Chapter 7

  “Wake up, Ben! What’s wrong? What happened? Are you dead?”

  Fuku’s words tumbled out in a rush as he scrambled over to the Minotaur’s massive form, tapping at his cheeks, his horns, his snout—anywhere he could reach. His paws shook as he pressed them against Ben’s forehead, as if the very act of touching him could force him awake.

  “Ben… what am I going to do?”

  There was no answer. Just hot, ragged breath puffing from Ben’s nostrils, stirring the fur on Fuku’s legs. Proof that he was alive—at least.

  ‘This isn’t good. This isn’t good!’ His eyes darted wildly, scanning the alley.

  The open street was just yards away. Too close. Too exposed. He looked left, right—nothing but trash heaps and broken crates. He spun, searching the other end—still nothing.

  ‘I need a wheelbarrow. Chikushō! I’d need a tengu’s wagon to move this big oaf!’ He stared at Ben’s colossal frame. Eight feet of bulk, muscle, fur, and horns—completely unmovable, especially for a fluffy little guy like him.

  “There’s no way,” he whispered, heart hammering. His tail lashed behind him, panic rising like bile.

  But leaving Ben? Not an option. If the guards found him, they wouldn’t ask questions. At best, they’d chain him up. More likely—they’d kill him where he lay.

  Fuku clenched his fists, his resolve fighting back against the panic. “No one can find him here. No one.”

  He ran through his skills, desperate for something—anything—that could work.

  ‘Fleetfoot’s useless right now. Same with Gust—and Greater Gust. I’m out of Carrier Leaves, and even if I had one, how would I get this giant lug on top of it? A Disappear-leaf… maybe? But I’ve never tried it on someone else.

  That and it barely covers me—there’s no way it’d fully disappear someone his size.’

  His mind raced.

  ‘I can’t put living things in my Ever-deep Tail… I can’t cover him with my sack—’

  He froze mid-thought.

  ‘…can I?’

  The idea hung there—wild, ridiculous, and probably impossible. Adapt-a-sack had let him mimic Ben’s form before, so technically it could expand that large. Maybe. But could it stretch far enough to engulf Ben and himself?

  ‘Even if I manage that… then what? I can’t move him. I’d need someone bigger than Ben, and that’s not going to happen.’

  A frustrated whine slipped out as he cycled through his options again. There was nothing else in his repertoire. Nothing that even had a chance. Only Adapt-a-sack—his most useful, most adaptive, and definitely most personal skill.

  Yet even if it worked, he had no idea what he’d do once it did.

  He swallowed hard. He had to try. He had to do something. There was no way he was going to lose his Minotaur. His bodyguard.

  No—his friend.

  “I can alter my size with it,” he muttered. “I’ve grown to Ben’s height before… I just have to hope I can use it on someone else.”

  Another glance at the street showed more people drifting past. Too many. His ears twitched, nerves making his paws shake.

  “I have to do this. It’s the only shot I’ve got.”

  He gritted his teeth, whispering, “Kuso… this is gonna hurt, isn’t it?”

  Clambering onto Ben’s broad back, he planted himself at the center. His little paws pressed against the Minotaur’s fur as he inhaled sharply, bracing for what came next.

  Then—he pushed.

  There’s no real way to describe the sensation of expanding one’s scrotum to more than twice one’s own body size—let alone stretching it far enough to encompass not just oneself, but another occupant. Nor is there any true way to explain the closeness required to fit two beings inside that space.

  Still, somehow, Fuku managed it.

  Though not on his own.

  He pushed until his magic strained at the seams, but even then he hadn’t covered more than part of the Minotaur beneath him. Then came a tug—strange, not physical but pulsing, pulling at his core.

  It wasn’t from him. It was from Ben.

  It took only a heartbeat for Fuku to recognize the source: the Keiyaku. The magical bond between them was lending him its strength.

  He hesitated, wary of what consequences might come from leaning on the pact’s power. But he also knew—without it, he’d fail.

  So he accepted. Reluctantly, but wholly, he drew on the bond.

  Once he did, Fuku’s sack surged outward, engulfing them both in its warm, fur-lined embrace.

  Inside, the two didn’t fuse—not literally. Instead, Fuku’s magic compressed Ben’s massive body, melding it over his own like a thick second skin. Their motions and senses bled together in a strange, cramped doubling, as though Fuku were the hand and Ben the puppet—his smaller form now the control center for a much larger frame. All the while, the sack’s magic sealed them in, layering its disguise atop their shared form.

  It took a moment to adjust to the new arrangement, but Fuku focused, and the outer fur began to shift. The sack compressed, shrinking and morphing from a fur-lined pouch into a skin-tight, familiar shape.

  He knew exactly which form to wear—one he’d perfected over years of sneaking in and out of human cities. Normally, he could hold it for over half an hour, but with Ben’s mass inside, he feared the time would be far shorter.

  Still—it was the best option. No turning back now.

  Where a Tanuki had sat atop the back of an unconscious Minotaur only moments before, a new figure now rose smoothly to its feet: human in every outward respect. Pale skin. Sandy hair. Deep brown eyes. A finely tailored suit draped across his dapper frame. He slipped a gleaming top hat over his head, tapped it into place, and spun a cane before planting it smartly on the pavement.

  “If I have to look like a human for a time,” Fuku said with a smirk, his voice shedding its usual accent and adopting the crisp tone of aristocracy, “I may as well look good.”

  And with that, he strolled from the alley into the street. No longer Fuku the Tanuki, but Sir Gekkei.

  ***

  He was still concerned for Ben’s well-being, but he knew that if he didn’t accomplish his goals first, all of this chaos would have been for nothing.

  The merging was… strange. Not only could Fuku feel Ben’s bulk around him, but he could also sense his condition. The Minotaur’s body was fine—solid, strong—but his energy? Gone. Like the flame had been snuffed from a lantern, leaving only his sleeping shell behind.

  ‘So it wasn’t me after all,’ Fuku thought, flexing his fingers inside their layered skin. ‘Something drained him. But what?’

  Then the Keiyaku stirred. The pact between them hummed at the edges of his awareness, adapting in a way he hadn’t expected. Fuku had never had use for the ancient bond before, so he couldn’t tell if this was normal or something entirely new. Still, through it, he felt the truth: it wasn’t illness or injury that felled Ben—it was the city itself.

  His gaze swept over the streetlamps with their dark metallic sheen and glass-domed tops, the chrome-colored wheels of passing vehicles, the low hum of engines and the thrum of distant generators. Every polished alloyed surface seemed to tug faintly at Ben’s strength, bleeding him out bit by bit. The air reeked of industry—oil, smoke, and smelted metals mingling together.

  He’d read in books—human accounts of myths—how the Fae withered in the presence of iron. But these weren’t crude irons of old. These were the alloys of a new age, and they were leeching the life from his defender.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  ‘Figures,’ he thought, lips twitching. ‘These humans build a shiny city with all their clever magics and technology… and it turns out to be poison to my handsome protector.’

  He considered taking Ben back out immediately, but there were things he still needed to do. His transformation ability always carried a limit. Normally he could hold this human form for almost an hour—but stretched to cover both of them, he doubted it would last five minutes.

  And yet the Keiyaku’s energy hadn’t just assisted with the transformation—it was still pouring into him, steady and practically endless. Almost too endless. Fuku grimaced. ‘That’s not my power—it’s his. What am I spending here? Ben’s life? Years? Decades? He already lost centuries inside the dome… is it right to shave more off the end? If there even is an end?’

  He hated the thought of doing it, but felt the ends justified the means—at least until they could come up with a better solution. With a sigh, he tightened his grip on the cane and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Ben. If this works, it’ll be worth it. You can yell at me later.’

  Besides—Ben had already lived seven hundred years, untouched by age thanks to that cursed fountain. He probably wouldn’t miss a few more years… would he?

  Decision made, Fuku strode into the street, heading straight for a shop he knew well—the same one he’d resupplied at before making his way to Knossos.

  ***

  A light tinkle from the bell greeted Fuku as he pushed open the door to the small wooden building. “Good day, shopkeep,” he said brightly, announcing his arrival at The Claw and Nail.

  “Ahh… a familiar face,” the old man replied. “Did you find what you were searching for in Knossos?”

  Fuku stepped inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. The shop was small, with three narrow aisles; the center shelves were lined with spices, foodstuffs, and confections. The air was thick with the warm scent of herbs and sugar.

  “I did, good sir—thank you for remembering.” He plucked up a cookie with berries baked in as he passed, biting into it while he headed for the counter. “I’ve come to resupply my provisions once more… and to tease your mind again.”

  The shopkeep smiled, his wrinkled face folding into deep lines. His skin was darkly tanned, his hair—what little remained—was white as snow.

  “Another destination, then? Another dungeon to explore? I must say, I’m surprised to see your return. Not many come back out of the Labyrinth—none who’ve conquered it. Were you able to…?”

  “A gentleman never tells, good sir. But you are correct about why I’m here,” Fuku replied, brushing crumbs from his mustache. “Your information about the Labyrinth was invaluable. So tell me—are there any other sites nearby that might still hold remnants of the past?”

  The old man’s gap-toothed grin spread wide, delighted to have someone willing to talk about the region’s history.

  Fuku listened with practiced patience, occasionally nudging the man along and filling in gaps where he could. This was the best source he’d find for such knowledge, so he kept his human guise intact and let the tales unfold.

  At last—provisions gathered and stories heard—Fuku handed over a gold and two silver coins. The second gold was for the information, not the supplies.

  “My thanks, shopkeep. If this next site proves fruitful, perhaps you’ll see me at your counter once again.”

  The old man nodded. “I hope you find what you seek.”

  With that, Fuku tipped his top hat with a flourish, spinning it down as he swept into an eloquent bow. As he straightened, he froze—the shopkeeper’s eyes fixed on him in wide-eyed wonder.

  Fuku felt his ears twitch, the furry tips poking through his sandy hair.

  “Oops,” he muttered, tapping the hat back down and flashing the man a broad wink. “Let this be our little secret, yes?”

  And with that, he let out a mischievous chuckle and swept out the door—supplies in hand, and more importantly, a lead on where to go next.

  ***

  Stepping out from the shop, Fuku once again debated whether to leave the city immediately or finish his other business first.

  Through their bond he could still feel Ben—unconscious, but not injured. Yet the longer he maintained this merged form, drawing on Ben’s life energy, the greater the risk once they finally separated.

  But… Ben needed clothes. A massive Minotaur was already bound to draw stares, but a naked one? That was just inviting disaster.

  Not that Fuku particularly minded the sight—but practicality came first. The floral dress had done its job, but he had no intention of repeating that charade, or of enduring Ben’s inevitable grumbling afterward.

  No, the Minotaur needed proper pants. The problem was, without measuring him, nothing Fuku could buy would fit well. And in a human city like this, while Beast-kin were known, there wasn’t enough trade with them for shops to keep their sizes in stock. At least not from what Fuku had seen in his previous visits.

  He knew they’d be better off in a larger city—or better yet with a seamstress who worked specifically for Beast-kin. But he didn’t know of anyone like that nearby, so for now he would have to make do with what was available.

  Decision made, he asked a passerby where to find a tailor and headed in that direction.

  The shop was only a block away, but this human form was not built for hauling heavy bags. Normally, he would slip down an alley, drop the disguise, tuck the goods away in his Ever-deep Tail, then reappear in human shape none the worse for wear.

  But that wasn’t something he dared attempt this time. In order to do so would mean somehow re-engulfing Ben’s unconscious form—and he wasn’t sure he could tap the Keiyaku again so soon without risking exposure or worsening Ben’s condition. No, this was a burden he would have to bear. Quite literally.

  So he trudged on, up the dung-streaked street, weaving around both the piles and the people. He tipped his hat politely at passersby, nose wrinkling as he watched less courteous individuals stomp straight through the waste.

  The city was small, but large enough to house both the old and the new: wagons and donkey-pulled carts rattling side by side with the newer “steam-carriages.” Their wheels clattered over the cobblestones, driven by a power Fuku didn’t really understand. Someone had once explained it to him—fuel into fire, fire into boiling water, steam into motion—but the details had slipped from his mind. To him, it might as well have been human magic, best left to humans.

  ‘Humans and their cities,’ he thought sourly, dodging another steaming pile. ‘All their progress in the last few centuries, and they still can’t keep filth off their streets or smoke out of their air.’

  ***

  He reached the tailor shop in under a minute, easy to spot by the glowing sign in the window: a needle and thread looping endlessly in the air.

  At first glance it seemed a simple trick of light, but when he tilted his head and studied it, the craft revealed itself. The glow emanated from a polished shard of crystal set low within a framework of stretched and shaped glass. Light bent and refracted, weaving upward until the thread appeared to stitch itself through empty space. Illusion magic, bound with crystal, glass, and clever hands.

  That kind of craft—unlike the smoke-belching steam-carriages—he could appreciate.

  Pushing open the door, he announced himself.

  “Good day… uhh… madam?” he said, hesitantly.

  The figure behind the counter wasn’t quite what Fuku had expected. Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with features that leaned neither way nor the other. Fuku decided to play it safe and stick with They.

  “Morning…” came a voice rasping so deep it seemed to scrape the floor. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ahem… I am in need of some large trousers… for a friend.”

  “What’s the measurements?” They asked, levering Themselves off the stool. It gave a tortured creak of relief, wood and metal groaning like they’d been set free from years of service.

  “I am sorry to say I don’t have exact measurements, you see—”

  “How tall?” They cut him off.

  “Uhhh… very tall. Seven feet?” he guessed, his voice climbing an octave.

  “Okay… how fat?”

  Fuku definitely wouldn’t call Ben fat. Thick, yes—muscular, built heavy like a bull with impossibly broad shoulders—but not fat. His frame was somewhere between bovine and human: dense, broad, and scaled up to a size that made him massive, imposing.

  “I would say his waist is…” Fuku spread his arms wide, then hesitated. His wingspan in this form seemed far too round to capture it properly. If he’d had his normal paws, he could have simply spread them wide and let the attendant infer the size—but with human arms, the gesture felt clumsy.

  “A fatty, then?” the shopkeeper said flatly. “Follow me.”

  Fuku bristled at hearing the attendant call Ben “a fatty”. But given his vague description of Ben’s dimensions—he supposed it was the conclusion most people would jump to.

  “Here. Biggest I’ve got,” the attendant said, pulling a pair of silken black trousers from a rack. Crisp, pressed, clearly meant for a banquet, not a slog through mud and wilderness.

  Fuku pinched the fabric between his fingers. Luxuriously soft. He wouldn’t have minded seeing Ben in a dapper suit—something to match the one he wore now. But that wasn’t the future either of them faced. Utility took precedence, so formalwear was out.

  “I see… do you perchance have something a little more… durable?” he asked, withdrawing his fingers.

  The attendant let out a long-suffering sigh and shuffled to the other side of the shop. Fuku followed, watching as they dug through stacks of pants in a dark blue fabric, rummaging for a particular pair.

  This side of the shop was less display and more storage—bins of folded clothes rather than carefully hung attire. The divide between the polished formal wear and the heap of working man’s garments was plain, and Fuku understood the reasoning. He even understood why the attendant had first steered him toward the pricier, tailored items. But the careless way these everyday clothes were simply piled together made him decide he wouldn’t be returning to this shop anytime soon.

  “How about these?” They asked, holding out a folded pair of thick denim trousers.

  Fuku had never touched denim before. He ran his fingers across the fabric, testing its stiff weave, the strong, interlaced fibers. “Yes. These shall do,” he replied.

  Without another word, the attendant waddled back to the counter and dropped onto Their creaking stool. “Three silver and two copper for the jeans.”

  “Ahhh… yes,” Fuku said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out four copper pieces and a single silver, then frowned at the little pile in his palm.

  “Ahem… it seems I don’t have quite enough,” he admitted, staring at the coins.

  He had more. Far more. By human standards, he was probably rich—his tail held stacks of treasure he’d taken from chests in his travels. But while in this form, that magical vault was sealed shut—for obvious reasons.

  The shopkeeper leaned forward over the counter, eyes narrowing at the coins. “Sorry. No bargaining. Prices are set.”

  “Yes, of course,” Fuku replied smoothly, though inside he cursed his luck. He forced a polite smile. “If you would be so kind as to set these aside for me, I’ll return shortly with the proper amount.”

  In any other circumstance, he would have no problem causing a distraction and scurrying out with the pants. Or slipping under a Disappear-leaf and tucking them into his tail while the attendant remained none the wiser.

  But those options weren’t available to him now.

  ‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to be coming back here anytime soon anyway,’ he thought wryly.

  With a small sigh, he flipped his hand and smacked the coins onto the counter. The clinking sound echoed sharp against the polished wood as they scattered, some tumbling to the floor with even louder clatters.

  The noise startled the attendant. Fuku didn’t wait—his hand darted like lightning, the pants vanishing from the counter as he spun for the door. “Sorry ’bout this, but I’m in a hurry,” he blurted—his self-important accent slipping back into his natural cadence.

  Before the attendant could react, he was already at the door, shoving it open wide. He threw Them an apologetic shrug, then bounded out into the street—pants in one hand, the bag from the grocer in the other.

  “Hey! Wait! You can’t just—!” The deep, raspy voice faded behind him as Fuku sprinted away.