Chương 90: The Butcher's Bill

Flesh parted under his blade as Cal worked the harvesting knife deeper into the elite rotter's torso, his fingers slick with viscous gore as the rubbery resistance of decayed muscle made his grip unstable. He braced his boot against the corpse's shoulder for leverage, pushing down as he carved. The spirit stone was lodged deep, pressed against what remained of the creature's spine, and his blade scraped against bone with a sound that made his teeth ache. One more cut.

He adjusted his angle, driving the tip of the knife beneath the stone's lower edge. A final, wrenching twist and the prize came free. The blue E-tier spirit stone was the size of his thumbnail, its surface covered in gunk while blue light pulsed within and cast faint shadows across his palm. He wiped it clean on his trousers, the fabric already too filthy to matter, and tucked it into his belt pouch. Straightening, his back protested the movement as he looked around the clearing.

A dozen feet away Vane was on his knees in the mud, scrubbing his shield with frenzied strokes of a dirty rag. The cloth dragged over the brass, each pass a squeak that interrupted the quiet. His knuckles were white around the wadded rag, and his jaw was clenched so tight that the muscle fibers stood out against his skin. The boisterous energy that usually radiated from him had been replaced by seething frustration. Nearby, Ria moved between their fallen legionaries, her face pale and looking carved from stone.

She knelt beside the two halves of the unknown man's body, whose breastplate had been split by the elite's war-axe. Her hands were sure as she unbuckled his belt, folding it mechanically before placing it in a canvas sack. Cal forced his attention back to his own work. He advanced to the next rotter corpse where the smaller F-tier stones would be: a feral goblin grunt half-sunk in the mud. They'd told him these blue stones were more fragile than the reds, so the cuts had to be careful to avoid shattering them.

Unfortunately, his hands shook with residual adrenaline, making the fine work treacherous. He positioned the blade, yet his fingers trembled and the tip wavered. He let out a slow breath through his teeth. The memory of Tarn Blackroot on that windswept beach returned, his benefactor channeling the barest thread of Stamina into his mind. It was but a hair-thin current used to stimulate that nerve cluster. Could I do the same? The idea made sense.

A controlled trickle of Stamina routed through the pathways in his wrist and forearm could act as an internal splint to stabilize the tremor. It was a natural extension of the principle behind every Ability he knew: power shaped by Intent. He let the thought fade as quickly as it had sparked. For whatever reason, the pathway [Liminal Breath] used was undamaged. Likely due to it being something unused by [Crimson Overdrive] and his typical move set. He wouldn't risk his hands.

Shaking his head, he tried to force his grip still through sheer physical discipline, and the blade sank into the decayed flesh. He worked slowly, compensating for the reoccurring tremor with small incisions until the stone came free intact. He added it to his pouch and moved to the next corpse. The task took on a cadence. Cut. Pry. Wipe. Move. Cut. Pry. Wipe. Move. His mind could focus on the immediate problem of harvesting, on the placement of the blade and the angle of the cut.

[Your proficiency with Harvesting (F) has increased to Adept] Rising from the corpse of a mosshide bear, he wiped his blade on a patch of relatively clean moss. His eyes traveled across the field, searching for the next target. There were none. The clearing had been stripped clean. Up and down the berm of corpses the other legionaries were cleaning their blades and sheathing their knives, their own work finished.

They headed away from the carnage with the exhausted shuffle of men and women who had pushed themselves to the edge. His post-combat high abandoned him all at once, leaving a void that filled instantly with exhaustion. Lightheadedness forced a stumble, dragging his eyes away from the piled rotters toward the clearing's edge where the dead waited. The bodies of the fallen legionaries had been moved. They were laid out on a patch of less-disturbed ground in a solemn row, cleaned of the worst mud and gore.

Seven of them. Two of the deaths he'd witnessed, while the other five bore the savage wounds of the drake. Berrick. Weren't they laughing and sharing a meal just last night? The cynical veteran lay still with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. The wound that'd killed him was a ragged tear across his torso where blade had sheared through armor. Someone had tried to clean the blood from his face, but streaks of it remained in the creases around his eyes.

Air refused to enter Cal's seizing lungs, the denial turning his breath into a haggard gasp. Sudden lightheadedness smeared the edges of his vision and amplified the clearing's muted noise until it became a deafening roar. The buzzing of corpse flies, so strange in the winter. The distant caw of a carrion bird and squelching boots in the mud. Each sound drove into his skull, too invasive and too loud. He activated [Perfect Memory] and dove in, seeking solace. The frigid mud and stench of rot vanished.

He was Caleb Foster, enveloped by the comforting cocoon of a duvet and the soft give of a mattress beneath his back. A pressure landed on his torso like a small meteorite.

"He came! Santa came!" Jack's cry was muffled and exultant, his face buried in Caleb's chest. A moment later Katie landed beside him, her elbow digging into his ribs as she bounced on the bed.

"Get up, Dad! It's Christmas!" Caleb groaned theatrically, pulling the blanket over his head. Beside him, Evelynn laughed, a sleepy sound that warmed his heart as she expertly wrangled the kids.

"Hold on you two. Your father is basically a goblin until he's had his coffee. Give us ten minutes." The word goblin sent a shock through him. A flash of yellowed teeth and the reek of old meat. The tearing sound of claws on flesh. He shoved the image down ruthlessly. No. Not here. This place is mine. Hearing Evelynn anchored him, pulling him back to the reassuring sound of the kids' fading protests as they thundered out of the room.

The bedroom was quiet again, the faint light of dawn filtering through the curtains. His wife sat up and stretched, her blonde hair catching the light before she turned to him, green eyes crinkling as she smiled.

"Come on. Let's get that coffee before they stage a full revolt." Cool tile greeted his bare feet as he trailed her into the kitchen. The room was filled with the scent of pine from the family room, layered over the cinnamon spice of last night's pot-pourri. Evelynn went straight to the coffeemaker, filling the reservoir with water and bringing the machine to gurgling life. She leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, eyes resting on him while the morning light softened the lines of her face.

"Tired, Cal?" He nodded and winked. They had been up past midnight wrapping presents and assembling Jack's new bike in the garage. The shared exhaustion was a bond, a silent language perfected over years. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. He watched the coffee drip into the pot. Drip. Drip. Drip. The steady tempo was hypnotic and soothing. Drip. Drip. Drip. For a half-second it wasn't coffee. It was black ichor weeping from an empty eye socket.

The image tried to take root, to spread its tendrils through the memory, but he crushed it—faster this time. His kitchen remained inviting. The recollection was no longer disturbed. Their coffee pot beeped loudly. The sound acted like a starting pistol and Katie burst back into the kitchen, pulling at his arm with both hands.

"Come on! We can't wait any longer!" He let her drag him toward the living room, Evelynn following with two steaming mugs. The area was aglow with the soft white lights of the Christmas tree, its branches decked with silver and gold ornaments. Katie pointed a triumphant finger at the hearth.

"Look! He ate the cookies!" A plate on the mantle held only crumbs, and the neighboring glass of milk was half-empty. On the carpet near the base of the fireplace were several distinct boot prints made of ash.

"He must have been covered in soot!" Katie said in awe, her eyes wide. Jack was already kneeling by the tree, inspecting the pile of wrapped presents with the intensity of a military tactician planning an assault. Caleb shared a look with his wife over the children's heads, and she gave him that secret smile, a shared bit of parental conspiracy, love, and manufactured magic. The warmth in his heart was overwhelming, a feeling so pure it hurt. He paused there, cherishing it for a long moment. This.

This is what the Toll is for. Getting this back is worth any price. The acknowledgement reinforced the bedrock of purpose already laid in his soul. He let out the mental equivalent of a sigh, thinking, but I can't stay here. I'm on a battlefield. With a gut wrenching effort of will he let the memory go. The safe harbor receded, and the kitchen dissolved. He pulled himself back to the present, the transition a harsh shock, like diving into icy water. The smell of blood and rot flooded his nostrils.

The buzzing of flies filled his ears. And Berrick's still form… still lay before him. The memory was gone, but the purpose it strengthened remained. A feeling of gratitude washed over him, for [Perfect Memory] had saved him from a panic attack, giving him a sanctuary when the weight of the present threatened to crush him. Thank you, Vox, whatever you are. That… I needed that. But man, I could really get lost in there, huh?

He remembered the pull of that memory, the sheer addictive ease of sinking into it until he almost had not wanted to leave. The peace had been so real, so complete, that the horror of the battlefield felt like the dream. He could see himself in a moment of weakness simply diving into that ideal past and never coming back, drowning in nostalgia while his body stood empty in the mud. The realization gave him pause.

[Perfect Memory] served dual purposes: a haven when wielded with discipline, a trap when indulged without restraint. It could be a drug of ideal nostalgia that would hollow him out from the inside. He couldn't abuse it. He had to ground himself in the now, however unpleasant that might be. His thoughts were interrupted by a command from the lieutenant.

"Torches! Burn th' pile!" Two legionaries moved toward the berm carrying makeshift brands of oil-soaked rags wrapped around broken spear shafts. Cal watched one of them, a man with a puckered scar on his cheek, as he touched his flame to the heap of rotter corpses. The fire spread with unnerving swiftness. The inferno devoured the pile hungrily, melting flesh and blackening bone in seconds; a rapid, complete annihilation that reduced the grotesque mound to drifts of white powder.

So that's why we didn't find old battlefields littered with bones out here … Cal approached the soldier as the man moved down the line to set another section of the pile alight.

"Question," he stated.

"Why not burn them first? It would be easier to pull the stones from the ashes." The soldier gave him a sideways look.

"Are yuh daft? Fire consumes them stones right along with the flesh and leaves nuthin' behind." He turned away, shaking his head, and continued his work without another word. Before long, another order was issued.

"Stones! Line 'em up and we can get outta here!" The survivors shuffled up to the lieutenant, forming a line in front of his waiting satchel. Cal joined them, pulling his collection of stones from his belt pouch as he saw others doing. When it was his turn he stepped forward and dropped the F-tier stones into the bag first, where they clattered against each other. The E-tier stone followed, landing with a more distinctive clank. Berg glanced up from the satchel's opening to stare at Cal for a second.

He offered little in the way of praise, but the lieutenant acknowledged him with a nod nonetheless. The moment was over as quickly as it began, and Cal continued on.

"Don't need to remind yuh," Berg said as he looked at the bag.

"Every stone is Dominion property. Every one. Thinkin' of holdin' one back makes yuh a thief. And we don't have cells fer thieves out here in the muck. Just holes in the ground. Yuh understand me?" The words were clearly a statement of policy. For Cal, the casual mention of summary execution over the bodies of their fallen comrades was a reminder of the Dominion's absolute claim on them. And its priorities. The satchel filled. Berg cinched it shut and slung it over his shoulder.

"Alright. Pack it up. We're movin' out." The command broke the stillness. Leadenly, the survivors gathered their gear, lashing the seven fallen legionaries to makeshift litters. Two soldiers carried them, one at each end. They marched in a silent procession back to the main camp. The only sounds were the marching of boots on the beaten trail, the strained breathing of the men carrying their dead, and the occasional rattle of gear. He studied the column.

Vane kept clenching and unclenching his fists, his eyes fixed on the trail ahead as he refused to look anywhere else. Ria walked with her eyes down, moving automatically. Each person was locked in their own private thoughts and fighting their own internal battle. Cal glanced back at Vane, then looked to Lieutenant Berg and Arany, who were talking at the head of the column. No one had reprimanded Vane for breaking the shield wall; an act of insubordination that had directly led to Berrick's death.

The quiet from command felt intentional. Cal figured Berg was either waiting until they returned to the garrison for a private lashing, or they knew Vane well enough to understand that no official rebuke could compare to the burden of his own failure. Watching a comrade die for your hubris was a lesson that would cut deeper than any latrine duty. They continued on and soon the fortified clearing came into view, where the porters waited solemnly.

They took the makeshift litters and carried the fallen to a quiet corner of the camp: a small, established graveyard marked by dozens of weathered wooden stakes from past expeditions. Five fresh graves awaited. They expected losses… just not this many. The porters lowered five of the bodies into the open earth. The remaining two were laid on the ground beside them, spaced as if for holes yet to be dug.

"Let's pay our respects," the lieutenant called. The survivors assembled in a ragged line. Berg pulled a small bronze medallion from his belt, holding it up so all could see the Legion's seal stamped into its surface: a spear crossed over a shield.

"We stand under the watch of the Unblinking Sun. These men and women have paid the final debt of service to the Caelverax Dominion. Their names are now recorded in the annals of the Legion, their sacrifice having purchased glory for the Imperator and security for his domain. By the Spear that Conquers and the Shield that Holds, their duty is done." The words were transactional and unfeeling. They framed the soldiers as assets on a ledger, their value measured by the service rendered to the state.

The survivors' bodies were rigid and their faces blank, just waiting for it to be over. Berg stepped back and tucked the medallion away. The moment his hand dropped, the line loosened as shoulders slumped and people began milling about. Then a few turned their heads. Legionary Arany had taken a step forward. A battered pewter flask appeared from his pouch as he approached the first grave. Kneeling, Arany unscrewed the cap and poured a measure of brown liquid into the recess.

He carried the libation to the next hole, his voice rising in a resonant baritone as he worked.

"Spirits of the soil that holds us, ancestors who walked this path before. We give you back your sons and daughters. They were Berrick, son of Brandt. Egill, son of Steen. Chandra, daughter of Vasile…" He named each person and their lineage, his words personal and rooted in the earth. He took the flask down the line and watered the ground of each body in a ritual of communion, a shared act of mourning that felt ancient and true.

"Guide their journey through the shadows. Let them find the fires of their kin and know peace. Their work is done." Arany finished with a slight bow of his head that many others copied.

"Rest now, brothers and sisters." The burials were completed as the light faded. Legionaries broke into smaller groups, drawn to their own campsites where they started fires. The clearing's silence was now filled with the crackle of flames and the low murmur of quiet conversations. At Cal's site, Vane worked a whetstone against his spearhead. He hadn't spoken since the battle ended. Ria sat with Berrick's dagger in her hands across the fire.

She was simply holding it, her thumb tracing the worn leather of the hilt over and over again. A stabbing spike of pain lanced through Cal's skull like a shard of hot glass driven just behind his eyes. He grimaced, his hand rising instinctively to press against his temple. Apparently the cost of [Liminal Breath] had come due. He considered the Legion healer for a moment before dismissing the idea. The healer's work would probe the injury, and they may detect the strange location he'd damaged with his Legacy.

He didn't like opening himself to the risks those questions might raise. It was a potential vulnerability he wouldn't allow, and he'd learned that in this world such secrets must be guarded until they were needed most. Sighing, he retrieved a healing potion from his pack, concealing the red glow in his palms to avoid questions. Three more gold. The bitter cost of confidentiality annoyed him as he uncorked the vial and downed the contents in a single swallow.

A tingling sensation immediately washed through his skull. He tucked the empty vial back into his pack just as a man stepped into their firelight. Arany stood at the edge of their camp, the flask from the rite held in his hand. He said nothing, simply extending it toward Vane. The harsh scraping of stone on steel stopped.