Four Split Personalities

Game Time PM19:11

Anka Market outskirts, midpoint of the Miler Avenue, by the Silver Crystal River

Harper Ramsey dragged his weary steps back to the cabin, casually tossing the battered-looking fishing rod to the corner of the wall, and carrying the basket of fish he strolled over to sit by the fireplace. He grabbed a cup, which looked like it hadn’t been washed in years, and poured himself some drink—a half-liter of a brown liquid that emitted a strange odor.

"It looks quite energetic."

The tree elf old man disdainfully glanced at the ’drink’ in his hand, with an odor so strong it could drive most wild beasts away, and forced a grin while crinkling his mouth corners. He then brought the cup to his lips and sipped lightly, as if tasting wine, with a very calm expression.

His face, easily a hundred years old in appearance, was covered in dense wrinkles. The original skin color was hard to discern; perhaps it was green, for at a glance he resembled a poorly-made, moss-covered ancient bronze statue. His white, disheveled hair and the deep layers of forehead lines gave way to a pair of murky, dark green pupils, and his unkempt, tangled beard hung on both sides of his chin like wilted seaweed, drenched with the foul-smelling brown liquid dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Regarding his attire, if one were to look closely, the piece of tattered cloth draped over him might also have had a bright and shiny past. But under the wear and tear of time and the neglect of its owner, it had inevitably turned into something indistinguishably close to a rag, provoking a sigh of lament.

Evidently, Harper Ramsey perfectly matched the image of a ’quirky old man who is severely detached from society,’ a character often found playing substantial roles in many dramas and ballads, frequently cast as a guide, commentator, clue provider, cannon fodder, prophet, cheat code, and so on. Nine times out of ten, these characters are recluses who know every trivial thing that happens outside within the last three and a half days without stepping out of their home in three hundred years. They’ve either been plotted against by their enemies as a Sword Saint or ostracized by the guild as a Sage, living alone in some decrepit place for decades, just waiting to give the protagonist a two to twenty-minute lecture before wholeheartedly assisting them to reach the pinnacle of life and marry the wealthy and beautiful.

It has to be said that the local artists of the Innocent Continent are too limited in their thinking. Had this been in the hands of those geniuses outside the game, who treat cerebral edema as creative brainstorming—like those Korean housewives, or some nameless individuals from [data deleted] countries, it wouldn’t be impossible for the old man to transform into a rich and beautiful woman and directly marry the protagonist.

In short, in most stories, these old men and women with such settings ought to have some background.

And Harper Ramsey...obviously could not be an exception.

"Grandpa Harper, your hands are so beautiful."

The girl busily working in the corner of the cabin turned around and flashed a smile at the old goblin, her frying spatula kept tumbling with practiced ease.

But...

[The spoon is lifted too high, the sliding of the meat doesn’t feel natural, uneven heat distribution.]

[The speed of flicking back the spoon is too slow, lacking inertia, flipping the ingredients not thoroughly enough.]

[The stir order is too chaotic, although not sticking to the pan, it’s hard to spread the main ingredients evenly.]

[Heat control is inadequate, too many unnecessary movements, the flip is rushed.]

[Starting with a stir-fry on high heat without cold oil is too sluggish, hard to set the shape.]

[Too amateurish...]

Harper Ramsey’s murky eyes slightly narrowed, and after a moment he warmly smiled with an expression of kindness, gently saying to the girl struggling with the spatula until she was flushed and sweaty, "You’re joking, young lady. These old hands of mine are hardly related to the word ’beautiful.’"

"Um, but I really think they look nice."

The girl chuckled and continued to hum a song while attentively flipping the spatula, heartily...making a dish that looked quite unappetizing.

She had a face so beautiful it seemed almost unrealistic, a pair of broad white wings, hair cascading down to her ankles, clad in a rather loose silver-waisted long robe, underneath which was a set combining a lightweight, form-fitting leather half-armor and a white battle skirt made of some unknown metal. In addition, she wore a double row of leather straps slung across her waist, a pair of elven-crafted fringed short boots, black leather pouches tied to the outside of her smooth white thighs, each adorned with silver-white runes, and a pair of goggles incongruously hung around her white neck which made her look somewhat out of place, and yet also spirited and full of youthful energy.

This outfit, seemingly odd to put together, would be hard for an individual of slightly inferior build and temperament to pull off, likely giving the impression of ’what on earth is this thing.’ But this set of mismatched clothes, worn by the girl, seemed so appropriate and pleasant to the eye.

She was a perfect woman who would make people think that a decrepit burlap sack was the leading edge of fashion even if she wore only that.

This was the final sentence a fervent admirer from her past left to his classmates, then the very same evening, the guy who attempted to ’escort’ the Goddess home was knocked unconscious with a club, stuffed into a sack, and thrown into a man-made lake. Strangely, he didn’t even catch a cold, let alone die, but still, after that day, he Disappeared from everyone’s sight. It is said he transferred to some school in the Middle East; in any case, there was no news from him ever again.