Chapter 86: Traces Left Behind

Familiar streets, slightly different scenery.

Since Li En had come over, he was unusually happy, didn't have to think about work tomorrow, and turned dinner straight into a midnight snack.

Larry had sobered up, lying on the sofa, watching Dimon, who, barefoot and bewildered as the host, simply took the two of them out for a night stroll, checking out the construction site under way.

"Before, the only places lit up after dark were the casinos and the brothel district—but now, their enthusiasm can't be stopped."

Standing at the foot of the hill, Dimon pointed to the factory zone below.

Larry was deeply moved, but Li En found it strange.

Nighttime construction efficiency is pretty low, after all, this era still relies mostly on human labor—working in total darkness makes slacking off easy and accidents likely.

He turned his Dragon Eye toward them and noticed something odd.

Work was indeed happening: under the lights, some workers were laying bricks and building walls, but others—"big brothers"—sat in chairs, just watching.

A normal person might have been baffled, but Li En, who had walked the grassroots, glanced twice and already understood what was going on.

"Working nonstop can avoid extra losses?"

"Hmm." Dimon was slightly surprised—he never expected Li En, who also seemed like a noble-born youth, to understand such messy details.

Li En, of course, understood: in times of economic chaos, newly opened construction sites and projects in remote areas would be stripped bare—down to just metal sheets—if left unguarded at night.

Many high-value machines would vanish overnight, only to be found later in scrap yards.

"They volunteered—I couldn't stop them. I thought a few guards would be enough; night work is dangerous. But they insisted, so I let them."

Li En shook his head without speaking—he felt the people below were right.

Those who understand the slums are still the slum dwellers themselves.

Even if you leave a few guards, as soon as the lights go out, they can't hold anything—some places are truly capable of mobilizing the whole village; no wire fence will stop them (they'll tear it down), and they'll haul everything off in one go.

Better to work day and night—keep progress moving and avoid unexpected losses.

Losing a little money or gear doesn't matter, but if machinery is stolen, it becomes a nightmare—even if recovered, it'll likely be reduced to scrap metal and copper wire.

"What's that?"

Li En pointed to another row of low buildings, where the faint scent of cooking food drifted.

By location, it was also within Dimon's territory.

"A seafood processing plant—mainly making dried fish and rations, meant for sailors and adventurers. We're testing the market first; better than those bars and restaurants. I used to do this—they sold mostly kitchen waste."

Li En nodded. Dimon truly had thought ahead—this market was indeed relatively empty and full of potential.

Adventurers and sailors' biggest headache was food spoilage; even the meals and rations sold at lodging spots weren't much better, especially from unscrupulous vendors who planned only for one-time tourist profits.

But Dimon saw further: if, as he'd said, he built up this underground corridor's logistics business, it was better to earn reputation and long-term income than to rip off customers once.

Then, when people bought food here, they'd naturally pick up weapons, supplies, spare parts—even stay overnight. If it became a trusted, reputable supply line, it meant stable, semi-permanent income.

Perhaps Dimon hadn't read many books, but he wasn't foolish.

"Once business picks up here, I'll take three-tenths, you take one-tenth—the rest will be distributed. The same will go for the textile factory below—Miss Sallyman holds six-tenths."

Li En nodded, agreeing.

Acting as a backer meant taking a cut—even if small, you had to be tied into the relationship.

Li En didn't care about this income—it might be only a few gold coins a year—but the future was uncertain.

"Power" was nothing but manpower and capital; once this industry stirred, what was needed would come in time.

"Heh, I've got some assets too."

Though seemingly insignificant, looking at the busy crowds and dilapidated factories below, Li En felt a quiet joy and satisfaction.

At least, where this outsider had walked, he'd left some trace.

Perhaps the change was small, the trace faint—but still visible to the naked eye.

"I can help! I can help!" At that moment, Kuku became lively again.

"Great Alchemist! Food improvement! Eat more!" He meant he could help improve the taste of rations and portable food.

"I've eaten so many kinds of rations! From every race! I can replicate them! Delicious! Elven! Dwarven! Machine race! Subdragon! All delicious!"

Li En hesitated, remembering Kuku's past record—don't blow up what's just getting started.

"Alright, go ahead."

Hmm, maybe it's not such a big deal—right now, there's nothing to lose. If it explodes, just rebuild.

If he actually succeeded, they'd strike it rich.

Li En never underestimated the power of a Spirit Soul—even if Kuku looked utterly unreliable, and indeed was, he was still a legendary hero recorded in history.

"Dimon, let me introduce you to a technical consultant."

Because he introduced Kuku to Dimon, Li En couldn't leave. Considering Lana had a maid watching over her and wouldn't be in danger, Li En simply stayed and slept there.

Naturally, he suffered another painful dream.

"Ha! Ah! So painful! So painful!"

Physical pain awakened Kuku from his "long slumber."

The dog-man clutched his head, lost in confusion and disorientation.

The original "dual-core" surgery hadn't gone well—in fact, the dog-man's overconfidence led him to perform the surgery before the technology was mature.

Had fate not favored him—or had he not been absurdly tough—he'd have been dead, suicide by his own hand.

Even so, he suffered long-term post-op side effects: a prolonged "dumbing-down" period and a life of wandering.

"Pfft! Pfft!" He spat out dead rats and sand, looked up dazedly—and saw endless desert and oases. He had no idea where he'd ended up.

Later, he calculated: during his six-month loss of reason and intellect, Kuku wandered over a dozen cities, thousands of kilometers—surviving was sheer luck. And the mad wizard? Few dared to bother him.

When his intellect and sanity returned, he was astonished: the side effects were far milder than expected, and the results were incredible.

He, indeed, had gained a second mind—and even a second personality—yet remained himself.

"Let's work together! Learn magic!"

"Together! Become masters."

Thus, one Kuku became two Kukus.

The boost from dual-core thinking finally broke his Third Ring mage bottleneck—and even at Fourth Ring, he faced no difficulty.

But soon, he discovered a better use for multiple thought streams.

"Click! You learn evocation! I learn alteration!"

A spellcaster's spells and supernatural abilities were roughly divided into eight schools.

Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment (Enchantment/Charm), Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Alteration (Alchemy)—these were crude classifications, meant to help spellcasters focus their studies.

Magic and knowledge had no limits, but a mage's lifespan and energy did. Concentrating on one discipline was the common practice. This classification was deeply unscientific, full of contradictions—but it worked well for beginners.

In this process of specialization, mages often gained much.

"No! I learn alteration! You learn evocation!"

But every spellcaster had personal preferences and traits—each Kuku naturally wanted to study the system suited to him.

Both Kukus were interested in alteration-based alchemy and didn't want to learn evocation (a certain mage: "Evocation brute? Looks like a crude sorcerer").

Even though evocation was extremely powerful in combat, ranking among the top two in raw destructive power.

In the end, the first Kuku won by virtue of "age."

Dual thought streams weren't just about gaining an extra "hand" in battle—they meant two minds studied from different perspectives and angles, then merged their results.

"Divination! Useful! Should we… get another one?"

"Yes! Yes! You're too boring—more people to talk to!"

Thus, the third one was born. This time, the confusion lasted only a month, and Kuku locked himself in his home.

"You learn divination! New guy!"

"No way! I want to learn alteration, alchemy!" Uh-oh—they started fighting again.

The original side effects should have been far worse; all similar surgeries had failed. At this point, Kuku didn't yet know he succeeded because he was uniquely special.

Kuku was just satisfied: the new Kuku was still Kuku, with none of the personality conflicts or soul-shattering risks others warned about.

"If there's no problem! Again!" The dog-man's confidence made him forever believe the next attempt would succeed.

Many who knew the truth waited for his madness and self-destruction.

But he actually succeeded.

The same thing happened again and again—who knew how many Kukus there were in the end?

But by then, Kuku was already a true Grand Mage—even a rare polymath mage.

Yet he still didn't stop—he went even further.

"Shamanic magic! Couldn't master it before—need a specialist!"

"Elemental incantations! Dark magic! Need experts too!"

"Dragon Tongue Incantations."

Perhaps no one had imagined that, among spellcasters of that era, hid a true little monster.

He didn't know how strong he'd become—but among those he knew, no one dared underestimate him.

"Hellhound Dragon" was the strange yet fitting title Kuku earned at this time.

Finally, at some point, Kuku, now possessing enough power, began trying to return to his origin—to fulfill his lifelong wish of walking the path of magic.

Knowledge existed to solve problems.

"Break the chains! Free dog-men from the evil dragon's control! Let them live for themselves!"

This was Kuku's origin—and what he wanted to leave behind for the world.

But will fate favor him this time?

(End of Chapter)