by the romance of quixotic life could hope to live this way.

“Furthermore, these crystals drop in value should they be damaged in any way, yet some demonfolk races seem to use mana stones as an auxiliary seat of consciousness—meaning they can continue moving after having their heads removed. At times, destroying these bundles of dense ichor is the only way of subduing them.”

“Wow...”

I couldn’t help but feel that these restrictions were a bit much. You had to hunt powerful daemons to find superior stones, but to kill the host necessarily damaged the product—and any attempt to leave the stone unharmed would fail to restrain the daemon.

This is awful. Who balanced this? I’d like a word.

“Well,” Lady Agrippina said, cutting off my train of thought. She’d been peering at the goods like a merchant this entire time, and finally said, “If you sell them to me, I wouldn’t mind buying them at fifty percent of market price.”

“Huh?!” What did she say? Fifty? Five zero?! “For a total of fifteen librae?!”

“Um, yes? Quite... You sure are quick with mathematics.”

Considering that the madam was halving her expenditures, it felt a tiny bit like I was being robbed; still, I was getting two-and-a-half times more value compared to a normal trade. In fact, if I screwed up with a less familiar merchant, I could potentially not even make the standard libra per stone. We were both profiting, so I couldn’t be more thankful!

I jumped on the offer without a moment’s delay—anything for the sake of Elisa’s tuition. If I could continue earning coin at this rate, there’d be no need for me to dedicate years and years of my life to servitude: it was possible to cover our overhead expenses and her tuition all at once. A sudden surge of motivation welled up within me, only to be interrupted by my master.

“Now then, off you go.”

“Huh?”

Her sudden send-off left me standing dumbly with my mouth agape.

[Tips] Mana stones are apparatus found in demonfolk that accumulate ichor. The most well-received explanation currently circulating the empire is that these allow demonfolk to maintain genetic qualities that would otherwise be physically infeasible, and that they act as a second brain that overwrites the way of the world by merely existing.

Although they are prized as a capital arcane ingredient, there are some regions in which they are considered too morally dubious to use.

Roughly an hour had passed since my employer ordered me to set off out of the blue. I found myself in the aforementioned forest, standing before a large mansion.

According to my liege, daemons were not the type to wander aimlessly about. They were subconsciously drawn to sites rich with ichor and formed cliques in such locations. This could be a cavern that had opened without anyone knowing, a decaying dungeon in the mountains, or even, say, a mansion that had long since been abandoned due to some kind of horrific incident.

“Ugh, it really exists.”

At present, I faced the manor fully geared for a fight. The two-story building was slowly rotting away in disrepair, and the creeping end that awaited its majestic exterior tinged the whole thing with loneliness. Its surroundings didn’t help: the canopy choked out the midday sun, drowning the whole estate in gloom.

The residence was far removed from the main road. Judging from the peaceful lake behind it, I could only assume this had been a resort home for a noble eager to retreat from the city’s hustle and bustle.

I had only come at the suggestion of the good madam I served—that is to say, she sent me on my merry way, telling me that there was a good opportunity for someone so passionate about moneymaking as myself. If six whole daemons appeared, she’d said, then there was sure to be an ichor hotspot. And it’s probably that way, she’d said. I’d trekked off in the direction she’d pointed; you can see the results.

Maybe I should put some points in Mana Detection... I’d been putting it off since it was so expensive, but I felt a pang of envy at the thought of instinctively sensing mana, and it would surely pay off in combat. Fortunately for me, the giant payday from my run-in with the kidnapper had yet to run dry, so the opportunity was there.

Alas, it was time for my fun little mental jaunt into the world of anywhere-but-here to come to a close. Lady Agrippina had not forced me to come here; I had done so of my own volition.

All of this was for Elisa’s future. A normal servant would spend his life trying to repay her debts, so I needed to prepare myself for abnormal tasks. Besides, if this mansion was full of the mindless husks of what were once demonfolk, the humane thing to do would be to put them out of their misery. While I couldn’t comprehend what went through a daemon’s mind after the transition, their complete immersion in violence could hardly be a serene way of life.

I unsheathed my trusty sword and took a step forward, ready to enter the mansion proper, when my Presence Detection sounded the alarm: I was being watched. Tracing the gaze, I noticed that it originated from my own hip.

I had a small pouch dangling from the same belt as my sheath, and I was immediately struck with a terrible feeling. The small bag contained the rose I’d received from the girl who had introduced herself as a svartalf.

The black rose was a truly mysterious flower. It neither shriveled nor withered, which was to be expected, but I couldn’t even pluck off a petal, let alone attempt to dissect it. Moreover, I’d left it on the table at one of the inns we’d visited, yet it had returned to my pouch before I knew it.

I wanted to rid myself of this cursed token, but unfortunately, the connection between us was not so easily broken. Naturally, I wasn’t exactly comfortable being watched by a flower like this. Especially when I was about to enter a creepy old mansion that looked like the perfect place to be chased by zombies, punctuated by all manner of indecipherable puzzles.

However, reasoning that nothing good would come of ignoring seeds that had already been sown, I begrudgingly pulled out the rose. It bloomed less fully than when I’d last seen it and had shrunk into a bud, though it retained its vivacity.

As I steeled myself for whatever came next, the juvenile flower suddenly blossomed. Its many petals stretched out across my palm as if they had just awoken from a nap. A tiny person sat in the center of the rose: it was the girl I’d met on that moonlit night.

“Yes, o Beloved One? What might you need?”

“Huh? Have you been there this whole time?”

The alf now measured about as tall as my thumb. She arched her back in a lengthy stretch and squinted at the faint amount of sunlight pouring through the trees.

“No?” she said, as if to state the obvious. “I’ve been waiting until you needed me.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“Mensch have trouble seeing in the dark, don’t they?”

As soon as she finished speaking, she flew toward me on a pair of outsized wings. I hadn’t seen these during our first meeting on account of them having been hidden behind her long hair. Her white wings glowed dimly; they resembled those of an Asian moon moth.

“So I thought I’d lend you a hand,” she said, fluttering about in her idiosyncratic, imperceptible way. When she was right in front of me, she stopped to give my eyelids a peck.

Instantly, the dark woods that had been difficult to navigate with my Cat Eyes lit up like an open field. Everything that had been hidden in the shadows of the foliage was now clear—I could even see the dark interior of the mansion through the windows.

“What did you—”

“I am an alf who soars through starry skies. The dark that follows dusk is the most agreeable time of day, and all I did was share some of my perception with you.” The little fairy hovering before me smiled gently and added, “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Does that mean what I think it means? Is this a “You better not die until I kill you myself” kind of moment?

“Besides,” she said, “I need you to go and help my poor sistren.”

“Your sisters?”

“Indeed. I’ll spare you the details until the end. I have a reward for good little boys who can do what I ask,” she said, laughing. Then she melted away in plain sight, and the rose from which she’d come reverted to its budding form.

Hrm... Basically, I’d been given a quest, I think? Taking a request from someone who had tried to kidnap me was a little terrifying; the words “you fell into my trap” kept bouncing around in my mind.

Still, the madam had also bid me to venture inside, and tying up two quest lines at once was a tantalizing proposition.

“Oh, fine! Bring it on!”

At any rate, I wasn’t in a position to be dawdling; I readied myself once more and snuck into the manor.

[Tips] Alfar do more than play mischief—they also confer many blessings. The issue with receiving their “help” is that their assistance is given, not offered, and living with a double-edged blessing is quite the dreadful fate.

Time had robbed the mansion of its identity: when it had been built and by whom were details that had been lost for an eternity. Little did it matter, for those who walked its halls today could not have cared less. The shaggy carpet, beautiful sculptures, and arbor meant for tranquil afternoon tea were all meaningless to them.

A lone goblin sauntered down a hallway. Driven only by routine, he wandered his territory without any particular aim.

The ego and morality that had driven these creatures were lost, leaving them with only wit and skill meant to end the lives of others. Freed from the need for food and sleep, they were deprived of the most basic desires of a living thing. All that filled these husks was a pure, dark humor that abided in cruelty. They enacted great feats of violence and villainy that could only be explained as the machinations of an otherworldly being. One could not find in them the through line that guided every other sentient being.

Some magia theorized that daemons were the dregs of the world, brought forth by the False Moon. Seeing the beasts amble around without cause was more than enough to at least understand how they had come to the conclusion.

Much like the mansion it roamed, the goblin had forgotten everything about himself. He let his habits guide him to the kitchen as always. Once, this room had fed a nobleman and his retainers; yet now, the smell of mold and rot permeated the air. The goblin passed the half-eaten mess of a corpse of some poor animal that had strayed into the building.

The goblin looked around. After confirming that nothing was out of the ordinary, he turned for the door to return the way he came. He planned to absentmindedly stand just outside the room for a few seconds and then go to another room, as usual.

When he attempted to let the ceaseless, murky churn of his subconscious guide him, the goblin found that his legs would not move. Curious, he tilted his head down—yet a silver flash reflecting the piddling light coming through the broken window entered his line of sight before his toes did.

Given another moment, he would have wondered what had happened. Alas, his limp body fell to its knees, forever liberating him from the basest of impulses that drove him.

[Tips] Turning into a daemon will not cause a demonfolk to deviate too far from their original abilities. In other words, their combat skills will scarcely be affected.

The combination of stealth and backstab is always potent; its only weakness is how infrequently it comes up. Trying to hide away mid-combat is so inefficient that it’s often faster to put up your dukes and throw down.

I rolled the lifeless shell of the goblin I’d just stabbed to the corner of the room, and listened carefully for any sign that I might have been noticed.

Good. Luckily, things were progressing without a hitch. I’d snuck in through a back door and used an Unseen Hand to float a knife over to a goblin for a sneak attack. This spell was shaping up nicely, if I do say so myself. Tactile feedback made it useful as a scouting tool, and my tests of its backstabbing capabilities at range were going swimmingly.

Still, while I appreciated single-minded mastery, I feared that to dedicate all my arcane training to one spell would leave me helpless when it didn’t work. Simple magic could be shrugged off by those with magic of their own, and this one in particular could be interfered with by physical means—with enough strength, someone could peel my Unseen Hands right off their neck. I needed to take this into account on my path to a power build.

Regardless, this was not the time: I was in the middle of a hack-and slash adventure. For now, I would devote my efforts to completing my quest, as tried and true as it was.

The large cookery of the mansion was in shambles, without anything of note. Even an adventurer wouldn’t stoop so low as to loot rusted knives or bottomless pots. While they could be sold off as scrap metal, the return wouldn’t be worth the labor it’d take to drag them out.

I decided to put off collecting the creature’s mana stone for later and headed for the empty doorframe leading back to the hallway. At times like these, a pocket mirror would have made my life significantly easier.

I gingerly poked my head out and made great use of the svartalf’s blessing to confirm that no one was present. This was the east wing of the manor—mirrored on the western side of the central hall—and judging from the presence of a kitchen, this side was meant for servants. Classic tabletop tropes posited that the master’s chambers or study would house a crucial item or boss fight...

However, today’s goal was only to exterminate the threats that lurked here. These daemons had to be cleaned out to prevent any casualties from innocent passersby. Had that band of six assaulted anyone else, someone would very likely have died.

I crouched down and crept through the hall. The Perception Block, Silent Steps, and Stealth that I’d polished over years of foxes-and-geese were not to be taken lightly. You might consider me a sore loser for having been so heated in a children’s game, but to that...I have nothing to say. At any rate, it was being put to good use now, and besides, there had still been a certain aberrant individual that had regularly beat me in our games.

Notably, my armor had little to no effect on my silent progress. The Konigstuhl smith had padded its joints with soft material to muffle the sound of movement. He’d said that he’d worked with adventurers in the past, so he must have had plenty of experience making orders fit for covert operations. The fact that he’d included this feature without my request only served to prove his awesome craftsmanship.

But now that I put everything together...I was basically an assassin. I tucked my class identity crisis away in my heart—not to mention that I totally ignored the fact that my very existence was a Frankensteined mess of different classes to begin with—and proceeded down the east wing, leaving five bodies in my wake.

Call me a coward, but sounding the alarm in a dungeon was a surefire way to trigger back-to-back combat encounters. No matter how much I trained, I didn’t have the stamina to fend off dozens of enemies, nor did I have an area-of-effect ability to blow a horde away. I didn’t care how monotonous my methods were; I wasn’t taking any risks. Besides, I wasn’t broadcasting my adventure; I had no incentive to mow down enemies with flaunt and flourish.

When the enemy was close, I used a Hand to cover their mouth and backstabbed them myself; if they were far, my invisible appendages strangled them to death. This simple flowchart had ended the lives of five goblins without incident.

Strangely, I’d come across nothing but goblins. Fantasy settings often propped them up as the quintessential beginner mob, but I supposed their large presence here was more due to their high fertility rates. Yet even then, I couldn’t imagine that a whole family of goblins turning into daemons together was common, so it remained a mystery where they were all coming from.

Unfortunately, there weren’t enough clues to sate my curiosity in any real way. I cast aside baseless speculation and instead gathered all of the corpses in one location as I continued to explore. This wasn’t a postapocalyptic United States or an outer part of heaven: if any of these daemons came across their fallen comrades, they’d be sure to grow suspicious. Plus, I wanted to gather up all of the mana stones that I was to collect at the end in one go.

Speaking of which, I had found exactly zero loot. The only “armor” any of the daemons wore was tattered clothing, and the few rusted daggers and broken swords I found weren’t worth taking. Furthermore, the final vestiges of the dilapidated manor’s original image were rotting furniture and discarded rags. The inhabitants hadn’t left in a rush; they’d likely taken their time to pack their valuables. I sincerely wished that the deranged enemies I came across would drop cash like they did in video games, but that was asking for a bit much.

I managed to finish my investigation of the east wing without coming across a single disturbing journal or dying message. Finished with that side, I skipped past the central hall and headed straight to the west wing. Personally, I was the type to enjoy dungeons from the outskirts in—saving the boss room for last. The central hall likely housed a reception area, drawing room, and dining room, which I thought was perfect to house a final encounter.

Suddenly, a memory flashed back in my mind. Once, I’d played with a full rogue party in a campaign run by a GM who’d been fond of hack-and-slash dungeons. Our indiscriminate slaughter during that session had been akin to a midnight assault. Let me say that those who initiate combat in the middle of the villain’s speech are second-rate; a proper munchkin doesn’t give them a chance to speak. The cover of night, screening smoke, and six backstabs had brought down the boss in one fell swoop without a peep. I looked back fondly on how the GM had begun to employ a suspiciously large amount of unsleeping golems after that episode.

The west wing appeared to have been the living quarters for the noble family that had built this grand villa. As derelict as it was, the substantial capital that had been funneled into outfitting the rooms still showed through. The passage of time had rendered the carpets into flaky earth, but a cursory glance sufficed to imply the soft, shaggy threads that had once graced the feet of those who walked here. In an era where rugs cost a minor fortune, this floor had no doubt been a symbol of great status.

Of course, the daemons seemed wholly ignorant of its value. I found one such daemon roaming the halls, and I’d never seen anyone like him. What looked to be a dog on two legs was the mindless shell of a cynocephalus. I’d read that these demonfolk could be further classified as kobolds or gnolls depending on their facial structure, but the accompanying depiction in the book had been a bit abstract (putting it lightly) so I had no idea which one I was looking at.

Whichever this beast was, his towering 190 centimeters of height shook me. Facing a combination of human intelligence and feral physicality in my squishy mensch frame was not something I looked forward to. Martial combat was out of the question.

As I observed him, he suddenly turned his snout toward me—his damp, black nostrils twitching at the air. Not good. Did he notice my scent?!

I popped off a quick spell to shoot forth a rope I’d found during my exploration. It was in far better condition than most of the items in the mansion and wouldn’t snap even if I used my Unseen Hands to pull it from both ends. The rope pounced on the cynocephalus like an enraged boa, wrapping around the daemon’s neck.

The dog-man’s upright frame was impressive—the girth of his muscular neck especially so. Expending all my mana for Steadfast Arm would still only leave me with a few times the strength of my childish body—as such, I’d picked up a tool to boost my strangling power.

My straw rope creaked as it made a vise around the daemon’s windpipe. It sank into his flesh, leaving him with no room to wriggle a finger in to pull it away; his sharp claws only managed to slice into himself. After nearly a minute of struggle, the cynocephalus’s eyes fell into the back of his head and all strength left his body.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Using the rope, I dragged his massive (and ridiculously heavy) carcass into an out-of-view corner. A quick frisk revealed that his neck had been protected by more than exquisite musculature: a mane of tough fur wrapped around it from all sides. Pelts were far more resilient than one might expect, as they turned blades, dulled the impact of blunt weapons, and warded off the razored fangs of their peers.

With a coat this impressive, I probably wouldn’t have been able to choke him with my raw Hands. That had been a close call—if he’d howled for backup, I might have been finished. I renewed my resolution to observe my enemies carefully. The memory of party wipes caused by half-hearted preparation and stingy skillsets drifted to mind.

Owing in part to how small the rooms were, I managed to clear out the west wing without running into a cell with two enemies. I admit that this was just about as boring as dungeon crawling could get, but without hope for resurrection, my life was my most valuable asset. I still needed to earn Elisa’s tuition and then depart on my journey with Margit. I didn’t have time to waste being dead.

In a profound streak of misfortune, the west wing was also devoid of any hint of treasure—but I did find something of note. There was a study room lined with bookshelves beside the master bedroom, but the two were strangely small for their placement.

When I took another look from the hallway, I couldn’t help but feel as if the doors were placed strangely far apart. My mental image of their widths left a full room’s worth of space in between them...and when I went back inside to smack some of the towering bookshelves in the study, I could hear the hollow sound of empty space from one of them.

Yes! This is a classic among classics: a hidden room!

Excited, I pushed the shelf in question, causing it to awkwardly slide back. At my feet, I noticed a set of rails that allowed the path to be opened without much force. Years of neglect had caused the unoiled track to grow stiff, but a moderate shove was still enough to push the massive wooden case forward.

Once I’d gotten the thing all the way to the end of the railing, I found myself in a secret den. The lack of windows had allowed a hideous smell to build up: dust and medicine mixed together into an indescribably sour miasma. Perhaps this had been a laboratory.

There was another shelf lined with volumes of waterlogged books and a small desk covered in tattered sheepskin papers. A larger work table was lined with a handful of equipment, like a crucible and water still, to name a couple. Among the delicate glassware and ruined wooden tools, some of the metal instruments seemed to remain in working condition.

What in the world is this? The room looked like an alchemist’s chambers, but I couldn’t even imagine what the noble living here had used it for. I tried to examine a vial of drugs from the medicine cabinet, but the weathered label had lost its legibility. Still, the unsettling chemical green in these vials was obviously abnormal. I could feel the tingle of residual magic, so these tonics must have been imbued with mana.

I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this. At this point, I had a sneaking suspicion that the daemons here hadn’t gathered out of coincidence. They might have been drawn here; no sane aristocrat would need this array of dubious tools. I just couldn’t catch a break.

If nothing else, the goods in this room would probably sell for cash, so I made a mental note to return for them. Moving all this fragile equipment was going to be a pain, though.

As I went around inspecting my haul, a cage dangling in the corner of my vision caught my eye. Embellished with an intricate pattern, the fine grating made me think it was meant for keeping tiny insects. Yet the palm-sized object inside wasn’t a six-legged critter—it was a tiny girl.

Clad in a green tube-top dress made of fresh grass with bug-like wings sprouting from her back, the girl was the spitting image of a fairy. In fact, the balled-up bundle of sleeping innocence looked the part far more than my svartalf quest-giver.

So this is what she meant by “poor sistren.”

My thought was accompanied by a squirming sensation by my hip. I looked down to see the similarly palm-sized svartalf trying to wriggle out of my pouch. She seemed to be struggling, so I opened the leather flap, and she flew out to land on my hand.

“Thank you, Beloved One,” she said with a faint smile. “How kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said. “By the way, is this girl the one you mentioned?”

“Indeed she is. This sylphid has been trapped in this forsaken manor as an object of study—and she is one of the pitiful sistren I bid you to save.”

Slowly, the svartalf unraveled the history of this estate and the alf trapped within. Apparently, this lakeside cottage had been owned by a noble couple of moderate influence until a few decades ago. The young mister and missus had held one another dear, and eventually the proof of their love had come to reside in the woman’s womb.

Misfortune struck when the new mother passed away shortly after giving birth. The father dedicated all the affection in his heart to his surviving daughter, fulfilling her every desire to the best of his ability. Yet one day, the girl began to float through the air and converse with unperceived partners.

The daughter was a changeling. Unable to bear the truth, the man lost grip of his sanity. To think that the girl his beloved wife had given her life to bear was not genuinely their own then spurred on further questions. Had his wife’s complications been the work of this changeling? This doubt sealed the coffin on his good sense.

Madness turned to rage as the man imprisoned his own daughter and began to search for a means to recover his lost child. He collected treatises, summoned magia, and explored every avenue of possibility in his research. Sparing no expense, he even purchased a cage capable of trapping the most formless of creatures.

Alas, changelings do not steal away children. The daughter he was searching for had never existed.

Eventually, the man could go no further. His fortune ran dry, his family grew tired of his antics, and the retainers he could no longer pay bid him farewell. Not even his closest relations could condone his actions, and his squandering of a vast fortune was eventually met with time-honored Rhinian judgment—with the alf still locked away.

Supposedly, the man’s punishment had been carried out by his kinsmen, who’d once come to sort through his effects, though it was difficult to blame them for their inability to notice a hidden laboratory built behind a wall. The alf kept here had simply been brimming with bad luck.

All in all, the tale struck a chord with me, and I could feel a pit in my stomach. Thank the Goddess Elisa didn’t end up this way.

“Now let her free, if you would please.”

“Of course. Let me find the lock...” When I did, my impression was that the fastener was remarkably dingy. Despite the fact that it looked like a child’s toy treasure box, it must have been enough to contain a powerless fairy with twigs for arms. I jammed my knife into the mechanism; one twist was all it took to undo the restraints that had trapped the alf for so long.

“Thank you. I expected no less,” the svartalf said. She flittered gracefully and slipped into the cage as soon as I opened its door. Shaking her slumbering companion, she said, “Hey, come now, wake up.”

“Mmmaaah... Sleeeeeepy.”

“I know the still air saps your strength, but pull yourself together! Come on, wake up!”

“Mmm? Who?”

Watching the two fairies act out a morning routine comedy skit made the sentimental mood of a few seconds ago shrivel up and disappear. There had to be a more tactful way of waking someone up after decades of imprisonment.

“Augh... Morning.”

“Don’t ‘Morning’ me,” the svartalf scolded. “Have you been asleep this whole time?”

“Mhm... I couldn’t leave anyway. Plus, Lottie loves nap time!”

The new alf, with her sunny smile, was the very personification of a lazy spring breeze. Seeing her so merry made me feel like she would have been happy whether I’d come to save her or not. I felt like a moron for having tried so hard.

“Oh! Cutie!”

The sylphid wholeheartedly ignored the droning lectures of her svartalf friend and flew out the cage—the magnitude of being freed after years of captivity was evidently lost on her—and into my hair. Disbelief at her attitude had dulled my wits, leaving me wide open.

“Gold! Fluffy! Yummy!”

“Wait, that isn’t fair! I haven’t even had a chance to do that yet!”

I’d taken off my helmet after clearing out each wing to open up my field of vision, but that hadn’t been an invitation for anyone to use my hair as a freshly laundered set of bedsheets. Hey, ow, ouch?! Don’t start a grappling match on top of my head!

The number of hairs that fell out during their scuffle sent my mood to rock bottom.

[Tips] As living phenomena, alfar and spirits have a nebulous perception of time. Only the most extraordinary of their kind can accurately assess the months and years that flow by. Resultantly, guests who visit the alfar realm can find themselves returning to their world centuries later than when they left.

The childhood cartoon heroes of my past life had often been punished by having a fist ground into each of their temples. I had never expected to see anyone reenact such a thing in real life—especially not two adorable doll-sized fairies.

“Waaah! Owie...”

“This is what you get for running off to play before you say your thanks!”

“But he’s cute...”

The svartalf was having none of the sylphid’s tears, and an intimidating glare put the latter in her place.

“Mm, ahem,” the svartalf said. “Allow me to thank you once more, Beloved One.”

“Yeah, sure...” In spite of her fixed posture and attempt at setting the mood, my brain was stuck in the scene from moments before.

“Now then, I believe it’s time for your reward. I can offer you two choices.”

The fairy stuck up two fingers. Then, she returned one to her fist, leaving only the index finger extended as her sonorous voice tickled my eardrum. Mysteriously, she seemed as dignified as the night we’d first met—it was such a shame that her appearance wasn’t enough to offset the farce I’d witnessed.

“The first is to let you keep my alfish blessing forever. Those mystic eyes can see in the dark and pick out the very essence of magic itself.”

“The essence of magic?”

From this tidbit, it was clear that she’d given me more than simple night vision. Like she’d said, she was sharing her perception with me, and my ability to see without light was just a natural by-product. I had thought that her gift was akin to Darkvision (a strict upgrade from my Cat Eyes), but that still required some semblance of light to function. Thinking this through more thoroughly, it was unbelievable how clearly I could see in this windowless hideaway.

However, the real question at hand was about the “essence of magic.”

“I’ve heard that even skilled mensch mages require a great deal of, shall we say, tampering to see magic,” the night fairy said with a snicker. “With the eyes of an alf, the structures, connections, formulae, and quirks are all ours to behold.”

That sounded quite impressive, but...I didn’t want to see more than I could handle. As a fan of TRPGs, I of course loved fantasy settings, but some of my favorite systems had touches of modern or cosmic horror with powerless PCs. In these systems, the players could ram Old Ones with fishing boats and encircle them with shotguns to take down slithery menaces from the deep, and one could build up their stats high enough to punt slumbering cephalopods back to the dimension next door.

Yet while someone could do these things, there was only one lesson that truly stuck with me: undue knowledge led to nothing but ruin.

Alf eyes let me see things I otherwise wouldn’t? Splendid. If that were to become the candle to light my path toward a better solution, I couldn’t ask for anything better. But here lay the double-edged sword: many of the things that were invisible to us were so because they were better left unseen. If I, in my insignificant mensch shell, cast my eyes upon some unfathomable being that twisted reality beyond my mind’s processing capacity, it would be all too easy for my soft, mushy ego to sizzle away.

Rats in the walls, voices from the land of dreams, unimaginable iridescence on the edge of one’s vision—there were too many tales of people witnessing that which cannot be seen or learning that which cannot be known. By and large, these stories ended in tragedy. When a human following their true calling into the depths of the oceans could be considered a happy ending, I saw little hope for salvation in sight beyond sight.

Something visible only to the magia that approached the root of all magic was likely too great a burden for me to bear.

“The second,” the svartalf said, “is a special pair of lips. With these, I will hear you call my name no matter where you are.”

“What does that—”

“Which means I’ll listen to your requests so long as they aren’t too indulgent.”

Am I supposed to become a fairy tamer or something? But judging from her phrasing, it seemed like she still held the reins, and would only lend a hand if it suited her mood. Much like the miracles found in the Faith category of my skill sheet, these favors would never be done to the detriment of the alf herself.

Although she didn’t seem wholly dependable, the risk factor was much better on this option. I mulled it over for a while, unable to determine which of these two rare blessings would be better, but I eventually settled for the second reward. I didn’t plan on taking up a full-time job speaking to blank walls, after all.

“I’d like those lips,” I said.

“Really? Then these lips you shall have.”

Her gait was as blurry to the mind as ever, and she pecked at my mouth before I could recognize her approach. While the image of a tiny fairy bestowing a hero with a kiss certainly seemed straight out of a children’s fable, my full armor and drawn sword ruined the scene. The touch of her lips lasted but an instant. She licked my cracked lips as she drew away, laughing at my dumbfounded expression.

Why are all of my kisses like this?

Seeing her snicker, I mused that my wording could certainly have been misconstrued. In fact, I’d practically begged her for a kiss. Surely, my face was redder now than it had ever been before.

“I meant to say that I want the second reward,” I corrected.

“Oh, I know—I just gave it to you. Call for me any time I have strength, and I shall come to your side. I rarely give out my name, I’ll have you know.” She leaned her whole body toward my ear and chiseled her name into my mind with a honeyed whisper: “Ursula.”

With a hint of shyness, Ursula the svartalf sat on my shoulder.

“Let me offer my help right away,” she said. “There is more fighting to—”

“No fair!”

“Hngh?!”

Alas, today’s Henderson reading seemed to be rather high. Nothing went according to plan, and any attempt at a stylish segue was doomed to fail. Sometimes, the dice just don’t want to cooperate. What do you do on a day like today, you might ask? You give up and join in on the mayhem.

The sylphid who’d been sitting on the sidelines suddenly slammed headfirst into Ursula’s stomach. An unbecoming grunt was followed by a quick tumble to the floor, and the fairies continued their catfight on the dusty ground.

“No fair no fair no fair! Lottie wants to come toooooo!”

“Wait, ow, that hurts! Stop! I found him first!”

I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to stop them or let them work their issues out on their own. I gazed up at the heavens to escape the reality that the two participants of this nonsensical brawl could probably raze this whole manor to dust.

What a nasty ceiling...

[Tips] Alfar that understand the concept of individuality are known to be among the most powerful of their kind. Their power far outpaces whole swarms of standard fairies, and they are fated to eventually rise as kings or queens.

“Umm, I wanna thanks you, okay? So...Lottie has a present.”

The wind fairy’s unrefined speech somewhat reminded me of Elisa as the little alf bowed her head in gratitude. I was impressed but unsurprised that her tumble on the filthy floor hadn’t left a speck of dust on her.

“Sure, what will you give me?” I asked.

“Umm, the first one is Lottie’s name.”

Huh. I have this odd feeling that I might already know that one.

“And the other one is...um? Mmm... Oh, I know!” After a lengthy pause, she began smacking herself all around her body. “Her Queenieness said boys love weapons. Um, oh! Here it is!”

Lottie(?) the sylphid wrapped her arm around her back and pulled out a terrifying weapon that was very clearly too big for her to hide.

What is that thing? A knife with a hole in it? The end of the handle had a ring of empty space that could just about fit a finger. The rest of the grip was fashioned to conform to a person’s hand; the blade’s shape was highly reminiscent of a can opener.

I had a feeling I’d seen this somewhere before. Maybe in a movie—no, in the supplements for a military-themed tabletop, perhaps? Come on, I dumped so many points into Memory. Think, brain, think!

Oh! I finally recalled its name: a karambit knife. I’d heard it was originally an Indonesian farming tool, but that its convenience as a hidden blade made it the weapon of choice for some combatants.

“Hey, hey, did you know?” the sylphid asked. “This knife is just like our wings. Only alfar and people we wanna show can see it. And, ummmm? It can only cut meat.”

“It’s a steak knife?” I accidentally said aloud.

“What she means,” Ursula said in exasperation, “is that the knife can’t be stopped by boorish metals.”

What?! It ignores armor class?! This weapon is godlike!

Both its unique shape and short range would surely take some getting used to, but AC nullification alone made any trade-off worth it. The fact that it could block but not be blocked was downright heavenly.

“The knife, please!” I said enthusiastically.

“Whaaaaaa?!” She hurled—How could she?!—the knife away and used her tiny hands to grab my collar. “Why why why?! But you asked Ursula’s name! Why won’t you ask Lottie?!”

“Huh?” I said. “Uh, well... The knife seems really strong.”

“Put some thought into what you offer, will you?” Ursula said.

Now, I admit that Ursula and I were certainly flawed: I’d succumbed to my greed for powerful equipment, and she’d all but admitted to giving me a crafty offer that she knew I would just barely refuse. Still, there was something equally wrong with Lottie’s eagerness to give me something so strong. My left-hand slot was still open, and I could still grapple with a knife like this equipped, so I don’t think I could be blamed too harshly for my avarice.

“Um! Ummm! Oh, I know!” In a moment of epiphany, the sylphid dexterously summoned a gust of wind to gather the dust in the room and hide away the knife. “Ah. Oh no. Oopsie. I lost it!”

After the fairy finished her monotone soliloquy, she glanced over at me in anticipation. I wondered how she would react if I asked for another weapon. Curiosity nearly overwhelmed me, but that felt a little too mean-spirited for someone of my age.

My scummy mental conflict lasted a bit longer than I’d like to admit, but at long last I asked the wind alf for her name. After all, ages upon ages of accumulated folklore taught that those who bullied fey critters were sure to meet a horrible end.

The girl’s smile shone brighter than the sun as she smugly puffed up her chest and said, “Lottie’s name is Charlotte! Let’s play lots!”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, feeling a bit drained. I poked out my index finger for a handshake, noting that Lottie was apparently just a nickname. “Hey...Lottie? There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Mm? What is it, Lovey One?”

Oh, are all of you going to call me that? I could just tell that if either of my new fae companions ever bothered to write my name out for whatever reason, they’d dot the “i” with a little heart.

Setting that aside, I pointed to the mountain of dust and asked if I could have what was underneath. After a brief moment of contemplation, she exclaimed, “Dunno! Lottie forgets!” and decided that she was feigning ignorance.

So...I guess this meant I could have it? I was a bit worried that some alf of great authority would come around very upset one day, and I certainly wasn’t taking responsibility for this. But, well, if Lottie was fine with me having the knife, I had no mind to refuse.

I picked up the godly weapon and carefully dusted it off. Once I had it in my hands, I was convinced that it truly was made from the stuff of fairy wings: it was tinged faintly green and far lighter than I’d expected. I sifted through my memory to recall that it was meant to be held backhand with my index finger looped through the hole. With this grip, my main tactic would be to evade an attack and use the opening to either stab with a chopping motion or graze the foe as I passed by. I needed time to adjust, but my damage potential would skyrocket if I could make use of this.

“By the way, what can you two do?”

The incredible dagger was well and good, but my reward had been their cooperation. An alf each commanding wind and night sounded like a practical pair of companions, but I could only speculate on the specifics.

“Well,” Ursula said, “with the sun up and the moon far from full, I won’t be able to do anything impressive. Still, I can conceal your presence from those who might harm you, or rob them of their vision for a time.”

“Umm,” Lottie said, “it’s cramped, so I can’t do my best... But Lottie can find out how many are still breathing!”

Interesting. My fey backups’ power apparently fluctuated with the waxing and waning of the False Moon. Still, presence concealment was a great advantage in close quarters, and advance knowledge of how many daemons I was up against was nothing to scoff at. I immediately asked Lottie for the latter, and she seemed overjoyed that I was relying on her. She happily twirled about, sucking in a greater and greater quantity of air into a small tornado.

“Ugh?! Blagh!” I coughed.

“Quit it!” Ursula commanded. “Take a look around! It’s dangerous to do this in a room so dusty!”

Naturally, Lottie’s cyclone had stirred up decades of accumulated debris, hitting my lungs for critical damage. It was good to see her in high spirits, but I prayed that she’d tone it down. The alfar may have been able to handle this, but my mensch respiratory system was rather delicate.

“Ah! S-Sorry... But Lottie counted! Five! Five breathies!”

Lottie stopped fretfully for a moment while I coughed in the fetal position before giving her report. Apparently, she’d mapped out the whole mansion in those few seconds of windstorm.

“Umm, there’s three green smallies, and one doggie, and one blue biggie!”

Unless I was mistaken, the green smallies were goblins, the doggie was a cynocephalus, and the blue biggie was an ogre. I’d been getting used to the first two, but an ogre would make for a tough fight. Hard and fast, they weren’t exactly the type I wanted to face head-on.

Hold on a second. I have teammates to cover for me now. Maybe I should try squaring off against it?

My biggest weakness at this point was inexperience; for all my strength, I was still unripe. Considering that I had backup this time, I thought that this might be a good opportunity to accustom myself to dealings of life and death.

I’d lived a peaceful life once before. Born to a country unplagued by war, I had the great privilege of never once crossing fists with another person. However, I knew the road ahead was full of conflict—my coddled sensibilities were sure to spell disaster if I let them be. Thus, I could not veil myself in the sweet comfort of safety: I had to live through the thick of the fight.

The two alfar curiously watched me contemplate. I opened my mouth to ask them for help, giving form to my determination.

[Tips] Cute children with golden hair and blueish eyes may find themselves saddled with the Alfish Favor trait. They become fairy magnets irrespective of their will, and can earn great power from a positive exchange. However, an alf’s affection transcends mortal comprehension. It only takes one wrong step...