The Ledger's agent, a man whose bloated stomach spoke of far too many rich sauces and far too little physical labor, pulled on his reins. He looked at my line of skeletal prep-cooks—their bones bleached white and their eyes glowing with a faint, blue necro-mana—and he laughed. It was the laugh of a man who believed the world was governed by ledgers, not by the edge of a blade.
"Skeletons? You're defending a pack of runaway animals with garden-variety necromancy?" the agent sneered. He signaled to the two dozen mercenaries flanking him. "Warden Drosk told me you were eccentric, Arthur. He didn't tell me you were delusional. Men, seize the assets. Break the cook's fingers—I want to see if he can flip a steak with his teeth."
The mercenaries moved. These weren't knights; they were professionals. They didn't shout war cries. They simply drew their short swords and advanced in a tight, disciplined half-moon. They were used to suppression. They were used to the sound of breaking chains.
I stood my ground, my obsidian boning knife held in a casual underhand grip. My Intelligence (150) hummed, a cognitive engine processing the battlefield like a high-pressure dinner rush. I could see the tension in their hamstrings, the slight rust on the third mercenary's pauldron, the way the wind caught the scent of the wolf-steak and made the lead rider's horse twitch its left ear.
"Mise en place," I whispered. "Sous-Chef One, the Vanguard. Sous-Chef Two and Three, handle the flanks. Remember: we are cleaning the station. I want no cross-contamination."
I didn't give the command to "Attack." I gave the command to Prep.
As the first mercenary lunged with a heavy spear, I didn't parry. I pivoted. It was the "Line Dance"—the rhythmic movement every chef masters to avoid collisions in a cramped kitchen. As the spearhead hissed past my ribs, I reached out. My knife didn't go for his heart. It went for the connective tissue.
Slash.
A clean, surgical cut to the brachial plexus. The mercenary's arm went limp instantly, his spear clattering to the dry grass.
"Too much gristle," I muttered, stepping into his guard. "You haven't been stretching. You're tough, stringy, and frankly, unmarketable."
Behind me, my skeletal staff engaged. They didn't fight like soldiers; they fought like butchers.
Sous-Chef One met the second mercenary's sword with a meat hook, catching the blade in the curve and twisting it aside with tireless, mechanical strength. With its other hand—holding a heavy cleaver—the skeleton performed a "Dicing" maneuver.
Clack-clack-clack-clack.
The cleaver didn't strike the man's armor. It struck the gaps. Joint, joint, joint, joint. The mercenary let out a confused cry as his greaves were severed from his legs, his armor falling away in perfectly uniform pieces. He collapsed, not dead, but "processed."
"Watch your stations!" I shouted over the din of clashing metal. "I want the front line julienned! Keep the trimmings separate!"
Jasper and the werewolves watched in stunned silence. They had expected a bloodbath. What they were witnessing was a Systematic Disassembly.
The Ledger's agent panicked. "Crossbows! Level that lunatic! Fire!"
Three mercenaries in the back row raised their bows. My Parallel Processing flagged the threat. I didn't blink. I focused on the "Reduction."
"Wraith Servers," I commanded, "The seasoning is too bland. Add some heat."
From the shadows of the refugees' tents, two ethereal forms drifted upward. They were wispy, translucent figures wearing tattered waist-aprons. They didn't carry swords. They carried bowls of powdered Ghost-Chili and Alchemical Salt.
As the crossbow bolts were loosed, the Wraiths manifested a gust of wind, catching the bolts and tossing them aside like toothpicks. Then, they descended on the crossbowmen. They didn't kill them. They "seasoned" them.
A cloud of the ultra-fine powder erupted over the mercenaries.
"AGHH! MY EYES! IT'S BURNING!"
"The humidity is too high!" I called out, moving like a blur through the center of the fray. "Scrape the pan! Deglaze the surface!"
I lunged at the lead mercenary—the one who had tried to break my fingers. He swung a heavy mace, but I caught his wrist. I could feel his pulse, the frantic rhythm of a man realized he was outclassed.
"You're overcooked, friend," I said, my voice dropping to a low, terrifying calm. "Your internal temperature is spiking. You're losing all your juices."
I used my obsidian knife to perform a "Frenching" technique. In one smooth, circular motion, I sliced through the leather straps of his breastplate and the silk of his tunic. I didn't draw a drop of blood. I simply "peeled" him. The heavy iron plate fell to the ground with a dull thud, leaving the man standing in his undergarments, shivering and exposed.
"Sanitation check," I said, tapping his chest with the flat of my blade. "Fail. Get out of my kitchen before I decide to braise you."
The psychological weight of the defeat hit them harder than any wound. These mercenaries had fought monsters, they had fought rebels, but they had never fought a man who treated their lives like a Preparation List.
The Ledger's agent turned his horse to flee, but a skeletal hand caught the bridle.
"The check, please," I said, appearing beside him as if I had teleported. In reality, I had just used the [Linear Acceleration] skill I'd picked up from devouring a mountain hare's tendons months ago.
I looked up at him, the blue glow of my Necromancy reflecting in his wide, terrified eyes. "You came here to collect a debt. But you forgot to factor in the service charge. For the disruption of my kitchen, for the stress on my werewolves, and for the interruption of a perfectly good wolf-steak..."
I reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a heavy purse of gold coins.
"This should cover the tip," I said, tossing the bag to Jasper.
"You... you can't do this!" the agent stammered. "The Gilded Chain... the noble houses... we have contracts!"
"And I have a reservation for a million refugees," I countered. "I suggest you tell your masters that Nova Roma is now open for business. We don't accept chains as currency. We only accept talent, loyalty, and fresh ingredients."
I patted the horse's flank. "Now, clear the table. We have a second course to prepare."
The horse bolted, carrying the screaming agent and his "processed" mercenaries back toward the eastern ridge.
I turned back to the campfire. The wolf-steak was resting. The juices had redistributed perfectly. I picked up the basalt stone—my hands protected by the [Heat Resistance] I'd earned from devouring a minor fire-salamander—and walked toward the refugees.
Jasper looked at the gold bag, then at the pile of "discarded" mercenary armor, and finally at me. "You didn't kill them."
"Why would I?" I asked, slicing the wolf-steak into thin, elegant strips. "A dead customer can't tell his friends about the food. Besides, the meat was too low-quality to harvest. We only raise the dead for work, Jasper. We never use them for fodder."
I handed the first strip of meat to Amber, the young werewolf girl. Her eyes widened as she tasted the salt, the pepper, and the smokiness of the basalt.
"In Nova Roma," I told the gathered crowd, my voice ringing across the plains, "no one eats alone. And no one eats scraps. We are building a kingdom, and every kingdom starts with a Master Recipe."
I looked at my skeletal Sous-Chefs, who were already beginning to sweep the "station" (the battlefield) with makeshift brooms made of scavenged branches.
"Clean the blades," I commanded. "We have a migration coming. And I heard a rumor that there's wild wheat in the North. If we're going to welcome the world, we're going to need bread."
As the sun set over the West Plains, the smell of the campfire was no longer the scent of a desperate camp. It was the scent of a beginning.
The Eternal Service had officially begun.
Nova Roma: The Eternal Service
Current Level: 12
Current Staff: 12 Skeletons, 2 Wraiths.
Current Menu: Seared Great-Wolf Haunch with Mountain Herb Rub.
Next Objective: Secure the Wheat Fields of the Northern Forest (The Pasta Quest).