From afar, the spell model of Demonskin resembled a leaf with tapered tips at both ends. It was currently revolving slowly, rotating around the demonic mark in his mental-power space alongside several other spell models. They appeared to stand guard over that solitary mark. High above in the vault of his mental-power space, the zero-ring spell slot hosting the solidified Fetid Skin shone down like a star.
Luge was already striving to usher in his second demonic mark as soon as possible.
Once his condition was restored, he immediately began casting, channeling energy into the spell model in rapid succession. After seven consecutive casts, an eighth was already pushing his limits.
*That's about the extent of it.*
He lightly scratched his skin with a claw. The spell had stimulated wrinkled ridges across the surface, overlaying it with a translucent layer of keratin. The overall protection felt mediocre, but its advantage lay in being light and unrestricted; standing up, moving, and hopping around caused no discomfort whatsoever.
After a brief session of restorative meditation, he brought out the gift set Half-Man had given him: a palm-sized piece of hide and a matching bottle of potion.
By focusing his mental power onto the potion bottle, he could read the advisory warnings, which made the procedure seem somewhat hazardous at first glance.
First, he had to select an attachment site. Since this was meant for self-defense, his mindset was to keep it hidden from plain sight. His own limited knowledge might prevent him from identifying the hide's origin, but that did not mean others would fail to recognize it. If someone possessed a countermeasure, or simply noticed an unusual patch grafted onto him, most apprentice wizards would deduce that he knew Demonskin—and likely relied on it often.
After feeling around for a long time, he finally settled on the underside of his upper arm.
He first cast Hair Removal on himself. Raising his arm, he could not help but think of Bald Tooth, though with his precise spell control, he naturally would not reduce himself to such a state.
With the back of his upper arm cleared clean, he broke the seal of the potion bottle and slowly poured the liquid down the back of his raised elbow. The potion was slightly viscous, flowing slowly enough to stay under control. A sizzling sound rose as his skin seemed to corrode, though it did not hurt as much as he had anticipated. Instead, a strange, intense itching flared up, feeling as if it reached straight from the corroded patch into the depths of his soul.
Counting quietly in his mind, Luge picked the opportune moment, picked up the unknown hide, and slapped it firmly onto the spot.
The hide, which he had worried might be uneven, instantly conformed with surprising docility, as if it had been made specifically for this corroded patch of flesh. He smoothed it gently with a hand, and under the potion's effect, the two seamlessly merged into one. Everything looked flawless, aside from a slight lingering ache that kicked in afterward.
To him right now, it felt merely like a slightly rough birthmark to the touch.
*Zero-ring spell: Demonskin.*
He cast the spell once more, paying close attention to its transformation.
This was his first time casting with the aid of a spellcasting material, and a rather extraordinary one at that—one deeply bonded to his own flesh.
He also observed the change in casting consumption. Altering an existing spell like this was an unfamiliar experience; last time, he had been too rushed with Fetid Skin to experiment properly.
A tingling numbness spread from the back of his arm. The palm-sized hide, originally black, triggered a shift across his entire body as the spell succeeded. Raising both hands before his eyes, he saw that his skin had turned a solemn, dark red.
He retrieved a claw left behind by the Black Longfur Holy Lord and scraped it forcefully across his arm. It left behind only a faint, whitish scratch.
Testing his casting limits again, his capacity dropped from eight casts down to five.
This clearly demonstrated that the original owner of this hide had been a creature significantly stronger than himself.
Poking it with a claw, he could feel a trace of flexibility beneath the hardness.
He sprawled out flat on the ground in an X-shape, closing his eyes to savor a brief moment of relaxation.
With a shift of thought, Fetid Skin activated smoothly; there seemed to be no conflict between the two.
Rest and meditation would be followed by a tour of condolence to the wizards' remains. As a small kobold, there was not much he could do; he would simply put their leftover belongings to good use before giving them a modest burial. Naturally, as a kobold, he had no intention of letting anything go to waste—waste was shameful, so he might very well strip them down to their shoes.
He had already prepared for this journey earlier and had no intention of disturbing anyone upon leaving. If Aisjin and Bald Tooth could not find him, they would simply assume he was out nearby hunting or catching insects.
His preparations were straightforward. His storage pouch contained two small vials of Big Dumb Hum's blood, which he had traded for with shaved ice before they parted ways. He had also claimed Bald Tooth's broken weapon hilt; to him, the remaining shaft served well enough as a war hammer. Spare rations and other necessities went without saying.
Selecting a well-balanced long staff tipped with a beast fang, he departed the labyrinthine caves that had afforded him the chance to linger on until now.
Before leaving, tragic tales of heroes crossed his mind for no particular reason—stories of someone stepping out the door only to be stabbed in the back and sent straight to the grave.
Carrying the long staff on his shoulder and taking short strides with his little legs, he relaxed again upon remembering that he was no hero.
To reach his nearest objective, he first had to pass through the zone of small caves occupied by the kobolds and head toward the more expansive Great Cave where generations of kobolds had hunted. That was a subterranean world akin to a wonderland. His target required cutting diagonally across it—a stroke of luck, as traveling straight through would have added several days to the trek. In an adjacent cluster of small caves along its edge lay the resting place of a wizard.
More likely than not, an affluent apprentice wizard.
Viewed from another angle, this journey was something of an indulgence for him.
Back when Luge had not participated in tribal hunts, he had not dared to venture a single step away.
To a frail race like kobolds, the mysterious, unpredictable underground was fraught with unknown perils at every turn. The kobolds' reliance on so-called holy lords and their eager subservience to powerful alien beasts stemmed in part from this harsh reality. A grueling environment had fostered this peculiar mode of survival.
Yet the present Luge felt confident that, as long as he remained cautious, he alone was more formidable than the strongest hunting party his tribe could assemble.
Casting Bull's Strength on himself from time to time, the abundant stamina allowed him to march at a rapid pace. By managing the intervals properly, he kept his mental power at a satisfying level throughout.
After an unbroken stretch of trekking, he slowed to a halt, finally greeted by a sight he had not seen in a long time.
Upon entering the territory of the Great Cave and walking a certain distance, one could not help but look up into the expanse, where towering, spindle-shaped mushrooms rose in the distance like giant trees.
The first time he had witnessed them, he had frozen in awe, only to get kicked in the rear by a kobold behind him.
During the two times he had accompanied the hunting party, they had never gone near that area; it seemed to be one of the more dangerous parts of this cavern world.
Luge withdrew his gaze and surveyed his surroundings, keeping his footsteps as light as possible.
Along the way, he had maintained the second form of Fetid Skin, which had even enabled him to pick up a few charming little prey animals. If he did not recognize a creature and had no intention or courage to eat it, he refrained from stabbing it just to avoid dirtying his staff with blood.
"Lizardfolk?"
He had not walked far before practically running into a band of lizardfolk.
Furthermore, their backs bore crimson ridges he had never seen before, setting them starkly apart from the green-backed specimens that constantly skirmished with the kobolds. They looked far more robust, with a row of erect, webbed spines running along their spines, appearing as though the sharp quills had forcibly burst through their tough hides.
Judging by their heading, this squad of little lizards seemed to be paying a visit toward the kobolds' territory.
*Mm, it would be wonderful if I had a mind-control spell,* he could not help thinking.
Chapter 26