In the garden of the Sirclay manor in Aramsus, a storage shed stood.
It held the tools used by the manor — but since it was only meant to be used while Miranda was at the academy, there wasn’t much in it.
In that place, with Poyo-Poyo, I was building a Golem.
The Golem magic Damian had taught me, fundamentally, was magic that operated a magically-created doll.
But if you used metal infused with your own mana, or specially-processed metal, you didn’t have to create the doll from scratch each time.
An earthen Golem isn’t bad, depending on the location.
But creating one each time burned a lot of mana.
To reduce that, Damian built his dolls in advance and operated them.
I’d been going to try the same — build a doll — but —
“Human-shape is hard to control. Well, other shapes have their own quirks too.”
The doll Poyo-Poyo and I were building used armor from the B40 boss.
Plus armor from a boss someone had felled a few years ago, which the academy had been storing — bought up too. The doll was not human-shaped.
“I cannot understand it. When you said let’s build a doll together, I thought it was a new flavor of confession… and then actually a doll.”
I say doll, but it’s not a person-shape — it’s some other thing.
When Poyo-Poyo finished working the armor with tools she pulled from under her skirt, the wheels were on.
Six small wheels.
And four legs.
To move the folded legs, I tried to operate the Golem in front of me.
A small cargo cart with legs attached — the build was sturdier than I’d expected.
“Oh — surprisingly solid.”
Operating it, I wasn’t used to it; the leg motions were still awkward.
Folding the legs and moving on wheels, I turned the front wheels to round a corner.
I’d asked Poyo-Poyo if she could do it. She’d said don’t underestimate me, chicken-bastard, so I’d let her design it.
“Naturally. After all — I, Poyo-Poyo, designed and built this unit. Let’s call it Porter Unit One.”
The still-incomplete Golem just had the basic form moving.
How much load it could carry; whether dungeon use was viable… I looked at the two large shields propped against the wall.
Shields too big for a person to hold, and built unsuited to portability.
But that’s fine.
We won’t be the ones holding them.
“Once the shields deploy, it’s done. — But first, a trial run in the dungeon.”
How much mana it consumed.
And turning corners. To handle stairs, legs too.
Poyo-Poyo:
“I’d like to add more springs for stability. — And without a head-like part, it doesn’t feel like a companion. — Should I sketch a face on the front?”
“Is that necessary? — But this — [Porter] — a sense of attachment is good.”
When I used the name I’d pre-decided, Poyo-Poyo trembled and looked back and forth between me and Porter.
“What?”
”…What’s that name. — And the fact you put some thought into it makes me angrier. I am a custom-order masterpiece, you know. The thing I built in a few days gets a more sensible name than I do… — Frustrating. Losing to Porter is frustrating!”
I grabbed a book I’d set aside.
A copy Clara had prepared for me at my request.
A book on names.
“I actually got the idea from this book.”
I showed Poyo-Poyo. She looked even more frustrated.
“And here I’d hoped you were thinking my name through!!”
I smiled at the frustrated Poyo-Poyo.
“Poyo-Poyo has settled in. It’s cute, Poyo-Poyo.”
Twin-tails swinging, she agonized.
Glad or sad — really hard to tell.
“I hate that part of me that felt a little glad! — But I object! Poyo-Poyo is a provisional name! I have a true name! — Ha! Is this not exactly the line of a teenager’s adolescence… NOOOO!!”
Watching her, I thought:
(The ancients absolutely chose the wrong direction to apply effort. What did they want, making automatons like this?)
The amused Jewel produced — the Sixth.
“You two — on good terms.”
We must have looked close.
True — foul-mouthed, but on matters concerning me she moved hard.
Sometimes I felt I was really talking with a person, but the thing in front of me is an automaton.
I looked at Porter.
(Poyo-Poyo and Porter — strictly, the same thing.)
Twin-tails flailing, embarrassed, hands over her face — Poyo-Poyo.
Four legs folded, sitting silently — Porter.
(Not the same after all. Poyo-Poyo is Poyo-Poyo.)
I thought about when to do Porter’s test run.
— Outside Aramsus, Lyla and Aria were moving together.
Lightly-armed Aria had a metal piece of armor on her left arm.
Right hand held a short spear. She walked ahead of Lyla toward the destination.
Knives of several types at her belt, a bag for tools too.
Watching from behind, Lyla wore her prosthetic on the left.
While checking her own prosthetic, she addressed Aria’s movements.
“Don’t just mind the front. Check distance from your companions too.”
Aria flinched, gave a wry smile, and turned.
“S-sorry.”
“Don’t apologize mid-action. Reflect afterward. Will you make the whole group stop for one of you?”
Aria hurriedly checked her surroundings and walked ahead.
Lyla’s style was vanguard-while-scout, with combat as needed.
“Always think for yourself. What does the party do next? What do we need? If you can’t move without all-orders, however strong, you’re second-tier or below.”
When they reached the destination, Aria — exhausted from the unfamiliar movement — sat down.
Lyla:
“You said your leader doesn’t approve of you?”
Aria looked up from the ground.
“Yes. He… gave orders, and I moved by them. But I think I can do more!”
To which Lyla, immediately:
“Talent will carry you to a point. But if I were your leader, I’d do the same.”
Aria hung her head.
In Darion she’d learned the basics of an adventurer — and had let them slip.
Proof she’d been leaning hard on Lyle’s Skills.
“From where I stand, the guy’s capable. Restricting Skill use to raise the party’s base ability — he noticed. Like this, we’ll go bad.”
Aria too had been preoccupied with herself, but put that way — exactly.
(I was the one leaning on capable Lyle.)
Lyla pointed out point after point to reflect on.
She’d been repeating actions that erased what she’d learned in Darion.
“And. Just because corridors are wide, a spear-only fighter — is that smart? A length-adjustable weapon, or a shorter alternative — thinking about it for a second, you’d notice.”
Another scolding.
The short spear — barely her own height — had shorter reach but suited dungeon use.
Above all else, the first thing she’d been told —
— Lower-grade than an amateur.
A line of certain strength but slacking, abandoning one’s job.
What Lyla scolded her for matched much of what Zelphy had taught her in Darion.
Basics of basics, neglected; even communication wasn’t happening.
“And — how’s the shield?”
Aria looked at the small shield on her left arm.
A buckler.
For spear use, smaller — but useful: she could deflect monster attacks.
“Yes — it’s good.”
A small, pleased look from Lyla.
“I see. You mind your defense too. — Protect your life, protect your body. Don’t be cheap about money.”
Lyla, who’d lost her arm and was burned, had weight behind those words.
“All right — break’s over. Now I lead and show you. Watch the points I corrected.”
“Yes!”
Lyla walked. Aria followed.
— A private school in Aramsus.
There, they taught trap-related skills.
Features of the Aramsus dungeon; types of traps set; how to open chests, and so on.
Aramsus-specific skills, mainly — after the basics, the curriculum centered on the Aramsus-relevant techniques.
In that classroom, Miranda opened a lock on the desk. She managed it deftly with tools.
The teacher, watching, clapped.
“Amazing. Really your first time? — You haven’t been up to no good somewhere?”
A method clean enough to make one suspect.
Miranda, smiling:
“I haven’t. — Cruel of you, teacher.”
The teacher apologized.
Seeing Miranda’s beaming smile, the teacher —
”…Well, fine. Next we’ll move to disarming, then? The Aramsus dungeon has few trap types, so there isn’t much to teach.”
Down to the lowest floor — B50 — the trap variety was, basically, small.
In that sense too, the Aramsus dungeon was a place where young adventurers, just gaining strength, could build it.
“Now?”
“Need prep. Next time. — That’s all for today.”
Miranda stood up, packed her things, and left.
Watching her go, the young adventurers learning lock-picking stared.
Noses lengthening.
“She’s a good one, Miranda-san.”
“Graduated from the academy and became an adventurer, right? Should we ask her out?”
“But she’s… at that — ‘piggybacked Lyle’s’ place, no?”
To the students making noise, the teacher cleared his throat.
The room hushed.
The teacher said: don’t.
He wasn’t joking. He meant it — a warning to his students.
“That type — especially women adventurers with trap-related talent — better to avoid. If she’s in your party, never become her lover.”
A student:
“What, teacher? Did something bad happen back in the day?”
The teacher, deadpan:
”…I was in a big party once. I was the trap specialist there. A female adventurer also good with traps joined as backup.”
The remaining students were all men, and they listened quietly, curious.
Expecting some salacious tale, hope rising.
Young male adventurers — dreamers.
“She played several adventurers, drained them dry, then dumped them. I’ve worked in many parties, I have acquaintances in the same specialty… that type — getting involved comes to no good.”
A weight to the teacher’s voice. The room cooled a little.
They couldn’t quite grasp it — but couldn’t see it as a lie.
It’s all self-responsibility.
The teacher just warned.
“How many idiots pawned money and equipment to lavish on that adventurer? Their wants used against them. — That type… whatever it takes, they make the chosen prey their own.”
In context, the prey is the man — the target of affection. The students stirred.
“If Miranda-san targeted me, I’d marry on the spot.”
“Idiot, check the mirror first.”
“I’d like to be targeted once~”
The teacher hahaha-ed and watched the young adventurers.
(Like silk floss slowly tightening — by the time you notice, you can’t move… I’ve seen plenty of men ruined like that.)
Youth is a great thing, thought the teacher, and resumed class.
Bringing Porter and Poyo-Poyo into the dungeon, I checked the operation.
Up and down stairs. I had Poyo-Poyo hold a mace and fight.
Goblins flying.
Goblins splatting red flowers on walls.
Goblins reddening the floor.
— She is not thinking at all about recovering material.
She squashed them so thoroughly the materials were wrecked.
“Who’d have thought technique developed against the black devils of the kitchen would be useful here…”
To Poyo-Poyo posing alone — flipping her twin-tails —
“Wait — that’s how you were thinking of goblins? — Also, you’re crushing them too much. Buying price will drop.”
The metal staves goblins carried, and the pots they wore as helmets, had steady demand as metal.
They get melted down, so the price doesn’t shift much — but what comes off the goblins themselves was in awful shape.
I gloved up, took the stones, and loaded the metal onto Porter. Using the wheels barely shifted my mana drain.
Stairs were fine.
I couldn’t go deep yet, so I was testing on B1 to B2.
Watching, the Third:
“So Lyle’s answer comes out like this.”
The Seventh agreed.
“Close to mine and the Fifth’s answer.”
I noted the words, but as adventurers approached I drew my sabre on guard.
Poyo-Poyo gripped a mace in each hand.
“W-wait!”
“Sorry, can you lend a hand?”
Ragged adventurers were dragging their feet toward us, asking for help.
Six in total. Some helping others walk; some walking only by the strength of will. Some unconscious.
Even on guard, I drew closer.
Not an act.
Poyo-Poyo:
“Bones broken. Internal injuries too. Critical — but, can be healed with potions or magic. Strange, isn’t it.”
Strange — what?
No time to mind that.
I pulled potions from the bag on Porter and used them on the wounded. Wounds closed; condition improved.
But the adventurers carrying them were also wrecked.
“Sorry. Got ambushed, we drove them off, but…”
Not monsters — attacked by adventurers, it seemed.
“The potion — thank you. — But… why a cart? — And a maid?”
A pale-faced adventurer, looking at Porter and Poyo-Poyo, puzzled.
“Well — a long story.”
Then one of them began suffering.
Poyo-Poyo:
“Bad. Not fully healed. Get him to a specialist.”
I looked at Porter.
Tight, but six could ride.
“The ride may be poor — please get on.”
The adventurers I’d helped —
“On — on it? But who pulls? Alone is unreasonable — and stairs—”
I figured explaining was a waste —
“Just get on, hurry!”
I got the six on, put a foot on the side bulge, and rode.
Poyo-Poyo did the same on the other side. And —
“Going.”
Wheels turning, Porter began moving with eight on board. I’d memorized the route in, so I navigated without hesitation.
The floor was randomly-plated metal — a bit shaky, but well within tolerance.
(Ah — actually plenty of cargo capacity.)
I operated Porter and thought as much.
The riders watched in stunned silence.
Out of the dungeon, I went straight to the nearby hospital and waited outside.
A still-pale, bandaged adventurer I’d helped came out and turned a smile my way.
“Saved us. All of my companions are safe.”
I felt relief at being told.
“Glad to hear it.”
Adventurers helping each other is necessary.
Some breach etiquette without remorse; in most cases, a grim end waited.
Helping also might lift my reputation a little.
“And — uh — I’m sorry!”
He bowed his head; I was surprised.
He explained the situation.
“By rights I’d pay in gold. But my companions are admitted, and… when we were attacked, only the stones came back; the rest was left behind. This is all I have — I’ll absolutely thank you properly after discharge.”
He took every silver from his coin pouch and put them in my hand.
Poyo-Poyo:
“For a two-person take, that’s a lot of money.”
She remarked.
I accepted.
“I’ve received your thanks. — Don’t push yourself after discharge. I’m satisfied with this thanks.”
“S-saved. — Thank you, truly!”
The other side might be acting as if this was the most he could pay; in reality he might have more.
But in this situation, skimping on the thanks would invite rumors and lose trust. Saved his life and no reward — said of you, it’d affect future activity in Aramsus.
I told him I was satisfied and wouldn’t accept more.
When he went back to his companions, I looked at the silver in my hand.
”…Ah — could this be—”
I caught on. The Fourth chimed in.
“I smell money…”
I looked back at Porter. He looked, somehow, more reliable.
A delighted voice from the Jewel.
“Lyle! Well done! This will earn! Truly — letting you think of your own method matters!”
Money-loving Fourth had noticed Porter’s value.
Once he saw it’d earn, he was thrilled.
Poyo-Poyo:
“Chicken-bastard… we can live ordinary lives on this.”
I agreed.
“I think so too.”