"Can you help me wipe the signature from this storage pouch?" Tars asked.

  Baont shook his head. "No wizard apprentice can do that."

  "If it's possible, I'd like to claim my reward now," Tars ventured tentatively.

  In truth, he was far less calm than he appeared. He was a tangle of anticipation and anxiety—craving magical knowledge, yet equally desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and these people.

  "Are you sure?" Baont asked, eyeing the kobold's shaky stance.

  Tars nodded again. He lived by the philosophy that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; the sooner he secured his payment, the more freedom he would have to find an exit. The world changed every second, and he firmly believed that hiding away to focus on meditation and self-improvement was never the worst option.

  Baont pulled out several books and scrolls.

  "I don't have time to personally teach you what I know, so you'll have to pick from these. They are spoils of war from the past few days. You may choose one," Baont said.

  "May I ask my question first?" Tars requested.

  "Of course," Baont agreed readily. "But don't mistake me for a scholar among fifth-level apprentices. I focus on my own field and basic common sense in others. I hope you won't embarrass me with something too obscure."

  Baont studied Tars's small frame, likely wondering what kind of question such a creature would prioritize.

  "I wish to contract a bound familiar, but I have certain... concerns..."

  Tars was only halfway through when Baont flashed a look of understanding. It seemed this was a common enough issue that there was no need to explain further. Baont fell into thought and began rummaging through his things while Tars waited expectantly.

  "This should be the one you need. The simplest way to avoid trouble is not to contract a familiar at all. Beast-King wizards usually only truly eliminate the risks after becoming full wizards. Until then, there is this: the Contract Stone. It's made for people like you and apprentices just starting the path of the Beast-King."

  Baont produced a small, diamond-shaped stone.

  "This familiar contract stone is a decent one—another spoil of war. I don't know much about them, only that it can block five or six attempts to manipulate you through your familiar before it shatters. If the caster is a full wizard or higher, it might only hold once. Add this to the normal ritual; afterward, you can keep it in your storage pouch or let the familiar swallow it. When you sense it has cracked, just feed them a new one. I have two; take them both."

  Baont pulled out a second stone and tossed them both to Tars with a look of utter indifference. He likely viewed them as junk only fit for trading for mana stones.

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  "Now that these things exist, few people bother with those underhanded methods anymore," Baont added.

  Tars caught them joyfully. The two stones were a dull, matte greyish-black, lacking any crystalline luster.

  "Now, pick a spell so we can leave," Baont urged, spreading the books and scrolls before him. The shrunken, folded body of the Grey-Neck Lord served as a makeshift table.

  Tars relaxed his mind, greedily hoping to feel that spark of spiritual guidance as he scanned the items. He thought of the origin of these prizes: a mission from a so-called Wizard Niteli had drawn these apprentices to this obscure corner. The friction among them was greater than he had imagined; as the mission neared its conclusion, the conflicts would likely only grow more intense.

  Just as Tars was about to lose hope and Baont was growing impatient, the spiritual intuition finally knocked on his door.

  "The spirit still favors me," he mused, picking up a book to confirm the title. The cover read: Zero-Ring Spell: Demon Physique.

  "That's a minor spell derived from demonic flesh modification. It increases resistance to most toxins, makes the caster grow taller, and provides a brief burst of strength. You need a catalyst with a demonic aura to cast it. Honestly, it's not a very refined spell—it's a tier below Bull's Strength. My advice? Don't pick it. Though, you've already bypassed the catalyst problem; that Mage Armor of yours already reeks of a demon's aura."

  Seeing that Tars still wouldn't put the book down, Baont briskly stowed the rest of the scrolls. The tall man, looking down from his height, didn't notice that at the mention of "growing taller," the little kobold's eyes had lit up like stars.

  "Thank you. I believe this is exactly what I need," Tars said, solemnly stowing the book. A compatible spell wasn't easy to find, and he had reasons beyond mere vanity for wanting to grow.

  Suddenly, Baont's massive hand reached out and hoisted Tars up without a word. Then came the thunderous, inhuman explosions of footsteps. The scenery blurred past in a dizzying rush. The sudden speed made Tars feel like his bones were rattling apart. He regretted not finding his favorite long staff, though he had managed to retrieve his two trusty short-spears earlier.

  Baont is in a real hurry, Tars thought. Having finally caught the snake, the man was clearly eager for the next step. Tars wanted to ask what the ultimate fate of the cunning Grey-Neck Lord would be, but he never found an opening to speak.

  After a period of breakneck travel, they reached a path Tars recognized. His heart steadied. Baont stopped abruptly, sending the blood rushing to Tars's head. He was set down on the ground and immediately collapsed into a seated position. Solid, unmoving earth was a wonderful thing.

  "I'll be gone for a few days. Give my regards to the cook," Baont said.

  Tars wiped his mouth and looked up, but the man had already vanished. Given the rapport between those two, they probably didn't need a kobold messenger anyway. It was time to focus on his own path.

  He immediately cast Spirit Boil on himself and gripped a short-spear. The effects of Bull's Strength hadn't faded yet. Recalling the map in his head, he chose a direction and set off.

  The outside world is too dangerous, and I am still too weak, he thought. No amount of roasted meat was as enticing as the prospect of safe, quiet meditation.

  He traveled in bursts, avoiding areas that felt "off." Finally, he emerged from an inconspicuous tunnel and looked into the distance. There it was: the tall, spindle-shaped mushroom. He was finally back in kobold hunting territory.

  I wonder if the lizardmen have continued their raids, he wondered.

  He took a brief rest. Now that he was close, he downed his last bottle of the Big-Dumb-Humper's blood. With Baont's green potion as a final safety net, he could afford to be a little extravagant to speed up the final leg of the journey.

  He hurried as much as he could, though he was still significantly slower than when he had started the trip. He munched on boiled grubs as he walked, planning his return. He wondered if he should see the half-man immediately. Among wizards, every gift came with a price. Since the man wanted something from him, he surely wouldn't mind providing a little more help—perhaps a touch from that magical hand to make these agonizing injuries heal faster.