Marigold - A LitRPG

"We need to focus more on cultivating full-fledged gardens rather than just flowerbeds," insisted Buck, the large, plump bee coated in golden pollen. "Gardens propagate entire ecosystems—flowers, plants, root systems. They lay the groundwork for everything we're trying to build."

"I get it, Buck, I really do. But besides aesthetics—flowers, fruits, all that—we need to start producing building materials," one of the [Builders] countered, arms crossed.

We'd hit a standstill. On one side: expansion of flowerbed production. On the other: cultivating more utilitarian crops—roots, mushrooms, vegetables. The thing is, flowers form the backbone of the hive. They give us honey, beeswax—resources we can use for practically everything. But without the specialized ingredients from the gardens, crafting advanced materials like glue, rubber, or even beecrete becomes a logistical nightmare.

Food might be foundational, sure, but there's only so much we can gather through foraging. We're reaching the point where we must produce our own materials rather than stripping them from the wild. The harsh truth? We don't lack labor. In fact, we have too many hands. Enough to erect wax outposts, trench irrigation lines, plow and sow acres of soil, and still have energy left over by nightfall. Our bottleneck isn't labor—it's management.

And injury rates? Skyrocketing. The creatures around here are waking up, and they're ravenous. And we're not off the menu.

Lately, our soldier teams have clashed with mid-sized predators. But what keeps me up at night are the big ones. Just yesterday, one of our squads engaged a creature we've started calling the Porcelain Wolf. Beautiful thing, like a snow-white dire wolf—right up until it tore through five of my children, leaving them bloody and broken.

I HATE THIS. I HATE, I HATE, I HATE—

I hate feeling this pain through the Link. The fear, the agony—it pulses through my veins like venom. Every time one of my children brushes against death, it freezes my heart and ignites my blood. I need to protect them. I need more resources. I need control.

This ache, this pressure—it's unbearable. The thought of losing them is a weight I can't carry. And there's no neat solution. Death is a sly, merciless thing. We've been lucky so far—dodging its grip, sidestepping its claws. But it only needs one lucky day. We need to be lucky every single day.

And that thought—itches. A constant whisper in the back of my mind. Maybe it's her. Maybe it's my instincts clawing at me. I know I can't stop death forever. Someone will die. I feel it—deep in my gut—and the growing number of daily injuries doesn't exactly help ease my dread.

I can heal wounds. Restore broken limbs. Soothe agony. But I can't bring anyone back. That's what terrifies me most. What even is death for a hive? For us?

We're a singular mind, a united swarm. Pain echoes between us, shared and amplified. So what happens when one of us dies? Does it ripple across the Link? Will it fracture us? Or... is death even real for a collective like ours? As long as one bee remains, do we all still live?

No. I'm spiraling again. I need to focus. This isn't about what might happen. It's about shaping what should.

I ran a hand over my face, exasperated. "Ugh... status on the 'Lighthouse Project'?"

The Lighthouse Project—a working title I'd given our latest gamble. The goal: create an artificial mana harvester. A conduit that draws raw magical energy from the earth and transforms it into usable life energy for the hive.

Ambitious? Yes. Risky? Absolutely. But if we pull it off, the payoff could be game-changing. We already have the [Mana Node]—a unique construct I can (probably) recreate—that draws ambient magic and converts it into pure vitality. All we're missing is a proper harvesting interface. A system to channel that energy into the Hive Core for processing.

But designing that system? That's where we're flying blind. It needs a pressure valve to regulate mana flow, long-term storage units, and high-grade conduits linked to transformers—all systems we barely understand.

"Well," a [Builder] began, standing at attention, "according to the Magic and Development Club, it's technically viable—just extremely expensive. Their advice is to start by connecting the earth flame's mana output into the root channels."

"Uhm, yes, good. That's something. And the walnut pendulums—are they functioning as expected?" I turned to Buck.

"Eh. Good enough," he replied with a shrug.

Currently, we have an earth flame fused with the [Mana Node], pumping magical vitality into our network. To capture and distribute it, Max, Jasper, and Levi designed something we call the Walnut Posts—rudimentary constructs made of twisted rootwood with embedded mana-coded crystal disks. They're crude, yes, but effective. Instead of producing focused magical light like Max's old "growth lamps," they emit raw life energy into the soil.

It's a gamble. Magical life energy is generally benevolent, but when concentrated and poorly controlled, it can be just as dangerous as any toxin. Right now, we have eight active posts, all hardwired into the root canal system. Once we establish a direct connection to the earth flame, they'll run continuously.

That said, there are... issues. The crystal disks? Subpar quality, etched by worn-out [Artisans] and barely coded by drained [Mages]. There's a very real chance they'll fracture within an hour of activation. And we're playing with bioactive energy. Essentially, we're radiating our crops and praying we don't mutate into glowing zombie-bees.

"It'll have to do," I muttered. "The safety trials came back positive, right?"

"Errr… sort of. Max's exact words were: 'Safe enough.' The disks are the weak point, but the walnut casing should prevent explosive fragmentation."

"Great. That's comforting." I sighed. "Alright—Buck, reassign gardens A-1 through B-5 to the Alchemy Club. We need ingredients for advanced production—ASAP. The rest keep to the current crop rotation. Focus on the section under Keb's command. We need medicinal herbs and emergency stockpiles ready."

Buck gave a deep nod. "Yes, my queen!"

"Levi, I want a silo built by sunset. We need at least a full tank of honey daily to meet the troops' demands."

"Y-Y-Yes, my queen! C-Consider it done!" Levi stammered, scribbling in his notebook before flitting away.

"Double perimeter patrols. Recall all exploration squads immediately. Orange Alert Level 2. No unnecessary risks. And if anything big shows up, don't hesitate—get Hans involved," I ordered Jon, our newly appointed Lifeguardian Captain.

"Understood! No flea will pass on my watch!" Jon saluted.

"And keep progressing the energy grid. The faster we integrate this mana flow, the faster we recover. Watch for any anomalies in the root network. If you spot anything off—cut the main breaker. I'm not looking to recreate a bee version of Chernobyl here."

"YES, MY QUEEN!" came the resounding chorus.

I watched, heart tight with anticipation, as the engineering team—clad in makeshift hazard gear—approached the main conduit: a rough box of wax, roots, and embedded crystals. Mana pulsed visibly through it. They carried a massive root-cable fashioned from wax and wood. With a nod from the control tower, they connected it.

The ground glowed. Gold veins of energy shot through the root network. The terminal howled as mana surged, forcing the team to retreat.

"Status!" I barked.

"System's online. Flow rate is low... but stable," a [Builder] confirmed, tapping into a cobbled-together panel of enchanted voltage meters.

"Alright. Evacuate the field team, isolate the zone, and keep monitoring. Now—what about the poles?"

In the distance, I saw them—rows of flower plots, each with a crooked wooden stake rising from the soil. The energy coursed through the roots, igniting the posts one by one. I swallowed hard. They shuddered, trembled... and lit up. Not with light, but with an invisible aura I could feel through my magical senses.

Then—pop. Two of the posts exploded, sending out plumes of violet smoke and a dangerous shimmer of corrupted mana.

"Damn... Two failures," muttered the [Mage] beside me.

The rest held firm. Not exactly comforting, given what I'd just witnessed, but it was still a win.

"Shut down sections C-2 and F-6. Get diagnostics on those detonations. Check for casualties, and above all—great work, everyone. We're back in the game, finally!"

Cheers erupted. Whistles. Applause. Relief. The first small success in days.

It might not seem like much—but with the gardens growing, the honey flowing, and these makeshift mana posts buzzing with life, it was only a matter of time before the Hive stood strong once more.

"So... hypothetically, if someone wanted to harness the world's ambient magical energy for personal use, what kind of obstacles would they be up against?" I asked, trying to sound casual while staring down the creepy old man across from me.

Morthak had returned. Judging by the muttering about "annoying pests," something—or someone—had ticked him off on the way here. He came bearing gifts, though. Well, loot might be more accurate: a pile of dusty old books on random arcane subjects, a few pouches filled with vials, brittle parchment sheets, and an assortment of rusting medieval weaponry—a hammer, a chipped axe, a spear that looked more disease than metal.

Honestly, it looked like he'd mugged a history museum. Either someone crossed Morthak and ended up worm food, or he scavenged these from corpses. Based on their shoddy condition, I'm guessing the latter. I didn't ask. Didn't want to know.

To my surprise, Morthak didn't even comment on my failure regarding the task he'd set me. Instead, he simply said, "Take your time connecting the dots. You're smart enough to figure something like this out on your own." Which, if I'm being honest, is the least helpful kind of mentor advice.

All that vague mystic nonsense—"You'll find the way" or "You already have everything you need"—makes me want to hurl. Is it really that hard to just give me the damn answer?

But no. Apparently, he's not teaching me a single thing more until I solve this on my own. And so here I am: face-first into a magical brick wall.

I've had ideas—plenty, actually. But ideas alone don't build functional systems. The core challenge is balancing cost, stability, and magical harmony. Creating something abstract like a tangible, permanent spell should be simple in theory. I'm not even aiming for a specific effect—just something that fulfills those conditions.

The problem? "Tangible" and "Permanent" are basically opposites.

A tangible spell focuses on continuous manifestation—radiating magic from a fixed point to create something real, something physical. Permanent spells, on the other hand, function as self-sustaining loops—a closed circuit of runes designed to perpetuate the spell's existence indefinitely.

So trying to make something that's both permanent and tangible? That means I'd need a spell that runs infinitely in a loop while continuously emitting magical radiation. That's where the contradiction lies: closed system versus open flow.

"Hmph. What kind of idiotic ideas have you been cooking up while I was gone?" Morthak grumbled.

"It's for a friend," I replied, deadpan.

"Bullshit," he said, blinking once and fixing me with that unnerving stare.

"Okay, fine, it's for me. I'm just trying to figure out if it's possible. I mean, the world is practically soaked in ambient mana, and here I am scraping by with what little I can generate. Can you blame me for being curious?"

I even tried pulling a faux-innocent pout, just to sell the act.

"Child, you're not the first creature to look at the world's mana and think, 'Mine.' Hundreds before you have tried. A few centuries ago, maybe it was taboo. These days? People are reckless and impatient."

He flipped a page in his book with visible disdain.

"So it's possible, then?! You can actually use this energy?" I leaned forward, hopeful.

"Of course. There are plenty of ways. Just none that are particularly popular or easy to pull off. Most prefer to filter natural mana through a medium—like a spirit, familiar, or spectral entity. That way, you don't need to mess with the energy directly."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He paused, glancing up.

"There are also eastern witches—some old Druidic lines—that draw magic from natural phenomena. Eclipses, full moons, earthquakes. Even some rare magical beasts have the innate ability to tap into ambient mana."

He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"Oh, and there are certain legendary plants—very rare—that can actively absorb and store ambient mana in their limbs and leaves."

He said it all with a tone of exhaustion, like a professor forced to give the same lecture for the hundredth time.

"Ugh. So it's not some forbidden art—it's just... extremely impractical?" I asked, brow furrowed.

"Exactly. The world's mana doesn't follow a set pattern. It varies in density, type, and behavior depending on the region. To absorb that kind of inconsistent energy directly into your mana pool, you'd need an extremely adaptive filtration ability."

He closed his book with a snap.

"For example, when I absorbed the Earth Flame's energy into my own reserves, I lost roughly a fifth of it in the process. And that's with the flame being unusually pure. It was risky, sure, but the potential gain outweighed the cost."

"So it all comes down to affinity, then?" I asked.

"Yes and no," he replied. "Affinity definitely helps. A [Fire] user trying to absorb [Water]-aligned mana? Recipe for disaster. But sometimes, if the mana is familiar enough, even if it's not a direct match, it's still viable."

"Familiar how?" I pressed.

"Let's say I have an affinity for [Water]. If I travel to a region rich in water mana, I could slowly absorb the energy, day by day. It's like taking a drop of poison daily—some survive, some don't. But now imagine I have an affinity for something complex—like [Mud]. I'm not going to find many regions rich in [Mud] mana. So instead, I seek out related energies—[Earth], [Water]—and try to adapt over time."

"That sounds... wildly unfair," I muttered.

"It is. Simpler affinities are easier to maintain and easier to feed. But high-affinity zones are incredibly rare. The few that exist are sacred territory—heavily protected by ancient factions. Most people just scrape by on whatever ambient mana shows up during a storm or a seasonal shift."

"So the more specific your affinity, the harder it is to use natural mana?" I asked, frustrated.

"Pretty much," Morthak shrugged. "It's about cost and compatibility. Sure, raw mana exists everywhere, but unless you've got a system for converting it into something usable, it's like trying to drink saltwater and hoping for hydration."

"Okay, that leads to my next question," I said, leaning in. "Why hasn't anyone built something to convert ambient mana into usable energy? Some kind of magical converter?"

Morthak chuckled—an actual, genuine laugh. "Oh, many have tried."

I blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yes. There've been all kinds of crazy experiments—artificial mana cores, mana-processing machines, even sentient constructs with bound souls designed to filter energy into a specific affinity. Every attempt ended in disaster. The mana either destabilized, decayed, or drove the device insane."

"Are you telling me... there's no way to convert ambient mana into usable energy?!"

I screamed—loud enough to startle a nearby mushroom sprout.

"Damn it! I didn't even consider that possibility! You mean my [Mana Nodes] are actually... unique?!"

"They're unnatural," Morthak corrected. "Your nodes function because you created them with a specific purpose and structure. They're a rare exception. Like I said, some things can manage the process, these "Things" are just extremely rare and valuable. The only known natural species capable of doing it right now in my knowledge is the Millennium Tree, deep in elven territory." Morthak said, with a tone of disgust in his voice.

"Elves?" I raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound thrilled abou them."

"Hmph. It's not that I hate them. Some of the dark elves from Masct Forest are decent folk. It's the original elves—the purists—that I can't stand. Snobbish, hypocritical, and obsessed with their own myths."

"Wow. Snobbish elves? That's... so original," I said with a grin.

"You'd think a race that's lived through several world wars would have gained a shred of humility. Instead, they prance around in leaf-tunics, sipping fermented nectar and whispering about the 'natural flow' and 'divine order.' It's a joke."

"Oh right—they have a god, don't they?" I asked, suddenly remembering something from an old memory.

"They do. Father Nature. One of the Primordials. Legend says his blood gave birth to all the magic in the world. The elves call the ley lines 'God's Blood.' They're also one of the few species born with innate magical abilities."

"Let me guess—they're not fans of harvesting ambient mana?"

"Correct. Back when the elves still cared about global politics, they made all kinds of threats—subtle and otherwise—against nations that tried to 'manipulate God's blessing.' Ley line control, magical territory disputes... it all led to decades of war."

"You know an awful lot about this world," I said.

"I know a lot about a lot of things," Morthak said, cracking a dry smile.

"I wasn't being sarcastic. I mean, you're incredibly wise and generous and—"

"Okay, okay, no need to kiss my wrinkled ass," Morthak interrupted. "I've lived a long time. I've seen a lot. And don't let this charming exterior fool you—beneath this rotting shell is someone who's older than most mountains."

He chuckled again, voice creaking like dry bark.

I was seated at my desk—again. For the past few weeks, this has been my main habitat. Creating, experimenting, cataloging... and occasionally failing spectacularly. Honestly, most of it is pretty dull, and sometimes it feels like I'm just wasting time. But with not much else to do at the moment, I keep myself busy however I can.

Lately, most of my time has gone into identifying and classifying potential new materials. [Collectors] are particularly fond of anything new. I think it's hardwired into their species—the little ones practically vibrate with excitement every time they stumble across something unfamiliar. Be it a rock with an odd sheen or a two-toned leaf, they'll obsess over it like it's the discovery of the decade.

It's cute... until it's not. Because their attention spans are as stable as a glass bee in an earthquake. One second they're thrilled by a glittery mushroom, the next they're tossing it aside for a shiny pebble. That sort of scatterbrain enthusiasm isn't a problem, per se—after all, their job is to find and collect things—but it does leave me with a mountain of untested materials and very few answers.

Of course, I have [Evaluate], which helps... to a degree. It can tell me what something is, maybe offer a vague idea of how it might be used. But it doesn't show potential. It won't tell me what something becomes after being refined, processed, or magically altered. For all I know, I've got the equivalent of sugarcane stockpiled somewhere—and I'm just too ignorant to squeeze the sweetness out of it.

That leads to the ever-glamorous job of testing. Refining roots, leaves, bones, stones, mushrooms, petals—everything we've collected—just to see what they become when processed. This is more Jasper's area, and thankfully, he's got the patience of a saint. He'll methodically test each ingredient for oil, essence, or alchemical potential—even if it ends up being completely useless.

As queen, though, I've got one trick up my sleeve that no one else does: flooding items with life mana. It used to be that the others could do this using refined equipment and controlled discharges, but with our current lack of resources, it's all on me now.

But if you're expecting miracles... don't.

When I saturate an item with ordinary mana, it usually fractures—literally breaking into shards. Life mana is a little gentler, but not by much. More often than not, the item crumbles—turning into black dust or liquefying into a puddle of putrid goo. On rare occasions, I end up with something curious: blackened bone with crystal veins, oddly colored roots, or materials that pulse faintly with unstable energy.

"I think it's time we started considering partial or even full reactivation of the main clubs," Steve said as he walked in, scanning the room without focusing on anything in particular.

"Oh? Are we really feeling that optimistic about the gardens?" I asked, holding a fruit that resembled a bluish peach.

"Optimistic? No. Desperate? Yes. Without the specialized labor from the clubs, we won't stabilize the hive before next winter," he replied, brows furrowed in concern.

"Geez, relax. Winter's still thawing off the dirt and you're already panicking about the next one?"

"Um—yes?! I don't know if you've noticed, but our species sucks in cold environments. We need to hoard resources, insulate the hive, build cold-resistant modules for each club, accommodations, workshops, a working winter garden, and a food reserve big enough to feed us through the worst-case scenario—"

"Okay, okay, calm down!" I interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I get it. We've got a lot to do. But pacing in circles won't fix anything."

I turned back to the fruit and infused it with a small pulse of life mana. It immediately darkened, as if soaked in ink, and then collapsed into blackened mush in my hand.

"Ugh. Anyone watching you now would think you're calm and composed—but we both know you're just as freaked out as I am," Steve said, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Of course I am, Captain Obvious~" I said with a smirk, sifting through the sludge. "I'm just trying out a new strategy."

"What, the 'Fake It Till You Make It' method?" he quipped.

"Nope. More like 'Worry About What You Can Control.' We're doing okay—not great, but not catastrophic either. There's nothing wrong right now, so I'm choosing to focus on what we can do instead of what might go wrong tomorrow."

As I spoke, I pulled a small blue seed from the remains of the fruit and placed it on the table.

"I can't guarantee we'll be fully prepared by winter. I can't predict or prevent every danger to the hive. I can't fight threats I don't even know exist yet. But what I can do is keep moving forward. That's enough—for now."

Steve looked skeptical. "That's... a surprisingly libertine way to think for someone who runs a hive."

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just tired," I admitted, finally sitting down with a sigh. "I've been trying so hard from day one to be the best version of myself. And every time I fall short. I'm not a good queen, or a good mother, or even a good leader. The only things I'm actually 'good' at are laying eggs and generating mana—neither of which are achievements. They're racial traits."

"My queen! That's not true! You're—"

"It's fine, Steve~ I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm just telling it how I see it. Yes, Morthak says I have magical potential. And yes, I'm on a path I never thought I'd walk. But none of this comes naturally to me. I'm still learning how to be like this."

"Be what? Carefree? A flower-crown-wearing hippie queen?" he asked, visibly annoyed.

"No... not carefree. Just not consumed by dread every second of the day. I used to have this voice in my head constantly listing all the ways things could go wrong. I thought it was a [Worried Player] effect... but now I think it was just me. That voice is still there—but now, I don't let it control me. I just... acknowledge it. Observe the fear. Then move on."

"I don't think planning for the worst is a bad trait," Steve muttered. "It keeps us alert. It prepares us."

"Maybe. But when everything starts looking like a potential disaster, that fear becomes paralyzing. You start living inside the worst-case scenario, even if it hasn't happened yet."

"That's why we have [Strategists]. Their job is to simulate the bad outcomes and chart the safest path forward. It's not fear—it's foresight," Steve said, but his tone betrayed discomfort. This topic clearly unsettled him.

"Sometimes I wonder if that very fear has already led us to irreversible mistakes. We were so afraid of the Kobolds, we never even gave them a chance. We pushed them away before they could get close."

"Of course we did! They're outsiders. No good ever comes from outsiders. They're not hive. That makes them unreliable. We can't risk the safety of our people based on the assumption that others might act in good faith," Steve said, defensive and firm.

"I get that. The hive can't afford blind trust. But what if total isolation is the real risk? I'm not saying we roll out the red carpet for strangers—but maybe we could try to build trust instead of immediately cutting ourselves off."

"It's not about being friendly. It's about being practical. Humans attack us on sight—so no, no partnerships there. And as for the Kobolds? They're weak. Useless. A proper alliance needs to benefit both sides. With them, it's charity at best—not strategy."

Steve crossed his arms, his expression like stone. But I couldn't help thinking that maybe—just maybe—that mindset was the real danger we'd been carrying all along.

"That's because you're looking at things too narrowly. Sure, the Kobolds weren't exactly a beneficial species to us as a race—but thanks to them, we learned the basics of the local language, got a solid grasp of common knowledge, and gained insight into the original culture of this world. Honestly, I can't help but wonder how much we failed to learn from them out of fear. They could have taught us things about [Talents] and [Affinities], not to mention their understanding of magic—knowledge the hive never tapped into," I said, countering Steve's point.

"Their knowledge was restricted. I'll admit, what we gleaned from the Kobolds helped us piece together the world's basic framework, but it's insignificant compared to the resources we invested into them. We took food from the mouths of our own hatchlings to feed theirs. We healed their wounds while ours festered. We built their homes while our own construction was delayed. I don't feel responsible for those who don't share my blood," Steve replied coldly.

"Hmm. I get that it's not easy for you, but you're a smart kid, Steve. You should know that sometimes, swallowing your pride lets you claim the bigger slice of the pie later. I'm not saying we should look back and say, 'At least we helped someone in need'—I'm saying we should be thinking, 'We could've gained so much more from that situation.' If I had a second chance, maybe I'd leave the Kobolds to die. But no matter how cold and rational I try to be, I just don't think I could ever do that and sleep with a clear conscience."

"Maybe I should've made them pull their weight," I mused aloud. "Forced them to hunt monsters, even if it meant they'd get hurt. But then I think about the young. Like it or not, I have a soft spot for children. I think it's one of the weaknesses that comes with being queen of the hive. Whenever I imagine making the Kobolds work themselves to death, I picture the misery it would inflict on their little ones. All that wasted potential."

"Wasted potential?" Steve echoed, confused.

"Yes. One thing I've come to understand as queen is how much more moldable the young are. Just like a standard [Worker] is born with no expectations beyond their role, Kobold offspring were born expecting nothing more than to live in seclusion in a crumbling village. But this world... it's governed by the System. And in this world, the System is absolute. Just like a [Worker] can evolve into a [Tailor] or a [Leader], those Kobold children could have become something far more if given the chance. We wasted that potential."

"So what? Are you saying you wanted to adopt those outsiders into the hive? Do you seriously think that would've worked?" Steve asked, indignant.

"No~ The hive would never accept outsiders within its ranks. I know that. It's just our nature," I said, clarifying. "But then I had an idea... what if we didn't integrate them directly? What if we selected only the most promising individuals and raised them under the hive's guidance—as patrons and protégés? We provide the resources they need to thrive, and in return, they serve the hive's interests in the outside world."

"A sponsorship system?" Steve murmured, cupping his chin. "That… might actually work. But only if we implement strict controls. Methods of discipline. Containment procedures in case someone steps out of line."

"Exactly~ I'm just saying we missed an opportunity—because we were afraid. Instead of leveraging a delicate situation to our advantage, we let fear and closed-mindedness limit our options," I said, shrugging.

"I understand..." Steve muttered, thinking it over. "Looking at it from that angle... yeah, there really was more we could've done. I still don't think your idea is perfect—or safe—but it's worth exploring. Maybe we could even build an organization dedicated to sponsoring individuals from a young age, training them to become our public faces, diplomats, or specialists who can represent the hive among less-friendly species."

"We'd be outsourcing contact," I added.

"Yes. It's worth considering. But there are plenty of details and pitfalls we'd need to work out."

Steve continued, now fully engaged. "We'd have to develop a classification system—different tiers of sponsorship, separating short-term assets from long-term investments. We'd also need to navigate the political minefield of choosing which species we align with and which we avoid."

"I was envisioning something more neutral," I said. "A society that shelters and develops individuals of any species, as long as there's justification."

"Unrealistic," Steve countered. "Some species are inherently more valuable to us than others. Objectively, humans would be the most beneficial—they dominate most of the power structures in this world. But they're also hostile toward us. On the other hand, demon-kin or similar races might be far more receptive."

"Yes, yes~ I'm not saying we should chase humans, just that we shouldn't dismiss them out of hand. If we find individuals—of any race—who fit our ideals, we shouldn't ignore them just because of what they are."

"Fair enough. But for any of this to work, we'd need infrastructure—resources we don't currently possess. And I'm not just talking about food and shelter. We'd need coin. Trade routes. Economic influence," Steve said, more grounded now.

"Too much for the current stage, huh?" I said with a sigh.

"Far too much. We don't even have a use for money right now. So the version of this plan where it actually becomes reality... is still a long way off," Steve concluded.

"Well, a girl can dream~"