I waddled after Mug after sitting and letting Stelheim’s confession simmer in my mind. I had met my first reincarnated soul besides myself, and it turned out to be a serial killer accelerationist who thought of me as some hard-boiled detective type sent to stop him after failing to on Earth. Not ideal. Not even acceptable. Honestly, it was downright horrible. I guess I had no choice but to move on for now, though, and as Mug lifted me into the cart, I decided not to think about it for the moment and focus on what was in front of me: getting a house.

  The cart began the trek through the kingdom, and I once again watched the city go from opulence to impoverishment. The rule of King Odval was marked with inequality, but it seemed like non-humans bore the brunt of his disdain. The way he spoke about Mug was all the evidence I needed; he wasn’t ‘Mug,’ he was just another goblin. Fantastic racism, thy name is Odval.

  Speaking of Mug, he was sitting in front of me in the cart, casting back nervous glances every now and then my way. I let this go on for an hour before I couldn’t take it anymore.

  ‘Mug. You’ve been antsy for the last hour. What’s wrong? Do I have mustard on my rim or something?’ Mug turned to face me sheepishly while he steered the donkey, only hitting one person as he did so.

  “It’s just… Master Lugenhelm, why did you not send me back to Master Odval? I am of no real use. All I did was pull a lever and put corpses into you. Surely you could have asked for some greater servant?” Ah, so that was it. He had a bit of impostor syndrome. I understood that plenty well, even though I had never been much.

  ‘Mug, I asked for you for two reasons. One, you stuck with me facing down a dragon that could’ve melted us into puddles. That’s bravery right there, and there is no telling how much someone has until the dragon is staring you down, so to speak. Two: you’re my friend, dude. You heard Edvald; he had new “training” for you. He was probably going to make you, I don’t know, eat hot nails or hunt you like a fox with blunt arrows or something. I couldn’t let that happen.’ Mug sniffed and turned back around, lost in thought.

  “He gave up trying to hit me with arrows ages ago. But… thank you, Master Lugenhelm.”

  ‘Listen, call me anything but Master, Mug. That’s not what friends call each other.’ Mug sniffed again, and I realized he was trying not to cry. This was probably the first time he’d been treated this way. It was sad, since Mug, for all his faults, was all-around a good egg. Maybe it was the trauma bond of surviving a fume wyrm together, but I had come to appreciate the little goblin.

  I had to acknowledge that Mug was my only friend as well, in this life and the last. Sure, I had people I gamed with occasionally, and I was on a first-name basis with most people at my dead-end job, but I really hadn’t had anyone I could consider anything other than an acquaintance. Even my parents had mostly been people I knew rather than anyone who provoked a real emotional connection. It was nice, if a bit foreign to me. Kinda like what I imagined hummus would be like.

  We made our way into the outskirts of the city, and it was a more dire sight than I realized the first time. Everything was in disrepair: the streets, the buildings, everything. Even the well water was green. The denizens were no better: a motley hodgepodge of beastmen, goblins, orcs, and human peasants staring suspiciously at the royal cart, donkey, and trashcan moving through their territory. I had Mug drive the cart around for over an hour while we looked for a building to claim; there were plenty, but I didn’t want to displace any residents. There were lots of families—kobold children and goblin toddlers and human teens and everything in between—wild and dirty and clearly lacking in education or money. King Odval was definitely not a top-five king. He might not even be top five thousand.

  I eventually settled on what appeared to be a former bakery. It was two stories high and relatively large, but had holes missing in the brickwork, no doors, smashed windows, and a roof that seemed to be one good gust of wind from completely collapsing.

  Okay, so it was a bit of a fixer-upper. The important thing was nothing appeared to live there except rats and roaches, and it had four walls and a roof, kind of. It would do. This wasn’t just a place to hide from the royal court; this was a chance to experiment with my Devour and Alchemical Recycling. Mug and I were going to turn this building into a habitable residence or die trying. If the roof gave out, probably the latter.

  Mug tied the donkey to a broken fencepost, and then it was time to get to work. There were a lot of problems, but we couldn’t start until the place was at least sealed from the elements and the roof was fixed. Taking this run-down building and turning it into just a regular building was probably going to prove troublesome, but for now, we had time. I had Mug toss some loose bricks and wooden planks into me before realizing that bricks needed something to hold them together. We would need some kind of mortar, and this part of town looked like mortar would be hard to find.

  I wasn’t in what I had begun to think of as my mobile mode; instead, I was just a trashcan with a small goblin and a donkey nearby. I sat for a second as I thought of ways to get some kind of binding agent. Alchemical Recycling could only reproduce items as they were, or perhaps repaired like the Earrings of Messaging. Maybe once it had been upgraded a level or two I could change qualities, like a solid to a liquid, but right now I could only reproduce the cracked, broken mortar between bricks.

  ‘Mug, do you know where we can buy any mortar? Also, do you have any money? I should have asked the king for money.’ Mug shrugged. “As a servant of Edvald, I was paid in royal affection and the opportunity to live in the opulence of the imperial castle.”

  ‘So, no?’

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Not a cent, I’m afraid.”

  Great. We had no supplies and no way to buy supplies, either. I was so deep in thought on this new conundrum I didn’t notice the old dwarf that walked over and leaned on me casually.

  “Gonna need some quicklime or sumthin’ on this here if yer wantin’ it to stay stuck,” he spoke gruffly. Internally, I rolled my eyes in frustration.

  ‘Yeah, the problem is I don’t know where to buy that and I don’t have any money even if I did.’ The dwarf sucked his tongue before he answered. “Yar, that sure be a problem.” I agreed.

  Wait, did this dwarf just hear me? Without an Earring of Messaging?

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Dwarf, but are you actually hearing me? Or was that just suspiciously good timing on a comment you were making to yourself?’ The dwarf laughed, slapping my lid at the humor of it all.

  “Course I can hear ya! I’m blind, not a fool!” I turned focus toward him and really looked. He was, of course, short. He had a gigantic beard that covered most of his mouth and all of his belly. Calling it salt and pepper would be generous; it was mostly salt with just a dash of pepper for flavor. He wore fingerless gloves, a scratchy-looking wool tunic and pants combo, and no shoes on his hairy feet. His eyes were milky white and unfocused. He wasn’t lying; he really was blind.

  ‘So, want to explain how you’re hearing me, or are you just going to stand there and be cryptic?’ The dwarf scoffed as if offended.

  “I ain’t ever been that, lad! I’m as clear an’ true as water nymph piss, ask anyone! Nay, you learn to hear a bit better once your eyes go. Least I did. Besides, us Hreiddmar hear better than you longlegs, assumin’ you ain’t actually a trashcan. You sound like a longleg, anyway. All whiny an' sad.” Hreiddmar? It sounded like a throat being cleared, but I assumed it was what the dwarves called themselves. I mentally filed that away and replied.

  ‘Okay, Mr. Hreiddmar—’ he interrupted me with a whack to the lid.

  “Don’t call me that, for the sake of the earth king! Your accent’s all wrong. Name’s Keggr, son of Skeggr, of clan Stoneringer. What about you, longlegs pretendin’ to be a bin? Got a name?” That was a tough question. I still couldn’t recall my real name, and I hadn’t stopped to think of an acceptable nom de plume.

  ‘Er, they call me Lugenhelm, son of a guy you haven’t heard of. So, Keggr, you can hear me because you have good hearing? Is that what I’m gathering?’ He laughed again and clapped my lid. If this guy kept it up, I was going to have dents.

  “Nay lad, nay! It’s ’cause when ya speak, ya vibrate! Even a bin like yerself can’t help but vibrate when ya want to be heard, even if ya don’t know it. I guess when I lost my eyes, I got a little better at hearin’ that sort of thing.” That was interesting to know. I thought that my mental messages were basically undetectable, but apparently, with sharp enough ears, you could hear me plain as day.

  ‘Well… that is something I did not know, thanks. Anyway, Keggr, you were mentioning quicklime. My green companion and I don’t have any money, but if you could help us procure some, could I pay you back one day? With interest, of course!’ The dwarf sucked his teeth then spat in the dirt.

  “Alright lad, but my price is steep! I’ll be wantin’ a bed an’ a room! I’ll get me own three hots, but I’m needin’ a cot! How does that sound?” Truthfully, it sounded steep, especially since I only needed a handful of quicklime in order to recycle my own. I told Keggr as much, and he made a counteroffer: not only would he supply quicklime, but he would also be my resident builder and supervise all repairs. I asked him why he would be willing to help us and he just laughed in his thick, raspy voice before gazing off into the distance, lost in thought.

  “I built this building, you know. Musta been, oh, eighty or so years now, back when I was workin' for the previous king. Or maybe his grandpa? Can't ever keep longlegs straight in me head. Anyway, it was one of the first I ever done. Seein' it all broken down and miserable... well, it hurts me heart. Truthfully, I'd fix her outta me own pocket if I could, but as soon as I did, this mangy lot would have it torn down again. Maybe with real residents instead of orc cutthroats it'll last more than a few days.” That made sense. I didn't have much to show for my previous life, but I imagined someone coming in and wiping all my SSR squads and replacing them with mismatched garbage. I'm sure it wasn't quite as meaningful, but I got the idea.

  “Besides,” he continued, shaking himself out of his nostalgic reverie, “you two won't last three days out here. A trashcan, a goblin, and a donkey sittin' out in the open with not a sword between you? The gangs 'round these parts will have you scrapped and you sold before you can get your pants down! This ain't the castle out here, lad!” He was right. I wanted to say that we had handled a fume wyrm, thank you very much, but that was basically a wild animal. Humanoid gangs which might or might not have magical members were a whole different ball game.

  ‘Well... when you put it like that, I guess it wouldn't hurt to have an experienced craftsdwarf such as yourself around. But are you really that good, or just a bum who spins a good tale? I know we don't look like much, but I am a holy spirit on a divine mission, and this is my noble squire. We only take the best recruits.’ Translation: I am in no position to argue with offered help, but I can't look like a pushover either. He seemed to get the message and simply walked over to a broken section of lumber that had probably once been a table. Without using a single tool besides his hands and the environment, he managed to basically fashion the table again from scratch. Sure, it was quite a bit smaller than a man could use, and yes, it probably wouldn't hold up to any real use, but the fact that he did it effortlessly spoke volumes.

  I mentally went over my options. On one hand, this dwarf might just be an insane conman or drifter, hoping to murder us in our sleep; after recent events, I couldn't really rule that out. On the other hand, I had no clue about actual carpentry, architecture, or even feng shui. I had just planned to stick bricks and wood where they looked like they belonged and hope it didn't collapse. Dwarves were always the builder class; in the Crown/Last Decree idle game, you used dwarven smiths to upgrade your village. It would surely be helpful to have one around, plus it seemed like Keggr might be able to give me more basic information on the world and the city than Mug, especially since he had been around for over eighty years.

  I extended my crude hand and he smiled and shook it. “Aye, there's a good lad! We'll have this place lookin' like new again, just ya wait! I'll even tell the Redtusks not to come shank yer goblin later tonight like they was plannin'! Oh yes, this is gonna be good, just like old times... but first, wait here a spell! I'll get us some quicklime in a treat, and we can start workin' ’fore sundown! I can't wait to get me hands on a good joist again...” He wandered off, muttering to himself while skillfully stepping around debris and horse droppings.

  Just like that, we had a home and a repairman. I was pleased, but Mug turned to me with a terrified expression.

  "Master Lugenhelm, do you think he was perhaps joking about the Redtusks shanking me?"

  'No I do not, Mug.'

  "Oh."