The light bent and twisted. Forking off their straight lines, their perfect reflect angle to the one that directed by the crumble and bubble of countless mana sheen —refracting and dispersing everything. Although strangely enough, it wasn’t the case around his eyes —around his line of sight. Instead, the little dot and jot of mana formed a curl of spiral and maze, forcing all the incoming forward light to converge on one mote point on his eyes. Which of course he couldn’t really see because, duh. But if he had to guess, it was the slit of his pupil opening, a single point gateway for all the incoming light. After all, it wouldn’t do to have the caster blinded by the spell when the spell’s original intention was to mask the caster’s presence.

"Ugh… that's the Growl."

Hmm? Another one? That voice definitely not of the previous young woman. Instead it was gruff, deep, and yet had some kind of levity behind it —a man’s.

A couple then?

That was new, so far his customers came alone. Three separate occasions of young to middle-aged men and two young women. Well, there also that dwarf and elf that came together five days ago. But he could hardly call them a couple —not with that amount of sparks and barbs exchanged between them.

Now he got visited by a couple?

Was that good? Hmm… Maybe? Conventional wisdom dictated that couples supposedly more generous in their purchase. Especially if they hadn’t tied the knot yet. After all, it wasn’t something to be proud of to show their significant other that they were in fact a miser. But as always, let just see… There was no point in hypothesizing now.

But what did he mean by growl?

“Inventory,” he whispered the command under his breath while mulling about it. Perhaps it just another reference —another weird (likely magical) thing that this world seemed to have in endless supply. Yeah, that was definitely the case. He already numb to it. It wasn’t like he supposed to know about everything.

Scrolling down the opened window, he plunged his hand into the jelly-water space; taking out the boots. The pair was brown, matte, and most importantly, soft —supple. He nodded (and silently praised himself) for his good foresight. Despite the all-powerful amazingness of the [Invisibility] spell, there was no way he could spy effectively. Not when his current footwear, firm as they were, tapping so loud. An echoing tap-clack-tap that reverberated across the room when he just walking? That would be a colossal stupidity to not anticipate.

Exchanging his footwear to the softer boots, he waited for a full minute until the mana completely settled, the light fully dispersed, and the spell —the geometric took hold. Taking a last long breath, he walked toward the door, passing the long hallway —and found himself smiling.

It was perfect.

The door was halfway ajar, halfway opened. It meant he didn’t need to fake distractions —stupid, obvious distractions like pushing down a crate to make a heavy sound of items falling. Nor he needed to hope that the customers were naive enough to thought that the sudden door opening was simply caused by a heavy gust of wind.

Admittedly though it was quite an oversight if he intended for this spying thing to become a regular occurrence —and knowing him (which was one of the things he hated), it would. Looking at the thick, sturdy wall, he perhaps could arrange a series of spying windows disguised as ventilation openings. But for now, he smiled at his luck and proceeded to sneak his way toward the door opening, holding the wooden wall as a pivot for his head popping out.

Ah.

That was not a couple.

There were three no… four people. A stout woman wearing dust-brown leather armor with a long spear propped up on her back; a young woman in an overflowing robe of red and white with gold trimming; a sunset-blond haired guy who kept touching everything while smiling (weird), and a ...beastman? Although he couldn’t really sure about the last once since the sun was coming behind the man, shining from his glinted, armored back. What he assured though that the man wasn’t human-human. Sorry, human-humanoid. Or was it demihuman? He wasn’t really sure about the correct term. Anyway, his point was that the man wasn’t your normal typical Earth’s parallel human. Not with that kind of built. Unless this world had some cosplay-obsessed resident who mastered illusion magic. Which with how things had been going on so far, he would sadly admit that was a non-zero possibility.

"Good morning, sir. We are the Winged Lance. We heard that you—"

"Oh, a customer!"

Wha—? Sir? He almost chuckled. Sorry, not chuckled, roared. Breaking off his stealth. Luckily at the last seconds and with great difficulty (which was very), he managed to swallow the laugh down —pressing up his chest a few times. From what weird angle Clar looked like a man?

Ah!

Right, right. He nodded in mixture of knowing and embarrassment. Gnome confusion. Well, shorter species confusion. Certainly one being a gnome was more ...plausible than witnessing a not even fifteen years old as a shopkeeper. Sorry, he inadvertently scratched his face. The woman, if her gaping mouth, her stilled, rigid posture was any indicator, must think that his choice of employee was that —unbelievable. Unheard. Proven by how her feet fell a half-step backward by the next second and he was pretty sure that her finally moving jaw swallowed a surprised ‘what’.

"Waa! A beautiful sister! You got a nice spear there!" Clar said. Oi, oi! Clar! That was not how you treat a customer, he almost facepalmed. You should open with hello, good morning, and if the time permitted, how could you help her on this fine day. Just because she looked rather dashing, her spear gleaming, it didn’t mean you should treat them less than professional. As the golden rule said. Treat others like you want to be treated yourself! He shook his head at the girl’s gaffe, it seemed he must include code of conduct in the new training manual. While the girl ...reception was arguably age-appropriate, it just wouldn’t do for her to continue to do so in business sett —wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Hmm...

Hmm……

It seemed… he approached this wrong! That right! Like all things in life, he needed to ask this most important question first ‘What is his purpose?’. Well, his purpose was searching for a way to go home. Which was supported by having a lot of money (that supported by selling his potion in numbers). Right? His purpose was selling more potions! So what if he slightly deviated from the acceptable societal expectation for the sake of his own survival? Who would fault him for that? After all cozying *ehm* complimenting the customer of their inherent virtue and hard-earned achievement was not malicious. It was a quid pro quo. They were happy. He was happy. Also, it was a mark of true professionalism and act of highest service to ease one customer’s troubled wallet —sorry, troubled heart, troubled heart. What he meant and definitely only meant to say was troubled heart, okay?

Thus, this cuteness-based conversation shouldn’t just simply be allowed.

It should be encouraged.

His elitist’s conscience protest about using a child worker to sell more of his wares aside, the woman seemed to be taken aback by Clar, well, ...liveliness. Doubly taken aback in fact, her spear position slipped a bit. And if he hadn’t counted wrong, she also stunned. Stunned for five subsequent, uncomfortable seconds. Ticking. Passing. Looking at the girl still smiling. Before finally ending the ordeal in slow motion as she, seemed to manage to collect herself, fixed her spear position, and coughed a few times to ready herself to speak.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Young—”

"There’s a fluffy uncle, too!"

Hahaha…ha...ha. He facepalmed. Before the woman could speak a complete sentence —her finger still hung, stopped in the air, Clar already forgot about her. Redirecting her whole attention to the more what must be sparkling in the girl’s head —the beastman, which apparently a real beastman and not culmination of his sleep-deprived fatigue. After all fluffy was a very distinct, different term to hairy. The former was desirable —cuddable while the latter was not gross to only a certain set of population he had no desire to kinkshame.

"Hey, why is she a sister and I'm an uncle!" the beastman said, sounding almost offended.

"Emm… because uncle is an uncle?" Clar replied, tilting her head sideways.

"Ugh!"

“Hah! She got you there, uncle.”

“Why, you!”

Right, right. Adventurers. He nodded at these —these people ...free-spiritedness. At their lively exchange. Well, at least it meant they were good customers. Good customers that Clar could practice on!

Let note a lot of data point from them, then!

"Ah-hem!” the spearwoman coughed. “Young miss,” she began. “Are you the one who creates the stamina potion?"

"The icky stuff? Clar hates it. Why? Beautiful sister wants the icky potion?"

Icky? Wait… So that why one of the bottles was half-empty! And he thought he had miscalculated the extract’s final recovery! That girl!

"...yes,” she replied, nodding ever so slowly, showing a face that he guessed as ‘befuddlement but decide to just go along with it’ kind of expression. “We want the 'icky' potion. Are you the one who made the potion young miss?"

"No. Master made the icky potion."

“Master?”

“Yes!”

No! She should have— Err… Oh well. It was already stretching it to install Clar as ‘the front’ of the whole potion-making operation. Saying she was the one who made it? Well, even five years old could tell that was a blatant, shameless lie. Better play a far-oft, mysterious master alchemist that difficult to meet then.

"Oh okay.” The woman nodded. “Could you tell us where is your master right now, little miss?"

"Clar thinks he's busy experimenting or something. Do big sister and fluffy uncle want to buy the potion?"

Good job Clar! Remind them that they were here to buy the potion! Not chit-chatting!

"Yes, we do."

"Hmm, Master told Clar to only sell the potion to smart people."

"Are big sister party smart?"

No! No, no, no, no! He smacked his head. Again. Silently of course, he was still spying after all. How could she interpret his word 'we don't serve moron like you' like that (he didn't want to call guards on that man and be revealed as a the person behind the mysterious stamina potion)? How that stupid movie line somehow get translated by the girl to only selling his potion to smart people?

...he would correct her later.

"Yes, we’re pretty smart..."

"Clar not sure."

Yes they were smart, Clar! Look at their armor, their weapon! Those were expensive stuff! True some of the well-off people simply inherited their fortune from their parents. Obtaining immeasurable wealth without going through the pauper to prince level of struggle. But even those who did, the one who just got lucky by simply being born must at least had at smart-level competence. Money equaled wealth equaled better education equaled smartness. So yes! They were smart!

Please, just sell it...

"Hi, Clar!” another voice broke his reverie. This one was a bit high-pitched, a tad mellow, but flowed so smoothly, it bordered a glissando. It was the weird guy —the one who kept tapping his wall and chairs, touching everything. “Why are you only selling your master potion to the smart people?"

"Clem, what are you—"

"Because a no-smart guy tried to run off with master’s potion last week!" Clar cut the woman.

"Oh really, that's bad!" replied the weird guy, crouching to Clar’s eye level.

"Yeah!” she nodded. “Leo got him though!” she pointed to Leo. The canid looked at her for a second before yawning wide. Euca saw him blinked his eyes twice, looking around the room for three whole seconds before deciding that everything was normal —that it was okay for him to return to sleep. “But Master was very angry. So we only sell it to smart people, right now."

"Then it's okay!” the weird guy said. “We're pretty smart you know! Our party is a B-rank!" he smiled.

"Ohhh~"

"The beautiful sister here,”—he pointed at the stout woman—“managed to defeat a twin-headed troll. All by herself!"

“Clem!”

"Big sister strong!"

"And another two sisters there is academy magician. Their spell is wicked."

Huh, two? Not one? He thought it was just the beastman. But it seemed there was one more person. Where was she? Was she outside? He couldn’t see it from the door.

"Hmm,” Clar replied, putting her index finger on her chin. “The smiling brother starts to assure Clar. But,”—she raised her finger, pointing at the weird guy—“what the smiling brother and the fluffy uncle do?"

"That big oaf is our meat shield. Can't have a good party without meat shield right?"

"Hey!"

"That's right.” Clar nodded. “Clar once heard master said good meat shield is hard to come by. Everyone wants to play DPS."

Clar! Oh my freaking lord! He was on the run here, well not on the run, run. More like going deep, double identity things so he didn’t, you know, got investigated? Dissected? Mind-controlled as a puppet without any shred of self-agency to further whatever goal his would be mastermind-captor. You shouldn’t blurt out confidential things! Even it just a conversation one-liner like that! You should—

"DPS? What is that?" the beastman moved from the door and asking the spearwoman.

—wait.

"Shh!" replied her.

That not — that not a thing he said here. He said that in the Chronicle. He remembered it quite clearly because that day sucked to the heaven. Four out of his ten subjects canceled their application just two hours before the experiment supposed to be held. Which was a mess since East Wing was such a high-traffic, high-demand area that it was impossible to reschedule without at least miffing half of the department. He had to promise Anna two favors and five lunches for her slot. And that was her backup for two weeks later. That why that night he vented his frustration at Clar —complaining. Just complaining about everything. The stupid volunteers who got scared because of the stupid article that fearmongering, view-whore journalist wrote on Smiling Cheek, his awful monthly, his third-time failure refining his Aeon staff to +9, and that —the lack of tanker for Daemon’s Corner run.

He remembered feeling kind of stupid, sheepish even for venting to an AI —no, not even AI, at the time Clar just a set of preprogrammed summon that spew encouraging one-liner when talked to. Something cheeky like ‘Good job, Master’ or ‘Oww, don’t be sad, you do it better next time, Master.’ You knew, standard cute little girl that manipulated half of the player base to spend a third of their earnings to.

Did it mean. Did it mean that Clar somehow remembered the Chronicle?? He meant he knew that. She had been calling her master all the time. But he thought it just that —preprogrammed AI stuff, something akin to the imprinting process when a chick hatched from an egg.

Was she conscious the whole time?

"And brother do the sneaky stuff. Making sure that big oaf doesn't kill us! Like triggering FIVE rolling boulder at the same time!"

He, he didn’t know. He… he … Did he ever said/did something stupid to her?

“...”

Of course, he did!

Of course, he did!

"That's ONE TIME!" the beastman shouted. Shouting about one time about something. About something what. About something important (unimportant) maybe he wasn’t sure but what the heck (hell?)

He didn’t he meant what he meant intention was the basis of one action but was what he done forgivable? But was she even? Remember? He meant he didn’t how —how.

Care?

True?

"Okay... Smiling brother convince Clar! How many potions that smiling brother want?" Huft. The weird guy talked to her Clar. His Clar? Ownership, he was a master. Pet? She was sapient thinking being! But did he even deserve. His survival. Home. Home.

"We wanted quite a bit actually. Hmmm. How many again, Emmy?"

Potion sold. Gold good. Huft. He… He...

“[Calm emotion]”

Euca heaved, the air rushed out from his mouth, hissing, sibilant. At once, at the moment it was uttered, the mana around him fluctuated, actuated.

He ran.

With as much silence as he could muster, he skipped, leaped, toward the back area. Passing through the long hallway, to the stair, toward the far-oft door. The promised light at the end of endless darkness.

He felt it. He knew it. He witnessed the mana crackled, the sheen fractured. His invisibility spell was collapsing; half of his right eye, a part of his torso, and both of his feet were starting to appear as the throb, the pain, flared and flared assaulting his head, his very being. He ran though. Escaping. Breaking off as both magic clashing, struggling against each other —against himself.

Their teeming scream demanded and demanded. Spaces, more spaces! More spaces in the head! More processing for them to exist, to function!

He ran, ran, ran. As fast as he could, as far from himself. He ran, ran, ran. He ran as he stumbled — as he collapsed. Then with a bump of a thump, a chunk of a thunk, a jolt on his back, he knew that he had fell.

Sprawled.

Seconds by seconds he lay there. Time passed in minutes, in quakes. Pain, throb, all of those were fleeting. Guilt. Guilt what was assaulted him. With retch and shame and self-hate, he realized. This world once again threw him. Threw him something he couldn’t bear.

He couldn’t always run away

He did it once.

He did it twice.

So must he did it thrice?

No.

This time, this time he must face, must face his fear. Not escaping, not running away from it.

Again.

His heart stabbed.

Again.

His head seared.

And again.

And even though to argue that based on the logicality of salient argument that this was caused by his own making ...he decided to stand.

“Come on, Euca.”

He forced his eyes to open. Slowly, in pain, drenched. By tears, by dust, prickling.

The ceiling was wooden with grime and bits. A corner on the top was damp, embiggening from last week’s storm. The wind was blowing on his feet.

He felt a swirl of bile was churning on the base of his gullet. Lain on the floor he had arrived in the storage room.

He breathed.

And prepared his apology.