With thousands of Earthfriends being treated in mass, smoke curling from their backs, the crowd watching were assaulted by the stench of burning flesh.

"What's going on?" said an old man. "Something's wrong!"

"Don't worry," said Henry reassuringly. "I saw an Alchemist administer it earlier. This flesh melting is part of the procedure. It'll stop soon."

The navy blue liquid was an acid that would strengthen after reacting with the moth cells, allowing it to dissolve the patient’s skin and the plastic-like balls the cure solution was enclosed within, thereby delivering the cure into the blood beneath the surface. Shortly after that, the acid would be neutralised by the haemoglobin in the patient's blood, preventing it from destroying the patient’s organs.

The reason Henry’d employed this complicated delivery method rather than administering the potion orally was that, by not contradicting what The Empire had stated, it would give him a card to hold over them in the future.

The by-product of this would be much greater stress than exposing the plot outright. How anxious they would feel knowing that misfortune dangled above their heads, ready to drop at any moment, controlled by a stranger with obscure motives. Do they wait? Do they reveal the truth themselves and try frame The Church or The Alchemy Guild for being behind it? But what if The Church wants them to do this because they've gathered surefire proof that it was their doing? On and on, their thoughts would race.

And while they were fretting, Henry could peacefully unlock his Earthfriend skills with Friend Rikard, who was presently waiting for him at his dwelling. And, after that, he could begin training to squash noobs for his recruitment tournament.

As far as the tournament went, this delay hadn’t been a complete waste of time. While moving between locations, he’d finished creating a tentative training regime. To build a basic combat foundation, he would practice real-world martial arts along with the Earthfriend skills. By allocating two hours a day inside The Cap, the rest being used for his literature studies, he’d estimated that he could learn a total of 84 different styles in the next twelve real-world days before the tournament began.

Muay Thai, Taekwondo, Wrestling, German fencing, he would master them all and more, and from this unrivalled mass of combat knowledge, he would fuse their various strengths into a singular, supreme martial art.

In this way, he would leave his first body in his long quest to conquer everything.

Hahahaha...

Someone in the crowd, rubbing their shoulders, whispered to their friend. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“I felt a super creepy chill.”

“It’s those city folk,” answered a Villager by their side, who was bitter about The Empire losing the glory of solving the cure. “You can’t trust them, I say.”

“He’s correct,” whispered an Ibanmothe NPC. “The Ibangua contain not a charitable scale in their serpentine flesh.”

This exchange widened Henry’s smile. Their suspicion was justified; one helpful deed would not annul thousands of years of perceived ill-treatment. However, their tune would change soon enough.

See, this had merely been the gambit’s opening move.

The rest, though, thankfully, wouldn’t require his personal oversight, since they were being carried out by the other pieces he’d set in motion.

In fact, one piece should be falling into place right about now.

Oliver Speared.

The Slums. A cluster of tents belonging to the Suchi branch of Channel 5 News.

A crew of thirty or so reporters and their assistants were rushing to compile footage from the attack of the vampire moths.

In the tent that served as his office, Oliver Spears, former lead investigator for Channel 5 News and 2049’s Gaming Journalist of The Year Award Winner, was at his desk replaying a Memory Sphere over and over again.

A box of them had been sent to him anonymously, containing random footage from a dozen different participants in the Alchemy competition.

Accompanying them was a bizarre short story in which the character Don Quixote feeds blood soup to a sleeping priest he mistakes for being unconscious, inadvertently ruining the priest's life-long vow of vegetarianism. The writing style was cryptic, dense, almost schizophrenic, yet, as Oliver Spears had read the story while browsing the Memory Spheres, he’d felt something gnawing at his journalistic instinct.

This feeling had grown stronger when The Church revealed themselves and saved the day.

“Oliver.”

A junior reporter entered through his tent flap along with a short man wearing a mask.

At first, Oliver thought the man might be the anonymous sender, but, on closer inspection, he realised the figure was an NPC, and, thus, could not have composed a story about a character from the real world.

Oliver raised a ginger eyebrow in question.

“No clue, but he insisted on meeting you,” answered the reporter. “I’ve got to get back. Bye.”

Oliver indicated the seat in front of his desk. “At your leisure, sir."

The NPC waited for the junior reporter to be out of earshot, then looked Oliver Spears up and down, measuring the worth of the man.

“I’ve been assured you’re not friends of The Empire.”

Oliver laughed. “Unfortunately, my sole friend is the truth. That’s why I’m stuck here, for prodding into places my superiors did not like.”

He really shouldn’t have pushed so hard into uncovering the identity of The Tyrant...

The NPC was satisfied by his answer. “I’ll make this brief since my boat departs soon.” Summoning a box of Memory Spheres, he placed it on the offered seat, then unfurled a piece of paper on the reporter’s desk.

It was a map of The Forest of The Grey Wolves marked with military symbols.

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Oliver.

“This was discarded by the commander leading our expedition shortly before we were wiped out. That route marked there is the one we should have been following to avoid ambush. This is the one we took.”

The NPC leaned over the desk, revealing the top of a smooth, bald head, and traced his finger along the map. At first, he followed the marked route precisely, but, nearing the end, he jerked his finger to the side, straight into an area highlighted a crimson red.

Oliver tilted his head. “Why would they go there if they knew it was suicide?”

“I am a member of what was once the Instructors Union of Suchi,” the NPC replied gravely. “The lives of you Offworlders continue undisturbed, but the majority of us who entered that forest did not have the luxury of leaving. They have replaced us. They have killed us.”

“Who?”

“The Empire!”

After screaming this at the top of his lungs, Instructor Apari closed his eyes and inhaled a long, painful breath.

Having said his piece, he turned and left, beginning the journey down to the docks where he would board a merchant vessel alongside his husband and the rest of the surviving trainers and their families.

Along the way, his stooped shoulders bore the weight of the regret that he could not do more for this city that had embraced him after his tribe exiled him for his differences. Sadly, he would never be aware of the critical part he’d played in Suchi’s salvation.

Alone back in the tent, Oliver Spears reclined in his chair and stared at the tent cloth flapping above him, his heart rate steadily climbing. When he’d partially digested the revelation, he got up to look through the Memory Spheres the NPC had left for him.

But then he stopped.

Grabbing one on his desk instead, he activated it and fast-forwarded to a scene that’d confused him earlier.

In the projection, a Cutthroat with prison tattoos gave an enigmatic grin at a big-headed Alchemist. “Oh, you think it’s the application method that’s wrong?”

The Habitat.

After the cure had been administered, Henry wove his way through the crowd to the dwelling of Friend Rikard. Arriving there, though, he found no sign of the Earthfriend except for a scribbled note on a bed of flowers that served for a desk.

Reading it, Henry squinted with suspicion.

‘Sorry, I’ve decided to cancel the apprenticeship. After these traumatic events, I need to spend time with my family.’

This might’ve seemed like a valid excuse, except Henry had been hanging out with Friend Rikard a quarter of an hour earlier, before he stepped away for a minute to chat with Ramiro. The guy had been elated that everyone was safe.

Also, the handwriting was shaky, suggesting Friend Rikard had been nervous while composing the note.

Henry tried a Communication Stone.

No answer.

At that moment, a feminine voice chimed in his ear.

“Hello, friends, this is Jazmin Nagy, Society Archfriend, awake and well. Now that the cure has been administered, we should tend to the young Saplings who’ve been stalled in their growth by this unpleasant episode. Due to the backlog of initiates, we’ll be holding an Exchange of Friendship to demonstrate The Society’s specialities to help with choosing mentors. Could all Saplings please assemble at the Community Theatre. We’ll be starting in half an hour.”

Henry, continuing to squint, left Rikard’s dwelling and joined a crowd of chattering noobs at a section of terraced grassy-hill moulded into an amphitheatre.

In total, about a thousand players turned up, including his turbonoob minions from Bangladesh through whom he’d organised The Cure for The Friends Gala.

While everyone was gathering, Henry’s squint grew increasingly intense.

This situation was fishy.

Although the cure speed of the potion had been improved by The Alchemy Guild, the cure time had only been reduced from six hours to two. Thus, Archfriend Nagy and the other trainers, except for Rikard whom he’d cured earlier, should still be giant moths.

Now, hypothetically, the person who’d cured them could have snuck in extra ingredients to increase the potion’s speed further. However, to make the cure this rapid, they would have to be Tier-8 or higher. In Suchi, only a single person met that criteria, and she was a God.

Very fishy.

“They’re here!” yelled a noob.

“We’re starting? Finally. How long have we been stuck at level 5?”

Into the semi-circular area at the base of the amphitheatre, the trainers walked out in a peculiarly nervous fashion, like a line of political prisoners being brought onto national television to recant their old views. Among them was Friend Rikard, who’d apparently gotten sick of being with his family already.

Henry, testing his Communication Stone again, saw the vibrations it made as it rang unanswered in Rikard’s pocket.

An Earthfriend appearing to be in her 30s with plants for clothes came to the front.

“In the great tradition of old Exchanges,” began Archfriend Nagy, “each of us will be demonstrating a skill we’re developing. Please choose a mentor whose talent resonates with you. First up, Friend Tuz.”

A teenage Earthfriend with multi-coloured dreadlocks widened her eyes in alarm. “C-can I go later?”

“Nope,” replied Archfriend Nagy. “Youngest to oldest, as is the tradition.”

There was no such tradition; Archfriend Nagy just happened to be the oldest.

Following the order, the Earthfriend with dreadlocks dug up three clumps of dirt and began to juggle them. Each clump, passing through her hands, was transmuted into a new element, from balls of lava to snow, air, water, and lightning.

The noobs cheering for her startled her into dropping them.

Bowing in apology, she returned to her place in the prisoner line.

Next up was Friend Virag, who tried to make a field of flowers grow around him, only for their buds to fall off when he lost control of the spell.

In this way, the trainers came forward one by one to display their skills, some less unsuccessful than others.

After Archfriend Nagy animated a crane folded from a giant leaf, she coughed awkwardly, her face a little red. “Before we conclude, we have one last demonstration...from a special guest Earthfriend, who is...visiting us all the way from Togavi!”

As she pointed to the centre of the amphitheatre, an azure blowfly crawled out from a leaf covering her neck and flew to the spot she was indicating, landing on a blade of grass.

Anyone whipping their binoculars out of their inventory would notice the blowfly standing on two legs and rubbing its forelimbs together with mischievous anticipation.

“Is that it?” said a noob in disappointment. “He’s transformed into an insect. So what?”

"Maybe if it was a praying mantis..."

"Let's start picking now."

The noobs were oblivious to the significance of this.

Henry, though, still squinting as he lowered his binoculars, knew that Earthfriends could not shapeshift into flying creatures until Tier-11, the level of Gods.

A high-level potion...azure...an Earthfriend...azure...meddling...Togavi...azure... someone who makes others nervous...

What’s more, Henry had a vague feeling he'd seen this blowfly buzzing around him earlier, around the time he'd slapped himself in the face.

That meant it could’ve been following him the whole day...if that were the case...

Feeling his legs growing stiff, he got out of his seat to stretch them.

Players could change their Martial Specs before ascending to Tier-1, so he could grind to level 20 as a Cutthroat instead. It might not be optimal for his training regime, but what more respectable act is there than compromise, that special lubricant that’s helped humans to co-exist in such large societies where desires constantly clash?

Already slinking up the terraces towards the rim of the amphitheatre, he lowered his profile further when he heard the sounds of the blowfly shapeshifting.

A deep voice boomed. “In these past days of hardship, I heard The Society’s pained calls, and I came here to answer them. To my surprise, however, I discovered that my blessing was unnecessary, for the Earthfriends of Suchi, unbeknownst to themselves, were already in the protective hands of a curious fellow, whose heart is the same as my own.”

Henry, in his haste, tripped on someone’s leg. “Sorry about that. No, no, please, continue enjoying the show. Don’t mind me.”

“This like-hearted fellow, in his depthless charity, has worked without any desire for reward or public acknowledgement, motivated only by the pure altruism of helping others, what well call the Fuel of Friendship!”

Henry groaned. That wasn't pure altruism. Most of it was revenge, something completely antithetical to the Earthfriend spirit.

“But I don’t think that’s a precedent we of the earth should support. It is essential for the health of the soul that Saplings experience the occasional proof of the world being fair and just, even if it isn't always. Great deeds should be matched by great rewards. Thus, I have decided, for you, today’s saviour, yes, I will accept you under my wing and impart to you my priceless millennia of experience.”

Henry began climbing two steps per stride. That guy could be talking about anyone. Curing the curse had been a team effort, involving thousands of helpers. What about that Jozsi guy? He must’ve massaged the backs of hundreds of patients.

“No, I mean you, the one trying to escape.”

Run!

Henry tried to sprint but found his foot immobilised by a vine. The next instant, he was being lifted up and swivelled around to face his captor.

Grinning at him was a giant man with azure hair and massive antlers.

Behind the azure-haired giant, Friend Rikard was facing away from Henry, avoiding his irritated gaze.

A sea of noob eyes locked on him, dissecting him to uncover the meaning of the strange exchange. Luckily, he was using a throwaway avatar.

The azure-haired giant threw his head back, his deep laugh bouncing and rolling up the curves of the amphitheatre. “Why the reluctance, Sapling? You need to train; who better to teach you than I, Karnon.” He paused for the Offworlder’s astounded reaction. When nothing happened, he repeated himself, “Karnon, of the blessing, Karnon’s blessing, i.e. I am a God. Check this out. Karnon’s blessing to you!”

In what ranked in the top five of Saana’s worst spellcasting animations, Karnon thrust out his hips, a thousand light beams erupting from his groin to shower Henry and everyone else in the crowd.

You have received Karnon’s Blessing. All stats increase by 1126 for the next 24 hours.

Henry shook his head. The recklessness of giving noobs the strength to one-shot anything or anyone they would likely meet...

“No exaggeration,” he signed with one hand in a language only the two of them would notice or understand. “I will give you five billion gold to leave me alone.”

The God signed back, “How do you know this lang—oh, so that’s why you can communicate with the donkey, too? You’ve got that skill! Perfect!” An idea having come to his mischievous mind, he thrust a finger of warning at the Earthfriend trainers. “I, Karnon, hereby declare this guy my protégé! Don’t try stealing him from me, even if he offers you a boatload of money.”

Archfriend Nagy avoided Henry’s gaze, too. “We wouldn’t dare, Lord Karnon.”

Next, Karnon addressed the noobs, who were applauding due to the buff. “Don’t let them set limits on what you can achieve. Go wild, kids!” As he gave an irresponsible thumbs up, a pair of wings sprouted from his back and his bottom half transformed into two over-sized chicken legs.

Having shapeshifted into a harpy, the God took flight, snatching his new protégé up in his talons on his way to the sky.

Henry, watching the figures shrinking below him, could see the Earthfriend trainers relaxing at the realisation that the burden had befallen someone else.

All the help he’d given them and this was how they repaid him...