The Sameroth Guild Hall had transformed into a theater of the absurd.
Outside, a phalanx of twenty armored subjugators grappled with the physics of an S-Rank Hellfire Drake currently hogtied by its own anatomy. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with a reverent, breathless hush. Marie, the receptionist, was a portrait of trembling awe as she heaved a massive iron-bound chest across the counter. The lid groaned open, revealing a hoard of platinum and gold that shimmered like a captured sun.
"T-Ten thousand gold coins," Marie squeaked, her face flushed the color of a ripened beet. "The bounty for the Drake. To think... you masked your true intentions behind a peasant's errand just to lull the beast into a false security! A masterstroke of tactical genius, Lord Leo!"
I leaned against the polished oak counter, projecting an aura of weary, transcendental cool. In truth, gravity was a persistent enemy. A jagged cramp had seized the Knight's right calf, and because our nervous systems were a tangled web of shared agony, my own knees were currently threatening a structural collapse.
"Keep the gold, Marie," I said, my voice a low, melodic baritone that suggested I had long ago ascended beyond the need for currency. "We care not for the trinkets of the material plane."
The hall erupted. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.
"Did you hear? The gold is nothing to them!"
"Such ascetic purity!"
"True saints of the blade!"
I allowed the silence to stretch, then tapped a singular, rhythmic beat on the wood. "However. We did harvest a Moon-Turnip. I believe the requisition for such a... humble service... was three copper coins."
Marie froze, her eyes wide and unblinking. "Y-Yes? But my Lord, the ten thousand—"
"The. Three. Coppers. Marie."
I channeled the command through the Mage, adding a faint, shimmering echo to the words. It was a perfect dramatic beat, ruined only by the fact that I'd neglected the Mage's physical equilibrium. His mythril staff slowly, inexorably tilted sideways, connecting with the back of a nearby Paladin's helmet with a dull clonk. No one moved. In their eyes, it was likely a cryptic blessing or a test of the Paladin's resolve.
With fingers that shook, Marie produced three tarnished copper coins. I claimed them with a grave nod and began the arduous process of piloting three bodies out of the hall in a dignified, synchronized march.
The refusal of the gold wasn't an act of saintliness; it was an act of survival. The last time a mountain of gold had entered my coffers, the King had insisted on a royal banquet. Attempting to coordinate three separate mouths, three sets of silverware, and the complex social etiquette of soup had nearly triggered a stroke. The Knight had inadvertently "disarmed" the Duke of Weselton with a butter knife, and the Mage had doused his own lap in a quart of boiling gravy. Poverty was a small price to pay for avoiding the lethal theater of high-society politics.
Ten minutes later, we reached the sanctuary of our flat—a modest three-bedroom space perched above the scent of baking yeast and flour.
"Home," I exhaled, the word a communal sigh. "Synchronize. Everyone... proceed through the threshold."
I marched. Leon marched. Leonel marched.
THUD.
Three broad-shouldered men met in the center of a standard-sized door frame, wedging together with the finality of a locked vault. We were a human cork, perfectly stuck.
"Back up," I grunted.
One step back in unison. One step forward in unison.
THUD. Stuck again.
I slumped mentally. I had to manually "park" the Knight and the Mage in the hallway, walk my main body inside, and then fetch the others one by one. It was a two-minute ordeal just to cross a door. The bards would never write a song about this.
Once inside, the real terror began. The ultimate SSS-Rank subjugation: dinner.
"Tonight: Turnip Stew," I announced to the silent apartment. "Leon, the blade. Leonel, the flame. I shall manage the broth."
The [Trinity Soul] is a fickle gift. While I could un-summon the clones, the "Feedback Loop" was a looming shadow. Every bruise the Knight took, every mana-burn the Mage suffered, and every ounce of physical exhaustion they accumulated was currently being buffered by the magical link. If I severed the connection now, the collective fatigue of three bodies—including the phantom roar of a dragon and a dozen stubbed toes—would hit my singular brain like a falling moon. I would be unconscious before my head hit the floor.
I moved the trio to the kitchen.
Leon took his station at the cutting board, cleaver in hand. Leonel stood by the hearth, fingers poised. I took the pot.
Focus. Isolate the channels.
I began to chop. Thump. Thump. Thump. The Knight's dexterity was a marvel—perfect, translucent slices of turnip fell away from the blade. While the rhythm was established, I flicked a portion of my consciousness to the Mage. A small, controlled ember bloomed at his fingertips.
Good. Maintain the heat. Keep the blade moving.
Then, the lag spiked.
Trying to sustain the rhythmic mechanical force of a chopping arm while modulating the delicate flow of mana in another resulted in a catastrophic cross-wire. My central nervous system swapped the commands.
Leon (the Knight) froze his blade and began aggressively rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, trying to manifest fire from a raw root vegetable.
Leonel (the Mage) took his hand—which was now a roaring torch of elemental flame—and began violently hacking at the air as if wielding an invisible cleaver.
"No, wait, stop!"
My main body lunged forward with the pot of water to quench the Mage's hand. But with my spatial awareness fractured across three sets of eyes, I miscalculated the geometry. I doused the Knight's face in a gallon of cold water instead.
Leon stood dripping, clutching a bruised turnip.
Leonel stood beside him, hand ablaze, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
I stood in the center, holding an empty pot, staring into the abyss of my own incompetence.
"Reset," I sighed. Because the Knight's face was soaked, my own skin felt a phantom chill. "Slowly. We do this slowly."
Forty-five minutes of agonizingly focused labor followed. There was a brief panic when the Mage confused the gunpowder pouch for black pepper, and the Knight nearly bisected the countertop, but eventually, the battle was won.
Three wooden bowls sat upon the table, steam rising in lazy curls from a completely mediocre turnip stew.
I sat. Leon sat. Leonel sat.
I took a bite with my main body. Warm. Bland. Acceptable.
I took a bite with Leon. The exact same flavor profile registered in my brain a second time.
I took a bite with Leonel. The third wave hit.
The shared sensory network transformed a simple meal into a sonic boom of broth. My brain was a feedback loop of WARM-SALTY-ROOT-VEGETABLE multiplied by three. It was an overwhelming sensory assault of the mundane.
But as I sat there with my two shadows—who were, in every way that mattered, me—a strange, quiet peace filled the kitchen. To the Guild, we were unapproachable titans. To the monsters, we were death incarnate. But here, in the amber glow of a cheap tallow candle, we were just three tired idiots eating soup in a synchronized hush.
Leon raised his spoon, misjudged the distance, and smeared a streak of broth across his cheek. I felt the warmth of it on my own skin.
"You missed," I told myself.
Leon grunted and reached for a napkin.
Being an SSS-Rank party was a grueling, constant nightmare of coordination. But at least the company was consistent.