Day 1, 11:30 PM
“Is this really food in your world and not a prank?” My gaze drifts to the thing which at a casual glance might pass for an oblong biscuit glazed in white chocolate, if the person in question did not have Initial Appraisal.
‘Fried honeygrub.’ That is what BSD implants into my mind when I glance at the grub. The fact that she brewed the tea from a non-poisonous mushroom, good for the heart and pacifying the colon, is another information I have, and combined they are making me question the world I have reincarnated in.
“Honeygrubs are a delicacy, I’m a master at roasting them just right,” the youthful-looking hag boasts and takes a juicy bite of the thing.
The crisp sound of thin chitin snapping like chips is mildly disgusting, but it matches a witch, which is how Edna labeled herself. Despite her obvious age and the wisdom in her eyes, Edna’s face is free of wrinkles, her hair snow-white, her smooth, supple skin as white as that of an albino.
I have not eaten anything as gross in centuries, and bugs have devoured me alive once in the past few weeks, but I take one grub and chuck it into my mouth without closing my eyes.
My teeth sink into it, and true to its sound, the sensation is like biting into chips. Beyond the crispy surface lies a land of honey, melting in my mouth.
“Lord of Light, this tastes like something a royal chef would kill for.”
“You really were a king?” The smiling hag leans back into her comfy armchair, her dark violet dress sparkling in the candlelight.
“I was.” I confirm with a charismatic smile, to which the witch seems immune. “Are you really two hundred years old, with that face and those hands?”
“Naturally,” Edna smiles back. “Healing magic can make you nearly immortal unless an abomination dismembers you. The only problem is the growing insanity as your brain gets crammed with too much knowledge and memories. How did you get around that? Assuming you really are over twelve hundred years old.”
“I think I forget.” I honestly have no idea how else to answer. “And I think I have gone insane at least twice. I know I have spent at least a dozen billion years in hell, but now it seems like it was half an hour at most. And you really believe me when I say I see a floating blue rectangle telling me stuff?”
“Everyone who enters the dungeon can see the Guide. But it should be a sheet of gold with black letters. You mentioned going insane?”
“I will not talk about it.” I am not yielding on that. I can exchange technical information with a spellcaster powerful enough to incinerate me, but I will not dissect my personal life even if she threatens with the said burning. And she has not made such threats. Yet.
“That is a private matter between me and my significant other. It will not further your cause.” I cross my arms and project my firm resolve with every shred of my being. While I am willing to reveal information more valuable than what I learn, I have my dignity, and dying merely means weeks or months of inhuman torture and despair until I grasp another chance.
And if I do grab enough chances, if I grow powerful enough, maybe I could find my loved ones, and tear that petty god to shreds. If a god can be petty, why can’t I?
“I won’t force you if you don’t want to discuss it. What about forgetting things, can you talk about that?”
“There is little to discuss, really.” I take another honeygrub, less disgusted by the tiny, charred legs than I was a moment ago, and chuck it into my mouth. “I think it’s like what happens to old people. Things become a blur, then vanish, others merge into one coherent, but ultimately false memory, and I cannot really tell which is which, nor what I have forgotten. For instance, some faces of people dear to me have faded while four generations of an old acquaintance’s family have merged into a single face. It could be the limitation of the flesh, or of the soul. I do not know which.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
She is obviously unhappy with my comment, but I can only smile. Laugh away the pain, the madness, and the solitude.
“Ironically, there are some memories that transcend time and space, which I still recall. I think I was three or four years old when my cousin beat me up and took my trike. I cannot remember her face, but the sound of her laughter still grates my ears.”
“What is a trike? A toy?”
“A tricycle, like a bicycle, with three wheels.” She gives me an empty stare. “A very inefficient tool for transportation, suitable for children, made of metal bars, gears, and three wheels.”
The conversation draws into a lull. She is either thinking about what I said, or trying to visualize what a trike looks like. I take the chance and sip on the mushroom mud-water.
The room is cool, making the steaming beverage look deceptively hot, when its temperature is already lukewarm. It tastes like bearberry, with an added sour-sweet note.
“What is your blue Guide like? What does it say?” Edna asks the question I was waiting for all along as I place the empty clay cup on its saucer.
“A lot of things. My name is Fyoor Enchanterson. I am a level eight herbalist, somewhat beaten up, I can see my attributes, abilities, level up condition, and temporary statuses.”
Edna’s pupils widen, her mouth opens a crack. She’s interested in something, but she regains her composure almost immediately. “Can you tell me your statuses and their effects?”
Her demanding tone has changed ever so slightly, tinged with curiosity and yearning. I pretend I have not noticed her tells and answer the question.
“Sure. Ill, minus two to all attributes, tired, minus one to all attributes, and wounded, strenuous activity may lead to loss of health.”
She nods. “Those are the same penalties as the ones shown by the Guide. What are your attributes?”
I fire a string of numbers, and she chokes on the grub when she hears my wisdom and intellect. Godly, Insightful, and Precise add quite a few points onto Fyoor’s already impressive mental attributes.
Mild choking, pat on the back. BSD intrudes on my mind, but I see no reason to move, Edna is obviously fine, albeit with some honey-tasting goo in her lungs. Instead of making needless, potentially threatening gestures, I continue calmly.
“My guess is the human average is ten.” She nods in affirmation as she reaches for the tea and gulps down a mouthful.
I ignore a tiny voice saying she should not consume any liquids until she clears her airways, and consider the implications of naturally having more than twice the regular human attributes whenever I reincarnate before finally realizing that without this particular boon, I really would have just spent an eternity constantly dying other people’s deaths.
“There’s no way those are Fyoor’s attributes,” Edna states the obvious, her eyes red, but a faint glow washes over her, and the wetness recedes, and the blood vessels return to normal. She no longer needs medical attention.
“I have received certain boons together with my curse. It would have been no fun if I just dropped dead immediately. No suffering, I guess.” The statement is a pure guess on my part, uttered to obscure the truth, and I pick up another honeygrub to distract her. “Vengeful little buggers, aren’t they?”
Her scowl says I managed to throw her off her train of thought, but she quickly recovers by following another.
“And the level up condition?” She is trying to act nonchalant, but I can tell this is what she is after. Her pupils are dilated a tad, like a predator examining prey, her voice is slightly cracked, her mouth salivating a bit too much.
Yearning.
My higher stats will take some time to get used to, but they allow me to examine her, think of what is happening, and reach a logical conclusion.
“I need to cure a patient who has suffered from prolonged contact with poisonous plants to reach level nine. The Guide you mentioned does not provide this information, does it?”
She stares at me, and I have finally found some real leverage over her. Leaving my fate up to her curiosity rubbed me the wrong way, but now that I have some immediate and long-term value, it’s highly unlikely she will kill me. At least as long as I remain valuable, but that might be a long, long time, if she plans to do what I think she is planning to do. By then, Redo will reset, and I will be the one in control.
“It doesn’t,” she admits. “Maybe the archmages didn’t know how to access that information, maybe they wanted to keep the knowledge to themselves, but whatever the case, if you are telling the truth, you have a unique advantage in this world.”
It didn’t occur to me she would think I am lying, but it’s logical, and it means she can’t read me completely. An interesting, useful fact. As for proving my words, that’s a trivial problem.
“Do you have a patient suffering from prolonged contact with poisonous plants? It could be a chicken for all I care.”
The teacup approaching her mouth freezes, and she arches her eyebrow.
“What’s a chicken?”