A week in Shells Town's Marine branch passed in a blur of blistered hands, gruel-thin stew, and the constant, barked litany of Chief Hackett's disdain. Travis became a ghost in the machine—silent, efficient, and utterly unremarkable. He polished, he scrubbed, he hauled. He endured the casual cruelty and systemic corruption with a calm that was mistaken for stupidity by some and cowardice by most.
Yet, within that stillness, two things grew.
The first was his understanding of the kingly legacy. It wasn't a voice, but a deepening of instinct. As he worked, his posture subtly corrected itself into something more balanced, less fatigued. His observations grew sharper; he could track the movements of a sparring match and intuitively understand the flawed footwork, the telegraphed strikes. It was like watching a complex dance where he knew the steps but lacked the strength to perform them. The sealed concepts of Excalibur and Avalon sat in his mind's eye—a brilliant sword and an ornate scabbard, locked behind gates of shimmering light. He could feel their presence, a constant, tantalizing promise of power just out of reach.
The second was his refinement of the code. Equal Justice. In this cesspool, it began as a simple, personal mantra: Do the task given, no more, no less, with perfect fairness. He did not skimp on his polishing. He did not steal an extra ration. He did not join in the bullying of weaker recruits. It was a small, lonely rebellion. But it was his.
His chance for something more—his second Sign-In—came unexpectedly.
He was assigned to a "clean-up detail" with two other grumbling recruits: a chore to clear out a long-forgotten storage cellar beneath the old quartermaster's office, a room said to be haunted by the ghost of a clerk who'd drowned in paperwork. The reality was less spectral and more dusty.
The cellar was a tomb of obsolete bureaucracy. Broken furniture, mildewed ledgers from decades past, and rusted, decommissioned flintlock pistols were piled in leaning towers. The air was thick with the smell of damp paper and rat droppings.
"Great. More junk," one recruit, a lanky boy named Pell, muttered, kicking a rotten ledger. "Hackett just wants us out of sight."
"Just grab the small stuff. Let the big things rot," the other, a beefy kid named Groff, said, already eyeing the exit.
Travis, however, felt a faint, persistent pull. A gentle, insistent warmth in his chest, a compass needle swinging toward the cellar's deepest, darkest corner. The Sign-In system. The location had to have some minor historical or latent significance he couldn't yet see.
"I'll take the back," Travis said, his voice quiet. The others shrugged, happy to let him wallow in the worst of it.
He pushed past a collapsed shelf, sending up a cloud of ancient dust. In the corner, half-buried under a moldy tarp, was a large, heavy object. He pulled the tarp away.
It was a stone. Not a natural one, but a rough-hewn, rectangular block of grey granite, about three feet high. It was clearly a foundation stone, salvaged from some older building. Moss clung to its sides, but on its relatively flat top, an inscription had been carved, the letters worn almost smooth by time and weather. He brushed the grime away with his sleeve, his heart beginning to beat a little faster.
The inscription read: 'Laid in the first year of the founding. That our walls may stand against the chaos of the sea, and our justice be as solid as this rock.'
It was the original foundation stone of the Shells Town Marine Base. A relic of its founding ideals, now buried in its own forgotten cellar. The irony was thick enough to taste. The personal significance was profound—this was the literal bedrock of the institution he had just joined, the physical manifestation of the gap between promise and reality.
The blue screen materialized in the dusty air before him.
[Location Reached: Shells Town Marine Base - Foundational Cellar.]
[Sign-In Available. Historical Significance: Moderate (Founding Relic). Personal Significance: High (Symbol of Institutional Ideals).]
[Sign-In to claim reward? Y/N]
He selected Y.
This time, the sensation was different from the overwhelming infusion of the first sign-in. It was a deep, grounding vibration that started in the soles of his feet and rose through him, as if he were becoming one with the stone itself. The warmth in his chest flared, and his gaze was pulled inexorably inward, to the sealed gates in his mind.
The image of Avalon, the scabbard, shimmered. The glowing gates before it didn't open, but a single, hairline crack appeared in the stone around its lock. From that crack, a sliver of sublime, golden energy—not fire, but pure, concentrated preservation—leaked out and flowed into him.
[Sign-In Successful.]
[Reward: Avalon's Blessing (Fragment - Foundation).]
[Effect 1: Minor Enhanced Durability. Resilience to physical fatigue and environmental hardship is increased.]
[Effect 2: Anchor of Resolve. Mental and spiritual fortitude is subtly reinforced. Resistance to corruption, despair, and coercive influences is marginally improved.]
[Note: This is a fragment of the Scabbard's power. Further sign-ins at places of 'foundational' or 'protective' significance may strengthen this blessing.]
The deep vibration faded, leaving behind a profound sense of solidity. The ache in his muscles from a week of brutal labor eased, not gone, but pushed back, made manageable. The cynical atmosphere of the base seemed to press against him with less weight. His Equal Justice code, which had felt like a fragile flame in a storm, now felt like a small, steady pilot light, protected within a stone furnace.
He had not gained a weapon. He had gained an anchor.
"Hey, Pendragon! You find a treasure back there or are you taking a nap?" Groff's mocking call echoed in the cellar.
Travis looked down at the foundation stone, then at the dusty, forgotten ledgers around it. Ideals buried under neglect. Just like this place, he thought. But the stone was still here. The words, though faded, were still legible.
He emerged from the gloom, covered in a new layer of grime. "Just an old stone," he said, his voice carrying a new, unshakeable calm that made Pell blink. "Heavy. We'll need a lever."
As they labored to move the stone (Travis taking on more of the strain than he could have the day before, the Enhanced Durability making itself known), the other opportunity presented itself.
A commotion erupted in the yard above. Shouts, the sound of running boots, and a single, piercing cry of pain.
The three recruits dropped the stone and scrambled up the cellar steps. The training yard was in an uproar. In the center, Chief Hackett stood, red-faced and furious, over a cowering recruit—a small, mousy boy named Lin who was infamous for his clumsiness. A standard-issue Marine rifle lay in the dirt between them, its stock freshly cracked.
"You useless, butter-fingered worm!" Hackett roared, spittle flying. "That's regulation equipment! Worth more than your miserable life!" He drew the baton from his belt. "I'll beat the worth of it out of your hide!"
Lin wept openly, pleading, "It slipped, Chief, I swear! It was heavy!"
"Heavy? It's a rifle, not a cannon! You're a disgrace!" Hackett raised the baton for a brutal downward swing. The other recruits looked on, some wincing, some sneering. No one moved.
Travis's new Anchor of Resolve held him firm. This was not just cruelty; it was a violation. The punishment did not fit the crime. The rifle was old, the crack reparable. Hackett's rage was about power, not justice. It was unequal.
"Chief Hackett."
The voice, quiet but clear, cut through the angry noise. Everyone turned. Travis Pendragon stood at the edge of the circle, his posture straight, his dust-covered face calm.
Hackett's fury pivoted, a more convenient target presenting itself. "You. The justice boy. Got something to say?"
"The rifle is damaged, sir," Travis said, his tone respectful but devoid of fear. The scabbard's fragment hummed within him, steadying his nerves. "Recruit Lin was negligent. A punishment is warranted."
Hackett sneered. "Oh, a punishment is warranted, is it? Glad you agree. Now shut your mouth and watch."
"But the punishment should be equal to the offense," Travis continued, as if Hackett hadn't spoken. He took a step forward. The entire yard held its breath. "A broken rifle stock is a matter of logistics and repair. It calls for extra duties, deduction from pay, confinement to barracks. It does not call for a beating that could break bones and prevent him from performing any duties at all. That would be a further loss to the unit. It is… inefficient. And unjust."
The word unjust hung in the air, stark and dangerous.
Hackett's face purpled. "You dare… you dare lecture me on justice? On efficiency?" He took a menacing step toward Travis, baton clenched. "I am the justice here, you little shit! I decide!"
Travis did not flinch. He met Hackett's bulging eyes. "Then your decision," he said, his voice dropping so only those closest could hear, but carrying an iron finality, "will be remembered by every recruit here. Is your justice the kind that breaks a boy for a mistake? Or the kind that corrects him to be a better Marine?"
It was a gamble. A huge one. He was challenging the chief's authority on its very first pillar: fear.
For a long, terrible moment, Hackett looked ready to bring the baton down on Travis's head. The legacy instincts screamed of the danger, but the Anchor of Resolve held. Travis had calculated. In front of the entire yard, beating the "justice boy" for speaking logic would undermine Hackett's own authority more than letting it slide. It would make Travis a martyr to the other recruits' silent resentment.
Hackett's eyes darted around, seeing the unusual stillness in the crowd, the lack of the usual eager bloodlust. He saw Lin, still sniveling. He saw the cracked rifle.
With a sound of disgust, he lowered the baton. "Fine!" he bellowed, turning his rage back on Lin. "Two weeks in the brig on water rations! And you, Pendragon! Since you're so fond of fairness, you can join him! Maybe a week in the dark will cool your philosophical fires! Now, all of you, GET BACK TO WORK!"
The yard exploded into motion, recruits scattering like leaves before a storm. Two burly corporals seized Lin and Travis, marching them toward the squat, windowless brig.
As he was led away, Travis caught the eyes of a few recruits. Not gratitude, not yet. But confusion. And a flicker of something else—curiosity. He had been a ghost. Now, he was a spark.
Locked in the dark, stone cell, the smell of damp and mildew thick in his nose, Travis sat on the hard bunk. He felt no triumph, only a cold assessment. He had avoided a worse beating for Lin, and taken a calculated blow himself. He had publicly declared his code, and survived. The Avalon's Blessing made the hard stone seat feel less punishing, the darkness less oppressive.
In the silence, he replayed the inscription from the foundation stone in his mind: '...our justice be as solid as this rock.'
His justice would not be solid like their forgotten stone, buried and useless. It would be solid like a foundation—something to build upon. Today, he had laid the first brick. From the cellar's forgotten ideal to the yard's brutal reality, he had drawn a line.
The spark was lit. The patient, grinding work continued. But now, he had an anchor, and the world had noticed his flame.
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Check out my other works;
The Bastion Commander: Zero to Legion(Ongoing)
Ascension of the Primordial (Ongoing)