It had taken until noon for the expedition wagons to arrive, and now the mercenaries were forced to load them under the blazing sun. The mercenaries hired to accompany the Sartiella knights were all very accustomed to labor, but there were a few that couldn’t help feeling ornery under these conditions. Every now and then, someone would try to cut corners, slacking on tasks that didn’t seem to matter more than finding shade did. Every single time, Claudia would spot them.

“Hey! Be careful with those rations! What do you mean to do by stacking them so poorly?”

The wildflower stomped over to a large, dark-skinned man, who used his forearm to wipe the sweat from his bald head.

“What? What does it matter how I stack them?” he grumbled.

A delicate vein bulged on the mission leader’s smooth temple, hidden by her bangs. Or rather, her bangs had been grown out so that they would hide her tick. If only the rest of her temper could be hidden so easily.

“Then what does it matter if I crack open that bald head of yours?!”

Claudia very nearly drew her sword on the spot, but Silvia appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and held her shoulders. Eventually, the youngest stormed off in a huff—hopefully to cool her head—leaving the oldest to apologize in her stead.

Marilyn watched that scene coldly, thinking her sister had earned her reputation and namesake. If Claudia wasn’t so hot-tempered, she could have explained her reasoning to the mercenary man... If she wasn’t so hot-tempered, she wouldn’t have become so strong.

“I’m really sorry,” Silvia smiled embarrassedly, bowing her head. The mercenary’s eyes drifted down—since she wasn’t paying attention—to admire the view. Marilyn eyed the man and compared her sister’s chest with her own. She shook her head at how easily the man’s irritation faded after encountering a beautiful woman.

Claudia would only get emotional; Silvia would only be polite; neither would prevent the problem from happening a second time. While her sister was still bowing, Marilyn approached from the side. Her companion wyvern was startled and fell off her shoulder, fluttering his small wings to catch up.

Her arrival drew the mercenary’s eyes away from where they shouldn’t be. His expression at being caught was tense, but measured.

A skilled pervert, she judged, sighing inwardly.

“Claudia is quick to lose her head, but it’s a good one while it’s attached. If you stack these crates unevenly, they will jostle around as the wagon moves.”

The white-haired maiden went a few steps closer to the wagon; she traced her finger along the rough edge of the wooden crate. They were essentially open-topped square baskets to hold bags of grain. If the sacks were stacked alone, they would fall out from the back the second the cart had to speed away from monsters, beasts, or bandits.

“If that happens, the sharp corners may poke up between the slats on the bottom of the crate above it, tearing open the sack inside.”

Marilyn turned about and stared calmly at the mercenary, who was suddenly sweating more intensely than before.

“You’re a professional. Surely you understand what it would mean if we found our food spilled out halfway into the black mountain forest. I know this work is unpleasant, but it’s necessary to do it properly.”

The mercenary swallowed dryly and nodded his head. Without being told to, he immediately went back to reposition all the crates he had already stacked. Silvia clapped her hands together and tilted her head. “As expected of my little sister! I trust myself to keep the peace, but it’s really nice to have someone who can explain things clearly.”

Silvia didn’t suggest that Marilyn take command of the expedition, and Marilyn didn’t suggest it either. They both knew that their wild youngest sister would be the best person to lead a group of hot-blooded fighters through a hard battle. The way the wildflower showed her heart on her sleeve made her more approachable for the common Adventurer. People like Silvia and Marilyn unconsciously put up a thin wall that would inevitably make others keep their distance.

That was exactly why the younger two sisters were being used in military affairs, while the older two were slated to be used as political tools.

“While brother was simply cast out,” the petite woman muttered under her breath.

Silvia tilted her head. “What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m just amazed by the audacity of humans to treat our obscure brother the same way as they treat those famous buffoons who were banished from nobility by the wills of gods.”

“Ah,” Silvia’s warm smile cramped. “You mean those people cursed by Ashtante?”

Marilyn shook her head, her pigtails swaying. “Not her specifically. Other gods have pointed out the wrongdoings of men. For example, there was that duke...” Marilyn stroked the smooth scales on her wyvern’s head, making it warble. “The Philosopher.”

“The one who married Saint Mary?” Silvia’s face turned slightly green.

People didn’t talk about the Philosopher, unless they were drunk and in the mood to be seething mad. He was a man whose repeated transgressions had finally gotten him cursed by the God of Civilization, Lord Velshire, and he was banned from setting foot in any settlements where beings socialized. It was said he refused to repent even then.

Marilyn wore a cool face and shook her head. She blamed her disoriented emotional state for even bringing it up in the first place. “Forget it.” She turned and made for the carriage she and her sisters would be riding in. “We’re almost done here, so I’m going to read in the carriage until we leave.”

Silvia watched her go with a helpless expression.

Ah, those two… they left me alone here.

***

I can see forever, I thought as I looked at the tops of all the marching Orcs’, High Orcs’, and female War Orcs’ heads.

My wings, which I had worked so hard to get used to, were gone, and I got a lot taller, so my whole body felt pretty strange. Oddly enough, having an extra eye was the thing that gave me the least amount of trouble. I barely even noticed the difference after a few minutes. It kind of reminded me of when you get a bad seat at the movies, but once you’re into the film you completely forget about it.

I tried using during the march back to Babylon. The skill conjured a pair of translucent blue wings at the small of my back. They’re completely weightless, they’re not collapsible, they’re longer and thinner than my old wings, and they’re in a different spot, and yet has the gall to tell me this:

[ A skill usually found in creatures who once had physical wings, but lost them. It is brought on by the body’s mourning. It is listed as an uncommon skill, active state.]

If I got this skill because my body missed my wings so badly, why didn’t I get my wings back?!

Or so I was thinking. After I tested them out a bit, I understood that these Spirit wings were more convenient than my old ones in literally every aspect, so I got over it.

Once we’re home, I need to have the women make new clothes for me.

I outgrew my Fomor fur armor when I evolved.

And I want real clothes too—not leather and fur made for battle. The war is over, my body is a fortress on its own, and we’ve grown more than enough Silfela grass.

I resolved myself to work hard on developing spinning wheels, looms, measuring boards, pins, needles, scissors, thimbles, and everything else the women might need, then I’ll teach them how to sew. I’ll only teach them the basics, of course. I had a sewing class back in high school; I made a pretty good cloth purse, but I couldn’t figure out how to make clothing at all. I ruin the measurements like it’s some supernatural ability. I think I put all my crafting points into my job back on Earth. That must be it.

I should put some work into my nation for real. The war is over, and foreign diplomacy isn’t an option right now, so all there is to do is focus on domestic development. I guess the first thing I need to know about is…

“Hey, Dagoran. The Expansionist Orcs were all in an alliance together, right? Did you do any trading?”

The War Orc looked at me and nodded. “We would trade sometimes if one village had too much and another had too little. We would often sell Beast women slaves to the Demon Worshipping tribes.”

Something dangerous just came out like it was nothing.

“And what did you use for money?” I smiled tightly.

Dagoran tilted his head. “Money?”

“What did they give you in exchange for the slaves?”

“Weapons, mostly. Medicine too.”

A barter system? I should have expected it. Come to think of it, even if the descendants’ countries use money, plenty of poor peasants probably still pay by bartering goods. I think I read that things were like that on Earth until fairly recently, up until just a couple hundred years ago, even in the world’s most advanced nations.

But I like money, and it’s super convenient, so I want to have it. Would gold and silver be acceptable currencies? Earth magic casters can make as much as they want, so I doubt it has the same value as on Earth. Actually, are there any natural resources in this world that magic casters can’t zap into existence? I’ll ask Balig about what the Dwarves do after we’re back in Babylon.

“Durghan, just so we’re clear, no citizens under my rule are allowed to abduct people from other nations, unless I directly authorize it.”

“We’ll, that’s fine,” he chuckled, “but you’ll have to explain to those cultists why their slaves stopped coming in.”

Oh, maybe there is some foreign diplomacy I can work on.

***

It was hot in the hole. The old man crept to the mouth with ash on his face and matted white hair. He pushed aside the stone blocking the hole and light streamed in. The old man stepped out into the sun and stretched. His ragged shirt rode up on his emaciated belly, which the old man scratched with long dirty fingernails. The old man tossed his scraggly beard over his shoulder and grabbed at the stone, hauling it back into place.

All around him were the cries of dangerous beasts. The soil was dry and black, and thin strands of red mist coiled in the shade of sparse trees with glossy black needles. The air was heavy and oppressive, and it smelled of hot steam no matter how dry it was. This area was barren and unpleasant, home to only a certain kind of creature that wouldn’t be able to bother a wily old Human like him. It was a safe place to live out one’s days. A bit more to the southeast and any hole he would want to reside in would already have something unpleasant lurking inside.

The old man bent over and used his long fingernails to dig the ashy soil. His fingers came back up, wrapped around a squirming white worm. He dropped it into his mouth, chewing it deliciously. Insects were incredibly efficient food, especially grubs, worms, and maggots. They provided calories, vitamins, proteins, and water, and they were too weak to fight back. The old man happily ate as many as he could dig up in a short time, did some stretches, and then crawled back into his hole to nap.