The whole 'passing out from Qi exhaustion' thing is starting to get old.

There was a time, not so long ago, that waking up with a pounding head, a sense of deep spiritual emptiness, and a strange man looking down on me would just be a standard Sunday morning in paradise.

But that was then, and this is ... well, an awful long time before then, and I haven't seen sight nor sound of a Cosmopolitan in far too long.

I'm not saying I'm looking back on the excesses of my hedonistic youth with nostalgia, but there's plenty to be said for blackouts due to titanic alcohol intake rather than from messing with the nature of reality.

I'm glad you are back with us, my dear.

"Pleased to be here, Big M. Is there a reason a walking advert for Veet is looming over me?"

Chemo-Arthur (Morgan, that's beneath you. You are not to call him that again) was not looking at me in a way that suggested the eternal gratitude of a Prince of the Britons was about to be lavished upon me. Although, without eyebrows, it was pretty hard to read micro-expressions.

"Celt, am I to understand you are responsible for my healing?"

He still had that deep, smooth voice that had been so attractive before his unfortunate flaming. However, now I looked at him post-healing, I realised he had a face that absolutely needed the beard. It wasn't a weak chin, per se, but you could tell he was royalty, if you know what I mean. Likewise, there are men who feel a shaved downstairs makes their John Thomas look more imposing. Arthur's equipment was currently doing an impression of the last chicken in the shop following a salmonella outbreak.

To be clear, I obviously wasn't catching Arthur at his absolute best right now, but any squelchy notions that had survived learning how he'd smell if I cooked him were now utterly drying up.

Ignoring his question, I sat up and took in the scene around us.

We were still in the middle of a nondescript pastoral wonderland. The brook bubbled, the sun shone, and the wildlife continued to periodically fertilise the fields. In fact, the only thing remotely different from how it was when I lost consciousness was the bald, stark bollock-naked man glowering at me.

"Arthur Pendragon, I presume?" I held out my hand, channelling my best Henry Stanley.

The Once and Future King frowned and declined the handshake. Probably because he was covering his little prince with both hands rather than any fundamental rudeness on his part. But the day was young. It might have been both.

Be fair. He is feeling extremely vulnerable and self-conscious.

I could understand that. One moment, he had been crossing death's threshold; the next, he was standing in a field, with his junk exposed to the elements and as hairless as the minge of a pornstar with alopecia.

We've all been there.

"But, despite that understandable discombobulation, I'm sure he's feeling ever so grateful to the wizard who has just saved his life, right?"

"Who are you talking to, Celt?"

"In some cultures, taking such a tone with your saviour might be considered rude."

"And are we in any of those cultures right now?"

"Apparently not. Big M, I think I preferred him when he was screaming and gurgling."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

You are not really allowing him a decent go, my dear. If you could give him a chance, you will find him quite impressive.

"I don't know ... I've seen quite a lot of him, and none of it was especially impressive. Mind you, it is quite cold."

Oh, burn.

It would be fair to say that if Arthur was not especially enamoured at my company, he was even less delighted at hearing Drynwyn speak up.

"Who said that?"

It is pretty challenging to take up a threatening defensive stance whilst naked. It's why most major martial arts have pyjamas as an absolute minimum.

I couldn't be doing with this right now, so I dropped into my artist's studio for a look around. All in all, things didn't seem too bad in here. Certainly, having become somewhat of a connoisseur of the shambles left behind after Qi overuse, there wasn't much unusual to write home about here.

My channels looked sore, but they'd been worse. Likewise, I might not be drowning in excess Qi, but the well had certainly been drier.

I refreshed all the little threads I had established to fill up my armour, my earrings and the now-empty pile of mana stones in my inventory.

Interestingly, the thin line extending to the one I had given Arthur was still pulsing away. Knowing what his mind had been up to in there, I wasn't really sure I ever wanted it back. I wouldn't be shining a blacklight at it in a hurry, at any rate.

I must say, my dear, your Qi levels are returning to acceptable levels at quite an impressive rate. It would not be uncommon, for example, for a novice to need days, maybe even weeks, to recover following similar experiences.

"That's me. Always bouncing back like a champ."

Quite. If I may, you have used that expression before. Why do you consider that 'champs' need to bounce back? Surely, a 'champ' - a 'champion' - is, by their very nature, rarely required to overcome adversity?

"I'm interested, does this feel like the moment for this conversation?"

Perhaps you are right. In the same vein, though, and far be it from me to lecture you on etiquette, but you are currently in the presence of the Prince of the Britons. Considering our overarching mission, it may be prudent for you to seek to ... make a better impression than you currently are.

"I'm not fucking him, Big M."

Thank you for clarifying that. May I suggest that there are other forms of social interaction available? For example, I imagine offering a naked man some clothing would go quite some way to laying the foundations for a sound relationship.

"As long as that's the only laying you have in mind ..."

I had all sorts of outfits in my inventory following the looting of Vortigern's Dragon. I left my studio and fired Arthur a set that appeared to be called 'New Starter Armour'. To be fair, his general mood did take a slight upturn once he had it on.

"I apologise for my brusqueness, Celt. I found the experience of suffering through your healing quite trying."

I thought back to what I had witnessed him up to behind his mental shields. 'Trying' was somewhat of a reach. I pointed at the mana stone he was still clutching in his hand.

"Can I get that back, please? It's probably worth more than your kingdom."

Arthur looked down with surprise. "This?"

"That."

He shrugged and tossed it to me. On reflection, the verb choice there is unnecessarily suggestive.

I caught it, making a mental note to bleach that hand, and quickly stowed it away, linking it back to my core. It seemed to have retained the healing properties that the Saxon wizard had imbued to it. Just holding it for a few seconds eased my headache, and my general mood improved. That was interesting. I played with a couple of labels for it before renaming it 'Malehan's Rock of Continous Curing'.

Hmmm.

"Was that a 'goodness me, Morgan, you've once again achieved something far beyond your years and experience. Well done!"

Yes.

"You could sound more enthusiastic."

I am sure I could.

"Fine, be like that."

I have nothing against you achieving astonishing things, my dear.

"So what's with the attitude?"

The creation of unique artefacts is something that should be so far beyond your abilities I do not have the words to adequately explain it. This is not you pushing the envelope. This is an entirely different stationery set, and I am not wholly clear as to the possible repercussions for the world that you have achieved it. We will need to speak further on this.

I snorted and looked over to the now-dressed prince.

What was it with the men in the realm and their inability to show proper appreciation for a strong, independent woman who kept getting astonishingly lucky?

"Fine, Big M. I'll pretend you're not feeling threatened by my awesomeness. Arthur, shall we start again? My name is Morgan, not 'Celt'. If you're interested in properly saying 'thank you' for the colossal effort I made to fix you up, I'm open to it."

The bald prince dropped to one knee and took my hand. "Mistress Morgan. I thank you for your service."

That was more like it. If I squinted, I could almost pretend the sun wasn't shining off his oddly shaped dome.