The morning sun warmed my porcelain plates as I led Marshes and his team along the eastern forest's edge. My mechanical legs moved smoothly across the uneven ground, each step calculated and precise. The adventurers followed behind, their leather boots crunching fallen leaves.

  "And this is where you encountered them?" Marshes knelt to examine a patch of trampled grass.

  Yes. Henrik's farm lies just beyond those trees.

  Over the past few days, I'd grown accustomed to working with these humans. Marshes especially showed no hesitation in addressing me directly, treating my mechanical nature as merely another facet of who I was rather than something to fear.

  "Good defensive position," Andrim noted, studying the treeline. "Clear sight lines to both the farm and the village."

  Janis still kept her distance, but at least her hand no longer twitched toward her arrows when I moved. Even Coyle had begun asking questions about my Assembly ability, though he tried to mask his curiosity behind professional interest.

  We continued our patrol, checking the perimeter I'd established during my nightly rounds. The villagers we passed nodded in greeting. Old Willem waved at me from his garden, and Sarah Goodmak smiled as she hung laundry.

  "The villagers trust you," Marshes observed as we walked. "That's not common for..." He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  For monsters? I projected, amused by his diplomacy. It's fine. I know what I am.

  "Do you?" He glanced at me, his expression thoughtful. "Most monsters I've encountered, intelligent or otherwise, don't protect human villages or worry about earning trust."

  I considered his words as we reached the stream near where I'd first spotted the ripped shirt that eventually led me to Vom's camp. The water gurgled over rocks, constant and unchanging despite all that had happened here.

  I remember being human, I admitted. Not clearly. But I know I was.

  "Interesting." Marshes stroked his beard. "In all my years as an adventurer, I've never heard of such a thing."

  Coyle moved closer, curiosity overtaking caution. "Could it be some sort of curse?"

  Perhaps. I watched a leaf spiral down the stream. But curses can be broken. This feels... different.

  "Well, whatever you are," Marshes clapped my shoulder, which was the first time any of them had willingly touched me. "You've proven yourself an ally to these people. That's what matters."

  The simple gesture, the casual acceptance in his words, sparked something warm inside me. Not quite memory, but a feeling of rightness. Of belonging.

  "Let's circle around to the west, then back." Marshes scanned the area, looking for any clues. "Light's too dim right now to see into these woods properly."

  We completed our circuit as the sun climbed higher, checking the western approaches before returning to the village proper. Children played in the streets now, no longer rushing inside when I passed.

  Andrim excused himself, saying his throat was parched. He went to the well to get a drink, just as Old Willem had finished filling a ceramic jug with water. The two exchanged some words, and though I could not hear what was said, I could tell it wasn't pleasant.

  I watched Old Willem turn his back on Andrim at the well, refusing to help draw water. The adventurer's face darkened, but he said nothing, hauling up the bucket himself.

  They're not usually like this, I projected to Marshes as we walked past. The villagers. I mean.

  "Oh?" He adjusted his rapier, a habit I'd noticed when he was thinking. "I'd say this is fairly typical for frontier towns. They rely on themselves, don't trust outsiders much."

  I considered this as we headed back towards the eastern fields. The morning sun caught my porcelain plating, casting delicate shadows through the painted flowers. A group of children ran past, giving both of us a wide berth.

  But they needed help. With the raiders.

  "Needing help and wanting it are different things." Marshes nodded to Farmer Tull, who merely grunted and turned back to his work. "Pride's a funny thing. These people have survived on their own for generations. Having to ask for outside help... well, it can feel like failure."

  The insight struck me. I'd assumed their initial hostility toward me stemmed purely from my monstrous nature. But watching Sarah Goodmak deliberately ignore Janis in her store, or seeing Henrik refuse to answer Coyle's questions about the raiders; well, perhaps there was more to it.

  Even you? I asked. They asked the Baron for help, and he sent you.

  "Especially us." Marshes chuckled. "We're living proof they couldn't handle things themselves. No one likes to be reminded of their limitations."

  We reached the eastern treeline where I'd first encountered Gomka's gang. Marshes studied the ground while I scanned the shadows between trees with Mind Sight.

  "Though I must say," he continued, "you've integrated better than we have. Despite being..." He trailed off.

  A monster?

  "I was going to say 'unique'." He smiled. "But yes. You protected them. Didn't ask for payment or recognition. That means something to people like this."

  I thought about the villagers who'd gradually accepted me. Old Willem sharing stories at the pub. Derek bringing me scraps for repairs. Clarik letting me use his forge. Even Kathrin's hostility seemed more about protecting Mallie than fearing what I was.

  I chose to stay, I realized. To help. You're here because you were sent.

  "Precisely." Marshes straightened up from examining tracks. "Sometimes the messenger matters just as much as the message."

  The insight felt valuable, though I couldn't quite explain why. Perhaps understanding why people behaved as they did was its own kind of power, different from Assembly or Mind Speech, but no less important.

  The molten steel floated above the workbench, magically contained into the form of a perfect sphere, as I heated it to the correct temperature. All the while Coyle watched, completely fascinated. His earlier wariness had melted away like the metal I shaped, replaced by endless questions about my abilities.

  "So you just... know how to make things?" He leaned closer, squinting at the glowing metal.

  Not exactly. I focused, and soon the steel orb stopped glowing red as it completely cooled. Feels more like remembering. As if I've done this. Thousands of times before.

  "Amazing!" He scribbled in his notebook, the pages already filled with sketches of my previous works. "And you can create completely new designs?"

  Yes. Though some are more successful. Than others.

  Janis entered the smithy, carrying a basket of fresh bread. She'd been making these "casual" visits more frequently, always when Clarik was working.

  "Thought you might be hungry." She set the basket down, though her eyes were fixed on Clarik's broad shoulders as he hammered at his anvil.

  I don't eat, I reminded her, but she waved me off.

  "It's for my brother and the blacksmith." She smoothed the blue dress she had taken to wearing around town. "Someone needs to make sure they don't waste away while studying your... abilities."

  Coyle rolled his eyes at his sister's transparent excuse, but grabbed a piece of bread anyway. "The Assembly ability is remarkable. I've never seen anything like it."

  Clarik paused his work, wiping sweat from his brow. "No Eyes here's been a blessing. Fixed half the tools in the village, made them better than new."

  I noticed how Janis straightened when Clarik spoke, how her cheeks colored slightly. The subtle signs of attraction were easier to read now that I'd spent more time among humans.

  "Could you show me how you make those gears again?" Coyle pulled out fresh parchment. "The ones with the interlocking teeth?"

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I nodded, gathering scraps of metal. Through Assembly, I shaped them into precise circles, then carved exact teeth along the edges. The pieces fit together perfectly, spinning in smooth synchronization.

  "Incredible." Coyle's quill scratched rapidly across the page. "And you can feel how they should fit?"

  Yes. Like pieces of a puzzle. One I've solved before.

  "Your brother's going to wear out No Eyes with all these questions," Clarik told Janis, who laughed softly.

  "Knowledge is valuable," Coyle muttered, still sketching. "Besides, No Eyes doesn't seem to mind."

  He was right. I didn't mind at all. His curiosity felt genuine, untainted by fear or suspicion. Even Janis, who clearly used my demonstrations as an excuse to visit Clarik, treated me with casual familiarity.

  I created another set of gears, smaller this time, with more intricate patterns. Coyle's eyes lit up at the complexity, while Janis finally tore her gaze from Clarik long enough to admire the craftsmanship.

  "Beautiful," she said, then quickly added, "Though not as impressive as traditional blacksmith work, of course."

  Clarik chuckled at that, making Janis blush deeper. I continued my work, enjoying the simple pleasure of creating while surrounded by people who saw me as more than just a monster.

  How is Marshes doing? I asked while shaping another gear. Haven't seen him around lately.

  The casual question made Coyle suddenly very interested in his notes, while Janis burst into loud laughter that echoed through the smithy.

  Did I say something. Wrong? I tilted my porcelain mask in confusion.

  "No, no," Coyle mumbled, still not meeting my gaze. "He's fine. Just... needs some space. To work on the investigation without distractions."

  Distractions? How would I distract him?

  This only made Janis laugh harder, clutching her sides. "Oh, you really don't know, do you?" She wiped tears from her eyes. "Our dear party leader has quite the... appreciation for non-sapiens."

  Clarik paused his hammering to listen.

  "In the last three towns we visited," Janis continued, "he's had relations with an elf maiden, two dwarven women, and even a halfling barmaid." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  But I'm not a woman, I stated plainly. At least. I don't think I am. I can't remember.

  This sent both Janis and Clarik into fits of laughter while Coyle's face turned bright red. The young scholar buried himself deeper in his notebook, clearly wishing to be anywhere else.

  "That's..." Clarik struggled to speak between laughs. "That's not really the point, No Eyes."

  I don't understand. What's so funny? The molten steel I was working with cooled as my concentration wavered.

  "Don't worry about it," Coyle muttered, shooting his sister a glare. "Can we please go back to discussing gear ratios?"

  I stood at the edge of the makeshift training field, which was in reality just Farmer Colm's unused hay field. My porcelain frame was bright white in the morning sun as Marshes demonstrated footwork to a cluster of eager youths from the village. His rapier flashed, precise and elegant, each movement deliberate.

  "Court Style emphasizes control," he explained, flowing through a series of thrusts. "Every strike must have purpose. No wasted motion."

  Mallie pressed closer to my side, her eyes fixed on the lesson. "Different from how the raiders fought," she whispered. "They just hacked and slashed."

  Yes. This is more... refined. I watched as Marshes corrected a boy's grip on a wooden practice sword.

  "Balance is key." Marshes tapped the youth's elbow. "Keep your arm relaxed but ready. It's like holding a bird: firm enough so it won't escape, but gentle enough not to crush it."

  The movements stirred something in my fractured memory. Faint glimpses of courtyard training grounds, filled with noble youth learning similar, graceful forms. But like always, the memories slipped away before I could grasp them fully.

  "Step, thrust, recover." Marshes demonstrated again, his boots barely disturbing the dirt. "The Court Style was developed for fighting in crowded ballrooms and narrow palace corridors. You must be precise, controlled, and aware of your surroundings."

  "Why not just swing harder?" one of the boys asked, making wild slashes with his practice sword.

  Marshes caught the wooden blade mid-swing. "Because your opponent will see it coming. Court Style is about efficiency. Finding the quickest path between two points." He demonstrated with a lightning-fast thrust that stopped just short of the boy's chest. "Like that."

  The youth's eyes widened. He hadn't even seen the strike coming.

  His speed rivals the mechanical reflexes. In my combat body, I noted to Mallie. Even with four arms. I'd struggle to match that. Precision.

  "But you're stronger," she pointed out.

  Strength means little. Against skill like that. I watched as Marshes guided his students through basic forms. He could find gaps in my defenses before I. Could bring my strength to bear.

  The lesson continued, sunlight glinting off Marshes' rapier as he demonstrated more advanced techniques. Each movement was a study in economy; no flourishes, no unnecessary gestures. Just clean, deadly precision.

  Marshes caught my gaze and his weathered face lit up with a warm smile. He called a brief halt to the training session, striding over to where Mallie and I stood.

  "Good morning. Enjoying the demonstration?" His eyes lingered on my porcelain form longer than necessary. It was strange that I wouldn't have noticed such attention before; only Janis and Coyle bringing up their party leader's interest allowed me to see his gazes.

  The forms are... familiar, I replied through Mind Speech. Though I cannot recall why.

  "Perhaps you were trained in Court Style in your previous life?" He adjusted his grip on the rapier, moving a step closer. "I'd be happy to help you remember, demonstrate some more advanced techniques privately."

  I remained still, uncertain how to respond to the undercurrent in his tone. My ruined body gave no hints about my original gender, and my fractured memories offered no clarity about past attractions or preferences. The concept itself felt foreign even; distant and academic rather than visceral.

  "That was amazing!" Mallie bounced on her heels, thankfully interrupting my awkward silence. "The way you move with the rapier. It's like dancing!"

  Marshes sheathed his blade with a practiced motion. "Years of practice, young lady. Though I'll never reach the heights of a true master."

  "Are you going to evolve your class to Duelist?" Mallie's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "I heard they're the best swordsmen in the world."

  A wistful smile crossed his weathered face. "I'm afraid I'm too old for that now." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "If I'd had the chance to attend the War Academy when I was younger, I'd probably be both a Duelist and higher than level twelve. But such opportunities are reserved for nobles."

  Actually, I projected to both of them, Mallie received an invitation. To attend the Academy.

  Marshes' eyebrows shot up. "You're joking." He turned to Mallie. "Is this true?"

  She nodded, suddenly shy. "Before the raiders took me. I'm really good with a bow."

  "Good enough for the War Academy?" Marshes whistled low. "That's... extraordinary. In all my years, I've never heard of a commoner receiving an invitation." He studied her with new respect. "You must be truly gifted."

  "I just practice a lot," Mallie mumbled, scuffing her boot in the dirt.

  "Don't diminish your achievement." Marshes knelt to meet her eyes. "The Academy only accepts the most promising warriors. If they invited you, it means they see greatness in your future."

  "Master Marshes!" One of the students called out. "Can you show us that disarming move again?"

  "Certainly!" The Swordsman said, before turning to me with a smile. "Would you like to join the lesson?" He asked. "The children could benefit from seeing how different bodies adapt to the forms."

  Yes. That would be... educational. Relief washed through me, thankful that he wasn't insisting on private lessons.

  He handed me a wooden practice sword, which I gripped in my right hand. The weight felt familiar somehow, like greeting an old friend.

  "First position," Marshes demonstrated. "Feet shoulder-width apart, sword arm extended."

  I mirrored his stance, mechanical joints whirring softly. As I settled into the form, a blue status window appeared:

  Just received the Court Style attribute, I projected to Marshes.

  His eyebrows shot up. "Already? But we barely even started! That's... unusual. Highly unusual. Most students take weeks just to grasp the fundamentals." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Show me what you can do."

  I metaphorically closed my eyes and reached deep within myself. Something stirred in the darkness of my broken memories. It was not the precise, controlled movements Marshes had shown, but something adjacent. My body moved of its own accord.

  The practice sword whistled through the air as I flowed from stance to stance. Where Court Style emphasized economy and precision, these movements were broader, designed to clear space on a battlefield rather than a ballroom. Each vicious thrust was followed by a sweeping slash that would have carved through multiple opponents.

  I spun, mechanical legs pistoning as muscle memory I didn't know I possessed took over. The sword became an extension of my arm, describing lethal arcs and devastating thrusts through the morning air.

  When I finally stilled, Marshes was staring at me with a mix of awe and confusion.

  "That wasn't Court Style," he said slowly. "Very similar principles, yes. But the movements look to be of an older style; both less and more refined, if that makes sense." He shook his head. "More militant, meant for large scale warfare rather than one-on-one dueling." His eyes narrowed. "Where did you learn those forms?"

  I... don't know. I stared at the practice sword in my porcelain hand. They just felt natural.

  "Well, whatever it was, it was impressive." He stroked his beard. "Though perhaps we should stick to basic Court Style for now. Don't want to confuse the children."

  I nodded in agreement.

  The morning sun cast long shadows across Weath's main road as I watched the adventuring party prepare for departure. Their week-long stay had transformed from tense suspicion to something warmer, more genuine.

  Coyle approached first, his notebook clutched to his chest. "I've learned more about magical engineering from you than years of study." He extended his hand. "Thank you for sharing your knowledge."

  You're welcome. I clasped his hand with my porcelain fingers. Your questions helped me understand. My own abilities better.

  Janis gave me a quick hug, surprising both myself and Clarik who stood nearby. "Take care of our blacksmith," she whispered with a wink.

  Even Andrim and Jecker, who had initially reached for their weapons at the sight of me, offered friendly waves and smiles. Their fear had melted into cautious acceptance over shared patrols and evening discussions at Willem's tavern.

  Marshes stepped forward last, his weathered face creased in a genuine smile. "You've done good work here," he said, gripping my hand firmly. "If you're ever in Millbrook, come find me. I'd like to learn more about those battlefield forms you showed us."

  I will. I projected warmly. Safe journey to you all.

  "The baron will hear how you've protected these people," Marshes assured me. "Perhaps it will help change minds about intelligent monsters."

  I watched them shoulder their packs and start down the road, their figures growing smaller against the morning mist. An unfamiliar ache settled in my chest; not physical pain, but something deeper. These humans had seen past my mechanical body and eyeless face to recognize something worth knowing.

  A week ago, I wouldn't have believed such acceptance possible. Now, watching them disappear around the bend, I felt both loss and hope intertwined. Loss at saying goodbye to those who had treated me as more than a monster, but hope that perhaps there could be a place for me among humans after all.

  Old Willem appeared at my side, his gnarled hand patting my arm. "They'll be back," he said gruffly. "Good adventurers always return to places where they feel they're welcome."

  I nodded, still watching the empty road where my new friends had vanished.