Chương 84: Foundations

Cal pressed his palm against the newly installed rune etched into the spout of his porcelain basin, feeding his Intent into the inscribed amenity. Water flowed from the tap in a steady stream, the temperature perfectly balanced between comforting warmth and scalding heat. He cupped his hands beneath the flow, letting the sensation ground him. The cost still stung.

He'd watched the apprentice from Mistress Alia's workshop carve the expensive glyph, hoping to parse the logic of the array, but the process had been a humbling lesson in complexity. Isolated strokes were familiar—the fluid curve of an [Aqua] rune, the anchor points of other structures—but the overall syntax was unknown to him. The apprentice had layered them, carving the glyphs over one another until they formed a dense, interlocking knot of geometry that seemed to violate the rules of physical space.

It was, for all intents and purposes, Greek to him. Actually, he thought, running his hands through the small pool, with [Savant of the Mind], I could probably learn Greek in a week. This, however, was a cipher he wasn't ready to crack, though [Perfect Memory] had dutifully archived the impossible tangle for the day he was. He splashed water across his face, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep, then reached for the bar of soap. Pine and mint filled the small bathroom as he worked up a lather. Non-negotiable.

I couldn't have left the inn without this. The decision to invest such a large chunk of his resources into a single comfort had been deliberate. Running water served as a psychological anchor, representing control, stability, and the first real step toward building something permanent. After drying his face with a clean towel, he hung it on a wooden peg and moved to the small bedroom where his armor and weapons waited.

There, he donned his old set of boiled leather, its surface polished to a dull sheen after recent mending. With the armor secure, he turned his attention to the bed where his new Legion-issue equipment rested. The short sword was practical, its blade forged from standard military steel with a simple crossguard and a leather-wrapped hilt. He lifted it, testing the balance, before sliding it into the scabbard at his hip.

The round hoplon-style shield came next, its face painted with the crimson and gold of the Dominion. Slipping his arm through the leather straps he took the shield's weight, and the feeling reminded him of a recent memory. The shield wall drill. He was back in the garrison yard under the unforgiving stare of F-tier Lieutenant Marco Berg—he hadn't seen Sergeant Tanner since that first day.

The air was filled with the smell of sweat and oiled leather, the ground beneath his boots churned to mud by the constant movement of drilling soldiers. Cal stood in formation, shoulder to shoulder with thirty other legionaries, the edge of his shield overlapping the one to his right. The line stretched across the yard like a bulwark of wood and flesh. Berg's wheezing drawl cut through the noise.

"Lock that line! Brace!" Cal planted his feet, digging his heels into the soft earth. He bent his knees to distribute his weight, pressing his left shoulder hard against the shield's inner face as he braced for impact. The world narrowed to the small gap between his shield and the one beside him, a sliver of vision that showed only the charging mass of the opposing formation. The impact came like thunder.

The unified crack of sixty shields colliding at once reverberated through his bones, rattling his shoulder and threatening to knock him off balance. The shield wall absorbed the blow, distributing the energy across the entire line so that no one bore the full brunt of the charge. Standing firm, he felt the soldiers beside him lean into the press, felt the subtle shifts of pressure as the formation adjusted and compensated.

In that moment, he became a piece of a machine, interchangeable yet essential, and the machine held because every part did its job. The memory faded, leaving him standing alone in his bedroom with the shield strapped to his arm. He glanced at a few of the recent entries on his status sheet: [Shield Block], [High Guard], [Short Sword Thrust], among others. The utilitarian names stood in contrast to the poetic flair of [Iron Root Stance] or [Breaching Thrust].

The discrepancy had bothered him for weeks until he finally caved and asked Vane for confirmation of his best guess. His new fighting buddy confirmed the System wasn't just an arbitrary dictator of terminology: it was also a translator, bridging the gap between his own understanding and the technique in question when appropriate.

When Captain Hatch had instructed him in the spear the man had shouted the formal names of the techniques, keying the System to adopt the specific Dominion nomenclature as Cal earned them, because that's how Cal thought of them. But with Vane's fisticuffs there had only been violence. Cal had recognized the mechanics of a punch and mentally labeled it a "Jab" or a "Hook" based on his Earth knowledge.

The System, recognizing his understanding, had solidified the Skills under those English boxing terms rather than whatever fancy language the Legion might have used for "punching a guy in the face." The sword and shield training had been different again. The veteran legionaries hadn't bothered with official titles. They offered only gruff commands like: "keep your guard high," or "slash downward," and we can't forget "brace the shield."

Lacking a proper name from a teacher or a specific equivalent from his past life, the System had simply filled in the blanks with the most literal translation of the action. His custom moves are where the arbitration came in. He hadn't named [Lancing River], had no predisposition towards a name, nor even the presence of mind to contemplate such mid-fight. The System simply assigned the title when he successfully completed the attack.

He suspected that somewhere in its vast archive the technique originated from a flowery predecessor—something like The Heavenly Current That Divides the Mountain. But because he lacked a teacher to shout the full title at him, the name got auto-filled with the common shorthand. He appreciated the brevity. It reminded him a bit of the linguistic drift he'd noticed with his misunderstanding of Deadfall. Thal's memory provided the direct translation: "village." But the scale was all wrong.

To the Dominion, a "village" like his—and the surrounding land—were home to ten thousand souls. To Cal's Earth sensibilities that was a city. But on Veraxus, a true "city"— civitas in Dominion common—implied a walled metropolis of millions. While literal equivalents, a chasm of magnitude separated the concepts they represented. He figured he could start adjusting the translation in his own mind, but it felt tedious at this point. When in Rome…

Cal exhaled slowly, adjusting the straps one final time before moving toward the door. His hand found the smooth surface of the newly refinished banister as he descended the spiral staircase, the wood cool and splinter-free beneath his palm. He paused at the bottom, surveying the transformed main room. Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. The walls now bore fresh plaster patches.

The hearth had been cleaned, its blackened stones scrubbed until they gleamed dully in the morning light. Three repaired utility runes pulsed evenly from his kitchen countertop—one for heat, one for cooling, and a third to aid in ventilation. The room was still sparsely furnished, the empty spaces a reminder of work yet to come, but the foundation was solid. His gaze shifted to the narrow door leading to the basement. The next phase.

He recalled the conversation with the apprentice, just as the man was packing his tools.

"Does your shop handle warding?" Cal had asked.

"I need a stable [Isolation Field] inscribed downstairs." The apprentice, a pale man who handled his chisel like a scalpel, had scoffed.

"We do… but that's a demanding project. Only the Mistress or her senior staff handle such sophisticated work." Looking around the home in disrepair, the man turned up his nose.

"It'll cost at least twenty times what you've paid me for here. Are you sure you can afford it?" Cal ignored the man's backhanded question.

"How much to get the Mistress to do it herself?"

"Mistress Alia is exclusive." The apprentice snapped his tool case shut.

"She reserves her craft for commissions she deems 'artistically significant.' I doubt she'd waste her time on your basement." Annoying as the man's attitude was, Cal was glad for the information. Rune crafting seemed like a worthy Skill, one that had some overlap with his growing understanding of magic. Goals for later to help him walk the Path. The thought of magic had him flexing his fingers, the sensory memory of last night's practice session still vivid in his nerves.

He had been taking withered stalks of frost-nettle—throwaway reagents—and using them to practice [Extract Essence]. A month ago, just a couple casts of that Spell would have drained his undeveloped core dry. Now he could extract the essence from a dozen reagents before he needed to stop. Status. PRIMARY ATTRIBUTES | VIT | 94. 06% | F | | STR | 94. 06% | F | | AGI | 94. 06% | F | | END | 94. 06% | F | | INT | 5. 00% | F | | WIL | 35. 00% | F | | WIS | 30. 00% | F | SPIRITUAL CONTAMINATION: 13.

00% His Wisdom attribute had finally climbed to the point where he felt he could complete a basic potion recipe without relying on an external crutch to get him over the finish line. He looked forward to putting that theory to the test soon. Turning from the basement door, Cal moved toward the front entrance while his boots creaked on the wooden floorboards. The latch clicked open and he stepped out into the crisp winter morning.

A light dusting of snow covered the cobblestones, the white powder gleaming faintly in the pale light of first dawn. Closing the door behind him, Cal began his walk toward the garrison, his mind shifting to his current finances. It had taken Kamari's team two more days to return to the creek and pry the remaining scutes from the tortoise's massive carapace. The veteran had been true to his word, delivering Cal's full share of the payment once the work was complete.

The payout was substantial, but between the renovations, back taxes, and ongoing expenses in spirit stones, his war chest had dwindled to just twenty gold. The number was shrinking faster than he could replenish it, but he had plans to rectify that soon. He'd been personally foraging all of the necessary reagents for the potion recipes the Veils had given him—including a basic Mana potion recipe he'd wheedled out of Aurelian just last week.

As he continued to fulfill foraging contracts for Zarven, he was simultaneously stockpiling his own stores for when the time came. His thoughts turned to Zarven and the strategy that was working. He hadn't heard from Narbok in weeks. The absence was conspicuous, a silence that'd confirmed his theory: the psychopath was a leashed dog. By making himself useful—by fulfilling every contract the alchemist posted to the Guild board he could—Cal had effectively neutralized the threat.

Zarven valued profit over pride, and as long as Cal remained a productive asset, the merchant had no incentive to deploy his enforcers. The path took him past the street leading to the Hearthsong Inn, and the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat carried on the morning air. The smell triggered a nice memory as he reminisced about a night three days prior. They'd gathered at their usual table in the common room, the four of them clustered around bowls of Gareth's stew.

Corinne had just returned from a contract with Kamari's team, who had taken her under their wing. Face flushing with excitement, she recounted the fight against a pack of razor boars, gesturing to demonstrate how she repeatedly had to dodge the beasts as even the little ones had tusks sharp enough to slice a tendon. Cal had found himself smiling, glad the veterans were keeping an eye on her.

Leo sat beside him, laughing at Corinne's theatrics while Mira perched on the edge of her seat, her calm blue eyes tracking Corinne's every word. The quiet young woman who'd bested Leo in the tournament was slowly becoming a staple in the kitchen and around the inn. When Corinne finally finished, Mira leaned forward.

"Can I come sometime?" Corinne beamed.

"Yes! Of course!" She spun toward Leo, nudging him with her elbow.

"You have to come too, Leo. We need a full team!" Leo's expression trembled—a brief moment of panic warring with a hopeful grin—before he nodded.

"I… I'll try." Cal watched the exchange, a mix of pride and concern rising in him as the group solidified. Leo's hands were built for kneading dough, not reaping lives. Still, everyone needed the ability to defend themselves on Veraxus. It would be good for the boy. As he approached the garrison, he let his posture shift instinctively. He squared his shoulders, lengthened his stride, and let his features settle into the neutrality he'd learned to wear in the presence of officers.

The transformation was automatic, the product of weeks of drilling under Berg. The public training yard opened up before him, and his eyes unfortunately found Narbok. Cal stared a bit too long, and Narbok must've felt something of it because his head turned abruptly, locking eyes with Cal across the yard. The tension was immediate, a crackling, invisible line connecting them.

Then the elf appeared to shift from abject hatred to something more focused, and moments later Cal felt an intrusive pressure against his aura—a claw of Intent that scraped against the edges of his perception like fingernails on glass. Intuitively, he knew what was happening, even though he'd never felt anything like it. Narbok was using an active, Mana-fueled [Spiritual Perception] probe on him.

The sensation was clumsy and aggressive, lacking the finesse of Cal's own training, but the purpose was clear: Narbok was testing him, searching for weakness. He wouldn't find any. Drawing on his own Mana Cal fed it into his perception, shaping the energy into a stable bubble around himself. The spiritual energy settled into place like a second skin and Narbok's probe hit the barrier, sliding off harmlessly.

[New Skill Gained: Aura Shield (F) - Novice] A moment of shock widened Narbok's eyes before his nostrils flared and lips pulled back, baring his teeth. The anger was a flash fire, burning out almost as quickly as it had ignited before a patient stillness settled over his features, erasing the rage. The hatred in his stare solidified into a promise of a bloody end. Cal understood the unspoken message. His truce through Zarven was a fragile business arrangement, a temporary shield against this deep-seated vendetta.

Sooner or later this fight was coming. Cal held the Mycari's stare for a long moment before turning his back and entering the garrison building. The interior was warmer, the air undoubtedly heated by runic magic. His boots clacked against the stone floor as he made his way toward the officers' wing, his mind already shifting to the day's training schedule. The upcoming drills remained strictly foundational. The Dominion denied advanced martial arts and all magical instruction to the unsworn.

Unlocking the Legion's true arsenal required signing a full-time contract and taking the oath. That commitment granted the military exclusive rights to his time, stripping away his autonomy to walk the Sovereign Path. He refused to abandon his alchemy and the Adventurer's Guild for a long-term cot in the barracks. Enlistment stood as a contingency plan if his personal strength ever hit a hard ceiling. Until then, he accepted repetitive exercises over a binding contract. He rounded a corner and stopped.

Captain Arion Hatch stood rigidly in the center of the hallway, his dark eyes fixing on Cal with such intensity he felt a sense of foreboding. The officer wore his full battle regalia, a tabard bearing the Dominion's colors displayed proudly over his gleaming plate armor. Cal straightened instinctively, his hand moving to his chest in the salute they'd drilled into him. Hatch waved the gesture away.

"Valorn. Just who I was looking for. Training is over. It's time for your first mission."