Jack sat on the edge of a wooden chair in the village elder’s house, his jacket and shirt folded neatly on a nearby bench. Eirwen dabbed the wound on his shoulder with a rag, dripping a deep red liquid into the bite. He flinched and snatched the cloth back. “Ow! Watch the rag!”

  “If you don’t let me clean it properly, I won’t know where to pour the potion!” Eirwen huffed. “Honestly, I’ve never met such a reckless, terrifyingly wild man in my life.”

  Jack grunted and rubbed his shoulder, trying to ignore the sting. But his mind wasn’t on the pain… it was on the pile of Echo Lion remains stacked in the courtyard outside. Every last piece had cost him something. Blood. Sweat. Probably a bit of his sanity. And now, they had value - more value than he fully understood.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Jack said, his voice rough but steady. “I need my Charger repaired, and I’m going to need enough trail food to make it to the next settlement.”

  The elder, an austere woman with eyes like flint, leaned forward. Her fingers rested lightly on the carved table. “Your… Charger. Is that the name of your Dwarven siege engine?”

  Jack groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It's not dwarven, it's American.”

  The elderly woman nodded. “I see,” she stated calmly. “And in exchange for our services?”

  Jack gestured vaguely toward the courtyard. “All of that. Take what you need.”

  A flicker of tension passed over the elder’s face. “What exactly do you mean by all?” she asked carefully.

  “Look,” Jack began. “The only reason I hauled one of them things into the village before was because I wanted to know what it was. Now that I know, I ain't got no use for it.”

  The elder’s lips pressed into a thin line. Eirwen cleared her throat. “Jack, you're being too generous.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow, looking over. "You think?”

  “I know,” she replied. “The meat and bones of magical creatures aren't as valuable as the pelts or the horns. Why, just one of the juvenile pelts could buy everything in this village. And the horn could buy all that remains.”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “What's the big deal? The village becomes wealthy. Seems like a good thing to me.”

  “It's not so simple, young man,” says the elder. “These lands are quite dangerous. Our village only survives because there is nothing here to take. The meat and bones will supply our village and the spellcasters in it respectively, and are quite common. But the pelts and horns? They would only make us a target for thieves and brigands.”

  Jack leaned back, thumb drumming once against the table. Yeah… I’m definitely out of my usual Craigslist-level deals now. But there was a thrill to it. This was real negotiation. Real stakes. No handouts. “Fine, I'll keep the pelts and the horns. Your village can have everything else.”

  The elder nodded. “Then it’s settled. The blacksmith will have your Charger ready by sundown, and we will prepare provisions for your journey.”

  Jack exhaled, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Sounds like a deal.”

  Eirwen carefully dripped her potion into the last of Jack's wounds. The skin knitted shut on its own. Jack stared at it, flexing his shoulder slowly. “...Huh.”

  ---

  Jack headed towards the blacksmith's forge, carrying his jacket over his shoulder. The heavy black leather with metal zippers and buckles would normally be worn, if not for the teeth marks stabbing through the shoulder of the garment.

  “You act as if you've never seen magic before,” Eirwen observed.

  Jack cast a glance at her before looking forward. “That's because it don't exist where I come from,” he admits. “‘Round my parts, we get things done with simple cause and effect. We figure out what causes what, and then build things that causes those things to happen, which effects everything else.”

  “And there's no magic involved?” Eirwen tilted her head to the side.

  “Not one bit.” The two strolled over to Jack's car. The Charger sat on the village road, its once-pristine curves now scarred by mud, claw marks, and a shredded tire that flopped uselessly against the axle.

  Jack crouched beside the shredded tire, rubbing the rubber between his fingers. He muttered under his breath, “Of course one of these gets torn up… just my luck.”

  Eirwen peered over his shoulder, curious. “Why is it such a big deal? Can’t you just put another one on?”

  Jack straightened and gestured at the Charger with a hand still grimy from the battle. “This ain't a wagon wheel. Wrong tire, wrong balance, and the whole car handles like a drunk pig on ice. Suspension geometry, traction, heat buildup… everything's tuned together.” Jack kicked at the dirt, letting out an angry grunt. “Even if I had a proper spare tire, where the hell would I get it balanced? My spare’s a damn jig wheel - emergency use only. Gets me to the next town, maybe, but it ain't made for actual travel.”

  Eirwen frowned. “A jig wheel?”

  Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying not to sigh. “Yeah. Back home, a tire ain't just rubber. There’s pressure, elasticity, traction… The spare’s a damn jig wheel… emergency donut, basically. Handles like a shopping cart with square wheels. Tires’re tricky things. One wrong move, one thing out of alignment, and I’m rolling down a hill sideways.”

  Eirwen tilted her head, lips pursed. “Sounds… complicated. Perhaps magic can help?”

  Jack’s brow arched. “Magic?”

  She grinned. “I might have a solution." She holds up a couple dubious looking bottles filled with strange liquid.

  Jack holds up a hand. "Hey whoa, I ain't turnin' my buddy into some enchanted go-kart."

  Eirwen huffed, puffing her cheeks. "Jack, it isn't like you have much choice if you want to fix your wagon. You’ll need to trust me a little.”

  Jack looked at her skeptically. “If it holds air - er, holds shape, and grips, I'm listenin'.”

  Eirwen's grin widened as she uncorked one bottle. "Good. Let's get to work before your Charger decides it's had enough of this world." She brought the bottle up, holding it in front of Jack's face. Inside was a translucent blue blob. She poured the viscous, quivering mass into her hand. “These are slime cores, the remnants of the common slimes you find in the forest,” she explained. “With a bit of potion infusion, I can shape them into a firm structure… a tire that holds together, with traction, and can last a good while. And, if we layer some of the Echo Lion pelts you just collected on top, they’ll add durability.”

  Jack blinked. “You want to… make a tire out of slime and fur?”

  Eirwen’s smile widened. “Exactly. A magical composite. It’ll behave like a normal tire, but without the rubber material you can’t get here.”

  Jack leaned back on his heels, folding his arms. “Well, I suppose it ain't like I got a choice… Alright.” He held up a hand, stretching out a finger. “So step one, stabilize the rim. Step two, carefully layer the slime. Step three, reinforce with the pelts. And then… pray it don’t collapse halfway down the road?”

  Eirwen chuckled. “Something like that. I’ll let you supervise.”

  Jack flexed his fingers and muttered calculations under his breath. “Okay… first, check density, then compression ratios… hmm…”

  Eirwen crouched beside him, already preparing her potion-infused slime blobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll follow your lead.”

  ---

  Jack and Eirwen set to work, using the slimes she’d brought to form a new tire. Jack pulled out his pocket knife, shaping a mold from the old tire while explaining, “This is how a tire keeps its shape. You’ll want the slime to fill evenly…” He stepped back and watched as she dove into the work.

  Eirwen tossed handfuls of slime into the mold, muttering about ratios and frog flippers, then broke into a little tune. She added a splash of strange liquid, then back to tossing slime, humming all the while.

  After a while, a village girl trotted up to Jack.

  “Mister, my mom wants to see you! She’s the one what’s to deal with the lions.”

  Jack looked down at her and smiled, pushing himself off the tire they’d been working on. “Is that so? Where do y’all live?”

  She pointed to a house a short distance away. “Our farmhouse is over there. Mom sometimes skins animals to feed the village. She’s really good at it.”

  Jack wiped his hands. “She’s dealt with Echo Lions before, then?”

  The girl giggled. “Not exactly! We ain’t never seen one that close. It’s somethin’, ain’t it?” She bounced with enthusiasm.

  Jack nodded, then glanced at Eirwen, who was still focused on the mold. “You okay over here?”

  She tilted her head, eyes never leaving the slime. “What was that? Sorry, I'm a little busy, Jack.”

  Jack sighed, muttering to himself, “Yeah, she’s fine. I’m just gonna pop over and pick up the lion skins. Be right back.”

  Eirwen hummed in reply, granting silent permission.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Jack followed the little girl to her farmhouse, meeting with the mother. The introductions were brief and pleasant. Jack took in the scene. The house was homey, and modest. The woman called Jack back to her attention, gesturing toward a butcher’s table that had only recently been scrubbed down. It was kind of comforting seeing the skinned predators off to the side that had attacked him. It sort of reminded him of the time he stumbled into the hunting shack of his buddy back on his world.

  The farmer presented Jack with the pelts and horns of the Echo lions, as well as five gems, one of which was bigger than the other. Jack was confused, looking at the woman. “What are these?” He asked, showing one to the farmer.

  “Why, those’re your mana stones, sir,” she said, blinking at him. “The elder reckoned you’d be takin’ ’em. Adventurers always do.”

  Jack looked down at the crystals in his hands. “What exactly are they used for?”

  “They give you your strength back,” she said. “Mages grind ’em fine as flour and stir ’em into drink. Takes a hard pestle to wake ’em proper… they’re stubborn little things. Once struck right, the power bursts out. Then you’ve a short spell before it settles again.”

  “So you break ‘em and they energize you?” Jack examined one of the crystals in his hand.

  The farm woman shook her head. “Don’t worry - they ain’t glass. You can strike ’em clean and they’ll hold. It’s the shock they answer to, not the break. Most folk just don't want their eyebrows singed off. They'd rather grind ‘em to powder.”

  As Jack examined one of the crystals, the farmer smirked at him. “Didn’t reckon you were new to stones,” she added, wiping her hands on her apron. “Most that carry iron like yours know their worth.”

  “I’m new to most things ’round here,” Jack admitted. “Back home, rocks are just rocks.”

  The woman studied him a moment longer, then gave a short nod. “Well. You’ll learn quick enough. World don’t give folk much choice.”

  ---

  Jack walked back to the Charger, carrying the materials he’d gotten from the Echo Lions. He dropped the pelts on the trunk. “Got yer pelts,” he said, moving to the passenger side to put the mana crystals in the glove compartment. “You said you needed ’em to cover them slime cores, right?”

  Eirwen eyed the hides. “I do. But I am concerned the pelts alone may not withstand the speed your tires reach.”

  “So what’re you saying? We need somethin’ else wrapped ’round the slime so it don’t sling itself clean off?” Jack asked.

  “No. The solution is simpler. We must take the pelts to a tanner.”

  Jack leaned against the hood, squinting at the soft hides. “You reckon these things’ll even grip the road?”

  Eirwen smiled enthusiastically, looking proud. “Without a doubt. In fact, I suspect the slime will grip the road better than your current tires.”

  Jack looked down at the other wheels. “... Well hell, we might as well replace all four, then.”

  Eirwen’s gaze sharpened. “If you intend to replace them all, I’d wager the tanner shall require two pelts… so long as one be that of the Alpha.”

  Jack scratched his chin. “And what happens when they wear out?”

  “They should not. The slime will encourage the leather to regenerate.”

  “... Regenerate?” He blinked. “... How?”

  “The slime will draw upon the mana supplied by the Charger.”

  Jack snorted. “Charger don’t run on mana.”

  Eirwen looked up, surprised. “No? Curious… Then how might the Charger move on its own?”

  “Gasoline,” said Jack. “Refined from oil. Burns hot… controlled hot. Hotter it burns, the more power I squeeze outta the engine.”

  Eirwen tapped her chin, lips pursed. “I see. Then perhaps I can create a mana-based substitute. How hot must it burn?”

  Jack thought for a second. “How hot do forges usually get ’round here?”

  “Around sixteen hundred Arwinian.”

  Jack frowned. “Sixteen hundred… what now?”

  “Arwinian,” said Eirwen, clinically. “It’s a standard unit of temperature in our lands.”

  Jack looked at Eirwen flatly. “Do I look like I know what an Arwinian is?”

  “Then what measure do you employ?”

  “Fahrenheit.”

  Eirwen tilted her head. “I confess, I’ve never heard of it.”

  Jack groaned. “…This is gonna be a problem, ain't it? Okay… let’s try this. What temperature does water freeze at?”

  “Zero Arwinian.”

  Jack paused. Wait a minute… “And water boils at…?”

  “One hundred Arwinian.”

  “…How tall are you?”

  “One point five four Martens.”

  Jack threw his hands up, walking around in a slow circle before facing Eirwen again. “…Yer tellin’ me you use the goddamn metric system?”

  “Arwinian is the standard among scholars. You seem to have a different word for it,” she said, tilting her head. “Why does your land not use the Arwinian system?”

  Jack grunted. “Cuz of Goddamn pirates, that’s why.”

  “Pirates?” Eirwen asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Every single time we requested metric samples, pirates raided the ships carrying ’em. Finally, we said ‘fuck it,’ and stuck with the imperial system. Works fine for us, so why change?”

  Eirwen giggled softly. “…You Americans are… amusingly stubborn.”

  Jack turned back to the Charger, eyes narrowing on the engine. “Alright… sixteen hundred Arwinian… Celsius, right? Water freezes at zero, boils at a hundred… Fahrenheit’s thirty-two to two-twelve… carry the nine-fifths… add thirty-two… that puts it ’round twenty-five hundred. Hot enough to singe yer eyebrows, but not melt the pistons.” He looked up at Eirwen. “My pistons can take twenty-five hundred Fahrenheit without complainin' too much - that'd be 'round Thirteen hundred Arwinian. Your mana brew needs to hit that or hotter without melting my block.”

  Her brow arched. “You… calculated that in your head?”

  Jack waved a hand. “Eyeball math. Celsius, Fahrenheit, Arwinian… all sound fancy. Long as we don't push past redline, I’m happy.”

  “You… estimate rather recklessly,” she muttered.

  “Hun, we don’t get fancy with fractions in Arkansas. Roundin’ up saves lives.” He quickly tucked the crystals he got earlier into a satchel. “So ya gotta cook this mana-juice ’bout three hundred degrees cooler than yer forges… give or take a few. Don’t matter… we ain't makin’ pastries.”

  Eirwen’s eyebrows furrowed. “You do realize that a variance of even ten Arwinian could-”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard ya. Close enough,” Jack interrupted, tapping the Charger’s hood. “When the metric system puts a rocket on the Moon, then I’ll start sweatin’ over a few degrees.”

  Eirwen exhaled sharply. “You are insufferable.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he replied.

  “Then I shall require fire slime cores,” she declared, voice precise, almost ritualistic.

  Jack blinked. “Fire slimes?”

  “They are no common slimes. They have dwelt long in places aflame, and thus their essence holds fire. In any case, I shall require more slime cores than we presently possess. As it stands, I will not have enough for all four tires with just what I have,” she explained, her gaze calculating.

  Jack stood, straightening. “Then I guess we're goin’ huntin’.” He stepped to the passenger side, opened the door, and pulled a small black case from under the seat. Eirwen came over, curiosity piqued.

  “What is that?” she asked. “Another of your… peculiar dwarven-like weapons?”

  Jack opened the case, revealing two pistols nestled inside. “This,” he said, picking up one, “is a Ruger SR9. And this,” he held up the second, “is another Ruger SR9. Thank God I was on my way to the range when I got here. I’ve got six mags for the SR9s, thirty shells for my shotgun, seven already spent, and about half a box of .308 for the M240.”

  Eirwen arched an eyebrow. “Mag? Shell? Box? What do those quantities signify, Jack?”

  “Look, hun,” he said, waving a hand, “all you need to understand is that if every place is gonna be like this, I’ll run out of ammo real quick.”

  Her lips pursed. “You certainly do appear… obsessed with counting.”

  Jack inspected his pistols. “I’m obsessed with survivin’. Trust me, numbers save lives.”

  ---

  Following rumors of a natural Hot spring near the village, Jack pushed through the vegetation. The bark felt damp beneath his fingers. The air carried that mineral smell of standing water. And despite how radically different these trees looked, it seemed they still had something akin to Moss growing on them.

  Eirwen followed, taking notes at his explanation.

  “Fascinating… it had always been assumed that Greenpad merely grew in the direction of North, following the world's poles, but to think there was always an easier answer…”

  “Where I come from, there's a philosophical rule called ‘Occam's razor.’ Basically it states that if there's multiple answers to a question, the question with the least number of qualifiers is the most likely answer.” Jack moved a branch out of the way. “What you call Greenpad I call Moss. Moss likes damp bark and still air. If the air’s wet, it thrives. So the thicker it gets, the closer we are to water.”

  “Incredible…” Eirwen looked up from her notes. “But Jack, we're hunting fire slimes. What good will it do to trace our steps to a water source?”

  “It ain't just any water source I'm after.” Stepping through some thick foliage, he found the rumored hot spring. A small pool of water from which constantly rose steam was there, hidden in the thicket. “I'm looking for hot water specifically.” He smirked. “Now, what makes water hot?”

  “Heat transference, of course,” Eirwen suddenly gasped. “Which means there's a source of heat and possibly fire! And in a location such as this, where slimes are aplenty, that means-!”

  “Fire slimes,” Jack finishes with a smile. “Now you're gettin’ it. Hot water means geothermal heat. Heat like that don’t just sit idle. Somethin’ feeds on it.”

  Jack stepped aside as steam curled up from the hidden pool. The water shimmered faintly, mineral-rich and restless. Eirwen stared at it, then at the thick growth of Greenpad climbing the surrounding trees.

  “…If only Master Aldolin could see me now.”

  Jack glanced at her. “Master who now?”

  She barely heard him. Her eyes were bright. Not cautious, not clinical... but alive. “He always insisted Greenpad aligned to the poles. That it was a passive indicator of geomantic flow.” She flipped through her notes with trembling fingers. “But if its growth correlates with moisture density rather than magnetic orientation, that changes everything. It implies ecological responsiveness rather than astral dependency... which means the botanical classification system is fundamentally flawed…”

  She began pacing. “Do you realize what this means? We could remap migratory patterns of frost sprites. We could reassess marshland ley concentrations. Entire navigation doctrines could be rewritten. The Academy’s northern expedition failed because they assumed they were following polarity drift instead of humidity gradients-”

  “Eirwen.”

  “And if geothermal activity influences slime mutation rates, then fire variants may not be a separate subspecies at all but an adaptive response to sustained thermal exposure which means-”

  “Eirwen.”

  She stopped mid-sentence, blinking. Jack jerked a thumb toward the steaming pool.

  “Fire slimes.”

  She looked at the water. Then back at him.

  “…Yes. Fire slimes.”

  He smirked. “We can rewrite the textbooks after we don’t die.”

  A faint flush colored her cheeks. She cleared her throat and straightened.

  “Quite right.”

  Steam drifted from a jagged crack in the earth just beyond the hot spring. The stone around it was darkened, mineral-stained, warm to the touch. Jack crouched near the edge and peered down. “Well,” he muttered, “heat’s comin’ from somewhere.”

  The fissure wasn’t wide, but it was deep... sloping into a natural shaft carved by time and pressure. The air that rose from it was thick, damp, and metallic. Taking out a line he had grabbed from his trunk, Jack tested a foothold and began easing himself down.

  “Careful,” Eirwen said, gathering her robes as she followed. “Geothermal vents can be unstable.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jack replied. “I ain’t plannin’ on lickin’ the walls.”

  They descended slowly, boots scraping rock. The light from above faded, replaced by the orange shimmer of reflected heat further below. After a moment, Jack glanced back at her.

  “So,” he said casually, “this Master Aldolin. Sounds important.”

  Eirwen was quiet for a few careful steps. “He was,” she said at last. “Traditional. Stern. Capable.” She adjusted her footing and continued. “He believed deeply in established doctrine. In replication. In consensus.”

  Jack grunted. “Had a lotta students?”

  “Many. He took on entire circles of apprentices at once. He insisted that scholarship must be challenged openly. That peer review is the only safeguard against folly.” She hesitated. “He used to say that a claim unchallenged was merely arrogance dressed as intellect.”

  Jack snorted softly. “Out in the sticks,” he said, steadying himself against a rock face, “peer review just means everybody agrees on somethin’ they never seen.”

  Eirwen stiffened slightly behind him. “That is an unfair assessment.”

  “Is it?” Jack asked. “Back home, I’ve seen folks swear up and down about how somethin’ works ’cause somebody in town said so. Nobody’s actually tested it. They just nod along.” He climbed down another ledge. “Consensus don’t mean truth. It just means nobody wanted to argue.”

  Eirwen was quiet.

  The cave narrowed slightly, forcing them closer to the rock wall. The heat intensified.

  “Master Aldolin did not value agreement,” she said finally. “He valued scrutiny.”

  “Same thing sometimes,” Jack replied. “Depends on the crowd.”

  The faint glow below brightened, a pulsing amber light reflecting off wet stone.

  Eirwen exhaled slowly. “He would have dismissed your moss theory at first.”

  “Figured.”

  “But,” she continued, voice softer now, “once the evidence mounted… he would have revised his position.”

  Jack glanced back at her, surprised. “That so?”

  “Yes. He was strict. But he was not stubborn.”

  Jack smirked faintly. “Can’t say the same for most folks I know.”

  A low, wet sound echoed up from below... something shifting.

  Both of them froze.

  The glow flickered again. Jack’s hand moved instinctively toward the pistol at his hip.

  “Well,” he murmured, popping a peanut butter candy in his mouth. “Looks like somethin's gettin' peer reviewed soon...”