Narbok loomed over them, a smirk curling his lips. His cronies, Finn and Durk, fanned out behind him.
"Still feeling philosophical, dull-ear?" Narbok’s eyes glittered like hardened sap. "Going to offer me a mushroom?"
Finn snickered. "Maybe he'll tell us about the fascinating labyrinth of his mind again."
Leo went rigid beside Caleb, making a small, terrified sound.
The smirk fell from Narbok's face. His hand shot out, shoving Leo hard in the sternum. "Get out of the way, baker-boy. The adults are talking."
The smaller boy stumbled backward, feet tangling, and fell onto the packed dirt. His spear clattered away.
"You disgrace your father's name." Narbok's voice was flat and dismissive. "A Sergeant's son, crawling in the dirt like a worm. Pathetic."
Leo's face crumpled. He started to push himself up, but his resolve failed, and he sank back to his hands and knees, head bowed as if expecting another blow.
"I want to spar with the Hearthsong's charity case." Narbok turned those amber eyes on Caleb. "Unless you're too scared? Going to run away again?"
The yard had gone quiet around them. Other trainees pretended to continue their drills, but Caleb felt their attention like static electricity. Even Hatch watched from across the yard, arms crossed, making no move to intervene.
Caleb looked down at Leo. The boy's shoulders shook slightly. His sandy hair fell forward, hiding his face, but Caleb could see the tremor in his hands as they pressed against the dirt.
[Perfect Memory] triggered without warning, surfacing one of his own memories this time.
Jack, eight years old, sitting at the kitchen table. Tears rolling down his cheeks, dirt on his school clothes. A scrape on his knee turning purple at the edges.
"What happened, buddy?"
"The b-big kids pushed me off the swings. They said I was too slow. Too weak. They said—" His son's voice breaking. "They said I wasn't worth the space."
"Oh, buddy. Come here."
Pulling his son into a hug. Feeling that small body shake with the effort of holding back sobs. The fierce, protective rage that filled him then—the need to march to that playground and show those bullies exactly what happened when they hurt his boy.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are people mean?"
"I don't know, Jack. Here's what I do know—you're worth a thousand of them. And anyone who can't see that is an idiot."
The memory faded, and when Caleb looked at the boy on the ground Leo’s features blurred into those of his son. He saw Jack, hurt and scared and waiting for someone, anyone, to help.
The awkwardness evaporated. The careful performance he'd been maintaining vanished like smoke. What remained was something harder, more severe. The protective instinct of a father.
"Leave him alone."
The words came out flat and quiet, infused with the pressure of simple command.
Narbok blinked. "What did you say, dull-ear?"
"You heard me." Caleb stepped between Leo and the bigger boy. "Leave. Him. Alone."
"You're defending this weakling?" Narbok’s expression soured. "This pathetic excuse for—"
"Yes."
The single word hung in the air. Around them, the last pretense of continued drills stopped. Everyone watched now.
Narbok's face flushed darker green. "Then you can join him in the dirt!"
The thrust came fast—a vicious jab aimed at Caleb's solar plexus. In sparring, you pulled your strikes.
They were no longer sparring.
The spear jabbed toward his chest, a blur of motion too fast to properly counter. Instinct, born from his [Savant of the Body], screamed at him to perform a perfect parry. But his arms, still new to this, were slow and uncoordinated.
He managed a desperate block, twisting his spear shaft up to meet the attack. The impact was a shockwave. Pain shot from his wrists to his shoulders, and the force drove him back a step, then two. His feet tangled. He almost fell.
"You're weak!" Narbok snarled, pressing forward with a series of wild, powerful swings.
There was no time to think. Caleb stumbled backward, raising his spear in a series of frantic, ugly blocks. Each parry was a jarring collision. Each deflection felt like luck. To the onlookers, he appeared like a boy about to be beaten into the dirt.
But his fatherly fury was a roiling flame that didn't give in to panic. After the initial surprise onslaught failed, Caleb started to take the bully's measure.
Stolen novel; please report.
He’s sloppy, a part of his mind noted. Pure anger given motion.
Even as his body struggled, his mind was learning. Each blocked strike fed his innate talent more data. He began to see the tells. The dip of a shoulder before a thrust. A slight widening of the eyes before a heavy swing. The rhythm of Narbok’s rage was a simple, predictable beat.
His movements started to shift. A clumsy [Phalanx Guard] became a slightly better-angled [Turning the Point]. His technique evolved from merely stopping the blows to actively guiding them. The jarring impacts lessened. His footing became sure. He held his ground.
[Your proficiency with Phalanx Guard (F) has increased to Practiced]
Okay. I can win this. Step inside his guard. Thrust to the knee. It's over.
But Captain Hatch was watching. Everyone was. A boy with no training couldn't suddenly turn into a master.
Too clean. Too fast. He'll see.
He needed to look like he was still hanging on by a thread. He needed it to look like an accident.
Wait for the mistake. Let him give it to me.
He didn't have to wait long.
Narbok over-committed on a massive overhead swing, trying to literally beat Caleb into the ground. As the bigger boy's balance shifted forward, Caleb saw his chance.
There.
He executed the simplest move from The Legion's First Form.
[Linebreaker Sweep]
The haft of his spear hooked behind Narbok's forward ankle. A twist, a pull, and physics did the rest.
Narbok's eyes widened as his balance vanished. Spear forgotten, his arms windmilled frantically. Then he pitched forward, face-first into the hard earth with a meaty thud.
[Your proficiency with Linebreaker Sweep (F) has increased to Practiced]
Silence.
Narbok retrieved his spear and pushed himself up, spitting mud and fury. His look promised murder.
"ENOUGH!"
Captain Hatch's voice cracked across the yard like a thunderbolt. He strode between them, and Narbok actually took a step back.
"Blackbriar. Twenty laps. Now."
"But Captain, he—"
"Twenty-five. Want to try for thirty?"
Narbok's jaw clenched so hard Caleb heard teeth grinding. But he dropped his spear and began running, shooting one last venomous glare at Caleb.
"The rest of you, back to drills. Show's over."
The yard slowly returned to motion, though Caleb felt the pressure of dozens of glances. His heart hammered against his ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm. He expected the typical post-adrenaline crash—the shakes, the sudden wave of nausea his older body had always produced after a shock. Instead, a hot, almost giddy energy flooded his limbs. It was the potent, unfamiliar surge of a teenager's victory, a chemical cocktail of triumph and aggression that his adult mind found both intoxicating and a little disturbing. He forced himself to meet Hatch's gaze with carefully constructed confusion. Just a lucky shot. Just a beginner who got lucky.
Finally, Hatch moved on.
Caleb turned to find Leo struggling to his feet The boy's eyes were wide, staring at Caleb like he'd just witnessed a miracle.
"Th-thank you." His words were barely audible. "No one's ever... I mean, nobody ever..." He swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Caleb helped him stand, noting how the boy flinched even from that gentle touch. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Used to it." Leo's attempt at a smile was heartbreaking. "But really, thank you. You didn't have to do that."
Yes, I did.
Caleb looked at this boy—this child forced into a role he clearly hated, mocked for his gentleness, abandoned to the wolves by a system that only valued strength. He saw Jack in those worried blue eyes. Saw every kid who'd ever been told they were too slow, too weak, too gentle.
"Partners stick together," Caleb said simply.
Leo's real smile, when it came, transformed his entire face. For just a moment, the fear lifted, replaced by something that might have been hope.
"BACK TO DRILLS!" Hatch roared.
They retrieved their spears and resumed the exercises. Leo's form was still terrible, his strikes still weak. But he stood a little straighter now. Moved with a little more confidence. As if someone believing in him, even briefly, had changed something fundamental.
And Caleb, watching this boy who reminded him so painfully of his son, felt the first stirring of something beyond mere survival. He’d defended someone who needed a shield and confronted someone who deserved a challenge. His action came from a place beyond power, advancement, or his own safety. It was purely about doing what was right, and that felt good.
For a moment, the feeling was clean and bright—the pure, righteous satisfaction of a father protecting a child. But the good feeling soured. He'd protected the ghost of his own son, wearing Leo's face. The boy at his feet wasn't Jack, and the surge of paternal instinct felt like a betrayal of the family he'd lost. He was a father with no children, a protector with no one left to truly call his own. A hollow ache replaced the good feeling. He had a new responsibility now, whether he wanted it or not. Another vulnerable kid to worry about in a world that ate the gentle for breakfast.
The rest of the training session passed in a blur of repetition and sweat. But Caleb noticed things had shifted. Some trainees nodded at him with newfound respect. Others, Narbok's friends among them, marked him with hostile stares. He'd picked a side without meaning to, drawn lines in the sand.
As they prepared to leave, Leo hovered nearby, wanting to say more but unable to find the words. Corinne approached with a knowing smile.
"That was good," she said simply. "What you did."
Before Caleb could respond, Hatch's voice rang out one final time.
"Caldorn. Stay behind."
The warmth in Caleb's heart turned to ice. Around him, the other trainees filtered out, Leo casting worried glances over his shoulder. Soon, only Caleb and the Captain remained in the empty yard.
Hatch circled him slowly, like a craftsman examining a piece of wood for hidden flaws.
"Interesting," the Captain said finally. "Very interesting."
Caleb kept his expression carefully neutral, even as his mind sped through possibilities. Had he shown too much skill? Not enough? Had standing up to Narbok marked him as trouble?
"You have no training," Hatch continued. "No background. By all rights, you should have been unconscious in the dirt earlier. Or worse."
"I got lucky, Captain."
Hatch ignored the excuse. He stopped directly in front of him. His closeness pressed against Caleb. "One moment, you're flailing like a drowning pup. The next, a textbook [Linebreaker Sweep]. Explain."
Crumb. He saw through it. Of course he did.
"I... I saw an opening, sir."
"An opening." The Captain’s brown eyes bored into him. With that close proximity, Caleb’s fledgling [Spiritual Perception] screamed a warning. A deep, crimson pressure that tasted of hot iron and felt like standing before an open furnace. This was a danger beyond Narbok’s petty cruelty. This was a master warrior with a towering tier advantage, weighing him like a tool to be used or discarded. "Plenty of recruits see openings. Most aren't calm enough to take them. Especially not after the beating you were taking."
Caleb's throat went dry. He couldn't speak without potentially damning himself further.
"Report here tomorrow at dawn," Hatch said finally. "Don't be late."
Walking away from the garrison, Caleb's thoughts spiraled through consequences. He'd tried to stay under the radar and failed spectacularly. Drawn attention from exactly the wrong people. Made an enemy who would only grow more vicious. And somehow gained a friend who looked at him like he hung the moon.
The first sun had fully risen, painting Deadfall Village in shades of gold and shadow. Somewhere behind those walls, Narbok was still running laps, his fury fermenting into something darker. Somewhere ahead, Leo was probably reliving the moment someone finally stood up for him.
Caleb moved between them, a grown man inhabiting a young body, burdened by decisions that would resonate long past the day's drills.
The grind had just become something more complicated.
And even more dangerous.
SKIP IF YOU STARTED READING AFTER OCTOBER 17, 2025.
TLDR: [Perfect Memory] will only trigger Thal's memories from external stimuli like sensory feedback (sight/sound/smell/etc), dialogue/conversation, or strong emotions. Caleb cannot actively control its recall.
As always, thanks for reading!
There has been a lot of commentary--rightfully so--on Caleb not using his access to Thal's memories more actively. He's supposed to be this intelligent, analytical dude, right? Wouldn't he have data mined that kid's past for information on how to survive? Heck yeah he would have! Y’all were right, and this was a gap.
Somewhere after Chapter 10, I started writing the memories to trigger off external stimulus and thought it was sufficient… and it wasn’t. So, I needed to go back and retcon the manuscript. I’ve done my best to keep the narrative true while making passable changes, with the main point of clarification being after the six-week time skip at the beginning of Chapter 10. I’m going to post that quote below, and the TLDR is above.
Appreciate all the feedback on this. It was definitely an issue that needed addressing. And for those that might ask: there will be a more detailed rationalization for this down the road. We’re just not going to be able to explore it for some time.
Thanks,
JS
His knife faltered. The blade bit crooked, mangling the onion beneath. The vision broke apart, yanking him back to the kitchen with its stone walls and pale morning light slanting through high windows. His grip trembled, and the knife shook.
Caleb sighed, bitter with frustration.
The ease of it was the cruelest part. His own past, the life with Evelynn and the kids, was a pristine library he could walk through at will. Every memory was preserved, whole and real.
But the past of the body he wore? That was a different story. For six weeks, he’d tried to systematically access Thal’s memories, to sit down and build a mental encyclopedia of this new world. It was the logical thing to do.
And it had never worked.
Thal’s memories were a shattered archive, a library where a bomb had gone off, leaving only disconnected pages fluttering in the dark. He couldn’t search for a topic. He couldn’t browse. A page only appeared when a gust of wind from the present—a sensory impression, strong emotion, words spoken—blew it into his hands.
His [Perfect Memory] was the flawless librarian, but it couldn't read a book that had been torn to shreds. He was an archaeologist, forced to piece together a lost history from broken pottery and scattered bones.
He forced himself back to work. The knife's beat became a mantra—thump-thump-thump—each impact an attempt to drown out her ghost and the useless fragments of another's.