“Ooh... what did I ask again?” “Alchemical paraphernalia.” “Really...?” ‘If it ain’t so tragic, I’d have laughed so hard I lost it. You can even count on a guarantee from me.’

The agent was speechless as he gazed at the antique collection, possibly stolen from great-great-grandma’s attic if his had any. He lit up a premium cigar, took a puff and murmured something along the lines of what he had done so terribly wrong to deserve this.

The bitter taste of liquorice led him to believe he had even chosen the wrong cigar, despite it being a premium product. The tobacco came from a very valuable herb. Sure enough, valuable did not always mean useful. Sometimes cheaper is better!

From bad to worse, indeed. This pile of dilapidated goods, extending far beyond the edge of the ant-made clearing, didn’t look like anything he expected.

The mimic who joined them as soon as he heard of Azariah’s return suffered from vomit-like sounding chuckles as he continued to roll around in circles on the only free patch of moderately tall flowers that had endured the ants’ scary zeal.

By our protagonist’s modest expectations, Azariah shouldn’t have delivered anything close to premium merchandise, nor should she’ve brought anything comparable to this collection of trash.

Even the Master Strategist could only shake his figurative head in the mindscape at the high piles that threatened to collapse on top of them if only the wind was more powerful. And considering the fact that there was no breeze, this implied that trouble could come at a moment’s notice.

Rusted frying pans lay hopelessly strewn about the area, along with holey cauldrons filled with sticky, tar-like sauce or plagued by serious dirt issues, jugs that, thanks to their subtenants, would most likely run away on their own if he even took a single step in their direction...

Then there were a couple of primitive scales–––two bones tied together with weights affixed to their ends and attached to a stone covered in leather straps.

A number of other measuring instruments, all of which had somehow strayed from their intended uses, adorned the pile along with several vials of varying origins.

Basically hollow bamboo tubes, used for fermenting stuff that–––unattended and all–––might later become tanning liquid or worse. There was only one characteristic that each of these items shared: They were all as sterile as a dustbin...

Such as leaking somethings and all the other reeking smears, green-yellowish, damp stains, darkened incrustations, aged dirt, dried-up mud that may or may not have outlived orcish civilisation, tonnes of dust, grime, ash, bones, giant cobweb at times eclipsing even the objects themselves, remains of rotting meals possibly broiled by the ancients and left as is…

This picture was the result of looking at things through rose-coloured glasses, which obviously didn’t account for utensils both couldn’t comprehend the use of. They were far more numerous and ridiculously varied than the known gadgets.

In short, it was a heap of unwanted junk at the front of which a radiant smiling queen stood proud, with a look on her face that read: “Prise me,” in a language even they failed to misinterpret.

This same person had apparently never been taught the importance of neat kitchens and how they should never be used as substitutes for unavailable laboratories. Not that this was anything kitchen-like...

‘Now what?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘I mean, say what? It’s obvious she expects a positive reaction.’ ‘Duh, rake your brain yourself. Can’t produce shit with junk.’

‘…that we can, actually.’ ‘Never!’ ‘C’mon, poison still counts.’ ‘And kills us when things go south? This ain’t no simple experiment. This ain’t no bloody first!’

Linlin would be scowling ferociously just thinking about that ridiculous option if he was capable of showing emotion like everyone else in his race.

Yet neither Pansy nor the agent’s fine control was that advanced. The quarrel only continued without an end in sight. The agent wanted to get started with alchemy and collect first impressions to work his way up to create something greater.

Something that eclipsed all present formulas currently spooking Pansy’s intellectual thoughts. However, the plan had been to create something with internal cleansing effects–––a recipe he would have to devise rather sooner than later if the Illusory Library could be trusted. Definitely no poison.

As a result, Azariah’s tireless efforts were doomed to failure because of their uselessness. Even disregarding recommended safety measures, they didn’t meet the minimum requirements either.

And as Pansy mentioned correctly, stuff that Linlin made in a frying pan home to a half-rotten, red-eyed duck with sawtooth-like beak was certainly not suitable for safe personal consumption.

It wasn’t possible even if both were capable of micromanaging control simultaneously. However, since Linlin’s doings could only be dominated by one personality’s input at a time, the very idea was useless. The agent took another deep puff.

In fact, even with guinea pigs at their disposal–––which they obviously lacked–––surviving the ordeal and learning something from it properly was more a matter of luck than proper preparation or timely execution of the recipe.

The awful truth made both personalities silently wonder if killing the trespassers had really been a great idea when they could have used them instead as guinea pigs.

In the meantime, the proud expression on the waiting Queenant’s face slowly deteriorated into what someone would show if they bit into nylon-reinforced, rough paper instead of the hamburger it had been wrapped around.

Even more so, since the roaring mimic drew closer with each successful circle he rolled on the ground. Azariah was painfully aware that she was the one who had caused his loss of control.

Lord Chartres rolled, and rolled and roared, and rolled and wheezed, and rolled and screeched, and... Until a well-timed kick in the gut sent the misbehaving mimic crashing into a pile of utensils before that unstable mountain submerged him at once, miraculously improving Queen Azariah’s mood.

Eventually, the quarrel between the agent and the Master Strategist was resolved. It only made the furious agent roar into the figurative face of amused Pansy once he understood the latter’s motivation.

‘You did it on purpose, damn you. Making a fool of me and feeling especially smug as I attempt to convince you of what was already your true viewpoint!’ ‘You have to admit, it is fun!’ ‘[email protected]!?!!’ ‘Hehe~.’

“...Azariah? When I asked for utensils, I had something… cleaner in mind. Precision tools and such, no useless gadgets made by untrained hands and left to rot away.

In alchemy, the smallest mistake is enough to meet your mark. This is needed to meet your marker,” to which Pansy then added several very likely outcomes to explain his harsh judgement.

“At best, the cauldron explodes in your face. In the worst case, reckless action can result in unnatural events with unpredictable outcomes, both present and future. ...some remain even for eternity.” Azariah stared sadly at the enormous pile, lost in thought.

Although she didn’t answer the veiled accusations, her miserable face alone spoke volumes. As for the parts brought in from faraway abandoned villages, Queen Azariah found no problems with them. Not even after Pansy’s carefully nuanced explanation.

No matter how many frills there were, to her a cauldron was just a cauldron and a scale was a scale. But Linlin had to know. After all, he was the alchemist. “Can’t you really use any of this?” She asked in a small voice, her head held low and tone glum.

“...the pot over there–––the part that resembles a stuffed bear with beer dripping down its paw. Lastly, the kettle on the right and the empty bamboo vials behind the... tricycle. And make damn sure they’re empty.”

Pansy thought it would be unwise to get to the bottom of why the tricycle–––broken and all–––had been dragged here. Was he supposed to sit on it during the experiments to go easy on Linlin’s feet?

‘Rejected!’ ‘What rejected? Anyway, I think it would make a great substitute for a slow murder weapon. Whaddaya think?’ ‘I say nothing but call bullshit.’

“And this weighting scale?” The stubborn queen, who couldn’t give up at all, disappeared shortly after behind a random pile of junk. By the next time Azariah stuck her cobweb-covered, greasy head out, she was holding an unbalanced monkey skull in her stained hands.

It had different weights attached to the holes our protagonist believed were once its ears. ‘That smell... by the Gods.’ ‘When is she gonna put that thing away?’

‘Does she even know what this is?’ ‘Good question.’ “…Azariah, this is no scale.” “Ah, it’s not? So what about the weights? The queen stared at the skull with suspicion, as if to whisper to it that if it were anything other than a scale, she would coolly exterminate it together with its lineage to set an example.

“Miscellaneous paraphernalia art ascertained best with but a pinch,” The mischievous mimic was just about to finish liquifying completely and reassembling his cells in a place where things would no longer potentially indent his precious head when he called out to her.

‘That fu-ck-er, stop her!’ Pansy was still barking orders when Azariah reached for one of the weights and pulled gently. ‘Too late. ...doesn’t seem to be working?’

Seconds passed before anything happened, but then some cogs well hidden from sight made the skull vibrate, making its chin fall open, spraying lacteal red gas directly into her expectant face. It definitively was no scale.

Azariah reacted only after she had been submerged in the cloud for a while, which did little to help her cause. The queen whimpered like a cat whose tail had been cruelly stepped on as she fled into the bushes, hurriedly.

“Hahaha!” Seeing what had happened to its frenemy, the mimic taunted her from a safe distance before his newly assembled body crumbled on the spot.

Lord Chartres’ mad laughter was too much for the current him to bear. The appearance he turned into had yet to stabilise. “Sophistication on account of male potency born from superstition ravaged past lacking geniuses’ minds the risible same.”

“The primate-based questionable product harvested from testicles aside, since you are unfortunately one of my own, I advise you to immediately cease your laughter. Otherwise, I will be making a tombstone soon, no alchemical experiment.”

‘The damn mimic’s death in itself would also be an experiment. How will it turn out if our contracts die? Do we face danger? Will the energy spent be refunded? Oh, my! There is so much to learn. ...shall I wargame?’ ‘Heh. Against them? Are you trying to kill us?’ ‘Fair enough.’

“Believe me, Azariah will make you cry if she catches you laughing at her–––on top of what she already has in store for you. You’re the one to blame for the disgrace, remember?”

Pansy stepped in to save the freeloading mimic from a terrible fate even though Lord Chartres had not given him any real benefit. Wasn’t it necessary to invest early on? This was an opportunity.

As the death-seeking mimic heard his truthful words, his lone mouth was quickly covered with four stick-like hands that streamed up from below and he stared attentively at the nearby bushes as if a ten-headed monster was about to pounce on him.

Yet even his four thin limbs couldn’t bring the desired result since his uncontrollable mouth, the cause of many disputes, went on to make stifled yapping sounds instead of laughter.

Therefore, Lord Chartres hurriedly altered his anatomy even further, his mouth and nose merged together until the point they were no more. ‘Now that’s what I call a creepy face! Yuck!!’

All that remained of his human features was a melting head seated atop a stele of organic matter and stabilised by four starved arms nodding in agreement. Linlin snorted sardonically in response to the mimic’s absurd attempt at thanking him.

After a few hours, Azariah emerged from the bushes, her irate face glowing red like the setting suns. It was the third time Linlin saw her like that.

After she caught the two gossiping entities almost jumping at each other’s throats when confronted with the role and qualifications of an armoursmith, her expression normalised and she joined the bustle as a bystander.

“Oh, c’mon. What is the difference between forging boilers and breastplates? Both are metallic, bulbous, have openings and are of a certain weight.” “Fright, steer clear.

To equate the dignified craft of ornamental fulfilment hatched from artsy mastery to plebeian spook–” “Same process!” “Piffle! …I beg thee pardon.

Donkeys equal no horse, for the very essence is dissimilar. To further dwell futile art what I renounce.” “You still refuse to explain what the difference is between drilling one hole or many more in one and the same material.”

“Armour concedes dutybound Servant Chartres’ promise, no weapons of choice and evidently no unrefined fiddle-faddle.” The Queenant laughed breezily as she saw the two sulking faces that looked constipated.

“Then give me some, you disgusting eel! Never seen the promised armour coming from you either.” Azariah concluded from the ongoing conversation that her partner desired something other than armour, and the mimic simply refused to make it.

The queen could not fathom why in the blazes the conversation derived so much as that both buggers now weren’t on the ball and even continued to bicker on how difficult it was to get the necessary materials.

Lord Chatres had lost many points with her because of his refusal, so maybe, just maybe... another discussion was beckoning? In the short time she was here, it was not long after the first argument that they began a second, both unresolved.

Azariah believed that if they continued this way, they would end up talking with their fists rather than words at the end of the day. She was not amused by the idea as Linlin was physically weak. He was doomed to lose.

Questions about her amusement aside, there were issues with their argument that had more to do with the content rather than the proceedings.

If others had been racking their brains over such a trivial issue and had no idea where to begin searching for specific resources in this vast forest, she could understand–––but not them.

“...you never thought of asking my children?” She eventually made her point known, her tone a bit peeved. “Any characteristics need to be checked carefully–––I can never describe it with proper words that they won’t fail to recognise,” Pansy answered nonchalantly, earning him a cool hand on his forehead, another question and an even stranger glance.

“Is everything really alright? Was today’s lunch bad? Are you tired? The hivemind allows for direct communication however much you like. How could you possibly forget that?”

“…lack of understanding. Besides, I have no idea how to begin my study.” The agent had plenty to say in regards to the meals he had to force down his throat every day.

Though, the hivemind thingy wasn’t something he knew about except for the System’s lacklustre explanation. As a result, he decided not to interfere and allowed Pansy to go about his business.

The question had been bothering him too for some time now, but he didn’t dare ask for fear of the repercussions of his digging. After all, his every word invited disaster!

Despite the fact that things were no longer as complicated as the agent thought they were... it is always better to be safe than sorry.

The Queenant folded her arms over her lovely head and sighed as deeply as if she were trying to blow Linlin out of Central. “Please explain why you need something as primitive as words in a collective network based on psychic nodes?”

“...I don’t?” Our protagonist scratched his temples as Pansy was busy drawing logical conclusions from her lacklustre explanation that could explain why Azariah questioned his genius. Meanwhile, the agent calmly pondered over which cigar he’d like to smoke next.

“Sigh. Your thoughts are too complicated when it’s actually so simple,” Azariah shook her head wryly as she gave Pansy a once-over as she sat down close enough to set another obvious sign our protagonist remained totally unaware of.

She smelled like a flowerbed. “A thought originates from a wish we want to convey. The intention is then translated to words in a chosen language that, regardless of how sophisticated it is, suffers from major shortcomings.

Always. In my honest opinion, the most fatal flaw is that you cannot express in words what does not exist as such. As an example, if no tree grows where you live and there is no equivalent expression in your language, I might need hundreds of references to make you understand what I mean.

All information that explains what’s useful about trees is something that requires a lot of time to make its way to your brain. Of course, you must’ve heard of the related concepts beforehand. Without that, you can’t think about communication at all.

Humans compensate for a lack of understanding of novel things by learning of new concepts in this way.” Linlin’s psychic oscillations only revealed Pansy’s genuine confusion, which Azariah found amusing.

While gazing into his eyes unflinchingly, she giggled as she lifted her head with both arms. “Look at your stupid face. I cannot let you go like this. To put it differently, if I speak of a tree, I must first ensure that the word exists.

Secondly, it needs a precise, unambiguous, very unique definition otherwise it can easily be forgotten or misunderstood, and finally, it is even dependent on the recipient’s understanding, that little tool we like to describe with the terms culture and upbringing.

There have already been many wars caused by faultily conveyed intentions. Can’t we just agree that engaging in speeches is a highly unprofessional practice?

Original, undistorted intentions are all you need when attempting to communicate with the State as a whole. There are other ways, but... It is impossible to make pheromones because you don’t have a gland to use.

As the glint in your eyes indicates, I further hope my next point will get across to you.” Azariah’s voice grew serious, her attitude was no longer lighthearted. “Do not question who’s more efficient when it comes to watching out for specific things.

Even a hundred of you can’t beat a dozen of my children in this aspect!” As the entity most invested in convincing Linlin of the difficulty of finding quality materials, Lord Chartres was caught in an artificial coughing fit, as if something enormous were truly stuck in his non-existent throat.

In no time, he was once again seen staring at the clouds and humming a slow melody as if nothing here could ever bother him. Darnation, he had fewer excuses to make now.

And possibly also to survive a private, very fearsome talk with Queen Azariah! Feeling her ill-boding psychic fluctuations, Lord Chartres felt like crying.

Still, if asked, Pansy would insist that his situation was worse since he had taken a hit to his raison d’être... what a marvellous strategist he was! A fool for not recognising the biggest advantage that psychic communication offers.

It was virtually impossible to encounter misunderstandings or even lies! In the end, Pansy bit the bullet and politely asked Azariah to take a closer look at his package of wishes and help with the backwards translation.

The reason for this was that having never done anything of the kind and coming from a modern era drowning in convoluted phrases and such, it was impossible to remain as pure and simple as required.

Additionally, their level of mastery wasn’t yet sufficient. Perhaps levelling up [Hivemind] would improve their chances? Trying to produce a list of useful items while minimising insulting or useless baggage was no easy task.

Even so, the Master Strategist did manage to carefully choose the items he thought would be useful to have on hand. The result? A stern reminder from Azariah that he had to learn this technique quickly, as she couldn’t help him without asking several dozen questions and adapting the package accordingly before making it public.

Following that, a highly effective, yet also highly dangerous engine roared to life, delivering in overabundance a lot of the desired materials over the course of a few days.

‘Stop whatever you'’re doing, Stupid. We got a minute of respite. ‘...what are you planning on doing? I wanna sleep, you?’ ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep. Always sleep.

It can wait. I want to get better at bossing around ants. There’s so much potential that we miss out on.’ ‘Meaning?’ ‘Urgh... so just for you to comprehend: We’re about to level up [Hivemind].’

‘...is this a joke? Because it costs a shit tonne of energy and we need to level up at least two skills to feel at home in our own body.’ ‘We can. [Hivemind] and [Folly–A–Boo].’ ‘...we’ll be at rock bottom then.’

‘That’s okay. Think of it as an investment. It may hurt, but it’s necessary. There shouldn’t be any need for high levels of energy if things go according to plan.

Here we are safe. Kind of.’ ‘Whenever you talk about hypothetical scenarios, I’m damn sure they will never come true. You’re the one cleaning up this time when shit hits the fan.’

‘You’re so sweet today, Stupid. Let’s move on.’ ‘Sigh. At least I get to sleep well after this.’ ‘That’s the spirit.’ ‘Zip it.’

Warning! Warning! Warning! Level-Up Intention Detected–––Launch Security Protocol 8 If Not Ready Cease Immediately! Repeat: If Not Ready Cease Immediately! Ready In... 3... 2... 1...

‘...’ ‘...’ ‘...?’ ‘??’ ‘Mmh... Pansy?’ ‘What the fuck’s wrong? Rips out a chunk of bioenergy and nothing happens.’ ‘I wouldn’t say that. Feel that mixed up mass of stray information? It’s near the back of the mindscape.’ ‘...I‘ll be damned.’

‘We really know shit about [Gluttony]’s inner workings and rules.’ ‘Extend this statement to the whole darn System, aye. I’m ageing like a mayfly here.’ ‘Anyway, you got your much-anticipated level up plus information, I get my time for sleep. Good night.’

‘...right, my time’s also almost up too. Better recharge our batteries and go at it tomorrow.’ ‘Wait, tomorrow we experiment. You said so too. I’ll have some quality time on my own afterwards.

Don’t let this get in our way, deal?’ ‘...can’t help it. You’re right. Later it is. But the next level up does come. I’m tired of internal pressure affecting my genius thoughts!’

‘Good. Now really, gotta turn in for the night.’ ‘Aye.’ Pansy glimpsed one last time at the panel showing the upgraded version of [Hivemind] before he too joined the other personality in his sleep.

There were countless alarms buzzing in the background of their mindscape, but none of them were noticed. They eventually ceased to be.

[Hivemind] Level 2

Communication exists beyond plain words, exchange beyond the concept of structure and information that is not limited by rational reasoning. With the State’s development, what was once linear has become multidimensional. Beware, individuality diverges from collectivity. Your involvement has deepened dramatically. Less psychic energy consumption when addressing node(s).

Caution: Potentially Stressful. Perpetual.

Level-Up Requirement │ Bioenergy (497)

Comment │ Shared joy, shared burden–––pray the State never falls!

The next morning, our protagonist had recharged his batteries. He had enough sets at his disposal so that failures wouldn’t be crippling, so eager Pansy could’ve started the experiments right away.

That’s exactly what he did. Just that after a few very informative failures that cost Linlin two dirty cauldrons and almost half a life, the agent made him give up and they decided to return tomorrow or the week after.

Could the strange level-up process have affected Linlin’s perception? Pansy, however, wasn’t as understanding as the agent would’ve liked.

After a day and night of pondering and another try the day after, our indignant Master Strategist managed to get his hands on an untested product that seemed to be blackened by soot and badly affected by excessive fat. The. First. Ever. Alchemical product.

In any case, Pansy was... not overflowing with happiness. He had initially intended to make a kind of ointment in the form of herbal liquid using the dried herbs he collected from the stream when he had just left Azariah back then as the main ingredients given the ants brought literally cartloads.

However, the result was far from even the most modest expectations. Another factor that led to this humbling insight was that herbal liquid barely qualified as an alchemical product.

The deciding consideration was that as neither of the two personalities was really confident–––and far from convinced for that matter–––that the greasy, purple clot at the bottom of the cauldron was anything but poison, they were very hesitant in labelling it a success.

As a result, a lengthy discussion ensued. However, Azariah was definitely reckless enough–––or so they claimed by the time she told them of her plan–––to downplay all valid concerns after confirming that it was supposed to be applied to wounds.

The queen went out of her way to summon a severely injured child. As a member of the same group who responded first to our protagonist’s mental distress call many weeks ago, it showed a terrible collection of injuries, testament to how dangerous the forest could be.

In spite of an insect’s incredible vitality, this one looked more dead than alive. Several portions of the exoskeleton had gone missing completely long ago, revealing the impressive muscle mass beneath.

This poor thing probably got them while it was freshly hatched, as it had both dents in its exoskeleton and razor-sharp ends growing by chance in ways that were surely not supposed to happen.

Some were even bent inwards, causing terrible pain with every movement. The ant was obviously dying for a multitude of different reasons.

After seeing Azariah’s suffering child, Linlin immediately shut up and let go of any concerns. He raised the still hot cauldron and emptied out the contents in one fluid motion, soaking the creature head to toe.

As for the result? The ant…

End of Part III