Hal POV

  Hāl-Acatl, or Hal as he liked his friends to call him, regretted his choice with every quiet breath he took. He should’ve joined the espionage team like the rest of his broodmates. They were probably having the time of their lives burrowing through the empire’s networks and devouring its cronies from the inside. Instead, he stood inside a backwater dungeon, trapped inside flesh that demanded indignities at regular intervals. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be controlling a proper manaborn species.

  He sighed—his favorite feature of the new body and a quick escape from the gloom. He bunched the grimy white gown in one hand and hiked it above his waist, letting his fly down. The flow of water stopped soon after. With one quick shake, he tucked it away, letting the gown drop.

  What self-respecting species produced waste by design? Evolution here was clearly stunted. Why couldn’t they subsist on Mana like the civilized world? Even the filthy Kaligans managed that.

  He glanced down, adjusting his clothing and ensuring nothing remained exposed. The memory of his first host lingered. Back then, ignorance had nearly earned him a beating after he had unknowingly offended a local by exposing himself in front of the man’s wife.

  Another sigh escaped him as he turned back toward camp. He had never experienced anything worse than his first three rumbles in this dungeon. Being trapped inside the body of a wild goblin had nearly driven him mad, and his takeover of a native was no improvement. Less than fifty percent synchronisation meant he couldn’t even understand the shrieks and shouts the natives used to communicate.

  Hal made his way back toward the camp. This body was at least an improvement over the last native, boasting seventy percent synchronization. He could finally communicate with the natives and begin his mission in earnest.

  Hal walked carefully, his steps small and deliberate. He despised how much effort movement required. Every step involved balance, precision, and coordination. He had nothing against bipeds, despite what some broodmates claimed. He was not a tetherless supremacist. His best friend was an arachnid, for crying out loud. Still, he couldn’t ignore the inefficiency. If a species relied on oversized appendages to move, perhaps it was never meant to progress far along evolution’s path.

  “Pastor Justin!” a voice echoed ahead. Hal looked up to see a man approach, face strained, arms burdened by two sacks stuffed with mushrooms. “We found more near a burrow. They need sorting before nightfall.” He waited in place for Hal to catch up.

  Oh great. More work.

  Hal nodded, forcing the corners of his lips upward. The body he currently puppeted was called Pastor Justin.

  When Hal had first encountered the man, still trapped inside his initial host, Hal had assumed Pastor was his given name. Everyone used it without question. Only after seizing control and reviewing the status information had he learned the truth.

  The man’s name was Justin. Justin Joseph. Pastor was a religious title.

  “You seem down!” The man slipped into step beside Hal. He seemed like an expert at walking, matching his stride with ease.

  “It’s nothing,” said Hal, keeping his voice even. Small talk was dangerous. He did not possess the pastor’s complete memories. A portion of them was lost forever, and with them went cultural nuances he could not reconstruct. That gap caused one mistake already; he wouldn’t repeat it.

  “Your brother should be fine.” The man gave a light tap on Hal’s back, but the sudden contact made Hal tense before he suppressed the reaction. The man’s face shifted, concern creasing his features. “There are other camps nearby. He would be in one of them. I’m sure.”

  He raised the corners of his lips again, showing teeth. He knew the gesture signaled submission and relaxed the natives, yet he used it sparingly—showing it to everyone might have made him look like the group’s runt.

  Hal was no runt. Never. He ranked third in his brood for sheer ability, though he should have been first. Xōl-Mictēn had only won because the Mictēn family adopted him; without their resources and guidance, he never would have bested Hal. Tēz-Acatl was even worse. That flickerwit had messed with Hal’s offering and ruined his performance during the test.

  Hal was nothing if not vengeful. If someone was good to him, he was their best friend, provided it suited him. But if they crossed him, he became their worst enemy.

  Tēz-Acatl had learned that lesson too late. Hal had altered his information packet, falsely claiming that the target was a hobgoblin subspecies and that the world had two hostile native species locked in conflict. By now, that fool would be out there somewhere, running around puppeting a hobgoblin.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Hal and his companion reached the main campfire soon after. The soot from yesterday’s fire filled the air with the smell of ash. With hot stones next to the fire and a pile of wooden spears farther away, the place served as both kitchen and armory.

  “Pastor Justin, we need to get started on dinner.” The quartermaster caught his companion’s eyes and pointed to a cluster of empty bottles. “Refill those.”

  “Okay.” Hal curled his lips upward, teeth visible once more. The quartermaster was one of the few natives Hal treated with calculated respect. The man was the strongest in the camp and could have easily assumed leadership if he had wished.

  The strong lead and the weak follow. That was the natural order. Even the Kaligans understood that much. These natives, however, followed a strange logic when choosing their leaders.

  Their leader had been the Collector of Chennai, whatever that was. Something the natives ate, no doubt. The only collectors Hal respected were soul collectors, beings who harvested the fallen after battles.

  Hal’s companion dropped the bags and headed for the lake, water bottles in hand. He didn’t waste a second, already focused on his next assignment.

  Hal passed one bag to the quartermaster and took the other for himself. Together, they began sorting the mushrooms using their Snout Compass skill. The skill manifested as a creeping sense of revulsion for certain mushrooms when sniffed.

  Hal already found the entire process disgusting. That these natives consumed fungi only to convert them into bodily waste offended him on a fundamental level. The skill intensified the reaction, layering an artificial sense of warning atop his existing disgust. The effect was psychological, but no less effective. He hated sorting mushrooms.

  Initially, Hal had believed Snout Compass to be a tracking skill. He had even mentioned it to the leader, hoping for guidance on leveling it. Perhaps it could be trained to follow a signature, to locate prey or targets. The truth was disappointing. The skill merely determined whether a substance was harmful to the user’s body.

  If Hal ever encountered the skill crystal again, he would destroy it. Failing that, he would hide it somewhere inaccessible. No one deserved to suffer such a torturous inability. If the skill appeared in the next body he possessed, he would keep it secret and carry that knowledge back to the abyss.

  The quartermaster lifted a mushroom from the edible pile and ate it without hesitation. Hal watched, disturbed. It reminded him of Xōc-alotl tearing into her prey. At least souls had flavor and purpose. Eating this was suffering without reward.

  The goblin body he had once inhabited had been preferable in that regard. It lacked the constant hunger natives endured. Despite the indignity of vermin flesh, it spared him this weakness.

  These natives felt hunger at least six times in a single rumble. Hal could not comprehend how they accomplished anything when so much of their existence revolved around feeding. Even at Tier 0, he only needed to feed once every ten rumbles. He had ample time to secure a new body before hunger became a concern again.

  Footsteps cut through his thoughts. A man approached, knife in one hand, stick in the other. Hal didn’t bother recalling his name, for he had no skills. Remembering weaklings served no purpose.

  “I need another knife,” the man said, gripping the blade and presenting the broken handle to the quartermaster.

  “We don’t have any in stock,” the quartermaster replied. “The scouting team took the spares.” He glanced left, toward a small pile of wooden spears resting against a log.

  “Then give me yours. I’ll give it back after I’m done with the fence.” The man extended his hands toward the quartermaster, eyes locked on the dagger tucked into the man’s belt.

  Hal stared at him in disbelief. The man was not even a proper Tier 0. How could he speak to an ‘Initiate’ like that? In Hal’s world, such behavior would have ended with blood on the ground and lessons carved into flesh.

  It explained a lot. These natives were backward because they refused to recognize strength. They allowed weakness to speak without consequence. What puzzled Hal was the restraint of the strong. Why had none of them taken control?

  The quartermaster took the broken knife, turning it in his hands and studying the damage with care. He walked to the edge of the clearing, where discarded clothes lay in a heap, tore a strip free, and wrapped it tightly around the blade’s base.

  “That should help with cutting vines,” he said, handing the knife back, his tone flat and uninviting.

  The man’s jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly through his nose before taking the knife and walking away without another word.

  Sometimes Hal felt a flicker of pity for the natives. They lacked armor. Their weapons were scavenged from wild goblins. None of their clothing carried enchantments. As far as Hal could tell, none of them possessed innate skills. Everything they had came from crystals, a clear sign of limited potential. Were they even the dominant species in their world?

  How could a species this primitive pose any threat to the military high command? They struggled against vermin, for abyss’ sake.

  “Pick up the pace, Pastor,” the quartermaster said, sorting mushrooms as quickly as his skill allowed.

  Hal’s face scrunched up despite himself. He nodded and lifted the next mushroom, bringing it close to his nose. The Snout Compass responded immediately, revulsion crawling through his senses.

  He reminded himself of why he endured this. A military contract. A future of luxury awaited him. All he had to do was to locate and eliminate the native known as Siddharth Chandran, the Berserker.

  The thought anchored him. He worked faster, shutting out sensation, missing the sound of footsteps until the runner was before him.

  “We have visitors,” the runner said, panting. “Boss asked me to fetch you guys.”