He pushed through the inn's heavy doors and walked straight into a scene of chaos.

  Bodies packed the common room shoulder to shoulder. Every table groaned under the load of food and drink. The air itself 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's eyes swept the room, searching for Cassia. He spotted her near the kitchen doorway, directing a harried server with sharp gestures. The young woman nodded frantically before diving back into the crowd with a laden tray.

  He cut through the press of bodies, dodging elbows and stepping around a puddle of something he didn't want to identify. "Cassia. I need a word. It's urgent."

  She turned, the corners of her mouth tightening. "Not now, Thal. The mayor—" Her words died 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." Her voice was a low command, each word clipped and sharp. "Mayor Aldric is here with half his court, and we're already down a server."

  He met her eyes, his features settling into a neutral mask. "I need to get stronger. I'm joining Captain Hatch's training tomorrow morning."

  Cassia looked confused. "Well, of course you are, dear."

  Caleb blinked. "What do you mean?"

  She glanced toward the common room, then leaned closer. Her voice fell to a hushed murmur. "The Dominion Youth Preparedness Mandate. Every citizen must report for martial training upon Awakening."

  Cassia's words unlocked a memory. A fragment of Thal’s past surfaced: the dread of his approaching sixteenth birthday, the pressure of the Mandate a source of constant anxiety.

  "Obviously, you couldn't have mustered for training this morning because you just Awakened this afternoon. But be warned: it's not what they tell you it is," Cassia continued, her words coming faster now. "Forget all that nonsense about civic duty. 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. They're looking for talent. They push everyone to find the few who truly stand out, and then they make them an 'offer'." Her fingers tightened on his arm, her expression grim. "And that's the trap, Thal. The offers aren't optional. If you're deemed 'valuable' and refuse their placement, they conscript you anyway. A five-year term. It's their way of saying your talent belongs to the Empire, whether you agree or not."

  The pieces snapped together. 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 with grim humor. Where the job offer is mandatory, and the severance package for turning it down is five years in a meat grinder.

  "Captain Arion Hatch runs the local program. He's tough but fair." Her expression softened for just a moment. "Arion will be glad to have you."

  The name—while known—meant little to him, but he noted that he seemed to have a relationship with the Hearthsongs. Before he could ask, Cassia's touch settled on his shoulder, her fingers digging in with surprising strength.

  "And Corinne will be glad for the company. Look after her."

  The quiet command hung in the air, absolute and unyielding. Caleb gave a single, crisp nod.

  "Now go." She pushed him toward the kitchen. "Gareth needs you."

  The door into the kitchen opened wide, and the usual deluge of heat rolled out.

  "Finally!" Gareth's voice cut through the noise. "Prep station. Now."

  With a dip of his chin, Caleb moved through the kitchen. The path to his station felt a hundred feet long. He felt eyes on his back, prickling his skin, saw hushed words falter as he turned his head. Cooks who had offered him tired smiles yesterday now gave him a wide berth, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and annoyance.

  Right. His cheerful exit. Heat flooded his cheeks. He remembered the whole mortifying scene. They wouldn't know about any potion. 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 hate.

  Caleb found his knife with purpose now. A mountain of vegetables waited—onions, carrots, celery. The knife became an extension of his will. His consciousness narrowed to the blade, the board, and the rhythm. Around him, the kitchen crew moved in 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's motions never ceased. When the vegetable mountain dwindled, more appeared. He shifted to slicing meat, each motion a composite of observations. The way one cook used his knuckles to guide the blade, the wrist-flick another used to debone a fish—[Perfect Memory] supplied the data, and his body executed the optimized result.

  The kitchen door burst open, and Corinne swept in with her tray of golden juice, earning grateful nods from the exhausted staff.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  When she reached Caleb's corner, her entire demeanor changed. Her feet never settled, dancing from toe to toe as she pressed the glass into him. A wide, unrestrained grin transformed her face.

  "Mom told me and I can't believe it, you're joining me tomorrow, finally!" The words tumbled out in an excited jumble, a single breathless rush. "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."

  Before he could respond, she was already moving away, called by another cook. But she glanced back once, that brilliant smile still in place, and mouthed the word "tomorrow" with unmistakable enthusiasm.

  A cook nearby—one who'd 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 rhythm of the work. His arms burned with the continuous motion. 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 in what felt like minutes. Gradually, imperceptibly, the pace slowed. Orders trickled rather than flooded. The roar from the common room faded to a murmur. Servers leaned against walls instead of sprinting between tables.

  Caleb set down his knife and flexed his fingers. They were stiff, locked in the shape of the handle. His back momentarily seized with pain when he straightened. 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's stomach rumbled with hunger. He hadn't realized how empty he was until food appeared.

  He ate without thought, exhaustion overriding his usual analysis of flavors and technique. The stew served one purpose: fuel. Around him, the kitchen staff moved with the slow, deliberate motions 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, leaving translucent spots.

  "For the morning." The half-elf's voice was gruff. "You're no good to me if you collapse."

  Caleb looked up, meeting those green eyes. Behind the practical concern, he saw a flicker of respect. Gareth stared for a long moment.

  "I heard you spoke with Cassia." The words came slowly, each one deliberate. "Corinne is strong, but she is still my daughter. Do not be a burden to her."

  The word was a gut punch. Daughter. Instantly, Katie’s face filled his vision—flushed with panic, tearing through the house for her green jacket. Dad, have you seen it? The memory was so complete he could smell her strawberry shampoo.

  He swallowed hard and met Gareth's intense stare. The universal language of fatherhood transcended worlds. This man would kill for his daughter. Just like Caleb would for his own.

  "I'll protect her like she's my own..." The word caught in his throat. Daughter. "...sister."

  Gareth studied him for another heartbeat, then nodded once. The matter was settled. He turned back to his domain, already focused on tomorrow's prep.

  Caleb resumed cleaning, moving through the routine motions of scrubbing and sanitizing. His body operated on autopilot while his mind spun through the evening's revelations. The Mandate. Forced conscription. Corinne needing protection. A world where children trained for war as a matter of course.

  "I'm so excited!"

  He looked up to find Corinne hurrying into the kitchen. Her face was smudged with soot from tending the common room's fireplace, her hair escaping from its usual ponytail. But her bright expression lit up the grimy corner of the kitchen, a flash of pure, unforced delight that seemed to cut through the oppressive heat and 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!"

  A hot, prickling sensation crawled up his neck. She's sixteen. I'm old enough to be her father. The realization was jarring. This is 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. And Captain Hatch really knows his stuff. He was in the Legions for twenty years before he retired here."

  Twenty years. Caleb mentally cataloged the detail. A career soldier running a youth program.

  "I should..." He gestured vaguely at the pile of pots still waiting.

  "Oh! Right. Sorry." She flashed another smile. "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 murmur of the few remaining patrons.

  His cot had never looked more inviting. Caleb collapsed onto it fully clothed, not bothering to remove even his boots. Every muscle complained as he settled onto the thin mattress. The ache of a hard day's work, multiplied by the intensity of the dinner rush.

  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 Legion veteran 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 sharp teeth. He would have to walk up to it and… what? Stab it? Carving a Thanksgiving turkey was the extent of his experience on Earth, and even in Gareth's kitchen he'd not had to dispatch an animal. Driving a blade into something that could bleed and scream and fight back was an act for which he had no frame of reference. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He remembered Cillian in the alley, the casual way he used his knife. That was the skill he needed to learn.

  Sleep took him between one breath and the next.

  He woke to darkness. The sharp stabs of overworked muscle had dulled overnight, settling into a blanket of soreness draped over his entire body. And something else had changed. He felt… lighter somehow. A soft chime rang in his mind, followed by silver text appearing in his vision.

  [Spiritual Contamination has decreased by 1.00% -> 9.00%]

  Progress. It was something. One percent gone after a single night. Nine more days to get back to zero. 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. Dwelling on it 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. Present Caleb had a more immediate and pressing concern: surviving the pre-dawn hours without a single drop of caffeine. The depressing thought was potent enough to compete with the ache in 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 paper-wrapped 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 warming enchantment in the paper, maybe. The dense meal sank like lead shot, radiating steady warmth through his insides.

  With a grunt, he swung his legs from the cot, ignoring the protest of every muscle in his body. It was a good ache. The ache of effort. The ache of progress.

  He had promises to keep and a goblin to kill.

  It all started today.