“I still don’t understand why you’re here. All you need to do is disappear quietly and never return to make us forget about you. Don’t tell me that you can’t pull that kind of prank on me either.

Though our contract may be binding, it is not without loopholes,” Linlin stated flatly while extending his arms in response to the busy mimic’s request and turning them until the latter was satisfied.

“I’m certain Azariah doesn’t give a damn about a random passerby.” He was sure the mimic whimpered at this statement, though why eluded Linlin. “And I was out cold long enough to pull it off. But no, you’re still here.”

The armoursmith left the hypothetical inquiries unanswered and simply grumbled a bit here and there. From his appearance, Lord Chartres seemed awfully engrossed in his passion.

As a result, even the pickiest person could find no fault in his professional zeal. The world might come to an end and the mimic would still only care about marrying art and work with passion.

The reason might also be that Lord Chartres was afraid to say too much. But without sufficient imagination, his archaic blathering would not have been understood anyway.

This alone would have prevented him from revealing too much, had he deigned to formulate a response. Whatever the case, that unpredictable mass of strange cells took on the most bizarre shapes just to measure Linlin’s body as accurately as mimicly possible.

To make sure he knew what shape and which length the sleeve must turn out to feature, Lord Chartres had liquified his upper torso and opted for thousands of tiny worms to sprout from that seemingly severed limb, literally rolling over our unflinching protagonist’s arms like a tidal wave.

Notably, neither haphephobia nor paranoia set in. It seemed like everything Lord Chartres did somehow circumvented his triggers. If a certain queen knew about it, she would throw a fit of epic proportions...

There was no trust between Linlin and the creature. Even Azariah had yet to crack his shell. In part, the agent’s willingness to cooperate rested on the fact that the blob carried no malice.

In addition, Pansy’s repeated assertion that harming Azariah’s boy toy despite being surrounded by her children was beyond retarded did also wonders in reassuring him.

While the agent had a lot to say about Pansy’s terminology, he chose to keep his mouth shut for now. All in all, the question of security still bugged him. But he was also confident that he could hold off the rogue mimic until reinforcements came to his rescue.

“Bow,” Linlin stiffly obeyed. However, he didn’t let it hinder him from speaking further. “Which reminds me, what do you gain from all this? Not much, I bet. Unless… you follow a hidden agenda?”

This was the Master Strategist saying his piece. “You have to understand... One of your calibre looking for a place to live among life-threatening neighbours seems a tad bit too crazy and ridiculously dangerous for us to simply shrug off and ignore.”

Linlin was half trying to learn something from the mimic, half killing time while he was stuck here. The antisocial agent couldn’t care less what Lord Chartres planned to divulge as long as he didn’t endanger their life, so his train of thought diverged significantly from Pansy’s, delivering mixed psychic waves to the proud artisan.

Since this was not the first time the mimic interacted with Linlin, he already had experience in this department. It still caused him considerable confusion and doubts, however.

With time, our protagonist’s endless questions had the same effect as water gradually wearing stones to dust. The conscripted armoursmith, as a very uncommon mimic and weirdo among weirdos, luckily had no idea what real frustration or depression felt like.

There was a reasonable chance that he would catch up on his shortcomings at the end of the day, though. His silence, however, only seemed to lend credence to whatever wild theory Pansy spewed in the absence of a response.

Lord Chartres suddenly felt the urge to cry. In the mimic’s view, pausing the divine process of properly sizing up the customer was not a practice worth pursuing, but by remaining silent, he would suffer later.

Lord Chartres was no longer able to contain his ire any longer when Pansy’s conceptions invaded the realm of the fantastic, which amounted to nothing more than many preposterous insults dumped on his artisan pride!

As a result, many tentacles merged together into a lump of colourless, wriggling matter, from which a mouth with lips and teeth grew, which gave voice to his dissatisfaction.

“Sacred art the Lord’s cogitation. Whilst a personal abode to linger and muse over life’s peculiarities becalm edgy nerves undoubtedly, what this Lord stands to gain differs.” “Question is, to what extent?”

‘Nah, true question is, for what reason?’ ‘Don’t you have to think ‘bout formulas and stuff? Our alchemy is still effectively inefficient.’ ‘Why, thank you. I’m free to change my schedule as I see fit.’ ‘Sure, sure.’

“Paramount the extent mayest be, this Lord means jeopardy not.” “But you’re not answering all the same.” “…answers sought at proper time, impart importance to this mingy rhyme.”

“You suck at that–––the other agrees.” ‘Hey, it’s your opinion, so why drag me down?!’ ‘Cuz he really does.’ “His presence most unwelcome–” ‘The heck?!?! Pansy, switch!’ “Which means I’m not welcome?”

The mimic was unable to put the agent’s words in the right context as he got really confused by the psychic oscillations. However, for good or for bad, his proven instincts were reliable enough to evade most mines, including the current landmine the size of an entire giant forest.

“This toiling one fails to emulate.” “Right, right. Sure you do. A second Pansy, dang it all.” The agent murmured to himself. “Legs art spread.” “...shit be what?” “To inquire thine groin.”

‘Is it just me or... Is that not something that most men would take lying down?’ ‘Useless banter. As if we’re considered common.’ ‘True. But still… Something’s wrong here.’

Our protagonist stared at the over-eager self-proclaimed armoursmith grudgingly performing the job that’d save the mimic’s hide, trying to ignore the funny feeling a thousand tentacles sliding over semi-covered skin evoked.

The agent suddenly found out what irked him. When the stimulation became too much to bear, he flatly reminded the responsible cretin.

“Go on–––I dare you–––engulf that part.” In response to his icy warning, a mouth moved up to his ears and snorted deafeningly, but followed his wishes.

The agent thought Lord Chartres was just wasting his precious training time with his many tentacles sweeping over his lower abdomen and legs so slowly–––but he couldn’t really be certain.

In fact, he did. Revenge. With words as violent and flowery as those only the most deranged of minds could conjure and the help of a certain lovely someone, he was persuaded to complete an unsatisfactory job. Lord Chartres needed an outlet!

Therefore, wasting time was the least the disgruntled mimic could do to diplomatically express his discontent over hurt feelings without incurring Azariah’s thunderous wrath.

In time, Linlin got an explanation for his earlier question from the armoursmith. “Perilous sites of ancient history long trivialised, a dream no more.” ‘That partially solves the riddle.’

‘Still not fixing the pathetic formula? What if it ends up as a curse bombshell the next time? Or an omnipresent, omnidirectional poisoning device?

And you think we’re ready to face the abyssal branch. Hell no.’ ‘...if it weren’t for my precious interpretations, you wouldn’t understand shit.

Can’t do that while being all chummy with the formula, right?’ ‘Then do your job, you lazy ass. The System already provides excellent interpretation.

I don’t need a freelancing interpreter.’ ‘Sigh, poor me, having to break down every obvious fact. It’s useless to argue too. Fine... Let me ask you a question. To what end is Azariah useful?

The answer depends on the person. It could be silence–––in your case, to be honest–––or a whole tome of praise.’ The other personality was well aware of Pansy’s nasty temper flaring up at times and trampling on him in regards to the Master Strategist’s superiority complex when it came to using one’s intellect.

Consequently, certain sentences were no longer perceived as if they didn’t exist and were unconsciously rephrased according to their neutral equivalents. ‘The queen has an army, you dolt.

One qualified enough to give the chills to anyone in the know. And what is their purpose? Do you now understand? When it comes to the mimic, I believe numbers are what he’s after.

Numbers that high a carpet search means merely slightly thinning out one’s lines.’ ‘What does Chartres stand to gain from this?’ ‘I was just about to get there, Stupid! Patience!

He only has an idea of some ancient sites’ locations on a rough scale, remember? Might require a search party. Or the assistance of the army itself. Putting one’s foot down requires powerful backing, after all. Something like that.

The hypothesis flows seamlessly into the second reason for playing it cool. Azariah has the uncanny ability to tear up space and transport you anywhere you’ve ever wanted to be–––or didn’t, for the love of all that’s holy. Now, got it?’

‘Hrmpf.’ “You mean Azariah? And why in the blazes is she interested in teleporting your ass ‘round the globe?” “This Lord’s handicraft?” “I need it most, not her.

Except you make way better armour for all ants to wear than their own chitinous exoskeletons. In that case, you better get started immediately and hope that a few millennia are all it takes. Their numbers only grow.”

“...the fellowship of another confrere art this Lord’s enjoyment.” ‘Why is everyone so mean lately?’ ‘Do you even know what mean is? Your favourite one-word description for everything that doesn’t turn out as planned.’ ‘Ole bro, your everything sucks.’ ‘Meaning?’

‘…I always wanted to say that to your face at least once.’ ‘But it has no meaning!!! ...the favourite pastime of a lonely agent?’ ‘Don’t talk ‘bout things you don’t understand… if that ain’t a waste of time, what is?’

‘Shut your damn trap, Stupid! You got me confused. Progress starts somewhere and certainly not in military barracks. Usually, it ends there... Argh! It’s you who trails off-tpoic!’

“Me again. Ignoring the questionable hogwash, when are you finally done? I’ve been standing here for hours now in the most inane position.”

“Promise and peril passes.” “...finally revealing your foxtail. What are you expecting me to do? Or... How hard is it to get Azariah’s full attention? Got a dozen ideas without putting much thought into it!”

“No! Err… precious company to this Lord.” “Me? You repeat yourself, my dear mimic. Again, why not Azariah? She’s all you’ll ever need if safety is a thing. ...Or pretty much anything else we need in life.”

The mass of cellular matter shuddered violently, almost trashing Linlin’s groyne if he had not timely shaken it off. “Careful! When all I get for asking is crushed balls, I’m doing shit.”

The mass of transparent cells the agent seemed to have shut down with his outburst had ceased to wriggle about. The lump remained the same even after Linlin poked it once words no longer worked.

He talked some more. Futile. Minutes later, and only after Pansy vehemently cursed while taking a metaphorical deep breath in their mindscape, did something change. How could he not know Lord Chartres demands? He wasn’t blind or deaf.

“Fine, you win. I’ll tag along. But only once!” The blob came alive faster than our protagonist closed his mouth. Turned out, words showed one hell of an effect–––given they were the right ones.

Given that sending Azariah a simple inquiry would end his plans all at once, the mimic had no intention of tempting fate and continuing to play hard to get.

He also felt slightly bad for keeping secrets. It seemed unlikely that Linlin would take the bait, according to his understanding. But hey, he did! The messy tentacles fused back together and soon after a sunny boy took the abomination’s place.

Lord Chartres did not need any further reminders. He rushed to the nearby pile of raw goodies he had managed to save from the amateurish horrors that ants and their gentle handling could inflict on premium materials.

His mouth opened wide, the boy shoved pile after pile into the creepy bottomless hole. ‘Curious, what one shoves down, must exit somewhere, right? Considering it’s quite a bulky garment, the best place to exit is...?’

‘…there’s water nearby with Hellpurger Fleshblooms in full bloom.’ ‘Nature’s deodorant, how lovely.’ The mimic finished shovelling things down and jumped around in all seriousness as they contemplated what to do with the highly acclaimed garments.

Then, after a couple of minutes of light exercise, the blue-blooded lord raised his highborn arse, and... Linlin was forced to avert his bandage-covered eyes to prevent them from rotting.

Only after hearing a muffled plop of something hitting the grass-covered undergrowth full of vibrant flowers and moans of pleasure did he feel safe to glance back.

Linlin saw a mimic wearing an expression that was not in line with the emotions he probably wanted to convey. But who was he to judge?

Lord Chartres proudly displayed a gentleman’s outfit that was probably worn on Earth at the start of the 19th century, except for its questionable choice of colour.

Tinted olive-green, it seemed full of military flair. The main benefit at first glance was that it should be easier to move around in the forest undiscovered, but surely there was more to this than met the eye.

Linlin was not left to marvel for very long as the impatient mimic interrupted their thought process stiffly, huffing “prove this one’s genius accurate,” only to be followed by an awkward pause.

Linlin left the waiting mimic standing where he was with the brand-new attire in his hand and an expectant gaze cast towards the struggling customer’s way. Both personalities felt that their next decision was vital.

‘Must I…?’ ‘Seems like he won’t let you leave otherwise. It was us who pestered him, right? Urk. ...at least it seems clean?’ ‘…you darn…! It’s always me who suffers in silence. Let’s do it.’

Linlin’s hesitation was palpable as he removed his everyday rags and tried on the newly-made suit. Soon after, he looked down at his body in utter amazement, evidence of the storm raging inside him.

The attire–––if he could call it such–––felt more like an extension of his body. While its raw materials were anything but easily processed cloth, it covered his body without causing discomfort.

At some point, the agent even wondered if they weren’t just born like this. Lord Chartres might not have done anything other than give them back what they had lost.

Were it not for the unresponsiveness he observed when trying to circulate bioenergy along the day suit, he really would have believed it was a part of his body.

As he slowly tightened the muscles in his arm, our protagonist was immediately left awestruck by the explosive power hidden beneath every fibre.

The day suit came in very handy in micro-adjusting his muscle fibres so that they would marginally follow his orders better. Even when each adjustment was merely minute and insignificant on its own, the human body contained so many muscle fibres that the agent noticed a world of difference.

In addition to being very addictive, this was incredibly valuable too: If he observed and followed the outfit corrections, his muscle memory would become more refined and Linlin was sure to gain many more advantages.

At the end of the day, what difference did it make where the day suit came from? What mattered was that it served a beneficial purpose. Following an impressive first impression, the agent soon used every skill in his arsenal to observe any potential changes.

In the event that wearing the day suit rendered them useless, he would be in quite a pickle. Fortunately, the agent’s paranoia did not come to pass. All skills except one remained unchanged. And even that outlier promised favourable change for once.

By hardening the precious pieces of the day suit with [Apocaliptic Hide Of The Devourer], he made it nearly impossible to damage. The green sheen with the emulated appearance of tiny scales crawling over the day suit could only be broken through by a single, exceptionally strong attack.

A series of fast strikes at extremely small intervals could also work, but the agent was not foolish enough to test that. In other words, this battle robe was tailor-made for messy fights.

“Changes art called upon by circling on three upper cufflinks.” Lord Chartres interrupted the content customer’s musing with a gruff introduction. Having made sure Linlin followed, the mimic gently rubbed the second button under the bow tie.

In no time, the colours of the day suit had changed. Linlin’s charisma was enhanced to the point where it was comparable to that of someone of the highest status: Arrogant. Suave. Confident! The last button, on the other hand, dyed everything pitch-black.

Neither of the personalities really gave a damn about how it was even possible. ‘Jackpot!’ ‘Aye. It’s really one damn fine gift.’ Not waiting for a response, Lord Chartres pressed a broad-brimmed hat down Linlin’s stubborn grey hair–––one that leaned slightly downwards so as to shade Linlin’s eyes forever as long as he didn’t look up at the sky.

Then, the armorsmith shoved a thin walking stick in our protagonist’s right hand and yelled indignantly: “Tip’s pointy in foreboding of a gentleman’s required self-defence.”

‘Add some poison found everywhere and voilà, a proper hidden weapon.’ ‘My thoughts exactly, it even feels–––wait!!’ “You ruined the claw?! I will never forget the feeling of holding that superweapon!”

“Most humble apologies, Milord. Servant Chartres deigned thine constituent most intriguing.” ‘This smug face... I haven’t yet started my extensive research and he... Shit!’

‘So true. But, Pansy... You must admit that the claw makes this weapon extremely useful for us. In comparison to what you might have found on your own... I prefer tangible goods to intangible understandings.’

‘As if you’d ever say otherwise. Typical Stupid, really. Bah, what’s done is water under the bridge already... I can’t ask him to spit out my claw now, can I?

But I swear this was his intention all along.’ Pansy was very irritated, but the agent didn’t seem to mind as much. His temper passed just as fast as it came.

“Next time, please let me know ahead of time, or I won’t hear the end of it. It is my understanding that you are absolutely opposed to manufacturing weapons. Wrong call.

It’s clear now that we spent quite a bit of time meaninglessly arguing.” The agent followed his rare praise with a stern reminder and an imperative question. “Do we need to perform any maintenance?

Things I have to remember? Limits? Weak spots?” “Suit? Indecorous enunciation for acceptable handiwork. The Matchmaker, art to be recalled as such. Lousy, improper, indecent,” Lord Chartres murmured, then he continued his rant with greater confidence.

“None being answer to thine question. Professionalism hath not to suffer from common disgrace. Never.” The mimic smugly added, his superiority complex plain to see. “Truly, another Pansy indeed.” “Thine ramblings were?” “Nothing worth fussing over.”

The agent answered while moving up and down, stretching, jumping, and twisting heels to test the waters in hopes of confirming the mimic’s boasts as truthful. He had already done so once some minutes ago, but it was not much of a stress test.

The hat sat firmly as if glued to the head. The shoes with black rims and delicate decorations that were concealed behind tight trousers enclosed in high stockings did not result in any sense of misfit no matter how ridiculous his stretches were.

Additionally, the coat had many small yet well-hidden compartments he could essentially stuff full of many alchemical wonders depending on the situation they found themselves in. It gave vital room for adaptation.

Originally, the idea was not something Lord Chartres had considered. But between a nosy queen listening in and an incredulous agent belabouring him with endless case recollections, he’d been quick to accept the proposed innovation.

As for Linlin’s unassuming gauntlets, they were skin-tight, functional in many ways, and fashionable too. Even without Linlin’s hardening ability, they were rock-hard, which spoke volumes about their durability.

However, there was still one point to consider: After forced exercise, our protagonist might drown in his own sweat at some point. Pansy believed it was unlikely and trusted the mimic to have thought of and countered such a mundane issue.

The agent was most impressed with the highly durable material that provided essential protection that could take a beating. The Master Strategist thanked the Gods that the attire came in three modes.

It could be used while in hiding, at night and in broad daylight among other humans they’d inevitably come in contact with without raising an eyebrow. Both were satisfied.

“Milord,” while the agent was still occupied with extensive testing, the mimic hesitated for a moment, but then decided to speak up. Despite the possible drawbacks that Lord Chartres’ question might cause, the possible advances for the betterment of his cause won out.

“Skittish victim of thy meddling, afoul she ran this one’s workbench.” There was no need to ask who he was referring to. ‘That’s the second one suggesting we should give Kassmera work to do. How in the world did she manage to get on their wrong side in no time?’

‘Why does babysitting sound bad?’’ ‘Cryptic are emotions, and on top of that, it is impossible to comprehend young critters. It’s the hardest and most unappreciative work there is.’ ‘Exactly my thoughts. Hunting is a lot more relaxing!’

‘Proposal: Let her stumble upon the snake and discover some quality meat en route so that she does not burn out too quickly. Her most likely cause of death might be a shortage of calories, after all.’

‘I have a better idea. If we follow yours, Azariah will kill us. This got me thinking, why don’t we use her as a helper? It ain’t that tricky to handle some ingredients if you know how.’

‘This... might work. Just one problem. Tiny, really. What the hell about let her chance upon did you fail to understand?!’ ‘The chance this may work out exactly how you want it.

Since you proposed this, we can be damn sure something will turn out wrong. When we actively take matters into our hands, danger is never far. And the quality meat part makes me puke...’

‘You?! ...don’t be so damn superstitious.’ ‘Snort.’ ‘Listen, I won’t sit still if...’ Meanwhile, Lord Chartres couldn’t help but shudder continuously.

Now they were doing it again. From all the masters in the world he could have chosen, what had compelled him to select this nutjob?

It was normal for psychic fluctuations to be linear and controlled painstakingly in the case of magical professionals. A contrary approach would endanger the mind and, in a worst-case scenario, also the soul.

But this one? He was certain Linlin had access to two conflicting types of energy–––which was considered impossible–––and also didn’t care about the very real chance of a mental breakdown.

In the environment he lived and thrived in, other people would have been wailing for the lunatic asylum in no time at all. No, that simple thought did his dread no justice.

Every damn day, Linlin’s psychic fluctuations would frantically oscillate as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Whenever Lord Chartres gazed at him, he got the feeling he was dealing with someone else.

As if countless Linlins were on rotation. Each one was marginally different from the last, so he could never find a common pattern and had to tread very carefully.

This also greatly hampered Queen Azariah’s obvious advances. Suddenly, the mimic discovered a vast number of distinct fluctuations originating from multiple, different sources.

It was faint, but they existed. The mimic got the creeps! Lord Chartres had to dissolve his highly developed sensory organs to avoid going insane.

A phenomenon like this wouldn’t be so jarring if the mimic simply failed to recognise just how outlandish his very own existence was; the very same now squarely beaten by someone else’s.

There was also a certain queen who slowly adapted to this madness... For whatever reason, she did not oppose this change but embraced it wholeheartedly.

Considering what might happen if he remained in their company as planned, Lord Chartres muttered a silent prayer. Even if he planned to escape, he was still tied to the source of this madness.

Two months into his newfound freedom, Lord Chartres already somewhat missed prison. The mimic groaned.

End of Part II