Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 5 - Chapter SS

Bonus Short Stories

Amethyst Ember

Since time immemorial, the dark has been the best soil for the seeds of conspiracy; yet even so, this particular set of criminal minds was pushing the boundaries of banality.

A ways off from the nearest village, three shady characters huddled together in a decaying hunter’s shack with their faces all but glued together. Not only had they forsaken any article of clothing or accessory that might point to their identities, but their attire had been pared down to the simplest basics: so plain and unremarkable were they that it would be difficult for an eyewitness to recall even the simplest feature. They’d obscured their faces with mud and ink, going so far as to stuff cotton in their mouths to change the contour of their jawlines.

In the middle of these disguised ne’er-do-wells was a table, and on it, a single map. It depicted the finer details of some manor, and a meticulous step-by-step plan had been scribbled onto it in code; whatever it meant, it was certainly no righteous affair.

“Everything is according to plan.”

“Indeed. We’ll bring that dirty schemer down.”

“It’s finally time to avenge our lord.”

At long last, the trio was satisfied with their preparations. Each took one last look at their own role in the plot as they spat out insults formed from the resentment that stewed within.

“Hm?”

As one began to roll up the map and another started stashing their coins, the last glanced outside. When the last lord passed away, his successor had displayed such little interest in the hunt that this shack had been abandoned; there wasn’t so much as a groundskeeper assigned to maintain it. Furthermore, not even an experienced huntsman would dare prowl the forest depths when the Night Goddess hid Herself in a blanket of clouds—the odds of anyone coming upon them were slim.

Yet the lookout had heard a sound: not the rustling of windswept branches nor the happy prance of a fox freed from the danger of a huntsman’s bow, but of a branch snapping under somebody’s foot.

At once, the group snapped to attention, each reaching for their weapon as they eyed the door. One produced a longsword hidden in their mantle; another readied a set of throwing daggers; the last drew a wand. The swordsman took the first step: silently, they crept to the front door. But half an instant before he could burst through, their foe appeared—not from the door, but from the dilapidated ceiling full of holes.

A massive frame came crashing down, smashing the table along with the map and lantern resting on it. But just before the sole source of light was extinguished, the three caught a glimpse of a centipede beyond proportion. They were up against a demihuman from the south, a rarity in these parts—a sepa.

The fleeting moment of light gave way to as many screams as there were people. A flick of her enormous trunk was enough to send them flying; though her upper body was less hulking, her deft arms sufficed to subjugate the schemers.

The trio had experience as spies and assassins, and the skills to back it up. Indeed, their lord had placed full faith in their plan. Alas, while they were no mere hoodlums, the intruder’s ability was great enough to trample over theirs with ease. They had been so focused on preparing for their offensive that the sneak attack from an enemy who outclassed them had come as a total surprise.

“Augh! Urgh... You...rotten...”

Built like a solid log, her thrashing trunk slammed one against the wall, knocking them out cold; the short iron club in her right hand clobbered the second unconscious. She grabbed the final mage by the neck with her free hand, hoisting them into the air such that their feet just barely cleared the ground.

Still, the mage kicked and squirmed as they tried to charge up a spell; yet the sepa’s second left hand quickly snatched away the wand, leaving the caster’s mana swirling within their body in circles. The final schemer glared defiantly at the hooded assassin for a time, but eventually ran out of breath and lost consciousness.

All that remained was a lone, bored sepa and her prey. Despite the one-on-three odds, the poor fools had failed in the worst way possible: they’d been taken alive.

“I’m done.”

The agent’s quiet report was made into an arcane transceiver, and her accomplices, who’d drawn the trio’s attention from beyond the door, came inside. They quickly relieved the schemers of any means of self-silencing, bound them up as tightly as possible, and tossed them in a sack to be carried off.

“A job well done, my lady.”

“There was hardly anything to do here, let alone do well.”

“Please, you mustn’t be so modest.”

After sidestepping her subordinate’s praise, the sepa nonchalantly brushed off the wood chips from the shattered table and left the room. Truth be told, she didn’t know how she was meant to respond. This hadn’t posed any challenge, and the whole thing had ended in an instant. Not only had they fallen for the oldest trick in the book, but they hadn’t even managed a single counterattack before she’d disarmed them; at this rate, she’d end the night without so much as breaking a sweat.

As per usual, her work bored her.

How long would it be? How many more lightless nights must she spend before a foe would truly set her heart aflutter?

With a heavy sigh, the assassin looked up at the moon. Waned into a thin crescent, its light was weak and offered no answer as it gleamed off her amethyst eyes.

Glowing embers of battle burned on in her heart as she slunk into the night with the rest of her peers. But the cinders remained lit, and she continued to ask: When, oh when, will I find a worthy opponent?

[Tips] Among the nobility, it is not uncommon to see entire clans employed for the purpose of reconnaissance or assassination. These families invariably draw blood from creatures particularly suited for their given tasks, and their generational employment is often contingent on that fact.

The ambitions of man spiral together to form the kaleidoscopic magnum opus that is society—at least, such was the view of one fellow who had dedicated the whole of his eternal existence to seeing that work of art through.

Yet some things were beyond even his understanding: take, for example, his daughter.

“Do you like it? Wit have had all your favorite dishes prepared tonight.”

“Thank you, Marquis Donnersmarck. I’m very pleased.”

“Oh, please. Wit have sent away all the help and the barriers are rigidly fixed. Won’t you stop being so distant?”

Having been born before the foundation of the Trialist Empire itself, the marquis had a long list of descendants unthinkable for any other methuselah. The root of his promiscuity was his commitment to machinations; marital diplomacy was one of the key tools that made his plots tick. Where others of his ilk tweaked their minds with magic to sate their urges, he made it a point to produce children in his own image. He had married and remarried—it was perfectly socially acceptable for an immortal to take on a new spouse if their mortal companion passed on—to the point that other methuselah questioned whether he was truly one of theirs.

On top of that, he’d adopted just as many children as he’d fathered. Thanks to these efforts combined, he’d maneuvered himself into technically being related to half of the seven electorate houses...but still couldn’t figure out how to deal with his young daughter.

The problem had only been exacerbated as of late, seeing as she’d made her rather...impassioned proclivities known.

Nakeisha was the daughter of one Asimah: the marquis had fallen for the former agent’s charming personality and had taken her as a mistress many years ago. Being the child of one of his favorites, he’d taken great care to raise the girl with love; yet the barrier between methuselah and sepa was hard to reconcile.

As they ate supper together at a private medical retreat, he noticed that she continued to cut her food into small pieces to eat without letting her mouth move. Even out of the public eye, it was hard to get a read on her permanent poker face. Her beautiful features were so remarkably stoic that it was hard to call any characteristic truly distinctive; with how steadfast her gaze was, it was easy to feel like the marquis was talking to a masterfully crafted statue.

For a time, the father let his daughter enjoy her favorite foods in silence. Eventually, though, his curiosity caught up to him; unable to let his concerns fester, he asked a question that had previously produced an incomprehensible response.

“By the way,” the marquis began, “about that blond servant boy. He...nearly killed you, yes? Why are you so fond of him, then?”

The girl’s steady hands stopped, her knife and fork freezing midair. Two amethyst gems stared straight back into her father’s ashen eyes, and his gaze faltered. Any of his political opponents would have been shocked to see Marquis Donnersmarck make such a blunder, but the peculiarity of his daughter’s previous answer stuck fast to his mind.

“Are you aware of how centipedes mate?”

“Huh? Centipedes?”

“Yes. First, the male produces a capsule of sperm which he hands to the female. From there, the female uses the package to fertilize her own eggs, forgoing the need for copulation.”

The marquis was on the cusp of being a proper father and warning her not to use such unladylike language without reserve, but the girl’s curt explanation left him no room to cut in.

“Our lineage can be traced back to a rare strand of particularly aggressive centipedes, and yet we possess reproductive organs here, in our torsos.”

“W-Wit don’t see any need for you to expound on the details.”

“Ah, apologies. I forgot for a moment that you would already know as much, Marquis.”

Despite all the years under his belt, this shut the methuselah up at once; the reminder that he’d (obviously) lain in bed with the girl’s mother even brought him to blush. Had he been two hundred years younger, perhaps he would’ve made a serious ass of himself as younger boys are wont to do.

“This is speculation on my part, but I suspect that our natural preference for independent action makes us seek company that can match our aggression.”

For sepa, “intimacy” was not so harmonious a word as a humanfolk might understand it. Sex was less a union and more a clash, closer to wrestling or even life-or-death combat than sweet cuddling.

The image of his mistress naturally appeared in the back of Marquis Donnersmarck’s mind, but she was a gorgeous and modest woman utterly divorced from the concepts of which their daughter spoke. Yet in truth, this was a product of the woman’s discernment; she had both the wits and wherewithal to tailor her style to the whims of her partner.

After all, such technique came with the territory: no covert operative could extract sensitive information if they forced their instinctual tastes on a potential informant.

“I’m told grabbing collars, baring fangs, and full-on fistfights are mere foreplay for many couples.”

“H-How...passionate. Say, where did you learn all this, anyhow?”

“There are many men in our organization, and such conversations between them are hardly difficult to come by.”

Although the marquis was by no means an overprotective parent, he made a mental note to order the clan elder to keep his men in line the next time they met.

“At any rate,” Nakeisha went on, “that is simply the burden we are saddled with. A partner who can take me at my full force, someone with the strength to beat me into submission? That appeals to me on some deeply instinctual level.”

As she spoke, the girl’s mind wandered to a sweet fantasy—at least, by sepa standards. If only she could yank those cold, kitten-like eyes close; if only he would do the same, locking their gazes at point-blank range. If only she could sink her fangs into his neck, leaving behind a trademark sepa bite mark with the faint effects of her toxins running through his veins. But then he’d counter. He’d punch her—no, stab her—in the stomach; oh, how lovely.

They would push and be pushed, conquer and be conquered. From there, their struggle would only escalate, and in the end, she would carefully sever his neck so as not to cut his pretty hair, and gently bring his lips up to her own. Or perhaps his strike would land first, and it would be her decapitated head resting on his pillowy lap, gently stroked as she drew her last.

Suddenly, the fresh scars on her arm began to tingle, and she held herself tight to contain the emotion swelling up in her heart. Even then, she couldn’t contain herself: the mandibles she’d so carefully hidden away while eating her meal slipped out and began to chitter.

“Marquis Donnersmarck, are you aware that I am one of the top performers in our family?”

“Wit am. Reports of your talent come my way frequently, and your results speak for themselves. Wit can see why your grandfather considers you the jewel of your clan.”

“As a result, none of the boys have ever been a match for me.” After a pause, she added, “I would simply break them, should I let myself.”

The methuselah was awestruck at the unbridgeable rift between their perspectives. Apparently, the undying were not the only ones burdened with afflictions of habit at birth. Or perhaps, he thought to himself, every way of life carried its own inclinations and intuitions incomprehensible to those who did not share them.

“But if it were him, he would not shatter under my fist. He would show me the brink of ruin. I’m sure that a true bout with him would be an unforgettable memory... And on top of that, our child would certainly be stronger than any other.”

“Wit, uh...see.”

Dig deeper in the pursuit of knowledge, and ye shall find yourself in depths too profound to comprehend; for once in his life, Marquis Donnersmarck could empathize with the struggles of the magia he so often employed as pawns. In the end, the father’s concerns were no closer to being resolved, only growing more severe.

[Tips] Some types of demihumans are said to have gained the ability to birth live young after leaving their ancestral roots behind. However, this commonly leads to unconscious tension with the instincts they inherit from their animalistic predecessors, making it difficult for them to adjust to societal expectations.