Round Three: Rain City

Morriel glared at Forty-Seven irritably. “If I could create my own dimensional space, the first person I’d put in there would be you! The amount of magic power needed to maintain a dimensional pocket… Why am I even telling you this? You idiotic construct!”
Indeed. The study of space and time has always been a terrifying endeavor. The Super Brain had calculated that relativity would need to be rewritten at least three times to grasp the essence of the universe, though no one knew exactly how. And judging by his current situation, perhaps the Super Brain had been conservative.
Forty-Seven also had no intention of staying behind in the mage tower with the lizard in the mud. His core—a metal core embedded deep within his body, emitting a faint energy—went unnoticed by Morriel. Forty-Seven wasn’t entirely satisfied with his current body, and since there was nothing left to do in the mage tower, he decided to follow Morriel to carry out his plan to transform into a perfect body.
At first, Morriel was shocked by Forty-Seven’s ambitions—how much more complex did this madman want to make himself? And it seemed he wanted to change his form by recombining parts… Was he planning to become a druid shapeshifter?
“That’s utterly insane,” Morriel finally admitted, recognizing that this construct was truly unique.
But clearly, it was also a powerful guardian… perhaps even stronger than an entire team of adventurers.
“Let’s discuss it later. We’ll set off tomorrow. Leave this place.”
“Maybe you should use some spells to turn mud into stone… My joints are full of mud.”
“Shut up! Watch where you’re going! Idiot! If you didn’t have the habit of complicating simple things, you wouldn’t have these problems!” Morriel could no longer tolerate Forty-Seven’s complaints. She struck his back hard with her staff. “It’s a shame your creator didn’t make you a clay golem!”
A clay golem? It seemed like a very sturdy construct, though rather clumsy. Forty-Seven tried to recall how he had dealt with swampy terrain before… Oh, back then he had anti-gravity generators.
“Maybe you don’t even know the spell to turn mud into stone.”
“Enough! I said shut up! Turn around! Don’t keep walking straight ahead! That ground can’t support your weight!”
Finally, they were about to leave this cesspool. Forty-Seven had stopped trying to clean his body days ago, realizing it was pointless—and actually had no effect on him.
Morriel continued to use spells to guide them and avoid dangers. They were much luckier than when they arrived. The ground beneath their feet gradually became firmer, and the strange aquatic plants disappeared from sight…
“Rest for one night, and we’ll be out of this damned swamp area by tomorrow.” Morriel set up a tent and fell into a deep sleep, fully in meditation—this was why even mages wanted construct guardians. Compared to cunning peers, these steel creations were absolutely reliable.

Perhaps I’m not that reliable. Forty-seven thought boredly. He had no intention of taking out the spellbook from his pack to browse through it—there was no need at all… The mage had been dead for so long, and there were still no animations. Forty-seven had no idea how many times he had flipped through that broken book—although he couldn’t understand it, he had managed to memorize it somewhat.

Forty-seven’s head suddenly turned half a circle, staring into the depths of the swamp. If it were a human, such an angle would only prove that their neck was broken, with their trachea and blood vessels twisted and torn. But Forty-seven was an artificial being, so it wasn’t strange for him to do that.

Its body also began to rise segment by segment. The world in Forty-seven’s eyes lacked color but was highly precise. Something lurked in the darkness—powerful, dangerous, deadly.

“Morril!” Forty-seven reached out to grab the sleeping Morril—more precisely, he yanked the entire small tent apart and threw it far away, regardless of the consequences. Almost simultaneously, a hissing sound came from the darkness, as if something had spat—then the entire camping area was covered in a foul, stinking mist.

“You bastard—” Morril felt dizzy and disoriented. If she hadn’t fallen into the mud, that blow might have killed her. She crawled out of the ruined tent, not yet having time to blame Forty-seven for his foolish and reckless actions, when her pupils constricted.

The area where she had slept was now filled with mist. What had once been relatively dry ground now resembled an egg frying in a pan, sizzling loudly. Forty-seven still maintained a barely defensive posture, but his entire body was covered in a rust-colored layer, his metallic shell seeming to be melting away.

The culprit behind all this staggered out of the darkness, its triangular head adorned with six orange-yellow eyes.

“Sour Snake Lizard!” Morril fumbled to grab her staff—thankfully, she had held it even while sleeping. Her spells hadn’t detected such a creature!

The swamp ruler twisted its long neck, showing keen interest in Morril.

Forty-seven stepped back slowly, moving closer to Morril, his movements becoming increasingly sluggish.

Morril gripped her staff tightly and gathered magic. A flame erupted from the tip of the staff, instantly forming a bright fire dragon that covered Forty-seven.

The remaining acid was quickly evaporated. The Sour Snake Lizard seemed startled by the sudden flame. It hissed and opened its mouth wide to bite Forty-seven, aiming to tear this troublesome but clearly unappetizing creature to pieces.

It took one bite and seized Forty-seven’s entire upper body.

“Damn it!” Morril knew well just how sharp the Sour Snake Lizard’s teeth were.

But she didn’t shut off the fire column. It had been used to remove the acid from Forty-seven’s body; now, it would inflict some damage on the lizard’s only slightly vulnerable part—its mouth!

The Acid Snake Lizard held the burning 47 in its mouth, disliking its taste greatly. It shook its head violently, trying to get rid of it. But 47 had different plans. He propped his hands against the lizard’s mouth. Two sharp blades snapped out from his wrists, piercing through the lizard’s upper and lower jaws. The gushing blood extinguished even the magical flames. At the same time, 47’s upper body and arms rotated and twisted seemingly without limit.

The lizard’s huge head shattered into pieces. Seven or eight deformed claws, growing irregularly like branches along its body, spasmed as they clung tightly to the soil. Its massive headless body writhed before collapsing to the ground with a thud.

“I’m completely drenched!” 47 landed on the ground, his entire body smoking and steaming.

“That’s because you made things too complicated for yourself,” Moriel said, still standing carefully outside the acidic area. “If you were a proper construct, you wouldn’t be in such a mess! The Acid Snake Lizard’s death storm at best just rusts your skin, not soaking your brain like it has now!”

For the first time, 47 thought the mage might have a point.

“A spellbook!” Moriel’s expression changed suddenly. “You idiot!”

She ran back and rummaged through the ruined tent, angrily discovering that some of the pages scattered from the bundle were still soaked in mud. Her magic had only masked the pages’ energy but not prevented water from seeping in.

Angrily, Moriel carefully separated the pages again and started drying them. 47 watched her frail body, which seemed ready to fly at the slightest breeze, and thought mischievously that he might use those pages to make a parachute for her.

The largest city on the edge of the swamp was Rain City.

Though called a city, it was more like a collection of independent fortresses and camps, forming a semi-open town as a whole.

The world was never short of fools willing to take risks. Although it wasn’t a major transportation hub, it was at least one of the few places in the wetlands with abundant supplies. Some rare wetland products could be found here, and with many people like Moriel risking their lives to seek fortune in the swamp, Rain City, with nearly ten thousand permanent residents, could be considered a medium-sized independent city-state.

It was the brief dry season, with a gentle cool breeze blowing on them, giving a rare sense of freshness. Old Tom, leaning on his spear, even felt a bit lazy. Militia like him, stationed in wooden watchtowers, were merely an appetizer when winged dragons or other creatures attacked. Fortunately, in recent years, those foolish adventurers and mercenaries had done some good work—killing some lower-level threats and feeding the higher ones—making militia like Old Tom slightly safer.

Suddenly, he noticed two figures in the distance. They were coming out of the sparse bushes, looking tired under the fading light, but still alive.

“Can’t you hurry up?”

“I think one of the screws here is loose…” Forty-Seven twisted his shoulders with a creaking sound. He looked much dimmer now, probably because there was still a lot of venom and blood from the acid snakes lizards left in his body, continuing to cause corrosion. He adjusted many of the parts on his body; Moriel didn’t know where he had gotten them, but it seemed this idiot could even swap his head for his butt… she thought viciously.

“Enough! Stop fiddling with your damned arm! And wrap yourself up—I don’t want your ugly appearance scaring those drunk fools in the city! Hey, Tom, still alive?”

“Who’s that? Oh, I remember— it’s the red-robed mage who used to drink against Billy at the Blade Tavern and cost me five silver coins. He seemed to have disappeared for a long time… Whatever. If she goes to the tavern again, I’ll bet on her!” Old Tom thought as he shook his spear, revealing teeth blackened by smoke, and smiled as a greeting: “What a strange red-robed mage—actually greeting a militia member on his own.”

Soon, Old Tom noticed the ten-foot-tall giant following Moriel. He had never seen such a poorly made construct before—it seemed to have rusted in sewage for a hundred years… or maybe it was a rather unsuccessful imposter.

“Hey, Tom, still alive?” Forty-Seven greeted Old Tom in a hoarse metallic tone. For the first time in years, Forty-Seven had seen a city that seemed somewhat decent. Though he couldn’t explain it, he truly felt a subtle collision between the messy pipes and steel inside him—perhaps this was what was called excitement.

“Let’s go quickly! We’d better get inside the city before dark!”

“I want to chat with Old Tom for a while—I find him interesting!” Forty-Seven’s curiosity was always strong, especially toward this militia member who kept smiling foolishly. Forty-Seven felt he had something in common with him—at least it was more interesting than watching a red-robed mage endlessly flip through a magic book.

“He’s mute, idiot!” Moriel turned around and tapped Forty-Seven’s pitted head with her staff. “And you should take care of your body first. Come on, let’s go back to my shop!”

Moriel’s shop was located near the center of the market, surrounded by a bunch of other shops, nestled in the gaps between them. To its left was a mineral exchange, and to its right was a blacksmith’s shop. Moriel’s shop was named “Stone of the Future.” Forty-Seven couldn’t remember what it was used for. He was deeply attracted by the shiny swords and armor hanging in front of the blacksmith’s shop—or rather, the pure steel that made up those weapons.

“I want these items repaired to fix myself,” Forty-Seven said, only to be struck hard by Moriel’s staff and pushed into her shop.