After clearing the eighth and last floor of the zombie-packed prison complex, Breve practically stumbles out the front door, only to see Dechambul casually sitting cross-legged by the swamp that surrounds them.

“Hey there!” He gives the three a friendly wave, and in his hand, is… is that a fishing pole? Is he fishing on this planet full of poisonous swamps? “How was the grind? I see you’ve defeated every mob in the building!”

“Level 28,” Tiffney states, poking at Breve’s extremely tired body. “The exponential EXP curve is fucking ridiculous for her! No wonder not a single person in her family could cast Resurrection. It’s gonna be a long time before she hits 85.”

Breve, whose caten-eyes adjust relatively quickly to the dim conditions outside, practically stagger-walks her way to Dechambul’s side before planting her arse firmly on the ground. “So many,” she whimpers, staring off into the polluted sky overhead. She can almost see the countless eyeballs popping as Peach or Tiffney slaughtered them mercilessly in front of her. “So… many…”

Dechambul stares at Breve, then turns back around. “I think you may be pushing her a bit too hard, guys.”

“No such thing,” Tiffney laughs. “She’s perfectly fine, see? Not a scratch on her!”

He studies Breve’s thousand-yard stare for a moment, before slowly nodding. “Mhm… sure… hey, Peach, how about you and Tiffney set off to look for any signs of that Bamadis guy?”

“Yes, that is the next course of action,” Peach hums. “We did not find any clues here. Let us be off, then.”

“Ahhh, you guys can go ahead first,” Dechambul suggests, before pointing at the pole he’s holding. “I’ve got fish on the line, you see!”

Tiffney quirks an eyebrow. “No fucking way there’s any fish in that—”

“Of course,” Peach interrupts, and Tiffney looks at her as though she’s grown a second head. She gives Dechambul a smile, silently signalling that she understands what he’s getting at. “Tiffney, follow me. We will fly over the surrounding area.”

While the elf seems rather incredulous, she eventually relents and follows Peach, chattering loudly as they walk back to the shuttle. As her voice grows further and further away, Dechambul lets out a sigh, and he pulls out a flask full of clear liquid from his cloak.

“Here,” he offers, handing it to Breve. “Have a drink.”

“Oh, bless you,” Breve murmurs, reaching out for the flask. All those incantations have absolutely left her parched, and in just a few moments, she empties the bottle of its refreshingly cool liquid, drinking it all down. “Aaah! Thanks. I needed that.”

“No problem,” Dechambul says, taking the flask back. And then, he pulls it under his cloak, rummages for a moment, and pulls out another, filled bottle. “Want more?”

“Uh… sure.” Breve takes it, but this time, she’s a little more confused. “Just how many bottles do you have under that cloak of yours?”

Dechambul, with a knowing smirk, shrugs his shoulders in feigned ignorance. “Probably a few hundred,” he answers, and Breve’s eyes widen. “Haha! You see, you’re not the only one with a rare skill. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, too. One of them is that I can store up to a hundred potions under this cloak… only potions I’ve made, though. Nothing else.”

“That is… exceedingly useful,” Breve notes, and Dechambul nods in agreement. “I can’t imagine how you would even need more than a hundred.”

“I’ve got another rare talent as well,” Dechambul begins. “Any drink I make will be enjoyed by anyone who chugs it down. Even poisonous substances will become harmless when I’m the one offering it.”

“What… how?” Breve blinks furiously, and she wonders if Dechambul is just outright bullshitting her. “How would that even work? What kind of magic is that?”

“How does Resurrection work, Breve? I mean, isn’t death the ultimate equalizer?” Dechambul gives Breve a smirk, and at the lack of a response, he just shakes his head. “The first humans that created us didn’t leave many notes behind to explain how we work— it just does. Soon enough, you’ll learn to accept that the only solid reality is that any law of the natural world can be bent or defied.”

Breve looks away and uncorks the bottle. “I guess you’re right… after all, this entire CBT schtick has been the most ridiculous, mind-bending thing of all.”

She lets out a deep sigh. “And yet, some things remain a constant…”

“What could you possibly mean, Breve?”

“I mean that sometimes, people are just assholes,” she huffs, and Dechambul lets out a chuckle. “How can you stand Tiffney? She’s just so…”

“She grows on you,” Dechambul claims confidently. Breve narrows her eyes. “Trust me.”

“...Sure, I guess,” Breve sighs. She pulls her knees up to her chest, making herself small. “I just… whenever she says that phrase, oh, yeah, healing, bare minimum of your job, haha, I wish I had that button Peach pressed in the spaceship to shut her up.”

Dechambul chuckles softly. “Trust me, I know what you mean. Everytime we get a newbie, she gives them hell. When I was the rookie, Tiffney would pull the bandages right off my body and laugh while my guts fell out!”

Breve looks at Dechambul in disbelief. “That’s terrible! She’s a— I can’t even call her a bully, that’s just…”

“Oh, she’s definitely a bully,” Dechambul confirms. “Don’t worry about it, though. Peach has her on a much tighter leash, now.”

The catgirl huffs, propping her head up on the tops of her knees. “You fed your last healer to a… giant space squid, right? Let’s feed Tiffney to that big spider up there next.”

Dechambul laughs again, a little more loudly this time, and shakes his head. “I’m sure Peach was considering it, honestly…”

“Why doesn’t Peach just do it?” Breve shuffles in place, acting far too much like a pissed-off cat to not be endearing. “From how she treated you, I can’t imagine that you like her too much either.”

“Well, the real reason is because Peach made a promise to someone,” Dechambul explains, and Breve tilts her head in curiosity. “I don’t know the specifics, myself. Both Tiffney and Peach were part of the CBT long before I was. But if there’s something you should know about Peach, it’s that she never goes back on her word.”

Breve takes a deep breath— too deep, because the rather stinky swamp-air causes her to cough. She takes a sip of the flask, clearing her throat. “Ugh, I see… guess we’re stuck with that elf, then.”

“Enough about her,” Dechambul says, changing the topic. “Let’s talk about you, instead!”

Breve’s right ear twitches. “Me? What about me?”

“You’re doing extremely well,” Dechambul praises, and Breve feels her face grow a little hot from the sudden compliment. “I was an absolute wreck when I first got recruited, and I could barely do anything on my first mission… but you? Not only were you dragged into a mission the moment you joined, but you’re already growing stronger! And, if it’s any consolation…”

Dechambul leans in, as if to whisper a secret. “I heard from Peach that Tiffney was an absolute deadweight for three entire planets. Couldn’t even speak! So, in that respect, you’re beating her already.”

“Huh.” Breve supposes she’s not a bad person for feeling at least slightly chuffed. “Yeah, I guess… it’s not going as badly as it could.”

“Give yourself a bit more credit.” The vampire flashes Breve a grin, showing the sharpened edges of his teeth. “Now, after a hard day’s work of grinding, we should socialize a little. Tell me about yourself.”

“Me?” Breve’s tail swishes around as she thinks. “What about?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Dechambul hums, thinking to himself. “How about something you’re interested in? Anything.”

Breve watches the fishing bob float calmly upon the swamp’s surface. “Well… you know, I may have cheated on my exams, but the reason I got away with it is because I really did know the concepts. I just… couldn’t write them out.” She sighs, shaking her head. “We take it on enchanted paper, and it sets itself on fire if we write down something we don’t actually understand. I understood everything, I just… hired someone to cast a Puppeteering spell on my hand, so they could write the answer out for me. I’d whisper them the question through that linkchain you found, and… yeah.”

Dechambul nods sagely. “I see. Well, I’d hardly count that as cheating, then— you were just taking the exam the only way you could. After all, they’re just tests to see if you understand, aren’t they?”

She looks up, slightly surprised. “Oh… yeah, I guess.”

He calmly waves the fishing rod around, as if earnestly trying to attract a bite. “Tell me about the hardest subject, then.”

“Oh, definitely magic chanting,” Breve says confidently. “I don’t know if magic works the same everywhere, but where I’m from, spellcasters have to balance speed, power, and cost of a spell. The longer the chant, the longer it takes to cast, but the more power… or, skilled spellcasters can have powerful, short chants, but they cost a lot of mana.”

“Well, I’ve got no magical talent myself, but every spellcaster I’ve met definitely spends a lot of time practicing their incantations,” Dechambul notes. “People across the galaxy are pretty similar, actually. Though we might look different, I have yet to meet someone truly alien, beyond any comprehension. I’d wager magic is the same, too— spells may look different, but when you break it down, they’re all the same inside.”

Breve nods. “I guess. If that’s the case, though, then I hope magic chanting is regarded as the worst class ever by everyone in the universe.”

Dechambul laughs. “That’s a bold claim! Why’s that?”

“Well, because it’s just stupidly complicated,” Breve rattles on, suddenly passionate. “Seriously, they force you to learn all these dumb theories about the most efficient use of mana! They have this massive formula— it’s called Markovish’s Equation of Equivalency, or something— where you have to plug in the number of syllables in the chant and the mana cost and the damage done, and it’s ridiculous! No one’s gonna be running those calculations in a real battle!”

“That does sound quite impractical,” Dechambul agrees. “Though, I’d definitely bet that there’s someone out there dedicated enough to maximise their every syllabic output.”

Breve shakes her head. “No way. No one’s that crazy.”

Dechambul raises an eyebrow. “You’ve met Tiffney, haven’t you?”

“I mean… she’s the asshole kind of crazy. What you’re describing is an ascended level of insanity,” Breve argues. “Like, my teachers just kept going on and on about the importance of balancing the three factors of magic chanting, as if someone’s gonna be fighting a big monster and think, ‘gee I’m so glad I optimized my incantation so that I dropped two syllables and now I do 0.02 more damage per 5.87 mana every 10 minutes!’ No one’s gonna actually do that, they’re just going to kill the monster!”

“Those are oddly specific numbers,” Dechambul points out. “Is that a question you’ve had to answer in an exam?”

“Oh, you have no idea what kind of ques—”

Something tugs on the line.

Dechambul looks at Breve. Breve looks at Dechambul. Neither say anything for a second.

“...Uh,” Breve coughs. “Did you… know there was a fish in there?”

“No,” Dechambul answers honestly, his eyes wide with surprise. “I was only tossing the line in because fishing in clearly uninhabitable waters is a running gag of mine.”

“...Okay,” Breve wheezes. The bob goes underwater, and whatever’s on hook pulls hard, causing the fishing reel to spin wildly as the line loosens. “So now what?”

Dechambul grips the handle. “Well, what does anyone do when they’ve got a fish on the line? They pull it in, of course!”