Avoid witches. El-Prime told me to avoid witches. How the fuck do I know who’s a witch or warlock?

Morph liked his name. It set him apart from the other clones. In fact, he believed it put him a rung above Elvis on the clone ladder. El-Prime had killed the persona, but now that he had Empowered Clone II and absorbed the Shard of Arcane Smithing, Morph was sure Elvis or a new iteration of him would return. His persona would likely change, as Mage made more sense for the role than Bruiser, but that was yet to be seen.

As Morph walked, he continued to play with Biomancy underneath his clothes. The coat from Iskander proved unsuitable for the local weather. It took some concentration, but he figured out how to sprout body hair. It started with patches of fuzz, but it wasn’t long before he had a full suit of fur. A mane came next. The clone expected his muscles to shrink with the change. Mass granted through El-Prime’s shard ability disappeared instead.

Something trembled deep inside the clone. He knew the feeling. Biomancy had gained another rank. It was the second since El-Prime first created him. Morph hoped it wouldn’t take too long to reach the next tier. The loss of Shadowsteel annoyed the clone. He loved the power to solidify shadows.

Now, he only had Shade’s Mantle and the passive effects of the remaining two shards. It wasn’t a lot, and Morph felt no stronger than a tier-one sharded again. He had no mid-tier or conjunction abilities. It was a good thing El-Prime had him in a non-combat role for the time being. They had uncovered an annoying revelation during clone creation. Only one clone with Biomancy and Arcane Smithing could exist at a time. Meanwhile, the rest of the shard abilities had no such limitations. Growing Biomancy was on Morph alone. He hoped the next upgrade of Empowered Clone would ensure the load wasn’t on him alone.

Things were proceeding swiftly now, but growth rates would inevitably slow down the closer he got to the next tier. Then there was the matter of the ascension, too. El-Prime would undoubtedly find compatible essences by then. Morph worried more about breakthrough requirements. He believed that Biomancy was closer in spirit to Shadow Clone than Alter Metal Mass, requiring greater understanding or discovering a new use of the ability. Regular passive use wasn’t going to be enough.

By the time Morph completed his transformation, he almost looked like one of the locals. Pale skin, thick hair, and a busy beard. He only needed the height and width and sought more biomass. El-Prime had given him a crown for expenses. The clone purchased a fish skewer first and devoured it during explorations. Nothing changed. He attempted to grow taller. A quarter of an inch cost him significant mass, forcing him to revert to his original height.

Fifteen minutes into his explorations, Morph came across a food market. He bought an apple, half a cabbage, a raw mackerel, and a whole chicken. The bird proved expensive, and he lost a total of three shells. Something deep inside stirred as soon as he touched the carcasses. Biomancy reacted more to the fish than the chicken. Morph believed it was a matter of freshness. Iskander, being a port city, specialized in seafood and had several fish markets. The lustrous skin, clear eyes, and springy flesh told him that the mackerel had left the ocean early in the morning. The fact that the store had tubs full of water in the back filled with living fish, crabs, and prawns spoke positively of their business practices.

Much to Morph’s relief, he didn’t need to consume the raw poultry or fish. Biomancy allowed absorbing it directly through touch. All the biomass only granted an inch.

Maybe next time I won’t divide it through my entire body. If I just want height, I might as well just lengthen my legs. Torso extension means more bone, muscle, and other tissues will require growing.

Morph could imagine becoming a terrifying monster on a battlefield full of corpses. He wanted to become a hulking, scaled behemoth with armor plating and spikes. Bony tentacle whips. Retracting claws. Arm blades. Biological hammer fists. Morph wanted it all. Unfortunately, it all felt out of reach. He needed ranks, understanding, and a lot more practice. Just growing all the body hair had left him with a throbbing headache. It wasn’t mental strain so much as pushing himself far too hard with little experience.

For the time being, Morph settled for more subtle changes. He ever so slightly lengthened his fingers, strengthened the joints, and roughened the tips, adding light pads to them. The clone climbed to the back of the tallest building in one of the tallest buildings in the settlement. It looked like a warehouse. The modified fingers had no trouble finding handholds where there were none. He had no trouble scaling the building’s rear. Nothing but dense pines stood behind the building. Morph hoped there was no one or nothing behind him keeping watch.

His ascent was slow and careful. El-Prime had created him with high mass; as a result, he had considerable weight to lift. Morph regretted not removing his boots and shaping his toes as well. Claws would’ve made his life considerably easier. Much like the other tall buildings in the settlement, the roof used parts of a ship for the roof. An old porthole became his entry point. Morph’s thick, ridged fingers had no trouble finding a grip on the weather-worn metal. The extra mass that had made climbing a challenge gave him the strength to force his way through.

Stolen from NovelBin, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

During the many visits to the vessel’s cargo hold, El-Prime had discovered that a handful of crates had come from the same arcane smithy where Elvis worked. Apparently, the owner did business with the kingdom of Schwartzberg and received payment on delivery. They had already harmed the owner considerably, but it wasn’t enough. The man’s shady business practices and exploitation of young, hopeful artisans had annoyed all of them to no end.

Towards the end, El-Prime had discovered that the owner and senior staff forced projects using dangerous materials on apprentices and junior smiths. ‘Trial by fire’ they called it, but everyone saw right through them. Once the dangerous part of the project was done, the senior smiths finished the project. El-Prime and the clones believed that it was all lip service. Senior smiths were deemed more valuable because of their skill, experience, and the amount invested in them. Newer staff members were cheap and easy to come by.

‘Magic Elvis’ had suffered one too many burns and even blown off a couple of fingers during his service. A couple of times, injuries almost forced dispersion. The lie about his Body-Pillar ability made his swift overnight recoveries believable. Not everyone was as ‘lucky’ as him. A handful of young hopeful smiths were forced into early retirement or career changes during Elvis’s tenure.

After disembarking the ship, Morph had waited around the port until carts carrying the cargo passed. He followed it to what seemed like a kingdom-operated trade junction. They stored goods in the interim before caravans heading to the different settlements were ready to set off. Morph had circled the port town a handful of times, waiting until foot traffic in the area dropped. It took an annoyingly long time for the carts and workers to set off.

The huge building was all one open space. Long wooden beams reinforced by steel bands held up the upside-down vessel that served as the roof, and rafters crisscrossed across them. Morph had no choice but to climb up to them, crawl across to a pillar, and then shimmy down it. The additional weight made him slow. Morph didn’t want to risk dropping to the floor. He was sure that as a high mass clone, he could stand the impact. Biomancy, with some practice, would likely assist in the mending of bones, too. He worried more about making a racket.

Stacks of crates and pallets covered in tarps filled the warehouse. They all looked the same and were nearly indistinguishable. Yet Morph had no trouble finding his target. He used Shadow Sight to seek out the containers covered by a fresh dusting of snow. There were three stacks that met the criteria, and the third had markings he recognized. El-Prime had left scratches on the target boxes, and Morph only had to feel around the covers to find them.

A dagger, Biomancy-enhanced muscles, and patience proved enough to open the first of the three containers. The contents were disappointing. It contained several sets of the same vambraces and thigh guards. Morph’s arcane senses told him that the metal contained magic attuned to fire. He didn’t quite understand why the kingdom of Schwarzberg didn’t get the equipment made in the Gray, their crafting capital and home of supposedly the best metalworkers on the continent, but geopolitics and trade deals weren’t a current matter for concern.

Are they a gift to win favor with someone in the military or court?

After strapping on a pair of each, Morph moved onto the next container. Its contents didn’t interest him either. He doubted El-Prime would value more knives and daggers with minor enchantments. They had been forced to abandon a good deal of their equipment while fleeing, but all of them—the clones and their creator—believed that the Gray would provide. It didn’t make sense to unnecessarily increase their load during the journey unless they came across something truly incredible.

The third box proved more promising. Morph didn’t need the Inspector’s Compendium to recognize the contents. It housed a portable forge no bigger than his skull. It would likely squeeze into the journal’s storage. There was also a rune-covered blacksmith’s hammer. A cocktail of different magical energies spiralled within, and Morph struggled to identify them, or the spellscript inscribed into the metal, or the handle. He just knew that El-Prime would appreciate them for the Arcane Smithing clone. They only needed an anvil, a handful of other tools, materials, and room to work.

He claimed both, but then realized that using the same opening for an exit was now impossible. If Biomancy had a few more ranks and he had sufficient practice, Morph could’ve grown additional appendages, but he lacked the biomass and know-how. So, he turned his attention to the small door to the rear that seemed mostly unused. Stacks of boxes blocked it, and the pile of snow on the outside suggested no one ever used it.

The clone moved swiftly, moving the heavy containers, his heart pounding. He worried another delivery would arrive and the couple in the hut outside would come through the main entrance at any moment. Building anxiety almost made him fumble and drop a box. It landed with a loud thud, and the sound of cracking glass followed. The sound bounced around the warehouse, bouncing between walls and the stacks of containers.

Morph’s heart almost leapt out of his chest, but he didn’t stop working even when voices came from outside. Much to his relief, the spellscript on the rear door’s frame appeared worn. He felt no magic flowing through it. Only a heavy metal bar held it closed. He gritted his teeth, poured more biomass into his back and muscles, and heaved. Clicks and hums had already started to sound from the main entrance.

He ceased trying to be quiet. Once Morph got the bar to move, he let it drop, jumping back and just about saving his feet. He then grabbed the loot and shoulder-charged the door. Something cracked inside of him, but the clone gritted his teeth through the pain, repeating the action. The door moved. It wasn’t a lot, but enough for him to force an arm through. The packed snow was in the way. After a third strike and another break, he got the opening just wide enough to start squeezing himself through.

Even though Morph had no practice, he used Biomancy to adjust his ribcage and just about make it through when a yelling duo raced into the warehouse. He didn’t look back and raced into the pine forest, dividing his escape between fleeing, returning his body to a normal shape, and patching the broken bones. All three tasks proved painful and far from easy.