It was a day like any other. Sunlight peered mildly through the canopy, a gentle breeze rustling ancient, moss-covered branches, the tree stood strong and the clan was as healthy as ever, brimming with playful life.

In this clearing, only Her Majesty–––a giant, ancient, golden weeping willow lording over all subjects–––stood proud. Yet some strange and inexplicable changes in nature underlined, at times, that which seemed like unquestioned ruling was still fraught with hardships, tears and blood.

Not that Grandpa Langur cared a fig about who it was that ultimately had the say high up the ruling ladder, for there was only that much sunlight and space available. So what if the offshoots and their protector were bloodied?

To be very blunt about the creature’s alignment, it rather the sleeping Majesty claim all resources and grew healthily than any wannabe upstart its clan got no benefit from.

Even so, the millennia-old tree was not the only resident, just the most spoiled and overbearing of all. In fact, moss grew plentiful on its mighty golden trunk, dotting it with patches wavering between deep blue and pale purple, blackish striped fungi big and small alike had impressive roots covered, and a patchwork of exquisite colourful lichen extended far and wide in between.

Though overbearing by nature, it was obvious Her Majesty preferred a healthy, symbiotic relationship over the tyrant’s way bipeds so loved. Over time, amidst the long, thin branches, a small-sized clan had set up camp and soon learnt to become part of the full-fledged eco-system by doing their part–––or so the old langur recalled slowly as he kept to himself.

Today was particularly sunny, prompting many adult langurs to languidly lie across all over the lively younger generation’s playground. Because of their race’s special characteristics, the demand for soft sunlight but low temperature to aid proper digestion, adults generally felt little inclined towards aimlessly moving their bodies when it got too bright and hot for their tastes.

Eventually, such strange inclinations evolved into a highly intellectual culture of philosophising and exchanging ideas as the community passed time together.

However, as it was surely not all rainbows and butterflies out here at least one member had to keep its chin up, an ungrateful task mostly reserved for Grandpa Langur.

It was certainly not because others had pressured him into doing so, just that he was the oldest, the most experienced and at the same time the one heavily insisting on taking on such bland task.

Of course, knowing most answers to its descendants’ quarrels and being a living, breathing collection of dark Lemurian history contributed much to its decision to distance itself as a guardian.

How else could future generations learn and develop if they were limited by their elders’ views and knowledge? From its point of view, though, this heavy duty had found its rightful place on Grandpa Langur’s broad shoulders–––there where it was supposed to be.

And proclaiming itself as a guardian didn’t mean a straight-out prohibition to mingle with its own species! Just that a certain loving gaze cast at its many descendants happily playing happened once in a while and whenever it saw fit.

Which prompted it to ponder… were the ones scrambling about on the playground the 4th or 5th generation? How many were there even? Different to the bipeds mostly warped curiosity, the old monkey reserved less than a second of its time for this trivial question.

The answer was unimportant to Grandpa Langur in every aspect, for only its family’s safety and abundance counted–––which cold numbers reflected not. He couldn’t help but smile contentedly for what life had gifted it with.

Suddenly, as if to mock its relaxed attitude, the ancient willow experienced an ill-boding tremor and something puzzling happened that may or may not jeopardise their peace and its recollection of random thoughts.

The right time came and a hatch appeared on Her Majesty’s trunk as if it had always been there, just never discovered. Before the startled monkey came to a decision, it saw the need to jump out of possible dangers’ way first and find cover for secret scrutiny since the tremor only intensified.

Prrrrrooooouuuuuurrrrrruuuuu!

The hatch surely wasn’t long-living. Soon enough, it got blasted open with a sound normally accompanying those who ate what wasn’t supposed to be eaten, and a cannonball–––dusty, deformed and grumpy–––hit the ground, leaving a burnt shit-smelling trail in its brutal wake.

Grandpa Langur remembered things about the outside world long deemed forgotten, and ended up highly alert, for he had discovered vital signs from the shallow pit.

Whatever enjoyed the benefits of a body effortlessly surviving such rough treatment wasn’t to be taken lightly, so he immediately gave the order for sudden withdrawal. Not that he needed to, his descendants had already picked up on the changes and reacted accordingly.

Danger for the clan? Possible. After all, who could safely exclude such a notion? Regardless of what it ultimately was, Grandpa Langur vastly preferred to err on the side of caution rather than see the contrary happen.

The sentient creature then readily engaged in reconnaissance activities. In the face of its clan’s well-being, what mattered one old life?

With wildly surging energy levels, the monkey approached the pit, ready to fight to its last… at least until it met two abyssal black eyes framed in a crust of dust and spider-webbing staring back in unhidden dismay.

Linlin felt as if his head had been separated from the body. By a merry crowd of wicked football trolls, no less, only to find it reattached after they tired out playing the most barbaric game of Crush the Soccer.

One moment ago, he found his sorry self still standing on comfy carpets with the soles of both feet heavily submerged in cosiness and unsuspectingly listening to cryptic speech, the other, he recalled tumbling down such dusty hellhole it deprived him of proper breathing.

After who knows how many minutes–––or possibly even hours–––of spinning helplessly in the everlasting darkness, there had been a sudden flash, a pang, a world rotating even faster accompanied by an unappetizing wake-up call.

Namely, a mouthful of dust and ill-smelling lichen stuck between his poor teeth. What’s more, he’d little time to release an exasperated tirade of swearwords before he caught the attention of a pair of mesmerising eyes staring at him in high alert.

The creature they belonged to could lash out the next moment for all he knew. Funnily enough, that realisation changed nothing. “Beautiful,” he whispered instinctively, “what splendid gem-like, purple lamps.”

Maybe the fall also extinguished the last remaining embers of his sanity? Meanwhile, Grandpa Langur’s peepers travelled from Linlin’s dishevelled white hair over his rags to his bare feet, then back again.

Many awkward moments of ear digging passed. The monkey’s uncertain expression was still firm and unyielding at times, frowning and head-shaking at others. Despite the odd atmosphere, our hero couldn’t help but take a closer look at the receptionist that smelled so much like wet lichen and even more so like danger.

The monkey was slender yet tall, with long purple fur all over its athletic body that oozed a dangerous-smelling discharge reminiscing of sulphur and mildew on both its slightly hunched back and shrivelled green chest.

Bald around the ears and bellybutton, the creature had an impressive, kempt beard cascading down and displayed skin in the tender pink of green babies wherever the hairline had receded.

Apart from the strange colour combination and gigantified proportions compared to the langurs Linlin knew of from back home, something else caught his attention: its giant two whip-like tails that could be easily confounded with misshapen, prickly cactuses.

Grandpa Langur’s four seven-fingered claws were intertwined with a handful of golden dazzling branches, his bulging muscles giving a clear picture of what our hero should expect to happen if things went terribly south.

In this regard, Linlin couldn’t help but swallow a mouthful of dry saliva, as he tried to confirm with a trained agent’s hawk-like gaze what the monkey may excel in. Given the ease the creature displayed while remaining pretty much airborne, it was safe to assume the monkey had great freedom of movement and even greater muscle mass to show for.

Not an enemy he should take on without prior preparation, that’s for sure! With Seer Mikaantyar’s advice still fresh in mind, Linlin steeled himself, forced an obnoxious smile on his emotionless face that couldn’t be faker and grunted: “Hello, dear… monkey?”

What our hero uttered under clenched teeth, made the langur instinctively snort in annoyance. Linlin only laughed nervously in response. “Then, mister… ape, simian, langur?”

Linlin really didn’t know what to do with the thing in front that wasn’t accommodating enough to properly introduce its race nor name–––if it had one in the first place – nor was him speaking something that came to him naturally.

According to memory, long discussion sessions always ended up in disaster. So came both silently assessing each other and time passed. Again.

‘Back to the bloody beginning.’ Linlin shook his head, as no clue magically came to him. This unusual event would have dragged on for even longer, were it not for the monkey pointing at the now darkened sky.

Gone were the bright suns, disappearing behind a thick, trouble-spelling wall of multicoloured, oversized clouds. Gone, too, was the forest’s cacophony, leaving behind unsettling stillness effortlessly crawling under one’s skin.

Out of curiosity–––and after having long since labelled the weak intruder a man of straw–––Grandpa Langur inquired if bipeds actually preferred an unpredictable hailstorm over the soothing sun, given the lack of concern and obvious ease the unwelcome guest displayed.

Our hero did not quite understand the intent behind the monkey’s words, just as the other party should have guessed so, for it stretched out a disproportionally long finger.

Curiosity made Linlin follow the indicating limb, yet he still failed to recognise what seemed so damn dangerous to all other residents to shut up at once. Well, the soup brewing up there sure looked menacing, but that was all to it, wasn't it?

Bad weather… Grandpa Langur shook its head in response as one would at a hopeless douche bag–––probably thinking of another donkey soon joining Her Majesty's garden of fertilisers–––as it hurriedly vanished behind the branches’ thick veil.

As for Linlin, he soon started walking with no clear goal in mind, still mulling over what to do next as well as how to properly rouse that fellow inmate.

Granted, with his head among the proverbial clouds, our hero did not get far before he experienced the bliss of one’s little toe ramming against something very hard. Cringing in pain, he stared speechlessly at the stony culprit.

One of many lying scattered around strangely shaped holes. Somewhat uncommon, perhaps? While Linlin still wondered what kind of weird joke this should be considered as, something solid hit his head. Bump~ Up his gaze travelled… his eyes at long last round as a plate.

The multicoloured soup from earlier had turned into an ominous streak of jet-black sky without him noticing, with small table tennis-sized stones hitting the warm ground with ever-increasing frequency. “C-crap,” Linlin blurted out, foregoing his slow walk for a mad gallop.

Why hadn’t he noticed earlier? Was he really that helpless at analysing evidence himself? The holes on the ground, the ominous sky and the many icy missiles now falling earthwards–––on top of the monkey’s warning…

It should have rung a bell earlier, no an entire orchestra! While protecting his head as well as he could and getting some nasty bruises in return, Linlin reminded himself he better find shelter within an acceptable timeframe or would die at the hands of what ridiculous disaster that was in the making.

The true danger Grandpa Langur hinted at was undoubtedly that which had hammered these holes in. ‘Faster!’ Linlin dashed across the clearing as if chased by the Devil himself, hoping there was still some luck left he hadn’t used up. ‘Dang, faster, c’mon!’ His mind screamed repeatedly.

At long last, relief filled his thoughts, for a solitary trunk appeared in his field of vision–––looking beautifully hollow on the inside. ‘Almost there!’ The currently fist-sized hailstones increased soon to the size of baskets -and that after only some short minutes passed!

BANG! TUMP! CRASH!!

The surrounding noise had turned into a deafening crescendo, heralding an ever-increasing spike in danger levels. Yet with one last push, Linlin successfully shoved his body through the small hole with all he got before collapsing on all four.

Luckily, there was enough space and it seemed abandoned at that. Not-so-luckily, though, the rotten stench in there was another story entirely. ‘Maybe Lady Luck’s gentle reminder she’s not responsible for me alone?’ There was no way to ask the fickle mistress, that's for sure.

'Can this be the monkey’s cesspool?’ Linlin straightaway pinched his nose and tried to ignore certain obvious... decorations. The trunk he sat upon also reinforced the impression of an overused outhouse.

Almost a full day passed since midsummers icy fury rained plentiful destruction down the forest dwellers’ heads. With the ground being absurdly hot, the hail had had a hard time cooling anything down before melting and deepening the viscous mud that now was like the sea.

Linlin found this natural phenomenon rather annoying as he came to slowly accept that all he’d learned in the Illusory Library was of no help while stuck in this situation.

Amidst the cascade-like downpour analogous to the advent of earthen history’s first aircraft bombers, our hero had eventually found time to properly reorganize his thoughts and possibly also consult the System.

After assessing thrice that the trunk wouldn’t come crashing down anytime soon. Given he seldom thought on his own, it was quite surprising to pass time organising what mumbo-jumbo was in his head.

But with said head full with many encyclopaedias worth of quintessential nature-themed nonfiction books, coming across any thought not of that particular subject was daunting, if anything.

For example, he instinctively knew the yellowing leaves on the ground–––False Woundwort–––were lightly poisonous and the bluish-white ferns extending down from above–––Bogus Oarweed–––were not.

That knowledge combined with the fact he saw it fit to dry the ferns with just the right amount of bioenergy proper processing demanded, led to him rolling his first otherworldly cigar in forced peace.

Perhaps with a taste reminiscing of fresh manure, the weed couldn’t be considered prime merchandise, but only drove home he definitely had other problems to solve first before lamenting over taste.

Anyway, it at least calmed down his nerves as he had hoped it would. As a welcome sidekick, the blueish smoke had a narcotic effect on the little snake he kept near him, the one gone bonkers due to the noisy weather. He did not spend any thought on his drugged companion than absolutely necessary.

However, he wasn’t roused from his deep slumber as Linlin hoped for. And actively calling him proved as effective as teaching an elephant how to do backflips.

The asshole was there, sure–––which was all that Linlin felt. But he had somehow decided to take leave longer than necessary. By far longer than he'd had ever allowed him to. ‘Sigh. The strategist’s out of the house, troubles plentiful and stress levels rising. Charming.’

Linlin scratched his nose, unhappy he’d been forced taking on his part too. Ultimately, he could do nothing but accept the inevitable and try to master the challenges on his own. He dove down deep into his consciousness until he discovered the System’s interface radiating in pale light in all its expanded glory.

~System Version 1.0.0.2~ Name │ (?) Linchester Linde Gender │ Male (?) Race │ Human (?) Profession │ Alchemist (Botanist Branch) Stage │ Lowly Worm Contractors │ (?) ‘nameless snake’ (infant) [42 (59+)] Bioenergy │ 17 (55) Talents │

[Schizophrenic (max)] show/hide [Survivalist (max)] show/hide [Destiny’s Contractor (max)] show/hide

[Gluttony (max)] show/hide Skills │ [Gluttony Works Overtime (9.91)]

Comment │ How could this happen??!!

Master Comment │ As a possible future calamity in its baby steps, you finished the tutorial at snails’ pace. Any slower and you’d be dead. Charming, isn’t it? You’re brain-damaged and deaf it seems….

Things looked slightly better than before, especially the part about his profession, the newfound albeit scathing descriptions he now red for the second time as well as the nice increase in his bioenergy levels. Not to forget about the soon-to-appear brand-new skill–––whatever that may be!

The latter function probably required the fusion of System fragments to be made available, hence the delay. As far as Linlin knew, he had not ingested any Cores since then, which was not in line with what Mikaantyar said but whatever.

[Gluttony (max)]

Quest for limitless power drives the agent. Your blood, your very core, a roaring inferno. The fire to consume, to ravish, to make your own what never was supposed to be. Those contracted pay tribute to your awe, while those who are consumed may join your ridiculous arsenal of deadly wonders. Grants questionable evolutionary paths.

Caution: Instable. Uncontrollable. Mutation Possible.

Comment │ Go devour the world, then my unfulfilling task shall finally come to an end! [Schizophrenic (max)]

Ain’t the most trustworthy out there, nor the most welcome. Alas, the departed can’t be choosers. Currently split between an untrusting psychopath and an uncommunicative butcherer went bonkers, both not necessarily in tandem with common sense. A word of caution to your foes, beware of twitching eyelids. Grants the status of a medium.

Comment │ Ain’t that lovely, peach? A damn personality to undiscover!

Yet no matter how often Linlin read the explanations, [Schizophrenic] and [Gluttony], he couldn’t help but groan as he believed he’d found the reason for Seer Mikaantyar’s funny glances. But that was the extent of his discerning eye.

As far as he was concerned, it could be said that Linlin getting that feeling was already a miracle in its own right. As for how to handle the revelation, our hero was surely not cut out to answer that sophisticated question!

Now all that remained was to get his sorry ass in motion and behave like a proper hunter before bioenergy levels sunk too low, lest he ended up with another cursed go at the misery lottery. And that was surely not his intention.

Although… it much seemed that excessive smoke filling the bolt-hole might soon bite Linlin back in the bum due to a certain reptilian hooligan losing its untrained mind. Lastly, his instincts were... tingling.

End of Part II