Approaching Aurelian's district, the streets grew quieter. Fewer vendors hawked their wares here, the foot traffic thinning to occasional well-dressed shoppers and servants on errands. Caleb noted the change in atmosphere as he walked. Reserved energy replaced the boisterous atmosphere of the inn's district.
As he waited at the edge of the district, his mind dredged up unwelcome thoughts of strategy meetings. The key to any negotiation was understanding what the other party wanted and positioning yourself as the solution. Aurelian likely wanted competence without complications. Caleb just had to figure out how to package himself as both.
He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked forward. Time to sell himself to the devil.
Caleb walked toward The Golden Mortar, internally rehearsing his pitch. His memory served up fragments of corporate wisdom—stakeholder buy-in, value proposition, unique selling points. They were absurd buzzwords that he now tried to retrofit to this grim reality.
He almost laughed at the absurdity. Failure here might mean a knife between the ribs.
The shop's dark whisperwood facade appeared ahead, its smoked glass window reflecting nothing but shadow. He pushed through the heavy door, expecting to find Aurelian at his counter.
The shop stood empty.
A small bell had chimed at his entrance, its clear note fading into silence. From somewhere in the back, he heard it—rhythmic bubbling, the soft hiss of vapor, the clink of glass on glass. An alchemical apparatus at work.
The counter stood empty. Rows of near-barren shelves lined the walls, and a persistent chemical smell filled the air—alcohol, ozone, something metallic beneath. The pristine order of the place, so different from the Hearthsong’s warm chaos, felt uncomfortable.
Caleb shifted the wrapped package in his hands, uncertain. Should he call out? Wait? The bubbling continued, unhurried and regular.
His new [Spiritual Perception] prickled to life without conscious thought. Using his limited range, he walked toward the shelves, curious about what Aurelian actually sold.
The sensation was... educational. Each vial and bottle gave off its own distinct aura, though interpreting them was like trying to read a language he'd only just discovered existed. One bottle felt warm and sluggish, like honey left in sunlight. Another clear and cool, almost minty in its spiritual texture. The preservation runes on their containers added another layer—a stable hum beneath the potions' more volatile energies.
He concentrated on the small, hand-written labels: "Draught of Healing (D) - Exceptional", "Elixir of Focus (D) - Superior", "Philter of Night-Eye (D) - Standard". Though the names meant nothing to his [Appraisal] skill yet, he tucked the information away for later. Information was currency, even if he didn't know the exchange rate.
What he did understand were the price tags neatly written beneath each label. His eyes fell from the vial of Superior Focus Elixir to the small card beside it. His jaw dropped.
The back door opened with a sharp crack.
Caleb flinched, spinning toward the sound with a jolt.
"What are you doing?"
Aurelian stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. Vein pulsing in his temple, silver-blond hair more disheveled than yesterday. A faint purple stain marked his otherwise immaculate sleeve.
The alchemist's attention flicked from Caleb to the shelves, then back again. The irritation on his face curdled into a deeper annoyance.
"Were you attempting to steal from me?" His voice carried the particular brand of contempt reserved for the terminally stupid. "Or just gawking like some slack-jawed—" He cut himself off with a curt gesture. "Never mind. The food. There." He pointed imperiously at a side table near the door.
Caleb moved to comply, his prepared pitch perched on the tip of his tongue. Before he could speak, the shop's main door chimed again.
A woman entered.
She shared Aurelian's sharp features—the same high cheekbones, the same grey eyes that seemed to catalog and dismiss in a single glance. Purposeful energy marked her movements. Her silver-blond hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and mud clung to her boots. A leather satchel hung heavy on her hip.
"I disposed of the b—" She stopped mid-word, her stare locking onto Caleb.
Body. She was going to say body.
Understanding dawned with absolute certainty, [Savant of the Mind] supplying the inevitable conclusion. Yesterday's corpse. The forager Cillian had murdered.
He fought to keep his face neutral, but something must have shown. Her eyes narrowed slightly, evaluating.
Aurelian’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching as he registered the silent exchange. Annoyance flashed across his features at another complication.
"Don't worry about him, Selara." Aurelian waved a dismissive hand. "He's the boy I told you about." He turned to Caleb with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm surprised you came back."
The rigid set of Selara’s shoulders eased. She looked away from Caleb, dismissing him completely as one might a piece of furniture. She turned back to her brother, and Caleb felt a surge of relief. Good. Insignificant is safe.
Then she launched into what was clearly a recurring argument, her voice pitched low but intense.
"Three more foragers turned down my postings this week," she said, moving to the counter as if Caleb ceased to exist. "Zarven's threats are working. Soon I'll be your only source for anything that doesn't come in a merchant's catalog."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"And that's been more than sufficient," Aurelian replied, returning to his superior tone. "Your findings have been... adequate for my research needs."
"Adequate." Selara's voice went flat. "One source. One person who can gather what you need. What happens when Zarven decides even that's too much competition?"
Caleb processed the new information like a risk assessment. Zarven's threats. Eliminated foragers. A single source of supply. This was economic warfare, plain and simple. Zarven was systematically dismantling Aurelian’s supply chain. The prestigious alchemist was a prisoner in a gilded cage.
"Perhaps we should consider my suggestion," Selara continued. "There are other cities. Places where your talents would be appreciated rather than—"
"I've told you before," Aurelian cut her off. "I like it here. The humidity is good for my skin."
A heavy silence filled the shop, broken only by the soft bubbling from the back room. Selara's mouth became a hard line, her stare fixed on her brother with an exasperation Caleb recognized. He’d worn that exact look in conference rooms when ego trumped logic.
A faint flush crept up Aurelian's neck as his head snapped toward Caleb. "What are you still doing here? Drooling over the vials?"
Caleb saw his opening. Taking a deep breath, he centered himself the way he once had before big presentations. While the pitch he'd rehearsed felt flimsy, its core logic remained sound. He adopted the measured confidence of a consultant outlining a solution.
"I want to become your apprentice," he said, his voice level. "For the last six weeks, I've worked at The Hearthsong Inn. I started with vegetables. Now, Cassia Hearthsong trusts me to handle purchases from the Adventurer's Guild in the tens of gold. She trusts me with deliveries to clients of your stature." He let the unspoken implication hang in the air.
"I'm reliable. I learn fast. And I'm not afraid of Zarven."
The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water. Aurelian's perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. A corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Then he let out a barking laugh. "An apprentice? I don't train grubby street boys. Get out."
But Caleb had already pivoted, turning his body to face Selara directly. In his peripheral vision, he caught Aurelian's brief flash of indignation at being so casually dismissed.
"I can help you grow this business," Caleb said, addressing Selara alone. His tone remained measured and professional. "I learn fast, and I'm a hard worker. Convince him."
Selara shook her head, but there was something evaluative in her gaze now. "I can't make him take an apprentice any more than I can make him..." She trailed off, looking him up and down. A faint, unimpressed curl touched her lip. "You look like you'd snap in half if a beetle looked at you wrong."
The criticism stung, but Caleb had faced harsher performance reviews. The Aurelian pitch wasn't going how he'd hoped. He kept his voice steady as he pivoted. "You need a forager. I'm a nobody. Zarven has no reason to watch me. You need someone who can gather materials without drawing his attention. I can apprentice with you too."
Selara laughed—a brittle, humorless sound that matched her brother's. "I wouldn't take on anyone who can't handle themselves in the forest."
"What does 'handling myself' mean for someone at low F-Tier?"
The question was delivered with the calm tone he'd once used to clarify project requirements. He needed concrete, measurable goals—not vague assertions about toughness.
Selara paused, actually contemplating the question. Her eyes grew distant for a moment, perhaps remembering her own early days.
"It means you can kill a feral goblin," she said finally, as if the matter were closed. "One on one. Nothing less."
A soft chime rang in Caleb's mind.
[New Skill Gained: Negotiation (F) - Practiced]
The notification felt like validation, a small acknowledgment that he'd successfully steered this conversation from disaster to opportunity. If this were one of Jack's games, he thought wryly, a big glowing quest notification would pop up right now. 'Slay the Feral Goblin.' He paused a beat. Worth a shot.
He met Selara's stare evenly. "I'll hold you to that."
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe a hint of respect. Most street boys would have wilted under her dismissal or blustered with false bravado. His matter-of-fact acceptance seemed to catch her off-guard.
Caleb turned back to Aurelian, who watched the exchange with irritation. The alchemist looked baffled, glancing between Caleb and his sister. He picked up the preservation cloth from the food delivery with deliberate care. "I'll be back tomorrow with your meal. Don't let this one get cold."
He walked out without waiting for a response, leaving the siblings to process what had just happened. Behind him, he heard Selara's voice, tinged with something that might have been amusement.
"Interesting little street rat you've acquired, brother."
Aurelian's response was lost as the door swung shut behind him, but Caleb could imagine the sputtering indignation. Good. Let them talk about him. Let them wonder.
Caleb stepped into the afternoon sunlight, mind already racing. He had terms now. A clear goal. Kill a feral goblin, prove himself capable, gain access to training that could help him earn more.
Simple. Clean. Terrifying.
His career experience told him the first step of any impossible project was to break it down into manageable chunks. Learn about goblins. Find out where they lived. Figure out what weapons he could use. Build strength, develop skills, create a plan.
He had no illusions about his chances. Selara was right—he was weak, untrained, soft from a lifetime of office work. But he had advantages she couldn't see. His Impartments were one. The other was the new energy humming inside him, the raw power he’d felt since his Awakening.
He focused on the warm, crimson kinetic thrum in his muscles. He extended his right hand and used his Intent, picturing the energy flowing down his arm and gathering in his fist. It worked. A surge of warmth flooded his limb, a feeling of potent readiness. He tried to clench his hand, to imagine a punch empowered by this new strength. Instead, the raw energy flooded his fingers. They spasmed uncontrollably, snapping backward into a painful hyperextension. A sharp, ugly pain shot up his wrist. He cried out, cradling his hand.
Crumb!
The power was there, but it was wild, untamed. Trying to use it without knowing how was like grabbing a live wire.
Shaking his throbbing hand, he decided to try the next spiritual energy. It felt calmer, less volatile. He held his left palm open and willed the cool energy from his core to gather there. Again, it obeyed his Intent. A distinct pool of coolness formed in his palm, a tangible presence. Now what? He pictured a fireball, a classic from every fantasy game he’d ever heard of. He imagined heat, flames, a sphere of destructive energy. The energy in his palm warmed slightly, then dissipated into nothing, leaving behind only a faint tingle.
It was a complete failure. While he could move the energy, he lacked the control to make it perform. It was just raw potential without structure, useless and even dangerous. He realized controlling the energy was a skill, a craft that required learning. And until he learned the rules, he was more likely to hurt himself than any enemy.
So be it. If he couldn't rely on flashy power, he would rely on what he knew: meticulous, arduous, step-by-step preparation.
The walk back to the inn felt longer than usual, his mind churning through possibilities. He'd need weapons. Training. Information. Most of all, he'd need to be smart about this. He would proceed with caution and preparation, respecting the danger despite his newly gained combat skills.
But first, he had work to finish. Gareth would be wondering where he'd gone, and he couldn't afford to lose his position at the inn. He'd need those silver coins more than ever now. Weapons and armor didn't buy themselves.
As the Hearthsong came into view, Caleb felt a grim satisfaction settle over him. He'd taken the first step. Set things in motion. The corporate drone who'd died in a car accident would never have imagined negotiating apprenticeships with murderer-adjacent alchemists or planning to hunt goblins.
Then again, that version of him had never needed to.
The inn's entrance was ahead, and with it, the return to normalcy. But normal was just camouflage now. Every chopped vegetable, every served meal, every silver coin earned was one step closer to his goal.
He had a mission. He had a plan.
He had a goblin to kill.
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