Following the wooden stairs to the very end of the second-floor corridor in the Old Oak Inn, she pushed open the door to a cramped, shabby little room.

A single bed with a linen sheet took up a third of the space; in the corner sat a clothes chest and a wooden washstand with a rough, stiff towel draped over it. The only light came from the cheap rune-lamp overhead, which splashed a sickly orange glow that barely drove back the corners’ darkness and somehow made the room feel even more threadbare.

Dusting herself off, Moga went in and shut the rough plank door, cutting off the tavern clamor from downstairs. Of course, the soundproofing here was poor—the noise only dulled, humming on like muffled background buzz that still rang in her ears.

“There’s no privy in here?” the eldritch god’s voice sounded in Moga’s mind.

She didn’t know why this god would suddenly ask something so mundane, but she answered obediently and humbly, “My lord, this is the cheapest room tier at the inn—we can only use the shared washroom in the corridor.”

Guessing the god disliked the dust, bits of grass, and faint sweat on her, she hurried to add, “Forgive me, my lord. I’ll fetch some water and wipe down right away.”

Yvette made a soft sound of assent, satisfied that Moga had caught the subtext. She needed to be in close contact with the elf girl—a temporary cat-scratching post, essentially—so of course she preferred a clean “stand.”

Soon, Moga took the basin and towel from the rack, went to the shared washroom for a basin of cold water, then returned, slipped off her outerwear and short skirt, keeping only her chemise and shorts, and began to wipe herself down. The tendril slid off her of its own accord and coiled on the sheet like a snake.

Perhaps because she’d never done anything this private before another sentient being, even wiping dust and sweat through underclothes brought a faint blush to Moga’s lovely face—leaving her shy and embarrassed.

Eldritch gods don’t… have gender, right? she fretted, trying to look composed, unaware that her face had already betrayed her thoughts.

Staring at the girl’s face through an eyeball, Yvette still didn’t point it out—just watched quietly, like a machine without feeling.

She could have spoken with a mimicked mouth, but mimicry itself—and the act of speaking thereafter—would keep burning her aberration mana. Mind-magic speech, by contrast, consumed ordinary mana siphoned from Moga and from a few beasts these past two days. That kind of stolen mana couldn’t form a core and would disperse on its own, unfit for storage—perfect to put to use on mind-speech.

And she needed enough mystery to sustain her “majesty” as an eldritch god. Talk too much and it’d be hard to maintain a relationship built on “holding a gun to someone’s head.”

Half an hour later, Moga had tidied herself up. Drops ran from the damp, gold-orange tips of her hair, ticking softly onto the floor; she looked a shade less dashing and a shade more gentle.

She emptied the basin in the washroom, came back, and sat. The god’s tendril slid over again, winding around her pale, slender waist. She didn’t dare resist in the slightest—only forced herself to endure the cold, slick feel and get used to it.

Then she heard the god ask, “What is your name?”

“Moga—Moga Smollett,” Moga answered respectfully.

“What impression do you have of these names: Rosalyn Sien, Dugrabi, Lant Quinn?” the god asked again.

Moga frowned in thought, hesitating. “I don’t know the latter two—but the first, do you mean the Sien mage who saved the world, later the ‘God of Truth and Magic’?”

“Yes. Tell me what you know.”

“I—I don’t know much—just the stories bards sing.” Moga shook her head and repeated the epic fragments she’d heard in taverns and markets—embroidered, retold versions, hazy and full of legend, far from real history, more like hymns to miracles.

Yvette didn’t mind. The legendary mage had fallen more than two hundred years ago; expecting a bottom-rung adventurer living hand to mouth to recount that era like a scholar was unrealistic.

Anyway, it roughly matched what Lant had described.

She then asked, “Which True Gods exist in the mortal realm now?”

“I only know the four Demon Gods of the demonfolk, Humanity’s Ancestral Holy Spirit and the Lord of Unity, and lastly the elves’ Tree God. Those are the four mainstream True Gods everyone recognizes. But I’ve heard there are many other gods and eldritch gods—like the Snow Emperor of the northern snow kingdom—” Moga said, thinking hard.

“Have you heard of the ‘Silver Witch’?” Yvette suddenly recalled what Lant once called her.

“Yes, yes, my lord,” Moga said at once. “In legend, she’s the legendary mage’s teacher. Many places that worship the legendary mage also worship this deity. She’s also the ‘God of Serendipity.’ Many adventurers who claim no faith will still offer a quick prayer to the Silver Witch before acting, believing she’ll bring them luck.”

So I’m a last-minute Buddha-leg now? Yvette found it a little funny.

As a bottom-tier adventurer, Moga’s high-level knowledge was quite limited. After a bit of questioning, Yvette decided not to ask her for the world’s loftier matters—no need to be misled by bad intel.

She switched tack. “Why did you come here—what are you planning to do?”

“To report to my lord,” after the run of conversation, Moga’s tone had steadied; she no longer sounded so timorous,

and said calmly, “Because a newly discovered ultra-ancient ruin lies in the forest beside Adelock—called the Adelock Great Labyrinth.

There may be treasure inside. Adventurers like us came here for that treasure.”

“An ultra-ancient ruin?” Yvette was a bit surprised. “What is that? Explain it.”

“The Adelock Great Labyrinth? I’m not too sure—”

“No—the concept of ‘ultra-ancient ruin.’”

“…—?”

Not the labyrinth, but the concept of “ultra-ancient ruin” itself?

Moga was puzzled, then thought: the other party was, after all, an eldritch god—or something like it—perhaps escaped from some ancient seal underground, cut off from the world for millennia. Not knowing was normal.

She explained, “Ultra-ancient ruins are things left by an ultra-ancient civilization. I only know they’re relics of the previous civilization. There are precious magic devices inside, all sorts of gold and silver, and mysterious ultra-ancient knowledge. I don’t know more than that.”

Ultra-ancient civilization… Yvette’s curiosity sparked. She wouldn’t spin special theories just because another world also had a destroyed ancient civilization. This was a high-magic world—gods could doom or birth a civilization in minutes; there might be more than one buried already.

She simply wanted to know what this world’s ultra-ancient legacy looked like—and whether it could aid or inspire her in magical technology.

So she said, “Are you planning to keep exploring that ruin next?”

Moga’s heart skipped. She lowered her gaze at once. “No—I am a humble servant. All shall follow your will.”

That wasn’t a hundred percent sincere, and Yvette could feel it through mind magic.

She replied evenly, “It’s fine. Continue your exploration. I’m curious about this ultra-ancient ruin as well. If you keep going, I can grant you a little help.”

“Yes.” Moga was taken aback for a moment; the turn of events felt unexpected.

Then a little thrill stirred in her. With an eldritch god’s favor, wouldn’t it be easy to become the most richly rewarded among the first wave of pioneers?

She’d have to let the god choose first, of course—but there’d be some crumbs left over. Thinking that way, today’s ordeal wasn’t entirely a bad thing.