Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 6 - Chapter 1

Early Autumn of the Fifteenth Year

Party Disbandment

When the PCs making up the party have differing objectives, they may no longer have compelling reason to walk the same path and can split up as a result. Most of the time, this occurs after a campaign ends: though each goes to their own path, ties once forged prove difficult to break forever.

Regularly mingling with the pretty boys and girls that populated the palatial servants’ room only threatened to worsen my already-twisted perception of beauty; yet with the end in sight, the scenery did rouse some kind of sentiment within me.

A few days had passed since our youthful farewell party, too precious to recall without blushing. The handoff process was officially complete, and my days as Lady Agrippina’s steward were coming to an end.

Today was my last day on the job. Now that the replacement chamberlains had completed their training regimen, I had finally seen my duties through. And please, don’t scoff at the need to establish a full-fledged instructional doctrine for “mere” servants: they were to be the madam’s closest aides, fit to be her hands and feet and even to deal with other nobles on her behalf.

They were no less important than a pair of shoes or a well-trimmed set of nails to the average salaryman. Any blemishes to one’s footwear—or even just wearing a pair that didn’t suit one’s stature—was enough to draw out a snide remark; someone handing out a business card with grime under their fingernails was sure to leave a middling impression no matter how immaculately tailored their suit. Lady Agrippina’s hired help did not just reflect on themselves, but on her.

Besides, retainers were not just handy grabber tools meant to pick up TV remotes; they were expected to lay down their lives as a lord’s first line of defense if the need arose. If you need any more convincing that plucking a charming face off the streets wouldn’t suffice, I could tell that most of the exhibits lounging around in this museum of good looks exhibited palpable evidence of martial prowess.

On top of that, trusted adjutants doubled as messengers and couriers. Entrusting a noncombatant with confidential correspondence was simply dangerous. I couldn’t count how many times I’d been jumped by those seeking dirt on the madam, and it wasn’t as if I’d gotten away unharmed every time. Servitude and violence were inseparably linked.

All this to say, they needed to be able to hold their own in a fight and carry themselves with good grace in front of high-class company as a matter of course; from there, they still needed to learn to read the madam’s unspoken plans and act accordingly. With qualifications like those, I felt it was fair to call their training a “regimen” and not some general education.

When I thought about how I would soon be freed from the restrictive world of the upper class, my mind cleared up like I’d just hopped out of a lovely bath. For as far-reaching as high society was, it truly was a tiny bubble. No matter how hard I tried to shrivel up and stay out of sight, it was hard to find any breathing room as a lowborn boy—the fourth son of a farmer was about on par with a singular ant—serving an emergent and prominent noble. It was worse than how I felt around the College, where I was all but an outsider loitering around the campus. I was convinced that not even the most sinister corporation on Earth would have felt this refreshing to quit.

I kept to myself in the corner with thoughts like, Ooh, I can’t wait, bouncing around my head, when an exceedingly subtle presence began creeping toward me.

I slid to one side of my usual couch—the other servants were always too busy making connections to sit down—and a body slunk into the large space I’d left open.

“Good evening.”

“It is quite a nice evening indeed.”

Though I’d since grown used to exchanging pleasantries with her, Miss Nakeisha was the very sepa I’d found myself in a duel to the death with just last year. As ever, her burning orange hair and olive skin gleamed with a brilliant luster, yet her well-proportioned features remained difficult to keep in the mind, in part thanks to how expressionless they were. But most striking of all were the three arms I’d cut clean off: there they were, filling out a stately servant’s uniform.

In a twist of unadulterated luxury, she had been surgically healed and returned to the battlefield a piddling two months after our fight. I’d known limbs could be magically reattached, but seeing it done so perfectly had astonished me. I hadn’t been sure whether I ought to be afraid that powerful enemies would continue to reappear so long as they drew breath and had the money for iatrurgy, or to be reassured that the madam could foot the bill for me should anything happen.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “To think the madam would end up sharing a table with Marquis Donnersmarck two weeks in a row.”

“These conferences deal in matters of road maintenance and highway construction, as I’m sure you know. Perhaps our allegiances to fiscally savvy masters has led us to this curious twist of fate.”

If we wanted to settle things once and for all, one of us would need to carve out the other’s heart or lop off their head. Yet as mind-boggling as the state of our rivalry was, I’d ended up getting along with her sooner than imagined.

Frankly, she was right: these “economic conferences”—which was really just a fancy way of saying “banquets”—like the one Lady Agrippina was attending tonight were, as the name implied, nigh mandatory for two nobles whose main avenue to power lay in wealth. Whether we liked it or not, we’d been destined to meet often.

Plus, despite facing off in combat harsh enough to erase a manor and summon some kind of mythical beast, the two of them had sniffed out gains to be had from an alliance and had positioned themselves accordingly. I didn’t know whether it was more a product of that scoundrel’s audacity or the marquis’s unyielding courage, but somehow they managed to keep up airs.

With our masters’ interests aligned, Miss Nakeisha and I had become fellow agents—uh, well, I was still just a servant—in the field. That we had to let our bloody history be water under the bridge and consider one another allies showed the depth of sin that pervaded this cutthroat world of opulence.

As you can likely surmise from our having exchanged names, we were on fine terms now; we’d even taken up arms together in some less-than-reputable work.

The patrician willingness to bare one’s heart and link arms with a former enemy in the name of profit was alien to me, but I digress. Figuring that the cold shoulder wasn’t necessary if we weren’t going to fight, I’d opened up enough to trade intel with her when I had time to kill in the waiting room.

Obviously, both of us only ever shared harmless statements devoid of intrigue while trying to lead the other into divulging something—anything at all. Although this was far from what I was willing to define as a proper friendship, I’d come to the conclusion in our time together that she wasn’t a bad person.

Miss Nakeisha was, at her core, a deeply dangerous individual. However, of all the people in my life, she was probably the fourth most reasonable human being I knew; having a conversation with her wasn’t impossible so long as I thought about the topics. We were close enough to know what each other’s favorite food was and the like, but our relationship remained strained by the perennial possibility that one of our employers would order the other’s assassination at any given moment.

“By the way,” she said, “I happened to hear a rumor. They say you’ve been granted a leave.”

Seems word travels fast. Though my first instinct was apprehensive, it wasn’t as if I was actively hiding the news. Anyone with an information network as expansive as Marquis Donnersmarck’s was sure to know; even those who just barely participated in Ubiorum faction affairs were aware. Her statement almost certainly wasn’t a veiled threat about information leaking.

Besides, I was finally going to be free of the sinking muck that was high society. Talking about my future with a friend—on paper, at least—was fine, so long as I didn’t say anything that would hurt the madam’s position.

And honestly, I had a sneaking suspicion that we would meet again.

After all, Lady Agrippina had offered to have me sworn in as a knight or to adopt me to eventually take the Ubiorum name. If she was willing to throw aside her shame to make these ridiculous offers, there was no doubt in my mind that she’d slip a chain around my ankle as I walked out the door. This was a given: sooner or later, she was going to throw another abominable job my way.

With how far and wide Marquis Donnersmarck’s influence stretched, I was highly likely to run into Miss Nakeisha again—as either friend or foe. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let her know the truth.

“You have heard right. Alas, I have failed to measure up to my lord’s expectations, and have thus put in a word of parting.”

“Is that so? Well...it seems Count Ubiorum is most difficult to satisfy.”

“No, I have simply been too lacking to fulfill the madam’s needs. It stands to reason that blue-blooded retainers handpicked from her own lands would be better suited for the task than an indentured servant who found his place by mere happenstance. Fate is such a curious thing, isn’t it?”

“Many are the toad-slayers who boast of felling dragons, but I had surely thought none to claim their sea serpent a mere fish caught. Remaining calm in the face of such humor is a challenge indeed.”

In spite of her claims, Miss Nakeisha’s expression was frozen in the same rock-solid poker face as usual. Seeing her speak without moving her mouth in the slightest never got any less disturbing, and hearing her engage in flowery flights of rhetoric made it less comforting still.

“Well then,” she said, “have you already decided where you shall go?”

“I have. With a leave of absence as long as mine, I plan to first return to my hometown. I will spend some time offering myself to my parents as a good son does, and from there, I will set out to realize my childhood dream.”

“And whatever might that be?”

“To become an adventurer.”

My blunt and honest answer managed to twist—er, loosen?—her stone-cold expression. I couldn’t tell whether the emotion coming through was one of confusion or astonishment, but either way I felt like I’d won in some small way.

“That is a rather curious choice of vocation.”

“From the very start, I have been no more than a dumb brat, taken by the glory that may await if only I hone myself with but a lone sword on my back.”

“Glory? Is the station of personal blade to the woman shaping this generation not enough?”

“I suppose a lady would not understand.” I knew I could only get away with saying such things because of the era, but sue me: I really believed that there were some feelings that were exclusively gendered. “I want to be the strongest in the world—every boy has dreamed of it once in his life. I’d like to try and make it a reality.”

As I’d suspected she might, Miss Nakeisha unveiled yet another new expression: one that plainly read, “What the hell are you talking about?”

But let me set this straight: I was absolutely serious. I wanted a taste of what the heroes I held so dear—the ones I’d played—had felt. And, if all went well, they would speak my name with an epithet at the tail; minstrels would sing songs of my exploits; the children of tomorrow would mention my name when they discussed who the strongest adventurer ever to live was.

Every man dreams at least once of being the world’s strongest. Who said that again? Whoever it was, it continued to tickle my heartstrings to this day. No matter how old, every man was merely a boy craving higher heights: whether as a husband, a father, or a ruler of nations, none could claim he hadn’t earnestly dreamed of becoming the best. Even a servant would aim to become the greatest of butlers; if he was of common birth, he’d strive to at least be the most accomplished of his peers.

Among the creatures known as men...I admit I was a touch on the childish side: I just hadn’t been able to stop playing around with swords.

“Hm,” Miss Nakeisha mused. “The strongest...yes, the strongest. Put that way, I can see what you mean.”

“Oh, you can?”

“Indeed. Unworthy as I am, I once was honored as the jewel of my clan and accepted the title without a hint of shame.”

What a grand epithet. She was one of the top performers of all I’d crossed blades with, though, so I was sure it was well deserved. I wasn’t planning on losing if we ever fought again, but she had the skill to kill me if the right circumstances lined up; I couldn’t underestimate her.

“But you see, just this past year, I was made to know that I am but a large fish in a small pond. Any such pride has been thoroughly shattered.”

I turned to see a cold yet fiery gaze, bordering on bloodlust. As raw emotion flooded her eyes, she cradled herself. Bringing out the second pair of arms she ordinarily hid under her short mantle, she petted them with loving melancholy.

Her fingers glided over unseen lines I knew all too well: the paths once taken by the Craving Blade.

“It was my first defeat since childhood. Naturally, the loss weighs on me.”

Aha. Despite her cool demeanor, she, too, had held ambitions—of becoming the greatest assassin in the world. What was more, it appeared that I had totally trampled over them.

I couldn’t blame her: I had won convincingly. I’d put all my enemies out of commission in a one-on-four fight, and had personally relieved her of three arms. Had she stayed to see the rest of the battle through, there was no doubt that she would’ve been tossed into a mass grave with all the other ravaged corpses littering the Liplar estate.

Which meant that, as the crusher of her dreams, I would one day have to see this matter through. That was what it meant to be a swordsman—a warrior.

“My congratulations. Finding a worthy opponent is no easy feat. The secret to true strength is—”

“Someone who will etch an unshakable oath into your heart: No matter what fate may come, you alone I shall kill with these hands. Yes?”

Uh, I was going to say “a rival to best.” I hadn’t expected my statement to be hijacked into something a thousand times more gruesome, but sure, I guess. I’d heard that sepa tended to be aggressive people, but my goodness, was she dyed-in-the-wool. I would have never guessed that such passion blazed underneath her stony mask.

“Though,” she said, shifting tone, “this is merely a hypothetical from a more violent timeline. As a lowly servant to the marquis, such decisions are a world away for me to make.”

“Likewise. A mere adventurer has no business in such matters.”

We lightened the mood with some less-than-subtle statements, and Miss Nakeisha suddenly put a right hand to her chin in contemplation.

“Come to think of it, I’ve also heard that Count Ubiorum has another pet project in the works: a wandering troupe dedicated to collecting rare tomes and fables... Those fonder of gossip than I mentioned the possibility of it being a reconnaissance unit, and—ahh. Of course, of course.”

“...Uh, Miss Nakeisha?”

“The adventurer and the book collectors, both sent to roam. Of course—ah, yes, of course.”

Hey, um, you’re not making this weird, right? You know this is just Lady Agrippina’s way of funneling her massive treasury into something she actually finds fun to blow off steam, right? We’re all on the same page that this is just the obsession of a bibliomaniac who wants to hoard any and every story that might not spread or be preserved without her efforts...right?

I had personally been involved in the project, and could guarantee beyond a shadow of a doubt that the madam’s book-searching party was just that. Even if they were undercover spies, why would we have forged a more overt post to that end? This wasn’t even prime material for future history buffs and what-if theorizers to speculate over.

“Oh, don’t mind me. No need to comment—I’m simply thinking aloud. It would seem I have much to look forward to.”

“Wait, listen to—”

“Congratulations on your promotion, from the bottom of my heart.”

From the looks of it, Miss Nakeisha had legitimately convinced herself of this strange misunderstanding. In her mind, I guess I was stepping down from my public position to focus on Ubiorum tasks under the table.

Huh. Maybe if you spend your whole life head-deep in a world where motives are more ulterior than not, you end up reading too deep into everything. My internal response was calm, but looking at this rationally, I had reason to suspect this was a really bad sign. Marquis Donnersmarck likely had scouts in every corner of the Empire; I would lose it if they watched and misinterpreted my every move.

“No, you don’t understand. My contract simply expired, and I took the chance—”

“The next time we meet will surely be in the shadows. Until then.”

Unfortunately, she refused to listen and stood up. It was around the time Marquis Donnersmarck usually retired, meaning she was about to leave the palace.

I reached out to stop her but ended up pawing at air; instead, she marked our farewell with a smile. It was a distinctly sepa smile: her two large mandibles peeked out without reserve.

As the door silently shut behind her, I stood frozen with one thought dominating my mind: This is definitely not good.

After all, the message behind her chittering jaw had been clear as day: “Next time, you die.”

So, um...basically, I felt like I had a genuine excuse as to why I didn’t respond to Lady Agrippina’s telepathy immediately; she would have to forgive me this once.

[Tips] Many groups in history have used their nominal harmlessness in service of reconnaissance. For example, in the Trialist Empire, one department of the imperial road conservation committee has turned its offices into the bases from which noble informants operate—large-scale organizations with massive reach are often best suited for providing cover.

Upon boarding the carriage home, my master wrenched the phony smile off her face to unveil a horrendous mood.

“Did something happen?” I asked.

“That smirking shitstain managed to swipe away a public project I’d been eyeing,” Lady Agrippina sighed. “I’m still one or two paces behind when it comes to logistical power.”

Apparently, she’d lost her political spat with Marquis Donnersmarck today. He was an ancient powerhouse who’d built up his fortune since the time of the Empire’s founding; while the madam wouldn’t lose in a contest for which she was perfectly prepared, avoiding every loss in noble politics was impossible. This time, she’d challenged him at his own game, and the results reflected that.

“Things were progressing smoothly at first; one of my subordinates nearly clinched the offer, but he lost a duel—and with it, the ability to stand his ground. Trying to utilize lesser lords coddled by a land without threats is so tiresome...”

“Er, is that how the bidding for public projects is supposed to work?”

How odd. I could have sworn that this was a country run by straitlaced, highly regulatory bureaucrats; I wondered why they’d settled things with the equivalent of ramming two construction vehicles into each other to see who would get the bid. As far as I knew, once an offer was sealed, that was it. Why had they scheduled one-on-one combat after that? Did they all have chronic duel syndrome or something?

“Alas, a duel properly set in writing is a legally binding procedure.” After a short pause, she abandoned the explanatory tone and spat, “Blithering idiot—such senseless greed. I’ll need to expedite the replacement of these useless fools. I can’t have my plans topple over for such absurd reasons.”

Although we’d finished propping up the people immediately around her, the rotten cesspool that was the Ubiorum county was too much to have converted into a solid foundation in the madam’s short tenure since inauguration.

We’d gone ahead and picked out three particularly unsalvageable families—mired in reports of human trafficking and sale of highly illicit powders, so to speak—to crush whole: the heads of household and all direct heirs were put to death, and all relatives up to the fifth degree were fired from imperial employment and exiled. The whole affair had helped to quiet things down, but the issue of the sheer incompetence that pervaded the territory was harder to tackle.

Waiting until each of her lackeys produced a capable heir out of sheer dumb luck was too slow, even for a methuselah. Plans to replace the ineffective pieces with talent were in the works, but the process was long. At its shortest, Lady Agrippina’s predicament would continue on for a quarter of a century.

“Maybe I should’ve killed him when I had the chance,” she grumbled.

Weighing on matters of life and death with all the pomp of someone who’d missed a good deal at the grocery store was villainy itself, but the horses neither knew nor cared. They made quick work of the short ride to the College, and we were back in home territory in minutes.

I passed the Dioscuri off to the stablehand and we went down to the atelier, where I stopped to check my personal mailbox. I’d only been out for half a day, and there was already enough mail that I had to carry it out with two hands. I would need to sort out the imperial notices from personal letters from peers and subordinates, but the task jumped out of my mind when I entered the laboratory and came across an angel.

“How do I look, Dear Brother?”

Clad in a trendy robe that flared slightly at the hem, the girl in front of me was adorable enough to mistake for a heavenly messenger—my beloved baby sister had come to greet me with a smile.

The black silk of her robe was glossy enough to seem wet, loudly announcing its superior make. The front of her collar draped onto her chest in the vein of a gorgeous evening gown, but the overall design remained tasteful enough for a student to wear; every inch of the garment spoke to the refined sensibilities of the designer and maker.

An arabesque design from the lands to our east ran across its surface, stitched in with a rare pearl-colored thread. According to the designer-cum-maker, Lady Agrippina von Ubiorum herself, the pattern outlined a unique defensive formula.

Elisa also had on a cape cut from the same cloth; not only did it come with a trademark magus hood, but it did so in a way that avoided the dreary stigma so often associated with it. From head to upper arm, every inch it covered was embellished with embroidery or frills, making it stylish and mysterious in ways ordinary articles of fashion weren’t.

“You’re the cutest in the whole wide world.” I voiced my unfiltered opinion. If anyone wanted to disagree, they were free to rust on the tip of Schutzwolfe.

“Thank you kindly.”

Articulated in the practiced palatial tongue of a young lady, Elisa’s reply was accompanied by a blossoming smile as she hugged her enrollment gift tight.

“It arrived just after you and Master left. I was so excited that I couldn’t help myself and tried it on... I was worried it might not come in time.”

This coming winter, Elisa would turn ten and officially enroll as a College student. She would need a uniform befitting of a magus-to-be, and her master—as well as a certain deviant who’d caught wind of the news—had prepared her one.

“I shall do my best to become a magus you can be proud of, Dear Brother.”

The wand cradled in her arms glimmered as if to answer her resolution. Still a touch too big for her, our master’s hand-me-down handle—according to her, it was made from a branch she’d plucked off a tree in the center of some important spiritual site—tapered off into a mystarille seat. There, a gem shimmered in intricate shades of blue to provide the finishing touch to an utterly lavish item.

Blue garnets were rare to come by, and they were said to support magical concentration and offer a blessing of justice to their wielder. Furthermore, their hue changed with the lighting; this was apparently indicative of their suitability for mutative magic.

Just thinking about its price made me want to vomit, but Lady Agrippina hadn’t seemed to care one bit when she casually remarked that our patron had ponied up the whole sum.

Holy bourgeois... Here I was, pinching pennies over vegetables and salted meats; they lived in a totally different world. I swear, ever since moving to the city, my desire to seek out hammers and sickles had gone up by orders of magnitude.

“Give it your best, Elisa.”

From here on, her studies would only get harder and harder. I patted her gently on the head; when I thought about how this would be the last time in the foreseeable future I would feel this soft sensation in my hand, a sharp pain pierced through my ribs and into my heart.

“I will, Dear Brother. I’ll do my very best.” She smiled a sunny smile—one altogether foreign from the little girl clinging to our family home’s door—and placed a hand on her choker. “Because you’ll always be watching over me, won’t you?”

The kitten-blue gem in the center of her neckpiece rocked at her touch. Unlike the blue garnet, this aquamarine had come straight from Lady Agrippina’s personal collection.

From what I’d heard, Elisa had gone straight for this as her first choice for the pinnacle of her wand. Alas, it wasn’t conducive to her mystic goals and the madam shot her down. Yet she’d grown so fond of the reminiscence of my eyes that our master eventually compromised and fashioned some jewelry out of it.

That said, this wasn’t an official expense, so we were the ones footing the bill.

Lady Agrippina had done us the great favor of giving the gem up as a reward for my service as her bodyguard-slash-handyman over this past year, but trying to buy something like this outright would take entire lifetimes under normal circumstances.

Laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if you must, but precious stones were orders of magnitude more prized here than on Earth. When a single accessory could outline the difference between you and a lower noble, these sparkly rocks could become weapons like no other.

As a result, a handful of ludicrous jewels went for entire territories or even a small country. This aquamarine wasn’t quite on that level, but I gauged its worth as that of at least a sizable manor: any less, and the math just wouldn’t add up. The gods only knew how many times I’d cleaned up messes above an indentured servant’s pay grade; if my luck were any worse than it already was, I would’ve died dozens of times over trying to get through this inordinate challenge—don’t you dare tell me I was overselling myself.

“I’ll think of this as you and do my best here in the capital. And one day, when I’m a real magus, I’ll come and get you.”

“I... I’ll always be watching over you, Elisa. No matter how far apart we are, we’ll always be together.”

Shelving the awful working-life memories, I couldn’t have been happier that, before anyone else, my sister had come straight to me to show off her brand-new outfit.

Because this was proof of her first step toward independence.

To regain her imperial citizenship and the freedom it conferred, Elisa would need to climb the long staircase toward magushood. Seeing her set off on her ascent with her own two feet nearly brought me to tears.

Don’t cry, you dolt. Look at your sister! We both cried plenty at the farewell party, and here she is, trying to send you off with a smile and well-wishes.

I couldn’t cry now—not when I knew Elisa was hurting more than me.

“Please, Dear Brother. Be safe.”

“Thank you, Elisa. You do your best too, okay?”

I hugged my baby sister tight as if to squeeze down my emotions...and the girl in my arms was bigger than she had been before. The slack in my arms had shrunk with every embrace; her face no longer snuggled into my stomach, but my chest; the crown of her head grew closer each time.

I cradled her gently so as not to wrinkle her lovely robe, and she looked up at me with watery eyes. As she fought to keep those beads of sentiment contained, our father’s amber irises flashed gold in the light.

Please. Let the future these eyes gaze upon be bright.

In earnest prayer, I pressed my lips to her forehead. A kiss there carried meaning as simple as it was heartfelt: blessing.

May a path of fortune and happiness await my darling girl.

[Tips] The students of the College are mere pupils and are not recognized as magia. Yet the barrier of entry remains high: one must either be recommended by a regional magistrate, catch the eye of a professor, or pay steep tuition costs to be admitted. In exchange, they are allowed to open the gate to a realm of thaumaturgy untouchable for ordinary spellcasters.

Once initiated, ties of blood lose most of their social meaning and are replaced with meritocratic evaluation. The professors of the College take great pride in their titles; to deny the unskilled entry into their inner circles is to protect the source of that pride.

After my touching moment with Elisa, I rapidly sorted out my letters and entered the atelier proper. Much to my surprise, I found Lady Agrippina seated at her desk still in full regalia.

“Satisfied?”

“Er, yes.”

For a supposed count palatine, the table was spotless, mainly on account of her belief that delegating away enough work to avoid deathly fatigue was the mark of a good statesman—though I was sure the Emperor and his secretaries would die of pure fury if they heard that. At any rate, my master bade me sit across from her with a puff of her pipe.

Evidently, Lady Agrippina had a solid read on what had happened in the other room and had patiently waited. Not only had she noticed the traces of a delivered package, but she’d noted that her well-educated pupil had failed to greet her despite her obvious return. Her insight into others’ critical priorities, and how she danced amiably around them, was one of the worst parts about her. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a heart; she understood human emotion, but only decided to honor it according to her own whims. If they ever got in her way, a person’s most sacred values meant nothing to her.

Frankly, I would’ve preferred it had she been a rotten scoundrel to her core. At least then, I might’ve understood her.

“Here are the letters I received in my mailbox, color-coded by priority as usual.”

“Thank you. I shall look through these at a later time.” Putting them aside, she continued, “More to the point, I’ve given Elisa hers, so it shan’t do not to give you your gifts as well.”

“Huh?”

The unexpected turn left me blinking blankly; the madam carried on by pulling out an ornate box from her desk drawer, complete with an inlaid depiction of a mythological scene adorning the top. Pushing it my way with an Unseen Hand, the latch opened on its own.

Peering inside, I found a well-worn tobacco set—in fact, the very same set Lady Agrippina always used.

Upon a second inspection, I found that the pipe smoldering in her hands was of an unfamiliar make; the mother-of-pearl craft she’d been puffing on when we first met was right here in the box.

“You’ve come of age, haven’t you? As trivial as the lessons were, I have been your master in magic; a gift is due, I should think. Just as the robe is an imperial marker of the magus, so too is the pipe a sign of adulthood.”

The smoking culture of Rhine was not based around tobacco, but rather fragrant grasses, herbs, and wood. Many soaked their leaves in arcane potions, making the pipe equal parts luxury and medicine. Steeping the leaves in elixirs—or simply using mystic herbs to begin with—allowed for much more variation in effect than the sedative cigarettes of Earth. Magia and mages alike concocted packages to boost concentration or regain lost mana, but I’d heard that Lady Agrippina’s trick of weaving spells into the smoke she exhaled was rather unique.

“You may not be a magus, but it will serve you well as a simple mage. Spellcasters of every make tend to partake; no one will question where the pipe came from.”

“Thank you very much. But isn’t this your favorite?”

“I’ve landed myself in a position where it’s seen as rude not to use a gift. So that belongs to you now—it would be such a waste to let it gather dust.”

What a gift.

Oh so gingerly, I lifted the pipe out of the box. It was far lighter than I’d imagined, and as smooth as velvet to the touch. The tray inside had several compartments, each capped with a labeled lid detailing the effects of the herb stored therewithin: tranquilizers, mana boosters, and the like.

“Consider the leaves an added bonus. I shall show you how to make your own later, so do make sure to replenish your stock yourself.”

“Thank you. There’s even a recipe list...”

“I can’t provide you with enough to last forever, after all,” she said, turning away to let out another puff. Was it hubristic of me to think she did so out of embarrassment? “Oh, and that pipe has a little spell cast on it so that it can fit more leaves than it ought to.”

“Oh... No wonder. I’ve always been curious as to how you managed to smoke for so long with a pipe of this size.”

“Please. It would be such a bother to have to stuff the thing every three breaths.”

Sure, but spatial expansion was not the kind of technique meant to be casually used on a smoking tool—I was sure of that much.

For as familiar as it was to my eyes, having the pipe in hand drove home the consequence of what I’d been bestowed; I gazed at it in a trance, only to notice the madam looking at me with equal intensity. Apparently, she was the type who wanted to see her gifts tested as soon as she handed them out.

“May I join you?”

“Feel free.”

That was why I asked for permission to ignore the glaringly obvious rule that only peers on equal footing were to smoke together. I did as she encouraged me to, stuffing the pipe, lighting it with a cantrip, and taking a drag...only to burst into a coughing fit as a sweet scent choked me out. I was still too young; even without tar or nicotine, my respiratory system was too sensitive for it.

This took me back to the first cigarette I’d bummed off a friend in my past life. Then, as now, I hadn’t been able to enjoy its flavor; though that was partially because it was a cheap stick from a two-hundred-yen pack, I’d been too caught up in the bitter sting of smoke to understand why anyone would ever enjoy it.

“Heh heh,” the madam chuckled, “it looks like it’s still a little too early for you. Well, don’t feel pressured to make it a habit. Just take a puff or two when you’ve cast too many spells for the day.”

“Thank you so much.”

While I was still rejoicing in my unexpected birthday gift, Lady Agrippina moved on and sent two rolls of parchment flying my way. I unraveled them in confusion, only to find that they were the deeds to Castor and Polydeukes.

“This one is an endowment from employer to servant to honor your loyal work...or at least, that’s the pretense for passing the horses to you.”

Upon asking her why, she answered that she’d purchased the pair long ago, and that they were coming up on ten years old. The average horse in the Empire lived somewhere between fifteen and twenty years; at ten, they were ready to be retired from their duties pulling carriages and giving rides.

This was a very privileged way of doing things, of course. Working an aging horse whose strength had begun to wane was a fast way to be mocked in noble company: “What, you can’t afford a replacement?”

While a horse in the countryside would be expected to march until it was on its last legs, these two should have been given to a lesser lord in the madam’s county for cheap or kept as studs on an Ubiorum pasture on account of their good records. However, Lady Agrippina said instead that she’d give them to me as an extra coming-of-age gift because they liked me.

Truthfully, I thought this was too much. Despite their age, they were both purebred military horses, and their output had yet to drop in the slightest. Whenever I took them outside, they ran around for long enough to tire me out; they were still in tip-top form.

This was like getting two imported sports cars as a present for getting into college. What was I, an oil prince?

I mean, I liked them too, but horses cost money to care for and—

“If you can’t so much as earn enough to feed two horses, then you shan’t ever find success as an adventurer. Think of this as a trial from me to you. Or what—can you not handle it?”

I’d been trying to politely decline, but the only response that came to mind after that was, “Of course I can!” If I backed down here, I was leaving myself wide open for her to tell me I didn’t have the guts to set off on my own.

Uhh, I’ll need to cover stable costs and a lot of hay... I-If I was careful, it wouldn’t be more than a drachma per year, probably. That was, um, fine. I’d need to shave their hooves, replace their horseshoes, and trim their manes every now and again, but it’d probably turn out okay—er, no, I would make sure it turned out okay.

The reality that my annual expenses were going to easily run me a gold coin put a tremble in my voice, but I was happy to accept the steeds I’d befriended. That said, I was a bit worried about what the alfar would do to them now that they were my horses in both name and fact.

“And next—”

“W-Wait, what? There’s more?!”

I raised my voice in shock as my master reached into her desk once more, but all that did was put a smug grin on her face as she pulled out a circular bag. Made of leather, the carrying case was branded with the emblem of an artisan union I’d seen around the capital; inside it was a singular round shield.

The wooden body was reinforced with metal plates and curved into a gentle convex shape that was capped off at the center with a rounded bit of metal meant to deflect enemy blades. Unembellished save for a layer of gray anticorrosive, the simple shield was one carried by foot soldiers marching into the chaos of a melee. Though it wouldn’t be effective to set up a coordinated front line, it was more than enough to block projectiles, and its size made it perfect in tight quarters or disorganized brawls; the design was aimed at the common fighter.

At the same time, it was incredibly well made. Though the grip in the center of the backside was straightforward, it was made of solid metal instead of a flimsy leather strap. On top of that, there was a secondary grip off to the side with a complementary strap to fasten the whole thing tight to one’s forearm. The dual handles added versatility, and their placement had been carefully adjusted so neither got in the way of the other.

Hrm, this understated design paired with a deliberate focus on utility told me that this was a product far more expensive than it initially let on.

The madam beckoned me to pick it up; I obliged. Betraying my expectations, the shield was light in my hand; it was only light from the perspective of a physically capable person, of course, but this wouldn’t be too much weight for a long march.

More conveniently still, it wouldn’t get in the way of my single-handed sword bonuses, thanks to Hybrid Sword Arts’ propensity for making full use of every weapon on the battlefield. I may not have had any shield-based add-ons, but it wouldn’t hurt to add it to my setup.

Shields weren’t just defensive tools: just as they could block an incoming spearhead or arrow, they could also knock away a sword or spear guarding an enemy’s vitals. If the need arose, they could also be turned into blunt weapons with a well-timed bash.

“This shield is a parting gift...and also an assignment.”

“An assignment?” I’d been thoroughly looking the thing over, and had just tried gripping it when Lady Agrippina suddenly broke the silence.

“Erich, if you’re going to be an adventurer, then you must hide your magic as best you can.”

“To conceal my background?”

“No. I’ve been watching you fight for quite some time now, and it’s clear to me that you use your spells much too frivolously.”

I didn’t think I’d been haphazard enough to warrant a scolding, but my master raised her pointer finger in a teacherly fashion and sincerely laid out her reasoning.

In essence, she wanted to say that my style of combat was one hardly seen in the Empire, and the rarity of my methods inherently gave me the element of surprise; thus, it was best to keep that edge hidden. She wasn’t telling me not to use magic: my master’s advice was to apply my mystic talents in ways that couldn’t be easily discerned at a glance.

“Your skill with the blade is enough to convince anyone of a long dedication to swordplay. As such, your enemies will naturally presume that you aren’t a mage. Don’t you think it wasteful to throw out an opening so ripe for exploitation from the start?”

I supposed I saw her point. If I were up against a meat-for-brains warrior-type and they suddenly started tossing around spells, I’d definitely get a little scared. The surprise could make me slower to react, and an overabundance of wariness could leave me unable to fight back properly.

“Always look for the decisive moment, and save your hand until then. Once a foe knows your mystic potential, they will act accordingly. Tell me: if you were to fight a perfect replica of yourself, would you let things drag into a stalemate?”

“Absolutely not.”

Obviously, a clone of me would know all my tricks; I would never consider a fair fight. If it came down to a one-on-one battle, I would use everything at my disposal—namely, extra swords and the crossbows I’d been using since looting them a year ago—to end things as quickly as I could. Rather, I’d done so many a time. While I pitied the honest warriors who’d polished their skills to the point where they could hold their own against a normal mage, I wasn’t sorry for mopping them up quickly with my fastest clearing strategy.

“I understand wanting to perfect your craft by culling the rabble, but your current usage of magic is undeniably wanting. I can recall more than a handful of occasions where you ran into a skilled warrior who caused you trouble as they danced around your magic.”

“...It is as you say.”

Looking back, she was right. Every so often, I’d found myself breezing through an initial wave of hitmen only to be dragged into a prolonged struggle against the real killer lurking behind.

After all, if you knew a spell was coming, there were plenty of ways to get around it. Every spell came with some amount of casting time, and anything that had to target a person or the space around them was definitionally evadable. Just like how I read my enemies’ lines of sight to dodge their arrows on the daily, sorcery wasn’t any better if its intention was obvious.

Evasion wasn’t even the only option. Skirting a caster’s range could cause them to shoot blanks; taking cover could break a targeting formula; a well-placed shield could soften the blow. Even off the top of my head, the counterplay was limitless.

Only College professors and particularly noteworthy priests walked around with I-Win spells and miracles in their back pockets. The difference between “You die if this hits” and “You die if I finish casting” was immense; I would do well not to forget that. Creatures could guarantee victory upon attack all they wanted—it meant nothing without the precious words “can’t be countered.”

“Whether in combat or politics, to be unknown is the greatest strength; to not know is the most terrible fear. Remember that and carry yourself smartly.”

For magia, violence was a matter of efficiency; instant and incomprehensible murder was key. Lady Leizniz’s lecture on Daybreak polemurge philosophy naturally came to mind. She had taught me similarly grisly ideas with a saintlike smile: the most important thing was to kill before the enemy could process their own death.

“Informal as it was, I have been your master and teacher. Consider this advice my last gift to you as a servant and pupil: a more brutal approach is within your reach, and you may as well take the chance to grab it.”

“Did you have to word it that way?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you aren’t aware of how unethical you already are.”

Her wicked grin told me she was having fun teasing me, but I personally couldn’t recount anything particularly dirty I’d done. Even at my lowest, my antics were on the level of maxing out my mind and Hands to tie a bunch of shoelaces together, pulling enemies into their allies’ swings, and unbuckling belts to give them some breathability when I was feeling lazy. Other than that, I’d developed a strong combo with easy-to-handle daggers that could constantly skewer someone from seven directions at a time, but I wouldn’t call that unethical.

To me, that word was reserved for something so ludicrously unfair that the victim didn’t even get a chance to roll for a reaction. If I were so overpowered that I could publicize all my secrets and document all my stats and still manage to get a fellow munchkin to question how they’d ever kill me, then we’d be talking.

So basically, when I was at the level where I could beat Lady Agrippina in a fair fight.

I wasn’t even close.

“‘A parlor trick caught on to attracts no crowds.’ Of all the proverbs those musky hermits of First Light conjure up, this is the only one you should take to heart. Engrave it deep in your mind.”

The showy sneer, the mischievous tone, and the sweet scent of smoke—I’d grown used to them all, and now they came together to weave a statement of farewell.

[Tips] Pipes in the Empire are not stuffed with tobacco as they are on Earth, but with fragrant herbs often adjusted to have medicinal properties. Originally only employed by witch doctors to cure maladies of the throat and lungs, the advancement of magecraft as a study led to the discovery of a great many other potential uses. In the western reach of the Central Continent, they are considered a mark of independence or the tool of a mage.

The trend is particularly popular among the gentry, some of whom keep climate-controlled storage facilities to foster the most aromatic leaves. Yet while the upper-class image of the pastime remains, many common folk partake for the health benefits as well.

As I packed up all my gifts and began preparing to leave, I heard something that I seldom ever heard.

“Oops.”

I’d spent a good portion of my life serving Lady Agrippina, but rare were the occasions when she let herself seem slow of wit.

I turned around and asked whether something was the matter, and for once, her response was an awkward one. She scratched at her hair in embarrassment and showed me a small box in her palm.

“I’ve done it now—I’ve butchered the order. I was supposed to give you this first, now that it’s ready.”

“Huh? Another gift?”

“Ugh, how embarrassing. If I were in the audience for a play like this, I would definitely be complaining. Ah, well, fine. Here, take this with you.”

For all the sentimental buildup, the madam carelessly tossed it my way. Opening it with a doubtful eye, I discovered a pedestal wrapped in thick woolen cloth, and a ring seated within.

It wasn’t particularly ornate, nor did it house a gem; it was just a plain old ring. If there was anything worthy of special mention, it would be how the artificially induced afternoon sun pouring in from the windows glimmered off the golden surface with a flirtatious sparkle. This was no gilded specimen: the weight in my palm commanded tremendous presence and clearly declared its purity.

Looking closer, though, I noticed that it had a thin engraving: an Ubiorum crest, though a touch too small to use as an official seal.

“A sword, scepter, and double-headed eagle... Wait a second, this is—”

“A substitute for your letter of commendation. I suspect it arrived with your sister’s robes. I wish I’d noticed sooner.”

On the inside of the ring were the words, From Count Agrippina von Ubiorum to Erich of Konigstuhl—in honor of his distinguished service. Engraved with elegant penmanship, the commendation the madam had mentioned was basically a “good job, you did it” award.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“My standing will drop if I don’t hand you something like this. Be a good boy and take it.”

However, this was no mere show of gratitude. This wasn’t some employee-of-the-month award; it was something worth putting on a résumé—no, it was a résumé in and of itself.

When a commoner wished to serve a lord, they had to prove two things. The skills for the job weren’t enough: one had to show that they were of good character. Nobody wanted to bring someone neither fish nor fowl into their inner circles and risk catastrophe. Wanting some proof of identity was a natural next step.

In rural cantons, the churches kept family registries; in cities, the greater administrative state collected census data; letters of commendation were forms of identification considered to be just as valid as these. They were clear statements made by the nobles or knights issuing them, to the effect that the recipient had done well in their service.

Someone with a formal commendation could walk up to any of their benefactor’s allies and expect not only food and lodging, but most likely even equipment and money to facilitate a journey. Meanwhile, showing it to an unrelated noble was sure to boost one’s odds of being hired by leaps and bounds.

Kings and lords of every make were wont to give them out to those who braved great challenges to solve their issues. Whether as a sword or a ring, it wasn’t all that surprising I’d received one, considering my accomplishments.

But the hefty weight in my hand felt to me like a delicate bomb just waiting to go off.

“Um, do I—er—have to take it?”

“Yes.”

Sporting a great big grin, the scoundrel replied without missing a beat; she wasn’t so cute as to stop and ponder why I might try and refuse.

You see, just owning this thing was enough to clarify that I was related to Lady Agrippina in some way. At some point this thing was going to lead me into “You must be working for her!” territory.

So why not throw it away? Or why not sell it? These were nonoptions. Nominally though it was, callously handling a gift benevolently bestowed by my direct master was to give her ammunition to do gods knew what.

Dishonor—this single word was reason enough to sever skull from spine. Rejecting a superior’s sincerity was explicitly against the rules. She could’ve handed me an avant-garde work of pottery for all society cared; I would still have to take it home and treasure it as a family heirloom.

I hated it. I just knew that, somewhere down the line, her scheming calculations used me as a variable. Any occasion where clarifying my connection to Lady Agrippina was a boon was necessarily going to be some terrible scene of carnage. And if I found myself in such an occasion, I was certainly not going to be enjoying myself.

This was a golden ticket for the express train to hell. All I could do was pray that it wasn’t a one-way fare.

“It won’t hurt you if you use it properly,” the madam chided. “Take care of it.”

“Well...I’ll pray that I won’t have to use it.”

“Come now, don’t you think it’ll be convenient to have it on hand if you ever get sick of adventuring and decide to come back?”

“Excuse me?”

“Arrogant clients, impossible requests from out-of-touch nobles, cheapskates who haggle after the work is done, cheap foods with flavorless wines, days upon days without a bath, and tasks as monotonous as they are bloody... I hear many an adventurer grows disillusioned by the rift between fantasy and reality and gives up altogether.”

It was a common-enough tale. Adventurers were pawns that a strategist need not think twice to sacrifice; we were the first to be thrown at any problem that seemed like a pain to solve. For every hero magnified in the minstrels’ songs, there were dozens of nameless corpses forgotten by the wayside, and hundreds more menial tasks not worthy of remark.

This may have been an occupation the sentient races had first developed in covenant with the gods, but the words rang hollow if historical glory turned out to be all that remained in a decaying shell.

Not a few prospective adventurers had had their wills shattered in the face of this revelation; just as many had died trying to overcome it. One day, when the thin crutch of yearning snapped under my arm, would I regret not having chosen the life of court service? I couldn’t promise now that I wouldn’t eventually end up groveling on the ground, cursing the very idea of adventure...but what I could swear was that I wasn’t the kind of spineless coward to give up because of the boring corners I couldn’t cut.

More importantly, I genuinely doubted any of the tribulations Lady Agrippina had listed could come close to overtaking the torture that had been this past year of work.

Who cared whether the food was lavish when fatigue rendered my tongue unusable? Wine dated and sourced to an infamously good batch was worth less than sewage if I could never tell what had been mixed in. The fluffiest spring-loaded beds were just the sites of another attack; I could never truly relax even in a wonderfully sumptuous bath.

So how could hardship of my own making be any worse? Simple stews and porridges made from huddling over a campfire and sleeping bags laid over the hard ground sounded luxurious enough to me, so long as they came with the reprieve to enjoy them.

“I just hate to see a good piece go,” the madam said. “You know how convoluted the talks over where to source the new arsenal of aeroships have gotten, don’t you?”

I did know. I was something of an insider, and I did have a thing or two to say about the brouhaha that was aeroship development.

Namely, of course everyone was arguing. This was a project to decide the future of all Rhine; in no world was the noble sphere going to stay silent with the crown looking to establish a large-scale manufacturing headquarters. While I understood the need to upgrade from a tiny testing grounds to a more powerful facility capable of repairs and modifications, the bundle of authority that came with having such a site within one’s own borders meant that only a fool wouldn’t lay claim to it.

The final specifications called for twenty vessels to be stationed across the Empire over half a century, but there were only to be three production plants to supply them. The prospect of having centuries of prosperity guaranteed was impossible to resist. Local steel and timber industries would be propped up on the Emperor’s dime; talented labor was sure to follow; the merchants would come after them to capitalize on a greater market demand.

Just how much free tax money could one factory generate in a year?

High society had already devolved into a free-for-all for the rights to host them. One of them was all but sure to be constructed in the Ubiorum county on account of the madam’s heading the entire project, but the other two were fair game. Ambitious to their core, the members of His Majesty’s bulwark had begun to buzz; it was as if not lusting over potential advancements was shameful to them.

In fact, I was convinced that the greater part of the letters I’d found in my personal inbox were requests concerning this very topic.

“So just know that I shall welcome you with open arms should you ever wish to return, Erich. Perhaps I’ll leave the seat of personal knight empty in case you ever change your mind—or would you prefer a more secretarial position? I do have such an abundance of those that needs to be filled.”

I put on the brightest smile I’d ever had in all my life and answered, “Not a chance in hell.”

“Is that so. How terribly disappointing...but I suppose I shall patiently wait. Ah, but one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget...” Lady Agrippina stripped her voice of all its play and whispered in a low growl that slithered up from the ground and into my ears, wriggling deep into my brain. “You owe me.”

The madam still had that favor in her back pocket. She wasn’t going to use it—no, just sit on it—and she was even going to let me leave the capital.

Nothing could scare me more.

I had a feeling that my freedom was just a flight of fancy for her: she probably thought I’d be more entertaining this way, and that she could use whatever trouble I got myself into to her advantage. At the end of it all, Lady Agrippina had managed to mark our parting with something that weighed even heavier than the golden ring. Argh—just use the stupid favor and let me be free, dammit!

[Tips] Favors are a currency in which an equivalent exchange can hardly ever be made. Cashed in at an opportune moment, a simple IOU can return several times the value of whatever action initiated the loan to begin with—a lesson worth remembering. After all, there are no laws or regulations to protect a debtor when it comes to such intangible assets.

As soon as I’d finished packing up at home, I would be fully prepared to set off—not even my workplace devoid of rights would force me to keep toiling until the very last minute. In just a few short days, I would be putting the capital behind me.

My goodbyes were said: we’d all decided not to meet on the fateful day. It was a kindness on their end to not add more baggage as I set off; it was a desperate attempt to give myself a final push on mine.

“Three years...”

Looking back, it had been a long road, albeit ludicrously short in the context of a servant earning his sister’s tuition. A normal person would have to work until their legs could no longer carry their own weight to earn the dozens of drachmae I had, and even my initial hopes had been in the ballpark of five years. In a more objective light, my time here had been staggeringly short. Everyone back in Konigstuhl would certainly be surprised...

But not as surprised as she whom I had sworn to return for.

Walking along at a brisk pace, I felt not only the capital, but the College tugging at my heartstrings. Yet again, I’d lost sight of the bad as soon as the struggle was past—I really did need to work on that.

I walked out of the Krahenschanze gates, letting the knowledge that this would be the last time settle in. The stables were manned all throughout the night in case of emergency, so I swung by to tell the usual watchman that I’d officially been entrusted with Castor and Polydeukes; his congratulations were nearly loud enough to wake the horses. The folks working here spent a lot of time with animals, after all. Having seen good owners and bad owners, they were sure to be excited to hear about someone being rewarded for getting along with their steeds. I told him that I’d be back to pick the pair up on the day of my departure and asked for a nice saddle before heading home.

But along the way, I noticed something. I saw alfar sprinkling autumn leaves, leaving a charming trail in their wake; antsy fairies already scouting out where to lay their frost; and wind-borne fey scuffling over the dull warmth of summer and the cool of fall.

Yet none of them paid me any mind.

Come to think of it, I felt like the constant barrage of pranks had largely gone quiet around the time the Ubiorum business really started to kick off. I’d noted that I didn’t have to untangle my head in a frenzy as often, but hadn’t given it much thought until now.

“Welcome home.”

“You’re back!”

“Oh, hey, you two. I’m home.”

I opened my front door with these thoughts on my mind, only to be greeted by Ursula and Lottie rolling around on my bed. With the false moon waxing, the svartalf was the same human size she’d been when I’d first met her, with the sylphid sprawled out across her smooth stomach.

The only change to their appearances would be the golden anklet around Ursula’s left foot and the similarly lustrous trimming on Lottie’s spring-green dress. Some fey artisanry had turned my lockets of hair into personal accessories, and if their constant usage was any indication, the two of them had taken a liking to them.

“What’s the matter, Beloved One? It isn’t like you to stare.” In a mischievous tone, Ursula added, “Are you in the mood for a dance, perhaps?”

I’d met them right after leaving Konigstuhl: that meant our history went three years back too. I’d been terrified of them back then. While I still couldn’t let my guard down, ours had turned into a comfortable relationship.

“No,” I said. “I was just thinking that we’ve been through a lot together since we first met.”

“Is that so? The sensibilities of the mortal world perplex me. I don’t think it’s been all that long.”

“Mm... Me too! Lottie feels like we just met!”

“Don’t lump me together with you, Miss I-Sleep-For-Decades.”

“Ursula, you meanie!”

Their takes on the matter were apt for life-forms prone to burning decades to dance a single tune. For a mensch who greeted friends with “Long time no see” after a week or two, their perspective was difficult to truly grasp.

“But now that you mention it, perhaps you’re right. You’ve grown so big, after all.”

“You think?”

Personally, I really needed to keep growing. Receiving a comment on my growth from the very beings that were working to invalidate the experience I’d put into physique came off as rather sarcastic.

Still, it finally made the pieces click: no wonder the alfar had eased up on their mischief.

“What’s the matter? Your face is all scrunched up.”

“I realized you’re right, is all. I have gotten bigger, and to prove it, the other fairies haven’t bothered me much lately.”

“My, don’t tell me you’ve only just noticed.”

“I was too busy to think about it. You know as much, don’t you?”

“But of course. We alfar aren’t supposed to understand the meaning of diligence, but I’ve learned as of late. Isn’t that right?”

“It was sooo tirey...”

I genuinely felt bad about having made them help with my horrendous ordeal, but I’d paid my dues in full. Not only had I bought them a pricey mead, but I’d fetched water from a natural spring and purified it with seven nights’ moonlight just as a diluent; that had been backbreaking work.

Though I had to admit, that was a perfectly reasonable request by fey standards. They never tried to whisk me to the twilit hill, nor did they demand I give up the crux of what made me human—maybe “reasonable” was underselling it. In fact, those fey eyes I’d declined to take because of an ill omen could have easily been forced upon me, and that would certainly have been enough to derail me from my mensch path.

I was fifteen. An adult among my peers, I should have seemed past my prime to fairies infatuated with children and babes. The pranks had begun to dwindle, and few alfar came to speak with me nowadays. I wasn’t completely looked over on account of my youthful—I didn’t really like the word childish—appearance, but who knew how long that would last?

“Will you two...grow bored of me?”

The unease in my heart brought forth a naked question. Over these three years, they had accompanied me onto countless battlefields and saved my life more times than I could count; growing attached to them was a matter of course. And to be cast away by someone you care about is so very painful.

“Bored? Hmm, bored...”

The midnight fairy fluttered her moon-moth wings and gently lifted off from the bed. With her usual imperceptible movement, she closed the distance and put both hands on my cheeks. Meanwhile, the sylphid had plonked herself down on the bed frame with a quizzical expression.

“True, you have grown, Beloved One.”

Pulling herself into a range where our breaths intertwined, Ursula hadn’t changed a bit from that first night: not her smooth and dusky skin, nor her shimmering orphic wings, nor the scarlet eyes that put Lady Agrippina’s gems to shame. My heart pounded as I felt myself falling into the abyss of the False Moon.

“Look at this defined jaw: you’ve grown up. What were once well-kept arms and legs have become the limbs of a fighter—of a man. Your shoulders are broader and your stomach is hard. We can’t call you a little boy anymore.”

She was right. Puberty had hit, and I was closer to an adult than a child. While the alfar had minimized my more masculine traits, I was now a fully functioning man. The world saw me as young, but not a child: I was now mature in both name and fact, sure to lose the interest of my fey admirers.

“But listen well, Beloved One. We may not be queens, but we are named. High-order alfar are much more complex and much more simple than you can know.”

Her hands loosened, gliding just close enough to my skin to tickle my peach fuzz. She outlined the contour of my eyes, pressed a finger against my lips, patted my hair, and slid a hand across my neck. As she traced the shape of me, it felt more as though she was caressing a formless something that hid within my physical frame.

“‘Alfar bewitch the children they fancy.’ Is this what you think? The truth is that we are ever the ones first to be bewitched.”

To bewitch was to attract or fascinate, but it carried the connotation of supernatural enchantment. The order she’d put forth was sound: why else would the children of man themselves be bewitched, spirited away, and feasted upon? It seemed this spellbound spirit had no intention of giving up her mark.

“What a truly puzzling soul: at once adult and child, underhanded yet pure and innocent. It’s as if I’m looking at a boy who’s fallen asleep in the middle of his bedtime story, his mind still racing with heroic adventure.”

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t spoken about my past life nor the future Buddha who had sent me here. But the alfar dealt in concepts, and my soul was free for them to see. Reborn in a child’s body, I had fostered what had once been a fleeting dream into maniacal yearning.

“The alfar who have chosen you did so because of this warped yet beautiful soul. This hair the color of flowing mead and these eyes brighter than shimmering lakes are lovely, of course, but they were never the main draw.”

“Huh... So I’m surrounded by a bunch of eccentrics?”

“How rude. The word you’re looking for is ‘connoisseurs,’ my little curiosity.”

The dim candlelight paired with her smirk terribly well. With a giggle, she grasped my face again and placed her lips on my eyelid.

“One day, this hair shall fade to the pale silver of the moon; these eyes will lose their luster; this skin will be pocked with spots. But so long as that soul of yours remains the same, we will remain bewitched forever, Beloved One.”

“Yup! But I’ll do my bestest to keep you pretty!”

“...I see. I’ll do my best to not let you down.”

I think that a soul ages with resignation. If growth is a part of maturation—a step closer toward finality—then the emotional growth of accepting reality for what it is must be maturity of the soul.

I was still dreaming a silly dream of making it on my own with nothing but a blade to my name. Most hit the brick wall of reality: whether it was the low pay or the infrequent work, there were plenty of opportunities to wake up to the fact that adventuring was just nomadic busywork in disguise.

If patching up broken ambitions and propping them up in more reasonable places was what adults did, then I was still a dumb brat—an old one, at that. Counting my last life, I was closing in on fifty. Even accounting for my body’s effects on my mental state, I was a pretty pathetic excuse for a man.

But I was fine with that so long as I had people around me who accepted me for who I was—but most of all, so long as this life fulfilled me.

That’s really what life is about, in the end: can you die happy with the way you lived? Passing on without regrets tugging at the back of your mind is the best way to go.

So, to leave nothing undone, I was going to chase these fantasies. They’d been chiseled into stone over years and years, and I wouldn’t let anyone deny me them: not even a heartbroken future me.

“Thank you and do your best, Beloved One. May you remain your lovely self forever.”

“Aww, people are so nice. You change, but you don’t, and it’s cute how you stop being cute! That’s why we want you to be cute forever.”

“Exactly. Complexity and simplicity are difficult things. Don’t ever forget the depths of our captivation. Whether bewitcher or bewitched, half-hearted measures will not do.”

Ursula raised her palm, and Lottie fluttered over and landed with a twirl.

“This chat has been terrific, but the moon is sinking nicely. Perhaps now would be a good time to go gloat over our fun to the others.”

“Whaaa? But won’t we get in trouble again?”

“It’ll be fine. A touch of envy is good medicine to remind the elders of their youths.”

“If you’re gonna get in trouble, leave Lottie out of it.”

“What a heartless friend you are. And I saved you from being locked away too.”

“Nuh-uh. Lottie was napping!”

Engaged in merry chatter, the alfar melted into the shadows in the corner of the room. As they vanished, our entire conversation began to feel like it had been a mirage.

“Thank you both.”

I really had come a long way from the days I’d spent cowering over the thought that they might kidnap me. But, well, if I wanted to stay in their good graces, the first step was going to be getting home safe and sound.

[Tips] Mortals monger fear in hushed whispers about bewitching spirits, but in truth, those who are whisked away are invariably possessed of a quality much the same as their captors.

One of tabletop gaming’s greatest charms is the collection of minor articles. Practical tools aside, little knickknacks that serve no purpose beyond role-playing are an absolute must. What video games often write off entirely, TRPGs pore over in excruciating detail—often enough to question whether the players are preparing for an actual camping trip. Though these elements may contribute to information overload, they can add a touch of flavor to any campaign with the right GM, if not become the main dish itself.

Ropes and lanterns may be the most well known, but flint and firestarters couldn’t be forgotten either. Cooking knives, tea strainers, and mantles offering no AC had once been the heart-fluttering arsenal to line my character sheets. Trying to imagine how a PC would pack their luggage had always been a thoughtful affair: I’d asked myself many questions of whether a character would carry an item themselves or be the type to bum it off a partymate.

But it wasn’t just flavor: GMs who emphasized the RP part of RPG liked to put these kinds of tools to use. Trying to camp outdoors without the proper equipment could come with all sorts of debuffs.

“You’re going to drink your soup without any tableware? Roll, then. If you mess up, you’re taking 1D4 burn damage.”

“Wow, you came to the snowy mountains without a mantle? Let’s see if you have any extra clothes to layer on... Nope. Okay, you’re frostbitten—let’s put a debuff on your Dexterity, shall we?”

“I mean, I guess it’s fair to temporarily remove the debuff if you drink some alcohol...but you don’t have that either! What the hell did you show up to do?! You’re suicidal!”

I could no longer put a face to the voice echoing through my memories, but the good times I’d had at that table remained. We’d ended up passing a single paltry bowl among the whole party, forging an unbreakable bond that would go on to solidify our name as the One Cup Clan.

Nostalgia danced in the back of my mind as I finished packing the last of my things. These preparations weren’t just pretend, and I’d dug into my savings to fully deck myself out now that my life depended on my readiness.

My favorite of my prejourney purchases had to be the dual-purpose knapsacks I planned on saddling the Dioscuri with. They could come off the harness if I wanted to carry one myself, and I’d gotten four of them to fit a huge amount of luggage on the road. Plus, the madam had given me a bit of instruction in antitheft enchantments—nothing fancy, mind you: all the spell I’d cast did was cut off someone’s fingers if they opened one of the bags without a corresponding token. This way, I didn’t have to worry about burglary if I left the horses alone for a bit, and it’d be trivial to find the culprit if anything happened.

But of course, there wouldn’t be much point in a fancy bag if I didn’t have anything fancy to go inside it.

I’d bought the archetypal tent. One rod in the center propped up a durable canvas with four pins to ground it. The quality material hadn’t made it an easy buy, but bad sleep was a sure way to keep debuffs ticking; I’d taken the plunge knowing I couldn’t cut corners here.

In a similar vein, I had a sleeping bag stuffed with cotton, along with two freshly made blankets that were much warmer than their thinness suggested: I’d lay one on the ground and lay the other atop my sleeping bag when it got cold. Barren earth was far cooler than one would think, and having a layer beneath me to soak up heat would certainly help once summer came.

Knowing I’d drive them into the ground, I had two pairs of boots and too many socks to count. My wardrobe was three sets of undergarments and linen travel wear; hopefully, I’d be able to avoid stinking up my journey with all these clothes.

As far as tableware went, I’d readied myself a nice set made from thin metals. One cylindrical pot housed a set of four incrementally smaller bowls, each nestled into the last. I’d fallen in love with these at first sight during a leisurely stroll through the capital. They were apparently imports from the east, but all I knew was that they were light and durable, and tickled my boyish sense of wonder. They’d seen plenty of use on my long journeys with Mika, and just stewing together a few ingredients had always been enough to excite me with thoughts of Now this is an adventure!

Other than that, I had a few leather waterskins and a handful of medical supplies. The distilled liquor could serve as both a disinfectant for an open wound or a pick-me-up on a chilly night.

And how could I forget my solutions to Lady Agrippina’s assignments? My tinderbox was fashioned with a piece of flint that had a firemaking formula etched into it so that I could pretend to light things normally; my washboard was enchanted with Clean, significantly improving how well I could wash my clothes. I couldn’t see myself going back after learning how convenient magic was, so this was my way of employing it undercover. Who would’ve thought that my old daydreams about magical adventuring tools would come in handy a lifetime later?

To be fair, this was hardly unique to me; such fantasies came with the trade. The GM was a god open to being bargained with, and it was fun to explore every possibility when traveling under flexible heavens.

After putting away the mystic tools I’d spent the past few days toiling over, what free space remained was stuffed with Berylinian souvenirs, completing the packing process.

This time, I’d be taking the highways without any particular schedule to adhere to; I didn’t need to carry that much food. In the worst case, I could always pull out a bow or crossbow—which I’d taken quite a liking to in the past year—to hunt some game anyway.

Checking to make sure I had my sewing kit, carving knife, chisel, and, most importantly, my armor, I finished my last round of inspections. With my few personal articles tidied up, my home in the low quarter hardly looked any different from when I’d first moved in; as I scanned it one last time, I took a moment to reflect.

Despite how close I’d been to accusing the madam of sending me to live in a haunted house, it had been a cozy place. I fondly reminisced on how I’d fixed the table and spent months replacing the squeaky floorboards to thank my tireless caretaker.

I made my way down the stairs, gliding my fingers across the furniture as I passed. I hadn’t noticed any sign of cooking, but was awaited by a handkerchief wrapping on a freshly cleaned dining table.

Curious, I opened the package: it was sandwiches. Miscellaneous stuffing bookended by thinly sliced bread was popular throughout this part of the continent, and apparently, every country claimed that the practice had originated within their own borders. More to the point, though, these had been made in the culinary style of the polar archipelago.

Between the soft pieces of bread were smoked pork paired with pickles or sauerkraut, respectively—no doubt the work of my wonderful roommate. She’d helped me so much over the years; I couldn’t thank her enough. Honestly, she had basically been my mother while I was here in the capital.

“Ashen Fraulein...”

With a heart full of thanks, I began to rewrap them for the road, when I noticed a little note on the cloth that read “Close your eyes” in oozing letters. I didn’t remember it being there a moment ago, but I figured it, too, was the work of my invisible neighbor. I shut my eyes...and suddenly, someone hugged me.

My face was buried in smooth cloth that smelled faintly of soap. It lasted for only an instant, but something soft pressed into my forehead with a nigh inaudible smacking sound.

The alf who had taken care of me these three years sent me off with a kiss on my forehead.

A kiss there carried the meaning of a blessing.

What I had given to Elisa, I had received here. With it came a silent wish: If nothing else, I hope you won’t go hungry.

Hard to part with as it was, I let the gentle fragrance dissipate before opening my eyes to an empty room. She was too shy to speak, let alone intentionally show herself, but even so, she wanted to say goodbye.

I turned my attention back to the sandwich wrapping to find that the message had changed: “May my Beloved Child’s travels be safe.”

The words vanished in another instant, leaving only a neat cloth and a handful of tasty-looking sandwiches.

Pressing a hand against my eyes, I managed to say, “Thank you, Ashen Fraulein.”

I’d planned to leave this for just before I stepped out the door, but decided to do it now. Lady Agrippina used the finest cream money could buy when she drank red tea, and I’d swiped a small cup of it for the occasion.

Silkies were house spirits: the Ashen Fraulein had driven off all who vexed her to protect this home, and she would probably stay here for the rest of time. This was it for us. I’d pleaded with the madam not to give the place to anyone rude, but what happened here from now on wouldn’t be my business.

So, if nothing else, I wanted to show her my appreciation. I didn’t know whether I could ever truly repay her, but I would be happy if my intent came through.

A gift to a silkie must be done without ado; overstated gratitude merely sours their moods. I knew the common teachings, but I couldn’t help myself.

After all, even if I visited Berylin one day, I doubted I’d ever return.

I made my way into the kitchen, her sanctum, and placed a bowl of curd on the stove. Next to it, I left the same locket of hair that the other alfar had so fancied. I’d tied up a handful of long strands cut at the base with yet another bundle of hair, and while it was weird to say myself, I thought it looked pretty. I didn’t know whether she’d like it as much as the other two, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

But dawn is breaking.

I stepped through the front door and said the same thing I did every morning. Today, it rang so differently.

“I’m off.”

[Tips] Thanking fairies can be done with gifts of milk, cream, shiny rocks, old coins—alfar are partial to all sorts of random goods. Yet hair from a blessed child may be the most highly sought, akin to literal gold in the fey realm.

Legends say that an alf with a striking gold necklace can be spotted in the low quarter of the Mages’ Corridor.

A new journey comes with clear skies—that’s the rule. Countless prospective heroes have squinted their eyes as they gaze out at the expansive blue above, taking in all the hope the future brings.

However, either the Sun God was feeling lazy today, or His grandson of Clouds and Rain was in a particularly poor mood: a terrific storm had rolled in at just the wrong time.

“Give me a break...”

Maybe it would’ve worked for a revenge story or a chronicle of war, but I was only a peasant boy wishing for good weather. I wasn’t exactly in a position to nag the gods for Their daily disposition, but I couldn’t help but feel like They were bogging down my new beginning.

That said, I wasn’t going to put things off for later just for a little rain, and pulled up the hood on my outer cape. Umbrellas were more of an affluent accessory than a tool for bad weather, leaving us common folk to fight off precipitation with outerwear or to plain tough it out.

I’d never live it down if I caught a cold from this, though, so I had one trick up my sleeve. I wove together a physical barrier in a way that left nothing remiss: from the outside, it would seem as though the rain was simply gliding off the surface of my mantle. Look, I know it seemed trivial, but the autumn rain was cold, especially with how far north the capital was.

I better get going before snow starts getting in my way. The first leg of my journey was going to take the imperial highway network straight south to try and outrun the winter. From there, I’d switch to a major westbound road known for its safety until I hit the state of Heidelberg, home to the lovely Konigstuhl canton.

The original trip from home had taken three months, but this time I was riding light without any company. Unlike Lady Agrippina, I didn’t intend to be picky with my lodgings; I’d probably finish my travels a bit quicker.

But seeing as I was already out here, I wanted to stop by and see a few sights along the way. The capitals of the other big administrative states interested me as much as Berylin, and I’d always wanted to see the Konigstuhl castle with my own two eyes. If I ever came across a martial tournament, it might also be fun to rough up the competition; I could even win some pocket change in the process.

Speaking of earning coin, I was actually pretty well off for someone now officially unemployed. My budget to get home was a whopping ten drachmae.

For the longest time, my wages had gone straight to Elisa’s tuition and my own living costs; the appearance of a patron had taken care of the former, and my rates had quickly outstripped the latter as I took on more responsibilities. From there, I hadn’t been able to get rid of the money at all.

Lady Agrippina was no cheapskate, and she’d paid out my salary—and one befitting of my burdens, at that—without any pause. No matter what I said, that seething ball of scholarly pragmatism in a woman’s skin simply couldn’t trust free labor at her core, and she budgeted accordingly. I obviously wasn’t going to betray her while she had the most powerful hostage of all right under her thumb, but I supposed there was also the matter of putting on airs for her peers.

Speaking of which, my familiarization with high society was almost enough to make me forget that these drachmae were not, in fact, chump change to be given as a half-hearted tip; five of them added up to an independent farming household’s entire yearly revenue. Just one gold coin was practically a stack of Benjamins, complete with a little belt.

Heaping mounds of cash posed a problem: what was I to do with it? I’d been sending money back home at regular intervals, but my family wasn’t going to be any less baffled than me if I just passed the wealth along. Folks were thick in the countryside, for better or for worse: if one household suddenly turned rich, the gossip would be fierce.

So, I’d poured most of it into Elisa’s gemstone and found myself left with this. I’d been saving up whenever I could, and the total sum wasn’t too shabby. Truth be told, Lady Agrippina had offered to put together a stipend for my journey, but I’d refused—half because I didn’t think it’d be right to start off with luxurious wealth, and half because it felt like she was trying to buy up stock in my life. I could hear her future voice now: “Don’t you remember when I bankrolled your very first trek?” The collar on my neck was already tight enough; I didn’t want to give her a handy leash to yank me around with.

Still, I had two years’ worth of my family’s income. Put to Earth dollars, that would be in the range of six figures; it was actually a bit on the frugal side through the lens of someone starting up a new business. I wasn’t alone, after all: I had two horses to care for. They’d chew through a gold coin every year with ease. If we ended up going farther out into the countryside after leaving Konigstuhl, ten drachmae was probably near the minimum I could begin with.

But if I wanted to learn the ropes, having just enough to get by living a frugal lifestyle was perfect. A big purse inevitably had loose strings; being able to feel the dent caused by my everyday spending would certainly help keep me on my toes.

My best means to that end would be to find a caravan to travel with, or to rough it by myself while keeping inn visits to a minimum. With how accustomed I’d grown to being well fed, I’d need to reacclimate to a starker diet quickly if I wanted to try the latter...but, hey, I’d always wanted to try a solo adventure on horseback. Until now, I’d always had Mika along at the very least, so it was sure to be exciting new territory.

It was early autumn—merchants of every make ventured out to peddle wares as the common people stocked up for a quiet winter. I wouldn’t have any trouble finding a caravan to link up with, but maybe I’d give it a shot in a well-patrolled region.

All right, it’s about time.

My final exit from the College stables was marked by a heap of goodbyes from all the usual keepers. I couldn’t blame them for their melancholy: I’d be down too if the kid who Cleaned off horse crap for cheap was leaving forever.

“Whoa!”

When I thought that this would be the last time I’d ever have to dodge that meddling unicorn’s mischief, even that became...still annoying, actually. He hadn’t managed to shave me bald or anything, but gods, had he given me my share of grief. I dodged his horseplay and he chomped his teeth together sadly. I’d recently learned that this beast was Lady Leizniz’s carriage horse; I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve so much attention from a master and steed I’d had so little interest in pursuing.

But I guess this is the last time I’ll ever see him. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to say goodbye, I reached out to pet him—and he immediately gnawed on my hand. It wasn’t a painful bite or anything, but my hand was covered in drool. Ugh. Some things never change.

Turning away from the self-satisfied unicorn, I caught back up with the restless Dioscuri. They may have been old for noble stock, but their magnificent builds were as full of life as ever.

Don’t worry, boys. I won’t let you go hungry.

[Tips] Unicorns are immortal phantasmal beasts spread across the Central Continent’s western reach. Though incredibly loyal and capable of marching thousands of paces without tiring, they possess the inconvenient quirk of only serving the pure—a quality that has limited their adoption as a tamed breed.

However, there is one notable exception: a unicorn will allow another to steer it when towing a vehicle carrying its chosen master. In some kingdoms, the royal family will wed its princesses with unicorn-drawn carriages as proof of their peerage.

Although my departure had been marked by an unfortunate rain, I thankfully came across a caravan willing to set off immediately.

Yes, there were tons of companies coming in and out at this time of year, and yes, it would have been harder not to find one to join up with, but a lot of the bigger businesses had chosen to stay a few nights in the capital rather than brave the storm. When the alternative was to stray from my plans on day one, I saw no issue with being grateful.

The Michael Company was a troupe of immigrants from a forested land west of the Empire, whose lack of imperial citizenship forced them to stay perpetually on the move. I met them in the south side of Berylin. They were advertising on a street lined with hotels, trying to scrounge up any extra change they could from people who wanted a ride.

In the Trialist Empire, caravans were either formed by independent merchants coming together (with the proposer fronting the bulk of the money) or by small troupes paying a share of their profits to be protected under a noble name; the Michael Company fell into the first category.

The titular Michael was the director of the whole caravan, and his family numbered twelve; his partners included a group of wandering merchants that numbered six across two families and a small wholesaler household eight members strong; ten mercenaries rounded out the troupe to bring the total to thirty-six. From there, eight people had offered to pony up or offer labor in exchange for a spot on the trip south; with me joining, that made for a final headcount of forty-five.

Though the number seemed impressive, it was still a touch shy of a midsize convoy. Big companies easily operated processions with over a hundred members, and this was about what I’d expect from an entrepreneur of this level.

“Enn’hey, ’e’ll jus’ borrow yer horses, bit, ’enn you can werk off tha rest.”

Mr. Michael was a mountain of a mensch who had been born northeast of the Empire, though still within the continent’s bounds. His thick accent was sort of similar to the one Mika had drawn out of the Wustrow locals, but not quite the same: his Rhinian was clearly influenced by some other language entirely. His unkempt beard, the rough yet level curves of his face, and most of all his curly blond hair all pointed to a foreign heritage. While his stout build fit in with his imperial counterparts, the make of his face was markedly different.

While the Trialist Empire was home to many clans like Mika’s who adopted new lives after fleeing worse conditions in their ancestral lands, there was no shortage of people who didn’t—or couldn’t—settle in and ended up on paths that wouldn’t lead to citizenship. Judging from how thick his accent was and how distinct his features were, his clan was likely an intermarriage of families hailing from around the same region.

“Understood,” I said. “But these are my master’s horses, so I do ask that you treat them carefully.”

Regardless of the specifics, I knew from his partnership with registered Berylinian merchants that he wasn’t a bandit in disguise; that was enough for me to cast my lot with him.

To that end, I decided to push the narrative that I was a private soldier heading home on a temporary leave. Not only did I want to avoid scrutiny as a fifteen-year-old boy with a splendid sword and two fine stallions, but I figured I could spare the horses abuse if I made it seem like they were noble-owned.

Let me assure you that this wasn’t mere laziness on my part. Even if I wanted to come clean, the extra effort it would require to validate my story would only be in service of worrying my poor benefactor—it wasn’t worth it. Who was going to believe a brat barely of age had been let go? I could use Lady Agrippina’s ring to prove it, sure, but I didn’t want anyone getting any ideas after seeing my connections.

“Enn’hey, ’e’re settin’ off next tha bell rings. Don’ go nowher’n.”

I may have lied, but no one traveling with a common caravan would see through it; more importantly, it wasn’t to anyone else’s detriment. No matter how bad my luck usually was, it looked like I’d be able to start off on the right foot.

[Tips] Caravans operate under a simple principle: safety in numbers. The founder will set the course, and others will travel with them in pursuit of profits with relatively little danger.

The gods are in Their heaven—so went the old Rhinian adage. It was a fanciful way to say that the powers that be had not abandoned their posts, and that today was no less peaceful than any other.

On this particular day, I had taken it to heart.

Emphasis on had.

“All right, here we are. C’mon! What do you say we get the grime of travel scrubbed out?”

The lion guiding me by the shoulder—with incredibly awkward posture due to the disparity in height—stopped at a wall denoting a border in city sectors and loudly made his proposition.

Nemea—also known in the south as simbahili—were leonine demihumans who boasted golden coats and beastly faces that had only barely diverged from their ancestral origins. Leopold was one such nemea, the leader of a band of mercenaries known as the Bloody Manes. They were Mr. Michael’s bodyguards.

Eleven days after leaving the capital, I found myself in the middling city of Blankenburg, famed for being built on the banks of a gargantuan lake. We’d stopped to rest our horses and give our civilian comates a chance to get away from constant camping, so why the hell was I here?

“Now this is a pleasure street! The gals down south sure’ve got some nice meat on ’em!”

That’s right, this was a pleasure street—a red-light district. Operated in a semiofficial capacity, this was a den for the free and legal trade of sex. As I tried to trace my steps to see how I’d gotten here, I had to admit I wasn’t totally faultless...

It was my second evening together with the Michael Company, and I’d broken off from the group to get a few practice swings in with Schutzwolfe. Two of Leopold’s men crossed my path during their patrols, and we had a bit of a squabble: they must’ve been in a bad mood or something, because their first course of action was to pick a fight with language that would have to be censored out of any self-respecting text.

My initial plan was to brush them off like the menial thugs they were, but when one of them reached for my sword saying it was too good for a widdle boy wike me, I snapped and swept his feet out from under him. It escalated bit by bit from there until we were in an all-out fistfight—though perhaps that was a misleading term. I may have sunk my fists into noses and jaws, but they didn’t land a single punch.

Before I knew it, I’d bloodied the faces of five men; things only settled down because Leopold heard the commotion and came over to put his men in line.

And you know what? That was fine by me. If nothing else, at least he had enough sense to assess the situation on the spot, realize they were in the wrong, and not join in for petty vengeance. I held back the urge to chew him out for not disciplining his subordinates with one sarcastic quip; impressed by my skill and magnanimity, the nemea instantly took a liking to me.

Then the recruitment drive from hell began.

From what he told me, his original crew had imploded because their boss had been skimming off way too much of the profit. Leopold had ended up killing the guy and forming a new band in its place, but the bad blood and chaos of the split-up had left all the negotiators and accountants dead.

Although Leopold could handle commanding troops, the business end of being captain was a struggle for him. He could read and write at a basic level, but he couldn’t use an abacus, and gods knew he couldn’t do math in his head. Behind his good-natured smile, he was in dire straits.

But then came someone who could speak in proper palatial speech and do arithmetic—I’d overdone it with the good deeds. You see, I’d only intended to brush off any trouble and repay the troupe for bringing me along, but I may have politely corrected a disreputable salesperson for their poor calculations when we’d stopped to resupply. How was I supposed to know that three small coincidences would stack up into this obnoxious torrent of invitations to a merc group?

I’d been totally on the “Safety in numbers!” train when signing up, but I’d been a fool to forget the rule that where man goes, trouble follows. After spending so long solving interpersonal matters with roundabout dealings of authority and wealth, I was ill versed in Leopold’s rustic approach to human affairs. Even back in Konigstuhl, there was an unspoken order to things. Looking back, I could now see I’d enjoyed a childhood free of confrontation thanks to being one of the leading picks as a future watchman-in-reserve—though the realization that I wasn’t ready for a rougher style of negotiation came far too late.

As you can see, Leopold’s most recent maneuver in his charm offensive was leading me by the collar into a den of vice.

“It’s lively, hey? This is a good look—the streets with traffic have the prettiest gals! What’s your pick, Mr. Erich? Mensch? If you ask me, demihumans ain’t too bad either! They’ve got all the right passion in them, you know?”

After walking through a wide-open door, we were greeted by an architectural middle finger to the unity and elegance the Empire so prized. Walls were painted in garish colors, bricks came together to form nude silhouettes, there were a handful of buildings that would need to be blurred out in post, and countless ladies lined up behind latticed windows to give prospective customers a peek. At best, it was thrilling; at worst, utterly tawdry. Any effort that would ordinarily be leveraged in an appeal to reason had been dropped in favor of captivating the mind’s baser, more reflexive mechanisms—such was the way of a red-light district.

Every city in Rhine with at least a thousand residents was home to an entertainment quarter. Even the prudish powers of medieval Europe had granted licenses to sex workers; it was little wonder that the pragmatic Empire would accept them as a necessary evil, especially when it came with an uptick in state revenue.

The degradation of sexual mores led to a degradation in public safety, after all: not only were criminal organizations liable to use forced labor and trafficked people to peddle vices for profit, but a lack of oversight could lead to infectious diseases spreading like wildfire.

In the eyes of the powers that be, the maintenance of a “playground” that lived up to a minimum standard of safety was worth the small slight against their regal image. Though the crown would never pride itself on how these pleasure districts created jobs for the destitute and prevented the growth of crime, it wouldn’t go out of its way to disparage an institution it considered a necessity.

But honestly? If Leopold wanted to smooth-talk me, I would’ve liked to try one of the freshwater delicacies Blankenburg was so famous for instead.

“What’s the matter? You’re all stiff, man—where’d that killer swordsman go?! Don’t tell me you haven’t gotten to draw this sword yet, hah!”

The nemea laughed heartily at his dirty joke, but I wasn’t sharing the load. I jabbed him in the side to tell him to shut up, but he was so tall that I only hit his thigh; worse still, his leg was so muscular that it didn’t even budge. I felt like a wimp.

Grr, no fair. Nemea were huge—especially this one. Leopold was strong enough to impress me at first glance, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he was living the mercenary life out here in the boonies. I supposed that his attempts to take me in as an accountant showed some ambitions of expansion, but someone like him had to be turning down an easier path to chase them.

...Not that I was one to talk after I’d given up knighthood and adoption by His Majesty’s count thaumapalatine to walk off on an adventure. Yeah, that was a boomerang of a statement, through and through.

“But hey, it’s the same deal as a real blade, Mr. Erich. You’ll wanna get used to wielding it sooner rather than later. Falling for a girl’s all fun and games till you get one little kiss and, uh... Well, if she cuts you off then, you’ll know why!”

I felt like that was a tad vulgar, even for a merc. I mean, I’d heard similar stories, but still.

That said, whether it was my company or some other factor, I managed to keep my courage in the face of the district’s powdery fog and wafting booze.

Because boy, had my first attempt ever gone wrong.

Truth be told, a male Mika and I had already visited the capital’s red-light district once this past summer.

In the process of getting used to his shifts in gender, my old chum had encountered a perplexing phenomenon and decided to come to me for advice. Namely, he’d been arrested by an indescribable curiosity that was barely present at all when female or agender; at times, the risqué conversations of his peers would catch his ears whether he wanted to listen or not. In short, the hormonal fluctuations of teenage life were starting to affect his thinking.

The topic of entertainment districts eventually came up in our discussion, and we’d decided it wouldn’t hurt to just look and see what the deal was with our own two eyes. But, well, it was readily apparent that we were unripe: not only did we draw sympathetic gazes from the patrons of the district, but the ladies out front teased us wherever we went. Unable to handle the licentious atmosphere, we ended up scampering off, drawing the conclusion that we were still too young for such matters.

I mean, I had an average amount of experience from my past life, of course, but my body was just so young, and I had a worked-up Mika next to me, and—you know how it is.

Anyway, while our embarrassing, boyish episode would be something to look back on in the future, for now, I was thankful that it had primed me not to be too skittish.

“Ah, it’s an honor to think I’ll be treating you to your first battle! You know what? Let’s get over to the finest establishment this town has to—”

“Uh, Mr. Leopold, a moment?”

“Hm? What’s wrong?”

But whether I was nervous or not, I’d had just about enough. Letting myself get thrown into a brothel would be an embarrassing slight on my dignity. I knew I’d be tracking mud on his name, not to mention how I’d be snubbing Mr. Michael and the rest of the caravan, but I made up my mind: it was time to flee.

“I’d like to stop by the restroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Ohh, you’ve gotta piss? Ha ha, sharp thinking, Mr. Erich! Go on—wouldn’t want you to jam up in the heat of the moment!”

It wasn’t like I was losing out on value: my entry into the Michael Company convoy had been predicated on the labor of me and the Dioscuri. Slipping away before our agreed-upon destination made me feel a bit guilty, but nobody wanted to see this obnoxious recruitment drive run its course to a logical, bloody end.

My plan to kick back and take it easy with a caravan had proved a bust, and I hadn’t even gotten a chance to try any of the fried Blankenburg fish I’d been looking forward to, but I swallowed back my regrets in the name of avoiding violence. I had a hunch—no, actually, I was sure—that Leopold would bring it to that at some point. Short as our time together had been, I had him pegged as the kind of man who would get his way by force or die trying.

If it ever got through his skull that words alone wouldn’t put me under his wing, he’d try “persuasion” with a Strength modifier: “If I win, you join me; if you win, you walk free.”

Though imagining it alone made me want to ask whether he’d made INT his dump stat, I had to admit that fists were pretty persuasive every now and again. How many times had I intimidated an NPC to play it my way when playing the part of a big, dumb oaf?

Yet in this case, I stood to gain nothing if I won. Cutting down the captain of a tiny mercenary clique would bring me no honors, and it was all but guaranteed that his men would jump in to avenge their fallen leader. Things would get tangled faster than wired earphones in pockets, and neither I nor the caravan who needed them as bodyguards wanted that.

I was the spark about to start the fire, and the smartest course of action was to just remove myself entirely.

With my mind made up, I just had to stop by one of the many public restrooms littering the Empire. Most cities couldn’t match the impressive infrastructure of Berylin, but any urban center with a sewage system was sure to have a booth on every street—especially in a part of town that saw so much foot traffic.

I got in line behind red-light district patrons trying to empty out before doing the deed, and handed a coin to the bouncer when I got to the entrance. Public restrooms in Japan had been totally free and passable at worst, except in the most run-down areas; here, entry demanded a fee. One assarius was hardly anything, but the government wanted to offset the cost of labor. The dutiful industry of the shovelers and cleaners who labored to make these facilities possible brought a tear to my eye.

Alas, their work amounted to little: the pervasive attitude was that as paying customers, people could be as clumsy as they wanted.

A rancid stink hit me, but I had no intention of squatting over the filthy toilet. Instead, I employed a classic tactic for escaping any ugly situation: climbing out of the bathroom window.

I felt like a loser for running away like this when I hadn’t even lost a bet or skipped a bar tab, but I had to do what I had to do. Whether the enemy was unbeatable or just plain annoying to deal with, sneaking and talking one’s way out of fights was but another of tabletop gaming’s charms—at least, that’s what I told myself to swallow my pride.

But man, was every personal relationship going to bring more trouble?

I’d gotten my fill of dodging a constant deluge of job offers already. Having a caravan to rely on was nice, but when I put it on a scale with the discord other people introduced...it seemed that I was better off avoiding others to prioritize my dreams. If worse came to worst, I could find myself locked into a truly inescapable twist of fate.

Adventurers and mercenaries were all basically the same thugs to some people, but not to me. Mercenaries fought for a living; adventurers fought, but mainly in service of other causes. Sure, there was going to be a lot of tedium, but romantic challenges thought insurmountable lay hidden among the fold. That all hinged on my ability to make a name for myself, but when it came down to it, my ambitions weren’t cut out for mercenary life.

As fond as I was of war chronicles, my time managing the Ubiorum county had taught me more about the woes of logistical leadership than I cared to know. Signing up to be a vice-captain-cum-treasurer for a growing band of mercenaries was like being paid in fatigue and opportunity cost, with a side investment of appreciating stress—I’d pass, thanks.

“Ugh, this is so embarrassing.”

I’d made my way out of the window while thinking about what I should’ve done and taken off. I figured Leopold might throw a fit when he realized I wouldn’t be coming back, but that wasn’t my problem; hopefully the ladies of the district could calm him down.

But what had I been meant to do? I couldn’t skip out on my training with an eye toward the future, and I couldn’t let people walk all over me either; if that was enough to draw attention, then could I ever not?

For a brief moment, the possibility that this was purely bad luck crossed my mind. Yet the thought filled me with such dread and such little avenue for future improvement that I quit thinking entirely and sprinted back to my lodge.

Man, I wonder if I can find a trait to intimidate the rabble just by standing there or something...

[Tips] Although they work in smaller numbers, mercenary groups function as armies. This military framework makes it difficult to employ them in the same way one might an adventurer.