Chương 59: The Twenty Percent Rule

Caleb grabbed the brass handle of the Hearthsong's private dining-room door, while his mind drifted back to the conversation he'd just left. The idea of seeing his family again looped through his thoughts, a desperate prayer drowning out the muffled din of the inn's common room. It offered a lifeline across the finality of death. If the legends held, if a True Sovereign held some sort of ascendant power, then the car crash, the blinding white void, the separation from his family… all of it could be reversed.

He could wake up on a Saturday morning to the aroma of coffee and the sound of cartoons, his biggest worry being the length of the lawn. He squeezed the handle as his body clenched at just the thought of it. Metal groaned. Caleb glanced down, seeing the fixture had slightly bent under his fingers. He released the thing as if it were red hot, while [Savant of the Body] supplied a belated flood of proprioceptive data, detailing exactly how he had just misapplied force.

He was piloting a machine whose calibration drifted the moment he lost focus. He pushed the door open gently with the tip of one finger. Stepping into the room, he intended to walk with a casual stride, but struck the floorboards with a heavy thud. Conversation inside the room died instantly as seven faces turned toward him. Caleb stilled in the doorway. The private dining room was beautifully covered in polished dark wood and gleaming silver inlays, insulated from the festival chaos.

He felt like a bull that had just stumbled into a china shop. Cassia presided at the head of the table, her warm smile faltering for a fraction of a second before she recovered.

"Thal, dear, come in. We've been waiting for you." Gareth sat to her right, his massive shoulders making the sturdy furniture look like a child's toy. Corinne and Leo were huddled together opposite the chef, their eyes wide. Selara offered him a nod from next to Gareth. Aurelian on her other side leaned back in a chair, a glass of wine held loosely in long fingers as he regarded Caleb with the expression of a biologist examining a particularly interesting mold culture.

The man next to Leo, whom he presumed was Sergeant Torric Tanner, did not nod.

"Close the door and sit down, lad," Torric rumbled.

"The food is getting cold." Caleb turned, gripping the handle with agonizing care and using two fingers this time, then clicked it shut. He walked to the empty chair next to Aurelian, moving with the jerky gait of a marionette whose strings were being pulled by a drunkard. Gentle, Foster.... don't break the nice chair. It didn't do anything to you. He lowered himself slowly into the seat.

"Well," Aurelian said into the silence with a drawl.

"If it isn't the returning hero. I must say, your performance was… illuminating. Crude, barbaric, and entirely lacking in finesse… but effective, nonetheless." He took a sip of wine, muttering into the glass.

"…though watching a Duskborn flail with a spear is hardly high art…"

"He almost won!" Corinne hopped in place, nearly knocking over her goblet.

"You were incredible, Thal! Your fight against Astrin? That red glow around you? How did you even do that!? Is that what let you keep up with her?" Caleb hesitated, his mind catching up to her words. R-red glow?

"I..." He paused, piecing together what she must have seen.

"I was pushing everything I had into keeping up with her by channeling Stamina through my entire body. It helped enhance my speed and strength a lot." He flexed his fingers, still feeling the phantom ache of overextension.

"It burned through my reserves fast, but it was the only thing I could come up with to close the gap." He looked over at Corinne questioningly.

"It glowed red?"

"Like a bonfire!" She gestured excitedly with her hands.

"Your entire aura was just blazing - it looked really awesome!" Caleb frowned slightly. His [Spiritual Perception] had been focused entirely on Astrin during the fight. He hadn't thought to examine himself.

"I didn't realize it was that obvious."

"Obvious?" Torric leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table while he pinned Caleb with a stare.

"Half the arena saw it. That kind of full-body enhancement isn't something an F-tier Duskborn should be capable of." The Sergeant narrowed his eyes.

"And it's not something Hatch would ignore. Especially not when it could threaten the stability of the village."

"Is that what I am? A threat?"

"To anyone who thought you were just a kitchen worker until now? Yes," Selara interjected, picking up a slice of bread.

"You have upset the board, Thalorin." Caleb looked around the table. Even Corinne and Leo watched him with a new layer of wariness beneath their friendship. He had become something beyond Thal, the once-onion-dicer-turned-adventurer: now the-guy-who-had-defeated-a-noble-and-managed-to-keep-up-with-a-second.

"I didn't ask for this."

"That is irrelevant," Aurelian sniffed.

"Competence attracts attention, boy. Attention attracts problems. You have demonstrated a surplus of the former; expect an abundance of the latter." Competence? From Aurelian? Gareth cleared his throat. The sound resembled a boulder shifting in a quarry.

"Food, Thal. You're late. Eat." The cook gestured to the center of the table where a covered platter sat.

"Leo prepared dessert." All eyes turned to the young Tanner. The boy looked as though he wanted to dissolve into the grain of the floorboards. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his pale skin grew splotchy. He stood, his hands shaking as he reached for the cloth covering a basket in front of him.

"I-I… I made these," Leo stammered, glancing at his father's stony face.

"G-Gareth let me use the ovens before the tournament. They're… um… sun-honey tarts." He pulled away the cloth. A sweet and savory aroma filled the room. The tarts were little golden discs, the crusts flaking delicately, the glaze and filling glistening under the runelights. Hunger clawed at Caleb's midsection. Torric eyed the pastries and the muscles in his jaw bunched.

"You spent the morning baking?" Leo flinched.

"I-I… yes, sir. B-before the fights, I just… needed to s-settle my nerves. Kneading dough, i-it… helps…"

"A warrior should be maintaining his physique." Torric dropped his voice a glacial degree.

"Practicing to overcome his mistakes. Not… playing in a kitchen." Leo shrank back, shoulders hunching. The joy of his creation withered under the frost of his father's disapproval.

"A moment," Gareth interjected. He selected a tart with surprising delicacy for a man with such large hands, examining it with the critical eye he'd turn on a cut of meat or a sauce reduction, rotating the pastry to check every inch. Then he took a bite. Slowly, deliberately, he chewed. He gave nothing away as he continued to assess the treat. Then he swallowed and fixed his eyes on Leo to pronounce his professional judgement.

"The lamination is excellent. Multiple distinct layers, each one properly separated. The honey glaze has citrus notes; sun-apple, if I'm not mistaken. The balance between sweet and tangy is exquisite." Leo lit up at the praise, leaning towards the chef.

"This is journeyman-level work. Maybe better. Certainly better than anyone currently in our kitchen, including myself." He set down the half-eaten tart and turned to Leo.

"I'd like to offer you the position of pastry chef at the Hearthsong Inn. You'll report directly to me and prepare the day's baked goods for our guests." Leo gaped.

"W-what, I… really?"

"Of course." Torric locked eyes with Gareth as his face darkened, but the big half-elf wouldn't be swayed. Two sets of convictions refusing to bend. The stare stretched between them until it started to grow uncomfortable in the room. Finally, Torric broke contact and looked at the tart on Gareth's plate, then at the hopeful, terrified look on his son's features. The Sergeant exhaled a long breath through his nose.

"Gareth Hearthsong wouldn't offer charity, son," Torric said, the words grudging but respectful.

"If he says it's good work… then it's good work." Torric took a tart. Having a bite, he tried to work through it stoically until his eyes widened slightly. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

"This… this is really good, Leo," the sergeant said, although it looked like it pained him.

"Your mother would be proud." Leo beamed. It was a blinding, radiant smile that transformed him entirely, and for a moment that joy lit up the entire room.

"Congratulations, Leo." Caleb grinned.

"Well done." More praise echoed around the group while Corinne snagged a tart, moaning in delight as she ate. Even Aurelian took one, sniffing it dubiously before deigning to nibble the edge. Caleb leaned back. The burden of The Sovereign Path receded. He was just having dinner with friends. He reached for a pastry. On autopilot, he grabbed the treat the same way he'd grabbed a thousand snacks before. Squelch. Caleb looked down. He'd squeezed the delicate pastry like a vice.

It had squished instantly, turning into a glob of sticky paste that oozed between his fingers and fell onto the pristine tablecloth.

"Oh," Caleb blinked.

"Smooth move, Thal!" Corinne giggled around a mouthful of crust.

"You're like a troll trying to pick daisies!" Caleb snatched a linen napkin to wipe his hand, scrubbing at the mess. Riiiiiip. He punched through the cloth, and the ruined piece of fabric hung from his fist.

"Okay," he whispered.

"This is getting ridiculous." He went for his goblet with his clean hand, intending to take a drink to cover the rising heat in his face. Naturally, he misjudged the distance and the speed of his own arm. He clipped the cup with his knuckles, and it promptly launched across the room. The goblet spun through the air, spraying red wine in a wide arc before clattering against the far wall. Silence descended with him at the center again. This time, it was baffled.

Wine dripped from the centerpiece, and a splash had even landed on Aurelian's sleeve. The alchemist regarded the stain, his left eye twitching.

"Explain," Aurelian said quietly.

"Before I decide that you are simply a menace to society and have you put down." Caleb held up his pastry-covered hand. He glanced at the torn napkin, at the dented door handle by the entrance.

"I might have… swallowed some essence stones."

"Some?" Selara narrowed her eyes.

"Hatch gave you your reward? How many did you take, Thalorin?" Sensing he might have made a mistake, Caleb gulped past the growing lump in his throat.

"A-all of them?"

"All of them!?" Aurelian's voice climbed an octave.

"Over what period? A month? A week?"

"A-about twenty minutes… Roughly half an hour ago in his office." Aurelian choked. He coughed violently, wine spraying, while Selara thumped him on the back. Even Torric looked disturbed at the confession.

"You consumed enough essence stones to take you from Low-Red to Peak-Red in a single sitting?" Aurelian wheezed, wiping his mouth. He looked at Caleb with a mixture of horror and professional fascination.

"And you are not dead? Or screaming in a puddle of your own liquefied innards?"

"I feel fine. Mostly. Just… too strong." The alchemist cycled through shock, then disbelief, and finally settled on something approaching captivated horror.

"You must have consumed over thirty essence stones—""Thirty-five."

"—In rapid succession. Without any acclimation period in between."

"Yup."

"All at once."

"I think we've covered that." The alchemist pressed his fingers to his temples.

"Do you have any idea, any concept whatsoever, of the physiological stress that places on your body?"

"I'm getting the sense it was inadvisable."

"Inadvisable!" Aurelian bellowed.

"You possess the motor control of a drunk toddler because you have drastically altered your physical baseline without allowing your nervous system to calibrate! The twenty percent rule, boy! One does not increase an attribute by more than twenty percent in a single cycle without severe proprioceptive lag! You are at significant risk of what we call an acclimation accident. Crushed doorknobs. Broken furniture. Accidentally launching yourself through a wall because the neighbor's cat startled you."

Aurelian grabbed Caleb's wrist, the clean one, and examined the muscle density.

"Bah, of course you only pushed your physical stats to the threshold," Aurelian muttered.

"Typical. Give a Duskborn a fortune and he buys a bigger spear…" He dropped Caleb's arm.

"Not a single stone for the mind? No Intelligence or Wisdom?"

"Captain Hatch recommended focusing on my strengths."

"Hatch is a hammer." Aurelian spat.

"To him, every problem is a nail. You have the potential for finesse, yet you choose to be a brick." Caleb ignored the insult and Aurelian complimenting him again. Well, complimenting him in his snide, backhanded way. His mind raced to thirty minutes ago and replayed the scene in the office. Hatch knew. The captain had to have known about the twenty percent rule. Would have known about proprioceptive lag, and that eating thirty-five essence stones at once was dangerous; potentially fatal.

While playing the concerned mentor, the man had tested Caleb. Hatch must have wanted to see if Caleb's body could handle the rapid influx of power. If Caleb had seized up, passed out, or lost control and put a fist through the wall in the office, Hatch would have known his limits. But Caleb hadn't seized up. [Savant of the Body] had adapted so fast that he walked out of the room. He played me and I gave him exactly what he wanted: more information.

"The boy's an idiot," Aurelian concluded, turning to his sister.

"But a resilient one. To absorb that much essence without systemic shock implies a natural physiological talent that is frankly absurd."

"There must have been a reason," Torric said as he watched Caleb closely.

"Why did you do it, Caldorn? Why take them all at once?" Caleb considered his smeared hand.

"Having never heard of the twenty percent rule, the advice of a Captain of the Legion felt appropriate to follow. Especially now that I'm a Legion Adjunct." Caleb spoke softly, dropping the title Hatch had pressed upon him like a coin he didn't know the value of.

"In fact… I'm a Sovereign Aspirant." Corinne blinked, her brow furrowing.

"A Sovereign what's it?" Leo shrugged in confusion. Gareth paused with a fork halfway to his mouth, looking from Caleb to Cassia. The matriarch shook her head slightly, her features blank. To the Hearthsongs, successful merchants and skilled professionals, the words were gibberish. A title without meaning. But to the others, it was a bomb. Selara went unnaturally still. Her eyes, usually steady and unfazed, widened with a flash of recognition. Beside her, Aurelian looked as if a talking dog had just recited poetry.

He slowly lowered his wineglass.

"You?" Aurelian asked, the disdain forgotten in the face of sheer incredulity.

"A Duskborn? Walking the path of kings?"

"Is that a bad thing?" Corinne looked between the shocked nobles.

"What does it mean?"

"It means he's either lying or he's doomed," Torric rumbled. The Sergeant sat motionless. He stared at Caleb in a way that felt like the pressure before a storm.

"It's not something you would hear about in the taverns, lass," Torric said, as he addressed Corinne without looking at her.

"It's not a path for adventurers or common delvers. Just a myth that somehow got enshrined in Imperial doctrine."

"A myth?" Caleb asked.

"The Sovereign Path," Torric scoffed.

"Did Hatch talk you into that?"

"It was his suggestion. Better that than conscription, I should think."

"It's a trap, son." Torric sounded tired, the bark stripped from his voice.

"It sounds noble.

'Perfection.'

'Mastery.' It's the kind of thing highborn officers discuss in their war rooms while drinking century-old wine. But in reality? In the mud?" He sipped his own drink.

"It's a nightmare, Caldorn. It demands everything you have, and then it asks for more. If you aren't independently wealthy, and I mean 'owning a city' wealthy, then you have to be functionally suicidal just to feed the Toll." Torric shifted forward, the shadows in the room deepening the lines on his face.

"Most who walk it end up stalled at E-tier or D-tier, unable to afford the cost to advance, but too proud to specialize. If they survive that long, they become stagnant. Monuments to wasted potential."

"I didn't have a choice. It was that or my freedom."

"There is always a choice, and you've made yours. While I understand why, you might consider that the Legion isn't all that bad a place to work." Cassia studied Caleb for a long moment, warm eyes moving from his coated fingers to the bent door handle across the room, then back to his face. Her reaction was opaque: concern, maybe, or calculation. Whatever a Sovereign Aspirant was supposed to be in her mind, the reality was a young man who'd just obliterated a pastry.

"Well," she said finally.

"Whatever path you're walking, Thal, you're not walking it alone. Not while you're under my roof." Caleb dipped his chin. The Hearthsongs clearly had no idea what they'd just heard, though they seemed willing to trust it mattered. The innkeeper straightened, her tone shifting to something more businesslike.

"Which brings us to the real reason of why we're here tonight." She looked around the table, her eyes settling on each person in turn.

"Zarven Mault has become a problem for all of us. He used Loric Thane to threaten my family." She nodded at Torric.

"Threaten your son—" she turned to Selara "—and chokes your business while he tries to intimidate your apprentice. He grows too bold." Firmly, she laid it out.

"We need an alliance. To pool our resources and share intelligence. We must protect our own."

"Agreed," Selara confirmed.

"Zarven has stifled our supply lines long enough. If Thal is an Aspirant, he becomes a protected asset. Attacking him or his known associates becomes a crime against the Dominion's military interests. It gives us legal leverage."

"Leverage is good," Torric grunted.

"Steel is better. But you have my support, whatever it's worth." Torric turned to his son.

"Leo." The boy straightened instinctively.

"Yes, sir?"

"I watched your fights during the tournament. Both of them." The color drained from Leo's cheeks.

"You... you did?"

"I rented a long-range scrying mirror from Mistress Alia. Had it keyed to the tournament arena. I saw you face Tamsin Mhuire. You were terrified. Your hands were shaking and your stance wavered. You looked like you wanted to run." Leo hunched in on himself.

"But you didn't," Torric continued softly.

"You held your ground and used proper defensive techniques to fend her off. And when the opening came, you took it." He paused, making sure he had his son's attention.

"That's what matters, Leo. That even though you were afraid, you fought anyway." The boy went still, staring at his father with big eyes.

"As long as you keep fighting with that spirit, I have no doubt you'll become a fine warrior." Torric reached out, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you." Leo transformed. Pure, unfiltered joy. It was a lovely moment to witness, but Caleb worried about the conflict underneath. Because Torric's pride honored the fighting, while baking was the thing Leo truly loved. He struggled between meeting his father's expectations and following his own heart. He's going to have to choose, eventually. Between what he loves and the approval he craves. It was a burden no one should have to carry.

"Thank you, father," Leo whispered. The dinner wound down, and Caleb continued to make strides in managing his new attributes. The stress of the tournament eased, replaced by the fatigue of the day. They'd formed an alliance, and even though the details of it were vague it still felt good to know they had support. That they weren't alone. As the group stood to leave, Selara moved to Caleb's side.

"Aurelian watched the tournament too," she confided. Caleb successfully wiped some pastry crust from his hand without making a further mess.

"And?"

"He called your fighting style 'offensive to the concept of aesthetics.'" She smiled dryly.

"But like everyone else who knew what they were seeing, he observed you develop a technique you never could have known, while in live combat no less." She glanced at her brother, who was currently lecturing Gareth on the alchemical properties of yeast.

"He respects problem-solving, Thal, which you were right to call him out on before. Creative applications of limited resources. And after tonight… after watching you somehow function after ingesting thirty-five essence stones without killing yourself or inflicting significant property damage?" She turned back to Caleb, her grey eyes serious.

"He is finally convinced. You have moved beyond basic brute status in his eyes."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Well, that depends on whether you are still interested in apprenticing under him. At the very least it means you have a shot." She touched his arm.

"Come to the shop tomorrow." She walked away, leaving Caleb standing in the wreckage of his dinner. He eyed his hand, closing it into a fist. The alchemist was going to give him a fair shake, was he? Finally.