The fire was dying, and so was my patience.
"Stop," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Just… stop. You are holding the flint upside down. You are trying to ignite a damp log with a spark the size of a pixel. This is not how thermodynamics works."
Seraphina Vane, the self-proclaimed Sword Saint and destroyer of Phase 2 Golems, glared at me across the small campfire I had eventually started myself. Her silver armor reflected the flickering orange light, highlighting the fact that it was held together by what looked like pine resin and stubbornness.
"I am a warrior, not a scout," she huffed, tossing the flint into the dirt. "Menial tasks are beneath the dignity of the Vane bloodline. That is why I hired you."
"You didn't hire me," I corrected, poking the fire with a stick. "You conscripted me under threat of violence. In the corporate world, we call that a hostile takeover."
We were camped in a small hollow beneath the roots of a giant mushroom tree. The swamp was noisy at night. Frogs croaked in minor keys, and things that sounded suspiciously like chainsaws buzzed in the distance. It was humid, it smelled like sulfur, and my Italian leather shoes were officially ruined beyond repair.
I looked at my wristwatch. 8:15 PM. On Earth, I would be approving the overnight shipping manifests right now. Here, I was watching a teenager try to sharpen a legendary sword with a river stone.
"Give me that," I snapped, unable to watch her grind the blade's edge into oblivion any longer.
"Do not touch Cataclysm!" she hissed, hugging the massive sword to her chest. "It is a sacred relic!"
"It is a blunt instrument," I countered. "I watched you bounce it off a slime earlier. A slime, Seraphina. It has the consistency of Jell-O. If you can't cut Jell-O, you have a supply chain issue."
She hesitated, then sullenly handed the weapon over. "Be careful. It… has a temperament."
I took the sword. It was heavy, unbalanced, and frankly, a disaster. The edge was chipped in twelve places. The hilt was sticky.
[Item Analysis Initiated]
[Weapon: Cataclysm Blade (Legendary - Damaged)]
[Durability: 14/500]
[Status: CRITICAL. Will shatter upon next high-impact collision.]
My stomach dropped. "Fourteen?" I looked at her. "You've been fighting with fourteen durability? That's like driving a Ferrari with the check engine light on, four flat tires, and the fuel tank on fire."
"I don't know what a Ferrari is, but I assume it is a majestic beast," she said haughtily. "And durability is a myth. A true knight relies on spirit."
"Spirit doesn't calculate tensile strength failures," I muttered.
My hand hovered over the blade. A blue prompt appeared.
[Skill: Quick Fix (Domestic) available.]
[Cost: 20 Mana. Requires: Metal scrap.]
I looked around. I spotted a rusted iron buckle from a rotted boot near the trash pile where I'd spawned.
"Hand me that trash," I said.
"I will not handle garbage."
"Hand. Me. The. Trash."
She grumbled but kicked the buckle over to me. I picked it up, placed it against the chipped edge of the sword, and activated the skill.
It wasn't like blacksmithing. There was no hammering. It was more like... copy-pasting. My mana drained—a sensation like having blood drawn—and the rusted iron liquefied, turning silver as it fused with the holy blade. The chips filled in. The edge gleamed.
[Repair Complete. Durability: 65/500]
"It's not perfect," I said, handing it back. "But it won't explode in your face. We need a real forge to get it back to factory settings."
Sera took the sword, her eyes widening as she ran a finger along the edge. She looked at me, then quickly looked away, hiding a small smile.
"Adequate," she said. "For a butler."
"Operations Manager," I corrected automatically. I stood up, brushing dirt off my suit pants. "Look, Miss Vane. We need to have a performance review. This arrangement? It's unsustainable. You have no supplies, no navigation skills, and your gear is falling apart. I cannot manage a client who refuses to adhere to basic safety protocols."
She frowned. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I resign," I said, trying to sound firm despite the fact that I was holding a frying pan. "I'm going to walk to the nearest town, file a report with the Adventurer's Guild, and find a job that doesn't involve mud monsters. You are on your own."
Sera stared at me. The firelight danced in her violet eyes. For a second, the haughty mask slipped. She looked small. She looked terrified.
"You can't," she whispered.
"I can. Two weeks notice is standard, but under these conditions, immediate termination is justified."
"No," she said, her voice trembling. "I mean... you literally can't. Look."
She pointed into the darkness beyond our campfire.
I adjusted my glasses and squinted. At first, I saw nothing. Then, I saw the eyes.
Not two red eyes like the trash rats. Not ten.
Hundreds.
They were small, yellow, and malicious. They bobbed in the darkness like fireflies from hell. The sound of rustling leaves intensified, sounding like a tidal wave of dry paper.
[Event Triggered: Goblin Horde (Scout Wave)]
[Enemy Count: 450+]
[Difficulty: Hard]
"Four hundred and fifty?" I squeaked. My voice went up an octave. "Is this a spawn bug? Where are the GMs?"
"It's a migration," Sera said, standing up and gripping her sword. Her knuckles were white. "They smell the mana from the Golem fight. They're scavengers."
"Four hundred," I repeated, doing the math. "Sera, you have one giant attack that drains your health to one. That leaves... four hundred and forty-nine goblins to eat us."
"I can take them," she lied. Her legs were shaking. "I am the Sword Saint."
"You are a liability with a sharp stick!" I yelled. "We need to run!"
"We can't outrun them in the swamp!" she shouted back. "They have swamp-walk!"
A crude arrow whizzed past my ear and thunked into the mushroom tree. Then a spear landed in the fire, scattering sparks.
"Keeeeek!"
The screeching began. It was a cacophony of high-pitched shrieks that grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. The first wave burst into the light.
They were short, green, and ugly. They wore loincloths made of questionable leather and wielded jagged, rusty weapons.
Sera stepped forward, raising her sword. "I'll use Cataclysm!"
"No!" I tackled her.
We hit the dirt just as a volley of rocks sailed through the space where her head had been.
"Are you insane?" I hissed, pinning her arm down. "You use that move, you faint. You faint, we die. This is a volume problem. We need a volume solution."
"Get off me, commoner! What do you propose? We surrender?"
I looked at the horde. They were surging forward, a green tide of malice. I looked at my frying pan. I looked at Sera.
Panic was trying to claw its way up my throat, but my brain—broken, rewired by years of managing logistics for a failing company—did what it always did.
It organized.
[Skill Unlocked: Logistical Command (Level 1)]
[Passive Effect: The User can visualize the structural integrity, durability, and 'weak points' of enemy formations and equipment.]
The world shifted.
It was like putting on augmented reality glasses. Over the heads of the goblins, numbers appeared. Not health bars, but data.
I saw a goblin holding a rusted shield. A red wireframe grid overlay appeared on the shield with the text: [Stress Fracture: Lower Left Quadrant].
I saw three goblins charging in a phalanx. A glowing line connected their ankles: [Trip Hazard: High].
I saw the durability of their rusty daggers: [Integrity: 12%].
Everything was math. And I was good at math.
I scrambled up, dragging Sera with me. "New plan. You are the asset. I am the operator. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions. No ego. Do you understand?"
"I—"
"Do you want to be goblin chow?"
She gulped. "No."
"Then listen to me!" I pointed the spatula at the approaching wave. "Sector One! Three goblins, ten o'clock! Don't slash them. Strike the center goblin's shield, lower left corner! Hard!"
Sera didn't argue. She lunged. Instead of a sweeping arc, she thrust her blade exactly where I pointed.
CRACK.
The rusty shield shattered. The shards flew backward like shrapnel, blinding the goblin holding it and the two behind him. They collapsed in a heap of shrieking confusion.
"It worked?" Sera looked stunned.
"Don't celebrate! Turn 90 degrees right!" I barked, my eyes scanning the data stream. "Five targets. Spear wall. Their shafts are rotted wood. Horizontal sweep, knee height! Break the weapons, not the bodies!"
Sera spun, her silver hair whipping around. She dropped low and swung Cataclysm in a flat arc.
SNAP-SNAP-SNAP-SNAP-SNAP.
The spear shafts sheared off like dry twigs. The goblins, suddenly holding harmless sticks, stumbled forward, off-balance.
"Finish them! Overhead smash, utilize the momentum!"
Sera flowed into the next move, crushing the lead goblin with the flat of her blade.
It was rhythmic. It was efficient. It was beautiful.
"Left flank! Two archers! Their bowstrings are frayed! Rush them, force them to draw!"
Sera didn't hesitate. She charged the archers. They panicked, pulling their strings back too hard in fear. Snap. The strings broke, whipping the goblins in their own faces. Sera kicked them into the mud without even using her sword.
"Incoming! Heavy unit!"
A Hobgoblin—bigger, meaner, wearing a pot on its head—burst through the lines. It raised a massive club.
Sera froze. "Arthur! He's too big!"
I looked at the Hobgoblin. I looked at the mud beneath its feet. The ground was saturated.
[Terrain Analysis: Liquefaction Potential 90%]
"Don't hit him!" I screamed. "Hit the ground! Three feet in front of his left foot! Full force!"
"The ground?!"
"Do it! It's an audit of his stability!"
Sera screamed a war cry and slammed her sword into the mud.
The impact sent a shockwave through the swampy soil. The ground beneath the Hobgoblin turned instantly into soup. His heavy forward momentum worked against him. His left leg sank knee-deep, then thigh-deep. He tipped forward, his club slamming harmlessly into the dirt as he face-planted.
"Stab the exposed neck!"
Squelch.
The Hobgoblin stopped moving.
We stood back-to-back in the center of the clearing. The remaining goblins—about two hundred of them—stopped. They looked at their shattered shields. They looked at their broken spears. They looked at their leader, who was currently part of the geography.
They looked at the silver-haired demon and the man in the suit shouting numbers.
"Inventory check!" I yelled, bluffing with every ounce of corporate confidence I had. "We have capacity for another three hundred units of pain! Who wants to be next in the queue?"
The goblins screeched—not in anger, but in terror. They dropped their broken weapons and scrambled back into the darkness.
Silence returned to the campsite.