Caleb walked through the inn's doors and straight into a scene of chaos.
Bodies packed the common room shoulder to shoulder, while every table groaned under a load of food and drink. The air almost felt solid: a mixture of woodsmoke, spilled ale, and too many people crammed into too small a space. A bard in the corner attacked a lute with more enthusiasm than skill, adding another layer to the racket.
Caleb searched the room, looking for Cassia. He spotted her near the kitchen doorway directing a harried server with urgent gestures. The young woman nodded frantically before diving back into the crowd with a laden tray.
He wove through the press of bodies, dodging elbows and stepping around a puddle of something he didn't want to identify. "Cassia, can I trouble you for a moment?"
She turned, the corners of her mouth tightening. "Not now, Thal. The mayor—" She trailed off as she took in his expression. Something in his face made her grab his arm and pull him into the cramped alcove beside her office door.
"This had better be important." She spoke in a rush, each word clipped. "Mayor Aldric is here with half his court, and we're already down a server."
He met her eyes. "I need to learn to defend myself. I want to join the martial training tomorrow morning, with your permission."
Cassia looked confused. "Well, of course you're going to dear."
Caleb blinked. "Huh?"
She glanced toward the common room, then leaned closer and lowered her voice to a hushed murmur. "The Dominion Youth Preparedness Mandate, Thal. Every citizen must report for martial training upon Awakening."
Cassia's words unlocked a fragment of Thal's past: the dread of his approaching sixteenth birthday and the pressure of the Mandate were a source of constant anxiety.
It would really be great if I could access some of these memories before I needed them…
Cassia continued, "Obviously, you couldn't have mustered for training this morning because you just Awakened this afternoon. But be warned, Thal: it's not everything they tell you it is. Forget all that nonsense about civic duty and helping your community. It's just pretty words to hide the teeth. The Mandate is a recruitment program, and a cruel one. They're not looking for bodies, not at first. It's talent they're after. They push everyone to find the few who truly stand out, and then they make them an 'offer'." She tightened her hold on his arm, expression grim. "And that's the trap. The offers aren't optional. If you're deemed 'valuable' and refuse their placement they'll conscript you anyway. A five-year term, minimum. It's their way of saying your talent belongs to the Empire, whether you agree or not."
So… it was a coercive recruitment drive on a planetary scale. Perform well, get an offer. Refuse the offer, get conscripted. The Dominion always got its pound of flesh. The Imperial Unpaid Internship Program, Caleb thought darkly. Where the job offer is mandatory, and the severance package for turning it down is five years in a meat grinder.
"The captain who runs the local training is a friend. He's tough but fair." She smiled at him encouragingly. "Arion will be lucky to have you."
Before he could ask more Cassia gripped his shoulder, digging in with surprising strength.
"And Corinne will welcome the company! Look after her."
Caleb nodded firmly after she didn't immediately release him. It was a serious request.
"Now go." She pushed him gently toward the kitchen. "Gareth needs you."
"Thank you Cassia!" he exclaimed, heading into the back. As soon as he stepped inside it was on.
"Finally!" Gareth roared through the tumult. "Prep station! Now!"
With a dip of his chin, Caleb quickly darted through the kitchen. The path to his station felt a hundred feet long. Eyes tracked him from all sides, and he felt it prickling his skin. Hushed words faltered as he turned his head toward the speakers, and staff who had offered him tired smiles yesterday now gave him a wide berth.
Right. His absurd behavior. Heat flooded his cheeks. He remembered the whole mortifying scene. They wouldn't know about any potion hangover yet. They just saw an unreliable kid who cracked under pressure and walked out. He deserved the cold shoulder.
Only one way to fix this, he thought, his grip closing around the handle of his knife. Work. Be useful. Be too valuable to ignore.
Caleb clenched his knife with renewed purpose. A mountain of vegetables waited, and he attacked them without mercy. The blade became an extension of his will as he narrowed his focus to just his cutting board and the next ingredient. Around him, the kitchen crew flew through their own dance: servers swooping in to grab plates, Gareth orchestrating everything with barked commands and pointed gestures.
"Behind!" A server carrying hot soup brushed past.
"Two more steaks on the fly!" Another voice called out.
"Where's my bloody garnish!?" Gareth bellowed.
Caleb never stopped. When the pile dwindled, more appeared. He shifted to slicing meat, each motion a composite of observations. The way one cook used his knuckles to guide the edge, the wrist-flick another used to debone a fish: [Perfect Memory] supplied the data, and his body executed the optimized result.
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The kitchen door burst open, and Corinne swept in with her tray of golden juice, earning grateful nods from the exhausted staff. Eventually she made her way to Caleb.
"Mom told me and I can't believe it you're finally joining me tomorrow and I can't wait I'm so excited!" The words tumbled out in an excited jumble. "We start at dawn and Captain Hatch doesn't tolerate tardiness, not for a second, but don't worry, I'll make sure you're ready. You better be up and ready!"
Before he could respond, she was already moving away, another cook calling for her. But she glanced back once, that brilliant smile firmly in place, mouthing the word "tomorrow" enthusiastically.
A man nearby, one who had been scowling at him before, caught the interaction. He met Caleb's eye for a moment before giving a brief, barely visible dip of his head.
Caleb refocused on his task, putting off thoughts of training. Time dissolved into the cadence of the work. His arms burned with the continuous effort. Sweat plastered the rough apron to his skin, but he couldn't stop. The kitchen was a living thing, and he was a part of it.
Hours passed like that. Gradually, imperceptibly, the pace slowed. Orders trickled in rather than flooded. The roar from the common room faded to a murmur, and servers walked between stations instead of sprinting between them.
Caleb eventually set down his knife and flexed his fingers when it was all done. They were stiff, locked in the shape of his knife's handle. His back momentarily spasmed with pain when he straightened, as every muscle from his shoulders to his wrists throbbed.
Without a word, Gareth ladled thick stew into a bowl and set it before him. The smell alone was enough to make Caleb salivate profusely. He hadn't realized how empty he was until food appeared.
He ate without thought, fatigue overriding his usual analysis of flavors and technique. The stew served one purpose: fuel. Around him, the remaining kitchen staff moved with the slow gestures of the utterly drained. Someone laughed, a weary, punch-drunk sound. Someone else cursed as they dropped a pan.
Gareth appeared again, shoving a paper-wrapped bundle in front of Caleb. The grease had already soaked through in places, leaving translucent spots.
"For the morning," Gareth said gruffly. "You're no good to me if you collapse."
Caleb looked up, meeting those hard green eyes. Gareth held his gaze for a long moment.
"Cassia told me about your conversation with her. Corinne is strong, but she is still my daughter." The man stared intently at Caleb, and his own fatherly instincts knew what was left unsaid. The universal language of fatherhood transcended words. This man would kill for his daughter, just like Caleb would for his own.
He swallowed hard and looked Gareth in the eye.
"I'll protect her like she's my own—" The word caught in his throat. "—sister."
Gareth studied him for another heartbeat, then nodded. He turned back to his domain, already focused on tomorrow's prep.
Caleb resumed cleaning, working through the routine of scrubbing and sanitizing. His body operated on autopilot while his mind spun through the evening's revelations. The Mandate and forced conscription. Corinne needing protection. A world where the young trained for war as a matter of course.
"I'm so excited!"
He looked up to find Corinne hurrying toward his station. Her face was smudged with soot from tending the common room's fireplace, hair escaping from its usual ponytail. But she lit up his grimy corner of the kitchen with a delight that seemed to push back his weariness.
"It'll be so much better now!" She practically bounced despite the late hour. "Captain Hatch always partners me with Mala, and she smells like pickled fish. You'll be my partner now!"
The statement left him feeling a bit awkward. She's sixteen. I'm old enough to be her dad. The realization was jarring. This would be like Katie's friend asking me to be her lab partner. He forced his face into what he hoped was a friendly smile.
"Looking forward to it," he managed.
"Dawn training is rough at first," she continued, oblivious to his discomfort. "But you get used to it quick. And Captain Hatch really knows his stuff. He was in the Legions for decades before they sent him here."
"I should..." He gestured vaguely at the pile of pots still waiting.
"Oh! Right. Sorry." She flashed another grin. "See you in the morning!"
She disappeared back into the common room, leaving Caleb alone with his thoughts and the dishes. He worked mechanically, moving while his mind processed. By the time he finished the kitchen was silent except for the tick of cooling metal and the distant buzz of the few remaining patrons.
His cot had never looked more inviting. Caleb collapsed onto it fully clothed, boots still laced. He groaned as he settled into the thin mattress. The ache of a hard day's work multiplied by the intensity of the dinner rush and what the Awakening had done to him, wore him out completely.
He stared at the dark ceiling overhead. Corinne was excited. To her, this was just the next step. Like getting a driver's license or going to a new school. For him, it was something else entirely. Military training. The words sounded wrong in his mind. The closest he'd ever come was a paintball game for a team-building exercise. He'd gotten a welt on his arm and complained about it for a week.
Tomorrow, a veteran warrior would teach him how to use a real weapon for its true purpose: ending a life.
His mind jumped to Selara's challenge. Kill a feral goblin. He imagined it. A small, hunched creature with jagged teeth. He would have to walk up to it and… what? Stab it? Carving a Thanksgiving turkey was the peak of his experience on Earth, and even in Gareth's kitchen he'd not had to actually dispatch an animal. Driving a blade into something that could bleed and howl and fight back was an act for which he had no frame of reference. Nor did he want one. The entire idea left a sour taste in his mouth, but he remembered why he needed this and his resolve didn't waver.
Sleep took him between one breath and the next.
He woke to darkness. The painful stabs of overworked muscles had faded into an even ache across his whole body. And something else had changed. He felt… lighter, somehow. A soft chime echoed through him, followed by silver text appearing in his vision.
[Spiritual Contamination has decreased by 1.00%; from 10.00% to 9.00%]
Progress. It was something. One percent gone after a single night. Nine more days to get back to zero, presumably. But what exactly was he getting rid of? Spiritual Contamination. The name was unpleasant, but the system offered no details. What happens if I just ignore it? If I use another stone, does the number just go up?
He shook his head. Still so many questions, and dwelling on them wouldn't provide a single answer. It was just another unknown variable in an equation he couldn't solve. For now, it was a problem for future Caleb. Poor guy. Present Caleb had a more immediate and pressing concern: surviving the pre-dawn hours without a single drop of caffeine. That depressing thought was potent enough to compete with the ache of his muscles.
Crumb. It's not even five. My old life had its problems, but at least it had Colombian dark roast. I'd pay ten silver for a pot of coffee right now.
He forced himself upright, muscles protesting every movement. The sausage sat on the small table beside his cot, grease now congealed but still fragrant. He unwrapped it and took a bite. Dense, fatty, and surprisingly warm: some kind of enchantment in the paper, maybe? Or possibly the meat itself. The heavy meal sank like lead, radiating steady heat through his insides.
With a grunt, he swung his legs from the cot, ignoring the resistance in every limb. It was a good ache. The ache of effort. The ache of growth.
He had promises to keep and a goblin to kill.
It all started today.