It turned out that when you had money, most problems became negotiations rather than crises. Anabeth produced a slim purse without ceremony, listened to the innkeeper’s tirade with polite attention, and paid for the damage before the woman had even finished listing it. Not just the room, either, but the inconvenience, the lost business, and what she termed ‘the emotional strain of surprise masonry.’ The sum was large enough that the innkeeper’s anger visibly ran out of places to stand.

  There was a brief, brisk discussion about replacement stone, labor costs, and whether the hole technically counted as a window. Then the purse closed, the matter was settled, and we were on the road again without further complication.

  I asked only once, “Why do you bring so much money with you?”

  She glanced back at me and grinned. “I don’t mind if I get robbed. I could always make it back.”

  That sounded ominous, but it was not my business to delve further.

  The road to Aurelienth was notorious for slimes, though no one bothered warning travelers anymore. It was treated like weather—unpleasant, predictable, and your own fault if you didn’t prepare.

  The marshlands east of the city never quite decided what they wanted to be. In spring they flooded just enough to drown old paths; in summer they baked into shallow basins of rot and mineral-rich mud. Tanneries, dye vats, and alchemical rinses (dumped legally so long as they were diluted) from Aurelienth’s outer workshops leached into the low ground year after year.

  Which made it all the better for me.

  The tenth one burst apart. With my new skill, I could easily kill common variants of slimes in one hit, though sometimes I would miss the slime core and had to strike a second time.

  Normally, if you were on horseback, you didn’t even bother. Marsh slimes were non-aggressive, didn’t drop any reward, and were about as threatening as a badly placed puddle. They oozed toward warmth, stalled halfway, and forgot what they were doing. Most travelers learned to walk past them the same way you walked past nettles.

  Anabeth, unfortunately, did not share this philosophy.

  “Another core,” she said from behind me, already dismounting before I’d finished the kill. She crouched with professional interest as she produced a small crystal vial. “Oh, that one’s intact. Lovely viscosity.”

  “You have enough,” I rumbled.

  She hummed, unbothered. “Enough is a myth told by people without ambition.”

  Marsh slimes had always bothered me, not because they were dangerous, but because they existed in the wrong places. You expected aetheric creatures in dungeons, not trade routes. But when I learned about leylines, it all made sense.

  The marshlands east of Aurelienth sat directly atop a shallow, meandering leyline, one already stressed by decades of alchemical runoff and industrial waste. Leylines didn’t care about borders or infrastructure. Where several lines ran shallow and close to the surface, the air grew thick with excess aether, like humidity before a storm. Nature responded by improvising, and creatures formed to fit the environment. Slimes, in other words, were not monsters so much as symptoms.

  I slayed another one, and got another meager 7 EXP.

  At this rate, I’d need to slay over twenty more slimes just to reach the next level. If only I could speed this process up—

  Hold on. I could.

  Only now did I remember about the lumenlily:

  I had not forgotten it so much as misfiled it. Between the canal confrontation, Anabeth’s revelations, the crowd, the encirclement warning, and the abrupt departure, my attention had been fully allocated.

  The bloom was still in my pannier. There was one very small problem, however.

  It was a gift. Symbolic, apparently. One did not normally eat gestures. There were social rules about these things, even if I was not always certain where they ended.

  On the other hand, the gains were considerable.

  Twenty slimes versus over ten, perhaps fewer if my aim improved. Thirty minutes of accelerated progress, neatly bounded, with no lingering side effects listed. From an efficiency perspective, the decision was obvious.

  I reasoned through it carefully.

  First: lumenlilies were not unique. Second: Anabeth had not specified the mode of appreciation. She had said keepsake, not altar-piece. Nowhere had she stated, explicitly, that eating it would constitute an insult.

  When we reached another body of water, I could simply harvest another lumenlily and slot it into my pannier. Yes. That was sound.

  I must eat the flower.

  Decision made, I required opportunity.

  Another marsh slime obliged almost immediately, oozing out of a shallow depression. I dismounted and dispatched it.

  Her attention narrowed to her work collecting the core, utterly absorbed. I reached into my pannier, lifted my helm, and... shoved the flower into my mouth.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  It didn’t taste like anything. The petals dissolved almost immediately, leaving behind a crisp, tingling residue that spread across my tongue and down my throat. The stem, though, was chewy, like leather. Not like I’d chewed leather.

  “All done,” then I heard a chirping sound before me. “Honestly, these marsh variants are so cooperative. Hardly any resistance at all. Are you quite—” She stopped, squinting at my helm.

  I’d just managed to put my helm back in place. My jaw was still working. Swallowing now would be conspicuous. Speaking was impossible. Retreat was not an option.

  I nodded once, solemnly.

  She studied me for a moment, head tilted. Then she smiled, apparently satisfied with whatever explanation she had invented. “Good,” she said. “You looked contemplative. I was worried you’d decided to brood again.”

  I kept chewing.

  Worth it.

  By the time the effect wore off, I’d already slain eighty more slimes, collecting more than enough samples for her to summon Durand five times over. And I’d levelled up.

  I still hadn’t had enough AP to cast Static Surge even once, but gains were gains. Now, as for the attribute gained...

  I reached for my longsword.

  That, at least, was what it had been.

  The status line expanded.

  Below it, three distinct layers unfolded.

  How did I unlock it? I thought only an Attuner could unlock these dormant properties?

  Ah. It made sense now. I had been wielding this sword for years, so naturally I was 100% familiar with it. And as I was on the cusp of gaining 2 RES, Ceralis showed me what the Runesword could do for me if I invested the two attribute points into RES.

  I had 3 RES now. This meant simply by gaining 2 more RES, I could advance my striking power to a whole new level, especially with Static Surge.

  There was no debate to be had. I promptly put the attribute points earned into RES.

  The effect was not dramatic. I only sensed a tingle on my skin and a chill down my spine which disappeared after a second. Yet, I could feel my own grip on the sword tighten in the way it hadn’t before.

  Who knew having magic would make you so much more powerful. Huge surprise.

  Then I realized there were further tiers below.

  So that was how it worked.

  Not a simple on–off state, but a progressive conversation between will, attribute, and artifact. And I had thought a knight’s sword was only ceremonial. There was a reason Sir Roland had wielded this weapon, as had the knight before him, and the knight before him.

  This was it; my ticket to honor and respect. Three days spent with Anabeth, and I’d already doubled my offensive capabilities, if not more. If only I could—

  “Why do you keep staring at your sword, Ser?”

  I nearly jumped out of my armor.

  I turned too quickly, the sword still raised in my hand, and found Anabeth standing far closer than she had any right to be. Her hands were clasped neatly behind her back, posture relaxed, head tipped slightly to one side as she peered at me with bright, unguarded curiosity—like a child examining a particularly interesting beetle.

  “I am done with the collection, thanks to you!” she said cheerfully. “I cannot physically store more slime cores. Shall we head to Aurelienth before nightfall?”

  I lowered the blade at once and nodded.

  She smiled, evidently satisfied, and turned away without pressing the matter. I sheathed Sir Roland’s Runesword and went to retrieve Silvermane.

  The mare, it turned out, was displeased.

  She had wandered several paces off the road and was chewing a mouthful of marsh grass with deliberate defiance. It was an unconvincing green, glossy with moisture and faintly luminescent at the tips—about as fresh as anything growing near a leyline-stressed bog could claim to be. When I took up the reins, she flicked an ear back at me and did not move.

  “Silvermane,” I warned.

  She continued chewing.

  I applied gentle pressure. She sighed, finished her mouthful, and only then stepped back onto the road, hooves striking stone with exaggerated reluctance. I could feel her judgment in every motion.

  Anabeth mounted lightly behind me once more, settling as if this arrangement had always been inevitable.

  With that, we marched on.