Dante examined his upgraded companion. "So . . . Runegnome, huh? Did you get to choose the class?"
Bluenose nodded eagerly. "Every creature is unique. We evolve into classes that suit our skills and nature. Mine's a support-based crafter class with elemental warding, trap glyphs, and light combat utility. Nothing flashy, but I'm finally something."
"Useful," Dante muttered, nodding. "Very useful."
His mind was already spinning—Runegnome? That sounded like something with growth potential. Warding glyphs, traps, utility skills, writing runes . . . a mobile support-type with an offensive ultimate.
Interesting.
"Alright," Dante said, standing up. "You've evolved. It's only right your gear does too. I'll upgrade your equipment next. We're not walking into Dullowmarch underdressed."
Bluenose's eyes sparkled with excitement. "You're the best, Master!"
Dante cracked a grin. "Don't get used to gifts. Earn them."
====
The next morning, Dante stepped out and immediately noticed the change.
The original four adventurers from yesterday—Gavriel, Brennos, Seyra, and Lyra—were now surrounded by nearly a dozen others.
Professor Thimblewick had clearly pulled strings overnight and recruited more bodies for the trip to Dullowmarch.
But even with more numbers, it was obvious who ran the show.
The original four stood at the center, barking orders, pairing off groups, and explaining routes and contingencies. They weren't just strong—they had presence. Leadership. Experience.
Meanwhile, Dante and Bluenose were completely ignored.
Not that Dante minded. That meant less attention.
Seyra's eyes flicked toward them once—more specifically, at Bluenose. She stared a beat longer than necessary, clearly noticing the change.
The upgraded posture, the trimmed gear, the aura shift. But Bluenose didn't even glance her way. His big blue eyes were locked on Dante with an expression so awestruck it looked cult-level.
Seyra's lips curled in disgust. She turned away.
Then came the real test.
Dante casually reached into his satchel and handed out Loafy Bread—a dense, slightly sweet travel loaf worth maybe five gil—to every adventurer and villagers alike he passed.
Just a gift. A gesture.
Some accepted with polite thanks. Others ignored him completely. A few sneered, and some tossed it aside like garbage.
But Dante wasn't here for reactions. He was watching the system.
A soft ding echoed in his mind.
[Relationship with Gavriel: 0] He doesn't know who you are. Might think you're part of the luggage. Would probably sit on you during breaks.
[Relationship with Brennos: 0] Thinks you're squishier than a boiled slime. Already betting 10 gil you'll trip and die in the first encounter.
[Relationship with Seyra: -1] She'd rather babysit a cactus. In her defense, the cactus at least wouldn't talk back or breathe loudly.
[Relationship with Lyra: 0] She forgot your name five minutes after you said it. May or may not be under the impression you're the bread delivery guy.
[Relationship with Bluenose: MAX] Will fight gods, taxes, and mosquitoes for you. Has already written a hymn in your honor. Probably crying tears of loyalty right now.
Dante checked his information. Relationship values ranged from -5 to +5. Zero meant indifference. Positive meant goodwill. Five meant absolute loyalty. Max meant submission—fanatical, unquestioning devotion.
Anything below zero? Dangerous. -3 and below came with warnings of betrayal or assassination attempts.
So even a cheap loaf of bread could tip the scales.
That was good intel.
Dante also came to a useful conclusion: if he gifted the right item to the right creature, their relationship would immediately shoot up to MAX—just like what happened with Bluenose. And the best part?
Once it hit MAX, it didn't go down. Ever.
No matter what he said, did, or forgot to do later . . . that loyalty was locked in.
Basically, it was like unlocking a permanent "ride-or-die" mode. All he had to do was figure out the perfect gift for each person—or creature—and boom, eternal friendship. Or at least, a very obedient sidekick.
Without wasting another hour, once their numbers were finally complete, the expedition set off toward Dullowmarch.
The march was anything but a pleasant countryside stroll. True, there were beaten trails carved into the wilderness from centuries of merchant caravans and adventurer patrols, but that didn't make it safe.
The path cut through wild hills and shadowy thickets, each turn hiding either harmless forest birds . . . or something with far too many teeth.
Beasts prowled the undergrowth. The occasional guttural growl or piercing screech reminded everyone that this region was still claimed by monsters.
Packs of fangbeasts lurked near the slopes. Venomwing wasps nested in old, rotting trees, their stingers long enough to pierce through leather armor. Even the rivers they crossed were rumored to have carnivorous eels.
Thanks to the veterans' guidance, no serious injuries—or deaths—had occurred so far. Whenever an ambush came, the frontline fighters formed an instant wall of steel, cutting down threats before they could do damage.
Well . . . everyone except two particular members of the group.
While the rest were busy fighting off a pack of three-eyed boars, Dante and Bluenose were crouched in the undergrowth, happily plucking plants.
Dante's eyes were alight with excitement as he stuffed sprigs of grassberries, handfuls of wild mint, and what looked like . . . a wriggling beetle . . . into his dimensional satchel.
"Oi! Don't think you're getting compensated like the rest of us who are actually fighting!" one of the swordsmen barked between swings of his blade.
"That's right!" another chimed in while hacking through a boar's flank. "And don't you dare keep those materials for yourself. You better share them with the group. Make yourself useful for once!"
Dante didn't even look up. "It's fine if you don't pay me," he said in his calm, unbothered tone. "From the very start, I made it clear—I only came along because I needed to reach Dullowmarch. Once we get there, we go our separate ways."