Chương 11: Signed with Blood

<Character Sheet> Name: FINCH QUIVERWING Race: Human Age: 28 Class: Aeromancer, Lv. 12 Vessel: Gourd of Storms The younger Imperial Ranger was another typical military type with an imposing build. But where his superior could be rather expressive with his smiles and sneers, Finch's face showed nothing. A blank mask of do-the-job-and-get-out. Jordan clocked the type immediately. For he himself had embodied some of it in his later years at the office.

Presently, Finch Quiverwing was in the midst of casting [Manipulate Winds], borrowing the power of the elements to 'carry' a 500-pound tripod cauldron. He ended the cast as soon as he came into the hut. The gourd at his waist returned to its baseline lacquered brown, while the Heavenly Cauldron dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. Instantly, the visual evidence of Jordan's Vessel did what his flimsy arguments couldn't.

Heron Catchgrain bulged his eyes in astonishment at what was surely and by far the largest Vessel he'd ever seen. It took him several seconds to compose himself, then both Imperial Rangers turned to Jordan with cold, appraising glares. The momentum had clearly shifted. But in what direction, Jordan couldn't say. Cold sweat trickled down his back as he met Heron's gaze. He could see the gears turning inside the older man's brain. A sight that left him with mounting dread.

Surely, he's not thinking of— Intelligence DC 12: success Fuxi:" Vessel theft is a grave offense punishable by death and, in some extreme historical cases, by bloodline extermination. Surely, a sworn officer of the Imperial Army would not impose such a risk on himself or his loved ones." Constitution DC 12: success Xihe:"The Vessel is core to the bearer's being, as inseparable as a taproot from the tree it anchors.

To force that separation by unnatural means would be an affront to all the creatures of heaven and earth." Wisdom DC 8: success Shennong:"Methinks law and philosophy need not even apply here. To cut down a fellow man in cold blood, all in the name of simple greed… I shudder to imagine the depraved soul who would consider such a thing." Perhaps due to his most recent failure, Jordan was in no mood to be assuaged by divine pontifications.

Nor did he have a realistic means of defending himself if things really did take a turn in that direction. 30 levels to rival the Elder Races and up to 1, 000, 000, 000 cc of Vessel Capacity left to be filled. Yet all that was powerless before one man and his [Fireball]. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I get a second chance at life, and yet I'm still at the mercy of the privileged and powerful of the world… After seconds that felt like an eternity, Heron's demeanor shifted once more.

From appraisal to… something like approval?

"Very well, Jordan Yu." The Ranger invoked the Westerner's name for the first time, wearing a faint smile as he did.

"I now see that your [Character Sheet] was no chicanery nor empty boast. If you're sincere about volunteering yourself to serve the Emperor, then we'll hold you to it. You have one week to report to Featherift City Barracks and begin your induction. Should you fail to do so, you shall be deemed a deserter and face the conseq—""What about Mattock?" Jordan blurted, somehow retaining the crux of the discussion.

"You—you'll leave him alone, yeah? I'm pretty sure his family needs him more than the Emperor does." Heron's expression darkened, seeming to take exception to the interruption.

"Make no mistake. You're not in any position to negotiate. Whatever I decide, I'm guided only by the Aperturian principles all Stormvasters aspire to. And tonight, as long as you sign this"—Heron shoved the recruitment slip in Jordan's face—"I'll consider myself in good standing with my gods, my ancestors, and my fellow man. Such that I'll ask nothing more of this young Porter, even if I have every right and authority to do so. Quickly now, before I change my mind." Jordan moved before anyone could stop him.

As he unfolded the paper, he was mystified to find it completely blank. Not to mention he had nothing to write with—no pen, no pencil, not even a calligraphy brush. But then… HERON CATCHGRAIN cast: Transcribe Character Sheet. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Heron's Gourd of Flames flashed with a rosy glow for a moment, as the paper filled with ink writing.

The words were in English (or the Common Speech, as Jordan would have to get used to eventually), copied verbatim from the [Character Sheet] in question. It all happened in the blink of an eye. Once the form had been populated, Heron looked to Jordan expectantly. The younger man tried to hand back the paper, not sure what else was needed from him.

"Don't tell me," Heron tutted, "that you don't even own a seal?"

"Uh…" Jordan stopped short of asking'what's that?' He had a vague memory of Mom stamping letters to China with a personal seal that kind of looked like a chapstick. But that was ages ago, long before the proliferation of email and WeChat. No chance her banana son would've carried one with him to his interdimensional adventure. Heron tutted again, then muttered under his breath, "Westerners." Louder, he announced, "No matter. We'll just use a substitute."

Without warning, the Ranger grabbed the new recruit roughly by the wrist. In the same motion, he produced a dagger from the same place where he kept his gourd, then cut his captive across the thumb. Jordan winced, in both pain and surprise. He was, however, also quick on the uptake, hastily pushing his freshly bleeding thumb against the recruitment slip. It left an unidentifiable smudge, but that was apparently good enough for the recruiter.

"There," Heron proclaimed without a shred of contrition. He tucked the paper back into his leather armor as he left Jordan with final instructions.

"Remember, one week. Which is to say the 30th day of the month of Apricots. No later than the hour of the Pig, unless you want a squad of Marshals to come after you. And don't think you can run. Not after your blood-seal has dried upon an imperial document. I'll be waiting. That is, unless the roads claim you first." With that, Imperial Ranger Heron Catchgrain turned and left. Without so much as a second look at the family he'd so terrorized.

Finch Quiverwing followed suit in short order, having uttered not a single word during the whole interaction. The Heavenly Cauldron remained on the floor, still safely bound to a clueless Westerner by the name of Jordan Yu. So, what was it in the end? Jordan petitioned the gods for more opinions. Law, philosophy, or the goodness of his heart? What made Heron decide to spare me and also change his mind about Mattock? Strength DC 16: failure Zhurong:"Pah! You give him too much credit.

As if the lout has any thought beyond the last order he'd received." Dexterity DC 16: failure Nezha:"We know one thing for sure, human. That it wasn't fear of retribution from you." Charisma DC 16: failure N üwa: "Nor was it your charms that won him over." Why do I even bother … Mockery by the gods notwithstanding, Jordan felt himself relax. By hook, crook, or fluke, he'd spared Mattock of Copper Hill from conscription. Spared his family the pain of losing him like they did his brother.

Sure, it'd come at the cost of Jordan himself signing up for military service, but credit where credit was due, right? As he soon found out, however, the system had no intention of letting him forget. Forget his latest failure in a life full of them. Affliction incurred. [Doom Spiral (Lv. 1)]: Negative thinking begets unfavorable results beget negative thinking. (-1) penalty to all rolls until the Affliction is cured. Cure one stack of [Doom Spiral] by succeeding on three consecutive rolls. Oh …

well, I suppose I deserved that. Jordan took the news on the chin. Not due to an abundance of stoicism, but more thanks to prior knowledge. A similar mechanic existed in the base game, though it was known by a much different name there. All that aside, the eventful night was far from over. For even as Jordan reckoned with the consequences of his negative thinking, his host family moved into action all around him.

Mattock relit his torch and stormed outside, while Mallet followed close behind with a second torch in hand, both intent on checking on the livestock. Sarina, still sniffling, boiled some tea to help calm the nerves. Sickle wordlessly swept the dirt and grass the Rangers had tracked into the house. Jordan couldn't bear twiddling his thumbs while the family worked. He hastily put on his janitor's overalls (much faster than the tunics), then bounded after the father-son duo.

It took him some time to adjust to the darkness. He followed the flickers of torchlight toward the corral, growing queasy at the smell of fresh blood and exposed viscera. But queasiness soon made for relief. For old man Mallet could be seen stroking the neck of old horse Chestnut—she who was blessed by Fuxi and wily enough to survive a Roc attack. Speaking of… Mattock stood stock-still at the center of the corral.

With a torch in hand, the young man was functionally a lamppost, shining just enough light upon the monstrosity at his feet. The thing was dead, and therefore beyond the system's ability to identify it. There was no need, of course, given that it aligned perfectly with Jordan's image of a Greater Roc's skeletal remains. Enormous, hook-like beaks—large enough to comfortably fit a full-grown horse and then some—preceded a skull with rugged grooves and cavernous sockets.

Knowing nothing about bird anatomy, it looked to Jordan like the thing had died mid-scream, beaks splayed apart like a pair of scissors. What should've been its tongue had been removed, stripped clean like the rest of its flesh, skin, and plumage. The Rangers took all the valuable parts that could be sold or used for crafting. Left nothing but this bone-dry mess for the family to clean up. Morbidly fascinated, Jordan stepped closer. He'd long lost count of how many 'monsters' he'd killed on a cracked laptop screen.

And yet, as he stood right next to the physical carcass of one—eye socket so big he could step right through and call the creature's skull his new home—he knew true fear for the first time. Wordless, Jordan and Mattock exchanged a look of awed humility. They'd both been victims of an Imperial spellcaster and his bullying ways. But neither could deny the power that had earned and perhaps even justified that authority. 30 levels and 1, 000, 000, 000 cc of Vessel Capacity left to fill.

Yet, it would be a long road for Jordan to catch up to even a Lv. 15 Pyromancer.