Chapter 302: Chapter 286 – Return to Form

Chapter 286 - Return to Form

It didn’t take long to see the status quo restored. Despite having bawled her eyes out the night prior, Natalya was back to usual by the time she crawled out of bed the next morning. From then on, she immersed herself in her work with vigour, giving to her students all of the affection that she had previously kept bottled inside.

Claire remained on guard for a few days, somewhat concerned that Natalya was unwilling to accept the outcome, but she also returned to form by the end of the week. And so went business as usual.

The only notable change was to the shop’s identifier. According to all official documents, the MACC had become the MACCI, though there existed exactly zero customers or stakeholders willing to voice the label. The modification made to the storefront signage was just as haphazard as its new moniker. The letters that Natalya had ordered were hammered directly into the corner of the signboard, further ruining the shop’s already appalling exterior.

Unsurprisingly, Natalya’s business was not the only one to incorporate. It was a popular trend around the city, and the local smiths, artists and woodworkers were all sick of the accompanying orders. Some had even banned such commissions outright, stating that it was an affront to their pride that they were unwilling to accept. But while the old blood was stubborn, younger opportunists welcomed the flood with open arms, taking on jobs that their peers lost out on and expanding the base of their clientele. And it was precisely one such individual with whom Claire was stuck conversing.

“What do you mean you couldn’t get any more psalmbark!? You filled every other order!” The angry customer, a young, hot-headed craftsman, slammed his fist against the counter as hot ash spewed from his stone face. “How the hell am I supposed to wrap up my work now!?”

Claire’s smile remained perfectly solid. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but as you were informed previously, we cannot post your assignment with the payout as is. You will have to raise your offer or wait for the forest to calm.”

“Raise my offer!? This is literally exactly what I paid last week!”

“As I’ve mentioned three times already, the area was recently invaded by a herd of bicorns. I warned you when you picked up the last batch that we would not be able to service another request unless you were willing to raise your prices.” Claire retrieved a piece of paper from under the desk and presented it to the woodsmith. “As you can see here, it was noted in the record. We suggested a twenty-five percent hike, but you failed to comply.”

“That’s a whole extra coin, lady.” He pressed his palm into his brow and groaned. “How the hell am I supposed to make a profit with prices like these?”

“I’m sure it would be an easy task, given that you have doubled your own prices upon noticing the surge in demand.”

“Huh!? Wait, so you’re just doing this because I’m upselling my stuff!? What the hell kind of scam is this!? I’m not paying five whole silver for some dumb timber!”

“Then I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave,” said Claire, her smile still unblemished. “We have both already laid out our terms, and it’s become clear that we won’t be able to reach an agreement.”

“The fuck!? I’m not leaving until I get m—”

The rock man was suddenly cut off by a hand to the face. The porcelain white fingers dug through his skin, unflinching even as they were touched by the magma that leaked from his skull.

“I’m afraid, Sir, that I told you to leave. And if you won’t be doing so of your own accord, then I will be forced to remove you.”

He was already flying through the air by the time she finished speaking, sent straight out the door and onto the street, where he wound up lying unconscious.

As for the perpetrator? She was nonchalant. The coldblooded serpent turned towards the other receptionists and lightly dusted off her hands, her face already returned to its usual blank look.

“And that’s how you do it.”

“Are you sure that was supposed to be a good example?” asked Nymphetel, with a crease in his brow.

He was in the middle of onboarding. With the lich capable of handling all the paperwork on her own, Nymphetel was quickly shuffled into a number of other roles, eventually settling in at the front desk. There simply wasn’t anywhere else he could really fit. A few preliminary trials had confirmed he lacked the skill to work in the kitchen or infirmary. Teaching was also not an option. He wasn’t patient enough around kids and beginners to be left in charge of their handling. And so, he wound up out front, dealing with customers in spite of his distaste.

“I know it doesn’t exactly seem intuitive,” said Lia, with an awkward smile, “but sometimes it can’t be helped. I’d prefer you didn’t resort to violence as quickly as Claire, but don’t hesitate to protect yourself if the customers start getting aggressive.”

“Does it really get that bad?” asked the elf, with a cock of the brow.

“Sometimes!” said Sylvia. “It used to be a lot worse, but nowadays I think we only get a few people trying to jump the counter a week.”

Nymphetel pushed back his hair and breathed a sigh. “Well, it’s not like I don’t know where they’re coming from, but still. A few a week is absurd. You’re saying that’s less?”

“It used to be a few a day,” giggled Sylvia. “But then Claire beat them all up, and now they’re mostly docile.”

And so the day continued, with Claire demonstrating the explicitly Cadrian solutions to the many problems encountered. Work came to an end as night fell and the trickle of customers slowed to a stop, with most of its employees flooding out of the shop. Estelle and Garm remained, however, with the former working on her personal projects and the latter offering a dinner service for those still looking to drink.

Though it ran late into the wee hours of the night, the shop was always clean by morning. Surprisingly well organised for a bachelor, Garm would always line the unconscious customers out back and clean up the store before he locked it up. No one knew exactly how much sleep the male cat was getting, but it couldn’t have been much. Breakfast was always cooking by the time anyone else arrived.

According to the man in question, the behaviour was perfectly normal. His many long years at sea had seen him equipped with a sleep resistance skill that kept him going around the clock. That, however, was not to say that he was entirely immune to fatigue, hence why he could often be found dozing off in the middle of the day.

Like Estelle, the retired pirate had taken advantage of the change in his career to chase a number of pet projects. There were several different barrels of wine fermenting in the shop, as well as a variety of pickles and dried meats. He had started by commissioning the adventurers to bring him the goods he needed, but the details changed as the shop's reputation grew. It had long become commonplace for the regulars to bring the old chef any items that caught their interest, offering them in exchange for a portion of the final product.

Though the Cadrians had never quite attacked following Claire’s intervention, Nymphetel flitted his eyes around as they moved through the streets. He couldn't help but suspect that they were still watching, waiting for him to separate so that they could capture him for their master's pleasure. Shuddering at the thought, he continued to stand at attention, reacting to every shadow and sound with a gulp and a leap.

He didn’t calm, even as they neared their home base. He charged straight towards the front door as soon as it was in sight, leaving the others to greet the neighbours in his stead. He didn’t have a key, but he didn’t need one. A set of vectors undid the lock as he reached for the doorknob and granted him free access to his borrowed home.

But despite his prior enthusiasm, driven by both his fear of the Cadrians and the urge to see his girlfriend, the elf froze in place as soon as he creaked it open. He stood perfectly still, his eyes wide and his hand unmoving.

He sealed and reopened the building after a brief delay, but found the same mind-numbing result.

Fed up, Claire shoved him aside and inspected the hall for the source of his confusion. She quickly deduced that it was Boris. Or more accurately, it was also Boris, just like every other ikarett that filled the living room’s space. He was unmistakable. The collective shared the same derpy, vacant look, and though their sizes and shapes differed, they all greeted her with their usual slow blinks as she entered the building.

“What the heck, Boris!?” cried Sylvia. “Why are there so many of you?”

The army of Borises looked at each other, with each shrugging and further consulting another. The game of broken telephone continued for a while, with the lizards eventually turning back to Sylvia and answering with a collective shrug.

“What the heck do you mean you don’t know!?”

A second set of blinks and stares spread throughout the crowd like a ripple on the surface of a lake.

“Wait, so you took a nap, woke up, and it was pretty much already like this?”

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Boris (plural) nodded.

“That’s weird…” said Sylvia.

“Have you tried disabling the skill?” asked Claire.

Boris (still plural) tilted his head.

“So you’ll take up less space.”

The ikaretts conferred amongst themselves for a while before shaking their heads. Evidently, they hadn’t the faintest clue as to how they were supposed to go about ceasing their existence.

“Maybe we need to kill the fakes,” presumed the lyrkress.

“Uhhhh maybe? Can you even tell which one is real?” asked Sylvia.

Claire shook her head. “I assumed you could.”

“Mmmnnn… They pretty much all seem the same to me,” said Sylvia. “Maybe Boris knows.”

The legion shook its head.

“Stupid lizard,” mumbled Claire.

“Oh wait! I remember reading about something like this in a book once. We just have to ask him a bunch of questions that only the real Boris will know! Then we just beat up all the other ones.”

Claire sighed and pinched the fox’s cheeks. “Sometimes, I think you’re even dumber than the lizard.”

“Huh!? What the heck!? Now that’s just rude!” cried the vixen. “I’m way smarter than Boris! There’s literally no contest!”

“Intelligence is relative. It depends on exactly what you’re looking to compare.” Nymphetel said something or other, but nobody looked his way.

“You are definitely not smarter than Boris,” said Claire.

Sylvia puffed up her cheeks. “You know what? Fine! Me and Boris are gonna have a brain-off! If I win, then you owe a hundred belly rubs.”

“And if I win, you have to be my pillow for a week.”

“A whole week!?” cried Sylvia. “Isn’t that kind of unfair? A hundred belly rubs is only like five minutes worth.”

Claire tilted her head. “It doesn’t matter if you’re really smarter than him, does it?”

“Ughhhh… Fine. There’s no way I’m losing to Boris even if you do something underhanded.” Sylvia grumbled. “So how are we supposed to figure out who’s smarter anyway?”

Claire paused briefly to think. “We could try a math test. I’ll ask seven questions. Raising a hand or tail and answering correctly gets you a point, and the pet with the most points at the end wins.”

“Mmk, you’re on!” said Sylvia. “Hey! Wait a second! I’m not a pet!”

“Right.” Shrugging off the complaint, Claire formed a tablet made of ice. The backside was stained like an expensive piece of glass and coloured purple with a dose of divinity. It was impossible to correctly make out the numbers being inscribed on the opposite side.

“Okay. Are you ready for round one?”

“Yup!” said Sylvia.

Boris (offensively plural) was not quite as vocal, but the hivemind’s members eventually replied with silent nods.

“Okay. Then here goes.”

She flipped the board around and revealed the first question, etched forever into the ice as 1+1=?.

“Wait a second! I thought you were supposed to be testing how smart we were! Why the heck is that one so easy!?”

But while she complained, her opponent took advantage. One of the metal lizards sitting in the back of the room lazily raised his tail.

“Yes, Boris?” said Claire, completely ignoring the out-of-turn fox.

The chosen lizard walked through the parting crowd like a prophet through the sea. Confidently, he raised his face to the tablet and, after a moment of second-guessing, grew a dagger from his nose and carved his answer into the ice. He held his head up when he marked his win, a musical feature almost seeming to play in the background as the jaws around him dropped in awe.

Awe and disappointment.

“Want those belly rubs now?” asked Claire.

“Yes please!” said the fox. She immediately flipped onto her back and giggled as she was treated to a moment of bliss.

The competition was decided with zero points on the board.

For the number that Boris (not singular) had written was slightly greater than ten.

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