The following day was dedicated to cleaning and general organization, with several goals in mind: reclaiming the basement, sorting what remained of Martha's potion-making supplies, and finding her brother's book of races.
As punishment for being the main culprit behind the mess, BFBB—along with his rats—was forced to clean the basement. Thanks to his heightened intelligence after leveling up, BFBB no longer behaved like a mere animal but something closer to a cat: aloof, evasive, and with the trademark attitude of a creature that doesn't love you nearly as much as you love it.
Bathed and dressed in a cloth to shield his nose from the dust, wielding an old branch-broom, he set out to sweep away every last atom of filth left from his previous stay. Dust was his greatest enemy, and by the end, his bath had been for nothing—his fur stood stiff and filthy, making him look like a powdered villain with a face full of malice and irritation.
His ever-loyal rats, however, seemed to enjoy cleaning. It was a welcome change from their usual routine of trying (and failing spectacularly) to attack Lucius.
Once the dust was cleared, the grime vanquished, and the musty stench replaced by the sweet aroma of clean rats, Lucius and Martha took inventory.
A small iron cauldron? Check.
A stone mortar missing its pestle? Added to the shopping list. "Loose ones shouldn't cost too much—30 silvers at most," Martha clarified, the only one who knew prices and quality.
A collection of wooden mixing spoons? Check.
Vials and flasks? All lost to the filth. "There's no way to clean these well enough to keep someone from getting sick," she said. BFBB showed not an ounce of guilt, his smug snort making that abundantly clear.
The heating brazier? Still intact, but they'd need fire potions to get it working.
"And my filter cloth is worn out. We'll have to go the extra mile! One real silver should cover it."
"How much money do we even have?" Lucius was right—the list wasn't long, but it was pricey. Their total: 1 real silver and 70 silvers, or 170 Dobas.
Martha rummaged through a hidden drawer in her bedroom, buried under layers of false bottoms, and pulled out a beautifully polished coin: 1 real silver. "100 Dobas?!"
She praised Lucius for remembering the currency names. "The trip there costs 50, and another 50 for the return—just in case you don't find work!" So everything hinged on how much Lucius could scrape together from odd jobs.
As Lucius resigned himself to the challenge and resumed training, Martha unveiled her artistic skills. On a parchment, she drew 10 sketches of the most common plants and fungi Lucius might forage. Then, with ceremonial flair, she presented him with her collection bag—surprisingly spacious. It was a medium-sized leather pouch, curved in shape, with a flap that sealed over the main body. The reddish-brown leather had bright stitching along the edges, a long adjustable shoulder strap, and a simple closure: a strip threaded through a metal buckle.
The training had intensified, reminding Lucius of his gym-addict days and his trainer's so-called "wise words": "A couple of push-ups never hurt anyone." A horrible lie without proper warm-up, as Lucius now learned the hard way—his wrist ached, and both shoulders were stiff. Gary joined in the joint exercises, carried on Lucius's back as he sprinted through the forest at medium, steady speed, never breaking into a full run or descending into a jog. His legs burned like never before, but his combat stance grew firmer, less likely to buckle under a shove. The sparring became so effortless that he tied his legs together and one hand behind his back—yet he still won. Not through skill or technique, but brute force and his status as a prodigy.
Gradually, his three trainers shed their restraint and fear, attacking with full speed and strength—except BFBB, who had always fought dirty from the start. Yet Lucius kept winning, turning the sessions into training for them instead.
All this relentless training had three main outcomes: Lucius's ego soared to the clouds, untouchable; his body rebelled, leaving him far from peak condition by departure day; and—he leveled up!
[STATUS
NAME: Lucius Mercator
TITLE: Dark Lord
LEVEL: 4
CHAOS QUOTA: 0/1000
CURSE: No Nut Eternal]
[STATS: STR: 15 DEF: 12 AGI: 12 DEX: 11 INT: 15 CHA: 17 (+0)]
The night before his departure, Martha made her infamous mystery soup, despite swearing she wouldn't—punishment for last time. She knew BFBB would eat it too, as he'd joined every post-training meal, but she didn't care. "I like watching you eat what I cook. It's not great, but you always act like you love it." Pffth— Lucius choked and spat, overacting as he looked away.
Lucius—no, Vincent—had grown up with four older brothers and six cousins, fighting for every scrap of food, clothing, or attention. Fraternal love? Unfamiliar. The closest he'd seen was drunken holiday hugs before the inevitable brawls over family land and inheritances.
He almost quipped "Hunger is the best sauce," but his favorite joke died in his throat.
"Thanks for the food…" was all he managed—clumsy, awkward, the kind of remark that made social interactions unbearable. Vincent hated it, but Lucius did it constantly. "What's happening to me? I'm supposed to be myself in a new body. Cheating demon!" he thought, glaring at his bowl.
Martha wraps her arms around Lucius from behind as he sets his plate in the sink. Vincent—no, Lucius now—was never one for hugs, or any affection that wasn't sexual. Reason #1 his three ex-wives divorced him, with reason #2 being his endless affairs. Martha's tears spill over. "I know you won't listen. You'll chase every coin you can grab, take any job you want. But please… don't die."
Please don't die. Lucius swears he's heard those words before. As he strains to remember, his body betrays him, moving on its own—as if the body's original owner had seized control. He pulls Martha into an embrace, one hand gently stroking her hair. Inside, Lucius is stunned. He'd never consider such a thing. Yet now it's like he's been yanked out of his own skin, left to watch the scene through a first-person lens. Is this how the real owner of this body felt?
The hug ends. Martha seems lighter, dabbing her tears with a sleeve before flashing her usual mischievous grin. "You need a bath before tomorrow." She turns back to rummaging for the race compendium, leaving Lucius adrift in thought.
"What just happened?"
He changes into pajamas, marveling at his favorite perk of this magical world: an absurd ability to stay clean and healthy under even the filthiest conditions. Skip brushing his teeth tonight? No consequences. His breath stays tolerable, his teeth gleaming like pearls in the mirror-clear water he uses to check them—a miracle in a world without Luminous White toothpaste or peroxide.
His hygiene routine is medieval yet effective: a paste of ash and ground charcoal mixed with water, scrubbed onto his teeth with a frayed twig, its bark stripped to reveal fibrous bristles—a crude but functional brush.
Morning arrives with Gary's shrieks. Lucius negotiates with Martha to use the "nice spot" for his bath instead of the downstream river. The clearing is serene, encircled by thick-trunked trees with sprawling branches. Dim, cloud-diffused light casts a chill over the leaf-strewn ground. The lagoon's icy water isn't ideal, but Lucius has a solution.
After ensuring no one's watching, he lobs two fireballs into the water. A cautious toe-check confirms it's warm, not boiling. He sinks into his makeshift hot spring, smug. If skipping summoning circles already marks me as a prodigy, I can't let them see this. Too much attention.
His new outfit—rescued from a basement crate and laundered by Gary—waits nearby.
He wore a billowy shirt of pale fabric, its voluminous sleeves gathered at the wrists. Beneath it, dark trousers clung to his thighs before flaring loosely past the knees, cinched by a black leather belt with an oversized buckle. Knee-high boots of rugged leather completed the ensemble, their scuffed surface hinting at use rather than vanity. The outfit whispered of bygone eras—functional yet faintly disheveled, as if cobbled together from a noble's castoffs. A black cloak draped his shoulders, fastened by a tarnished bronze brooch at the collar. Along its hem, intricate gilt patterns swirled like serpents chasing their tails, a touch of grandeur at odds with the rest of his rough-edged garb.
Breakfast was a somber affair. Martha pressed the race compendium into his hands, along with a hand-drawn map of the trail and sketches of herbs to forage. Her notes listed supplies to buy, each item annotated in her cramped script. "Promise you won't die," she pleaded, voice fraying at the edges.
Lucius frowned. How dangerous was the outside world if even Martha—who'd watched him pummel three attackers at once—doubted the soon-to-be literal Dark Lord could survive it? "I'll come back in one piece," he vowed, "with more coin than you've ever seen." The words soothed her, if only slightly. She released him with a wobbly nod. Gary's farewell was a blee!—which Lucius hoped meant "good luck."
The trail was well-marked, the trees parting as if ushering him forward. After a ten-minute descent, he reached the main road, its ruts worn deep by cartwheels and hooves. The air here was different—thinner, laced with the tang of horse dung—and far clearer than the muggy paths he'd known.
Martha's directions proved true. Strange carvings on bark, oddly shaped stones—each landmark matched her sketches. His sword, sheathed at his hip, thumped rhythmically against his thigh as he walked. Then movement flickered at the edge of his vision: goblins. Lucius froze. In one fluid motion, he yanked the race book from Martha's satchel, flipped to the index, and found the Goblins entry. A quick comparison confirmed it—their hunched backs, moss-green skin. The creatures hadn't spotted him yet.
He skimmed the page, lips moving silently:
— — —
Chapter V: "Goblins – A Social Plague"
Physical Description: Goblins are short, stocky creatures with hunched backs, as if bent beneath the weight of their own wretchedness. Their hides—moss-green or earth-brown—blend into shadowed terrain. Flat snouts, pointed ears, and yellow, ever-watchful eyes complete their visage. They clothe themselves in stolen rags or, more often, nothing at all. Their appearance mirrors their soul: crude, filthy, and shaped for survival, not civility.
Behavior & Social Structure:
Nest: Fetid underground warrens ruled by a dominant male or matriarch. Offspring—whether birthed or stolen—are raised among traps and plunder.Fratry: Young males exiled from the nest. Deprived of females, their lust curdles into violence. They attack like beasts in heat, indiscriminate in their prey.
Hybridization: Goblins may breed with humans, spawning Hobgoblins. These hybrids surpass both parents in strength and ruthlessness. A hobgoblin whetstone is its own hatred Conclusion: "Goblins are not a race—they are a pestilence. Where they nest, civilization recedes." — Royal Eradication Edict.
— — —
Lucius stared at the goblins, disgusted yet unnerved by what he'd just read. Up close, they resembled nothing more than oversized, furry mice. But when he took another step, the sound alerted them—they froze, then bolted.
The book's next page featured an illustrated reference: a goblin's silhouette beside a human shadow. Scaling the distances, Lucius realized the creatures he'd seen were either far smaller than documented… or he was much larger than he'd thought. Deeper in the book, the goblin's height was listed as 20 Marks—but scrawled above it, in jagged black ink, was a frantic note:
"1 Mark = 1 Inch."
Bizarre. Impossible. And above all… suspicious.
How had modern measurements ended up in this book? Who'd written them?
The human silhouette's height was noted as 5.7 Legs, average for the population. Another manic scribble:
"12 Mark = 1 Leg = 1 Ft."
Martha 's brother? This was his book.
"How would he know measurements from my world?" The question gnawed at him as he walked, but the mystery made time evaporate.
Before he knew it, he stood at the village outskirts, where a stone wall loomed over double wooden gates. Travelers, merchants, and their pack animals jostled past—some human, others half-beast of varieties he'd never seen. A massive caravan rolled by, guarded by men escorting shaggy, four-horned oxen.
A realization struck: "These creatures resemble ones from my world… Everything here parallels it. Except me." He thought of all the times he'd acted unlike Vincent—his real self. "No more pretending. From now on, I'm me—without Martha's brother's shadow." Something in his chest, perhaps the body's original owner, finally relented, but with an unspoken pact: Martha would never suffer again, and the body was all his, for the taking.
"You look like a man in need of real steel!"
The voice shattered his thoughts. A sweaty, round-bellied vendor grinned up at him—the kind of grin that screamed illegal. "I've got poleaxes, halberds, warhammers—straight from the Siege of Pondkeep! Bargain prices!"
The name should have meant something. Pondkeep's siege was the region's bloodiest ongoing conflict, four years and counting. These were battlefield plunders, smuggled across borders. Just owning such weapons was forbidden unless you were high-ranking military or a veteran adventurer.
Yet Lucius barely blinked.
"And I've got Ulinor Sheaths on clearance!" the vendor added, misreading Lucius's disinterested glare as hesitation rather than disdain. Had Lucius known their true purpose, he might have paused—but the man's wink as he gestured toward his illegal wares only cemented his disgust. "For hiding your sword, or... other items." He tapped the rectangular leather case strapped to his own thigh. "Discretion guaranteed! Perfectly legal, friend."
For once, he wasn't lying. Designed by the Grand Archmage Ulinor, these sheaths were indeed lawful—common among low and mid-tier adventurers. Their enchantment shrunk any stored object to the sheath's dimensions, whether a dagger or a damned halberd.
Lucius walked away without a backward glance. "Rude bastard," the vendor muttered, already scanning the crowd for easier prey.
Other merchants descended like vultures, hawking their wares with carnival-barker zeal: "A potion that triple your stamina for those nights with your lady!". "The only proven tonic to enhance your 'little friend' to a 'formidable companion'!" and other assorted potions to enlarge, shrink, or rearrange body parts with dubious precision.
The sheer volume of sexual enhancers rivaled the seediest markets from Vincent's world—a thought that would've amused him, were he not currently battling his curse's nausea.
He pushed through the throng, searching for the travel-seller Martha had recommended: one Elis Strongheart, supposedly stationed at the far end of the designated transport quarter. Just as he neared the area, another vendor intercepted him—a catgirl.
Her features were arresting, a short fiery orange bob matching the tufted ears atop her head. Her eyes, emerald-green and slightly too large for her face, gave her a perpetual look of curiosity. Wore a simple linen dress under a blacksmith's apron, its leather straps digging into her lightly tanned shoulders. A sweatband clung to her forehead, damp from labor.
She launched into a pitch about ergonomic spoons for road meals and collapsible cookware, her tail flicking eagerly. Lucius ignored her, flipping instead to the Demihumans section of his book.
— —
Chapter X: "Demihumans"
On the Nature of Morphos and Felinaris Subspecies
Section I: The Morphos Spectrum and Natural Order
Since time immemorial, civilized man has sought to categorize beings... Thus was born the "Morphos" (from the archaic μορφή "form"), a scientific system measuring the degree of humanity in Demihuman races. As the eminent scholar Dr. Aldebarán Whitmore established:
"Morphological proximity to humankind determines not only their aesthetics, but their capacity for reason..."
Morphos Classification:
High Morphos (80% Human / 20% Animal): Felinaris with subtle feline traits like pointed ears, slender tails or vertical pupils. Their near-humanity allows them to mimic civilized manners, though impulsive instincts surface under stress.
"They are near-persons; with discipline, they may serve in domestic or artistic roles." — Whitmore, 1273 E.C.
Mid Morphos (50% Human / 50% Animal):[...]Low Morphos (20% Human / 80% Animal):[...]
Section II: Felinaris Subspecies and Innate Dispositions
The Felinaris race, descended from ancestral magical felines, divides into tribes based on lineage and pigmentation—a critical factor in behavior, as decades of studies confirm.
Lineage-Based Tribes
Leonari (Lion):[...]Tigriss (Tiger):[...]Pantherix (Black Panther):[...]Domestix (Domestic Cat):Territory: Human cities.Nature: Natural climbers, thieves, and spies. Their small size makes them ideal infiltrators.
Pigmentation Subclassification (and Behavioral Correlations)
Science has proven that fur color dictates temperament: [...]
Orange ("Sunstruck"):
Inherently lazy and gluttonous; clumsy in precision tasks.
— —
"A bit strange," Lucius mused, skimming most of the text. But it had to be accurate - who would write lies in a scientific book?
"So you're a Sunstruck, aren't you?" he asked, half-confident, half-hesitant. The worst that could happen was being corrected. Yet the demihuman girl stopped mid-sentence, her emerald eyes welling up with tears. "You... You're so mean!" Without another word, she turned and fled.
Lucius truly didn't understand this world's social dynamics, nor did he particularly care. Perhaps the terminology was simply unfamiliar. "From now on, I'll just ask for names," he decided.
The summer sun bathed the transient town in golden light, stretching building shadows as the day wore on. This was Travel Week, and vitality pulsed through every corner, transforming the place into a hive of relentless activity. Merchandise-laden wagons trundled along the Newmire-Cloudcity route while the air buzzed with the cacophony of haggling voices. Makeshift markets sprawled along main thoroughfares, offering every imaginable provision and commodity.
The sturdy houses - with their steeply pitched roofs and dark timber frames contrasting against pale walls - provided cool respite from the intense sun. Townsfolk and travelers alike wore simple yet functional linen and cotton garments tailored for road comfort. The mingling scents of woodsmoke, spices, and kicked-up dust created a distinctive atmosphere. This biweekly crossroads had become a vital hub of exchange and necessary respite.
Finally reaching the travel vendors' corner outside the main wall along the Newmire road, Lucius was assaulted by competing shouts advertising routes, prices, and claimed superiority. Among them stood a clearly inexperienced young human girl with fiery red hair, nervously holding a sign reading: Strongheart Travels.
"Shit," Lucius thought. Either the old man was gone or had transformed into this lovely raven-haired maiden. His curse immediately flared - in his past life, he'd never seen a pretty girl without sexualizing her, a habit he'd need to unlearn unless he wanted constant nausea and vertigo.
"Still 50 silvers to Newmire?" he asked, affecting the tone of a seasoned traveler.
The girl's eyes lit up as she took in Lucius's towering form. Blushing, she nodded and extended her hand. His stomach churned - those blue eyes and jet-black hair would have conquered Vincent instantly. In another life, he'd have showered her with gifts and flattery to get her into bed. But the curse overpowered even his deepest instincts. Besides, with what money?
She handed him a stiff parchment sealed with red wax bearing the Strongheart crest. "Next departure in two hours, right here," she murmured, voice soft and gaze utterly lost in Lucius's eyes.
"Maybe repenting for my sins and praying to lift this curse isn't such a bad idea," Lucius thought, watching the lovestruck girl. Gritting his teeth against the bile rising in his throat, he mustered his courage, winked at her—then immediately sprinted far away, behind a tree to vomit black sludge. The last thing he needed was to look even more like a freak.
With time to kill before departure, he decided to splurge his remaining coin. He scrutinized stall after stall, but without a way to judge item quality, it was hopeless. Then he spotted him—a towering man with a gold-trimmed monocle and luxurious robes, flanked by two bear-like demihumans. One had only ears and a snout; the other was practically a bipedal bear in clothing. "The book wasn't lying. So far, so accurate."
Shadowing the wealthy man, clearly a man who knew value. Lucius positioned himself behind him and peered through the monocle's lens at a nearby cloak.
[Cloak. Quality: I
Durability: 10/10
Craftsmanship: Artisanal Fabric.]
Another skill unlocked: [Observe Lv. 1]. Now equipped with his own magical golden monocle, courtesy of clever mimicry, he could appraise items at will. He hurried to a quieter stall and inspected the wares. A Quality 0 cloak, barely worth the thread it was woven with. A so-called energy potion that was, in fact, glorified swamp water. And finally, something real:
[Gauntlet of Grip. Quality I
Attributes: +10% grip strength.
Potency: Lv. 1.
Durability: 40/40.
Craftsmanship: Artisanal Iron.]
"How much for the gauntlets?" he asked. Worst-case scenario, they'd prevent another embarrassing, oops I dropped my sword mid-battle. fiasco.
After fierce haggling, he secured them for 20 silvers, leaving him with a meager 30 to his name. With nothing left to do, he fitted them and wandered to the outskirts and settled in to watch a traveling theater's performance—the last taste of civilization before his journey truly began.