After the bombshell—at least to Det—that it was possible time worked differently on Elestar than on Earth, among other theories, he hadn’t had any more questions for Simmons. Or any more patience to listen to Calisco. Having excused himself back to his room, he’d fully intended to spend the rest of the trip to Mount Avalon brooding alone.

  Turned out, though, that Jeckles had not been exaggerating when he said healing could really ‘take it out of you’. As soon as Det had gotten back to his room, sat on his bed, and gotten all ready for a good, old-fashioned, brood session, well, he’d straight passed out.

  It wasn’t until he woke up to the sun streaming through a small, circular window in his room—and a small lake of drool beside his face—he even realized he’d fallen asleep.

  “Oh, that’s bright,” he groaned, rolling away from the light and putting his feet on the floor, one hand wiping the back of his mouth.

  Grrrraaaaaagh, his stomach rumbled in response to his long-awaited consciousness. Apparently, making him sleepy was the least of the side-effects of the healing. Even with how poor Radiant was, he couldn’t remember ever being this hungry since he’d been reborn.

  “Simmons said something about a mess hall,” Det mumbled to himself, then pushed up and wobbled over to the bathroom. One look in the mirror—he was still covered in his own dried blood—told him very clearly his stomach would need to wait a few extra minutes. Thankfully, like a heaven-sent gift, his room contained a fully working, hot shower.

  A moment later, just to peel off his shredded and ruined clothes, and the small, simple luxury that hadn’t been present on Radiant hit him like a wave of nostalgia that almost knocked him off his feet. He could almost hear the gonk-gonk-squee the old shower back in his house on Earth would make every time he let it run too long.

  Old pipes, the plumber had told him, and not the ghost Nat had insisted was living inside their walls.

  Putting his hands against the wall and leaning forward, Det let the hot water run across the back of his head, eyes closed. In his mind, he watched Nat run around their house listening at the walls with a glass, searching for the ghost. What did she name it? Oh, right, Cas-chan. She’d been, what, six or seven at the time? Summer, yeah, and a hot one at that. The year before they decided to get AC installed by a professional. Her little yukata that she wore all the time at home, black and pink, wore straight through that year.

  Det smiled at the images there under the hot water, his little girl’s smile reminding him about the problem he hadn’t been able to solve yet.

  “Soon,” he said. “I’ll find a way home soon.” Words he’d repeated so many times. A gentle smack of his fist against the wall—not enough to damage anything—and he opened his eyes to finish scrubbing the dried blood from his skin.

  A look at his shoulder, arm, and leg showed not even a scar for the injuries he’d taken. If he didn’t know better, they could’ve all just been a bad dream. Instead, they were like a neon-sign telling him he had to get stronger if he wanted to accomplish his goals.

  Grrrraaaaaagh. Filling his stomach would need to be that first goal.

  Grabbing a towel and drying himself off, he walked over to the rucksack his parents had packed for him, but stopped with it only half open. Simmons had mentioned something about a closest in the room…

  Given the size of the space Det had been given, it didn’t take him more than a second to spot what the captain had been talking about. Opening it up, he found six hangers, each with an identical suit—no, uniform—hanging from them. Black with red highlights, they looked similar to what he’d seen the mistship crew wearing.

  Bit more red.

  Why would there be six, though?

  Ah, different sizes.

  Running his fingers down the sleeve of one of the jackets in the middle, the fabric was soft—really soft—compared to everything else he’d touched since he’d been reborn. There were even six sets of matching boots at the bottom of the closet, and in that drawer there, yeah, underwear. Also soft.

  The sudden and blessed future of not chafing had Det whipping those boxers out with his full, ReSouled speed.

  “Oh, that’s the stuff,” he said, moving around a little and giving a slight adjustment. “If we get more of this stuff when we get to Mount Avalon, I’m burning everything in that sack.” Savoring the smooth fabric, Det moved on to find the right size of uniform. He got it on the second pick, the fourth from the left, and cinched the pants in place a moment later.

  Getting them on, they weren’t really anything like what he expected a uniform to be. In his head, he’d imagined all straight cuts and hard presses. A tight fit, kind of like a suit.

  Instead, the pants were a bit baggy around his thighs, then tapered down around his calves. They didn’t even reach his ankles, though a look at the high boots showed he’d still be covered. All in all, the pants offered a lot of freedom of movement, and they were damn comfortable. The long-sleeve shirt, on the other hand, was a tight, pull-over affair, with most of it being black, and only the top of the shoulders and arms coming in red.

  A quick look in the room’s mirror—something he hadn’t seen a decent version of in twenty years—showed his reflection to be… flattering. Back on Earth, Det had never really been out of shape, not with some of his hobbies keeping his dad-bod at bay. And Yumi had liked him having a bit of a tummy.

  At least, that was what he told himself both then and now.

  Looking in the mirror, however, even he had to be impressed. Being a ReSouled was a cheat code to looking downright chiseled. The cut of the shirt, with the slightly baggy pants beneath it, emphasized his trim gut and muscular arms.

  Total cheat code.

  One more look—damn, I’m going to sound like Calisco if I keep looking in this mirror—and he reached for the jacket. Again, this was nothing like the uniform he expected it to be. Tight—though not skin-tight—from shoulder-to-waist, it had a zipper in the front, starting just above the waistline of the matching pants. The collar left the front of his neck bare, but rose almost to his chin around the sides and back, flaring out to the side ever-so-slightly.

  Then there was the bottom of the coat. In the front, it ended at his waistline, but, from just around where the front of his hipbone was, the sides tapered down and out. At the back, it went almost all the way to his knees, split like a pair of coattails. On the sides of his legs, it was another three or four inches longer.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  It… didn’t make sense as a uniform, other than the fact it looked badass. The red embellishments had a metallic-like sheen to them, and ran in expertly placed streaks to draw the eye. Even with the baggy fit of everything below the waist—other than the fitted boots, with their own red highlights—the lines kept everything tight.

  There were matching caps on the top shelf of the closet, but Det ignored those, and instead went over to where he’d left his custom-made scroll cases. Despite being empty right now, he felt kind of naked without them. Luckily, they went over this new coat—or under the side-tails, for his hip-holsters—with zero problems. Even his brushes rested comfortably horizontally across his back.

  Only, the “look” of them didn’t quite match. Not the end of the world, and maybe something he could have addressed on Mount Avalon.

  One more glance in the mirror, a nod, and it was time to address his still-rumbling stomach. Stepping out of the room carefully, the hallway was empty, but the captain’s directions to the mess weren’t complicated. Making sure the door was closed—Huh, I don’t have a key to lock it or anything?—he started down to his right. A couple more quick turns, and he could already hear the slight sounds of cutlery on metal plates.

  Then there was the smell, and his stomach rumbled again in anticipation. One last duck through a low door brought him into the mess proper, where he paused to take in the space. It wasn’t huge—no way it could seat the whole crew at once—They must do meal shifts or something—and currently only stood about a third full. Most of those people gathered in one corner in a group, with a smattering of the others spread out through the rest of the room. On the right side, a cafeteria-like line, complete with trays to pick up at one end. From there, there were small stations with an apron-clad attendant doling out portions of three or four options.

  The few seconds it took him to take in the hall were apparently enough for the reverse to happen as well, the mess going quiet as more and more heads turned his way. It only took a couple more seconds for Det to figure out why he stood out. His uniform wasn’t exactly like the others in the mess hall. Nobody else had the baggy pants, the flair at the bottom of the coat, the high collar, or quite as much red.

  Did I just get pranked…? Again.

  “I see you found the uniforms,” a voice said at the same time a hand slapped onto Det’s back, pushing him forward half-a-step from the force of it.

  “Captain Simmons?” Det said, attention drawn to the man—still in his armor—stepping through the door into the mess hall.

  “Quite the coincidence our stomachs are on the same schedule, don’t you think?” Simmons said, the usual smile on his face.

  “More like you’ve been ordered to keep an eye on me and Calisco until you know whether or not we’re part of the dangerous one-percent,” Det said.

  The smile faltered for only a second before it grew even larger. “I think I’m going to like you. Come on, I’ll show you what’s good on the Sun Chaser. Depending on which ship you get deployed on—we use them for moving between pillars, of course—there’s almost always a speciality. How do you feel about pineapples?”

  Det watched Simmons’ back as the man strode around him, then fell into step behind him. “Depends, are we talking about them on or off pizza?”

  Simmons laughed again. “No way I’m getting into that discussion. Don’t want to start a war in here. No, they have—are you ready for this?—they have a vegetable here that looks and tastes almost exactly like pineapple. Local name for it is sellick. Don’t worry, no mustaches. Anyway, it grows kind of like a pumpkin would, and it’s got a ton of nutrition packed into it.

  “The captain—the ship captain—of the Sun Chaser loves the stuff. He’s from the pillar where it’s grown, and he always makes sure to have it in supply. I definitely recommend. There’s a few other things I can show you too…”

  Which was exactly what Simmons did, leading Det down the serving line, making small talk with the attendants all the way. From the interactions, he was like an old friend to each of them, asking them about this or that at each stop. The captain made sure to introduce Det as one of the two new ReSouled on the Sun Chaser, and everybody welcomed him with a smile.

  After the third time Det’s stomach growled loud enough to make those nearby wonder if a wolf had snuck into the mess hall with them, Captain Simmons finally seemed to get the message. They were at a quiet table a moment later, Det’s tray so full, he’d actually had to stack things to make it work. Especially the bacon, where it had piled like the beginnings of a log-cabin.

  “Healing can be like that,” Simmons said, his own tray with a much more modest lunch—breakfast? Dinner?—in place. “You must’ve lost a lot of blood. First time you were hurt that bad?”

  “Yeah,” Det said, sticking to the one-word answer so he could promptly dig into the meal in front of him.

  “If it makes you feel better, you won’t bleed as much next time,” Simmons said, and Det paused his fork just long enough to send a questioning eyebrow in the captain’s direction. “Our magic and Ranks aren’t the only things that grow with training and practice. Our ReSouled bodies learn as well. Adapt.

  “Right now, your body thinks you’re human,” Simmons said. “Acts accordingly. You get cut? You’ll bleed. Break something? It’ll hurt. After that happens to you a few times, though, and your body realizes it doesn’t have to lose blood if it doesn’t want to—and it’s bad for you if it does—it’ll just… kind of stop.

  “Maybe stop isn’t accurate. It just won’t be as bad. You’ll bleed less. You’ll feel less pain when you get hurt. Injuries that would’ve had you crawling on the floor and wishing for your mama will barely slow you down beyond the actual physical limitations.

  “Wounds that should be definitely fatal won’t necessarily take you out of the fight. Stab General Vans in the heart—assuming you can even get through his armor and his armor-like skin—and he’ll just keep going and rip your head from your shoulders. Good chance that will work, by the way.”

  “What, are we zombies?” Det asked, half as a joke.

  “It’s one of those theories I mentioned. Seriously, though? No,” Simmons said. “But if it makes it easier, as you get stronger, it’ll take at least the same effort and tactics to kill us as a zombie. I honestly don’t even know if beheading General Vans would stop him. Hope to never have to find out.”

  “What are we now?” Det asked, soaking up something akin to beans with a piece of soft, buttered bread. Sourdough? “Robots?”

  That got a kind of dark chuckle from Simmons. “Not that either. Believe me, we’ve checked pretty extensively. ReSouled very much do die; don’t start thinking you’re immortal or anything like that. Those that have died, well, especially in the past, let’s just say their bodies went to science. Everything is right where it’s supposed to be, but it’s like a lot of the stuff just doesn’t work anymore.

  “Doesn’t need to work. Organs can get destroyed and regrown, and it’s inconvenient, instead of lethal. I want to emphasize this is only as you get stronger. Don’t go getting stabbed in the heart or anything for the time being. It would not be good for your health. You might survive a few minutes longer than usual, but that’s about it.”

  “I almost bled to death, I think,” Det said. “That’s a long way from getting stabbed in the heart and getting on with a pat on the ass and a walk it off.”

  “Don’t worry, part of your training will be for your body, too. Making sure it learns what it’s capable of.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Basically, we’re going to beat the shit out of you daily.”

  Det blinked at the captain, waiting for the punchline. None came.

  “Shit,” Det said with a groan.

  “Yup, so enjoy that nice big plate of food and the next few days of peace while you can. Once we get to Mount Avalon, the honeymoon is over.”

  “The training will definitely make me stronger?” Det said, meeting the captain’s eyes.

  “No doubt about it,” Simmons said. “Me and my magic started in D-Rank. I’m A-Rank now.”

  “Then beat the shit out of me as much as you’d like,” Det said. “Whatever it takes for me to get more powerful. To make my magic more powerful. I don’t care how far we have to go, or how much it hurts. It’s just physical pain.”

  Captain Simmons leaned forward, a bit of a sadistic glimmer in his eye, and a grin on his face. “You sure you’re not going to regret saying that?”

  “Not if it gets results,” Det said. “I will do whatever it takes to get stronger.”

  “You’re really that driven?”

  “We all have a goal, just like you said. Something that makes the Mistguard right for us.”

  “Then I look forward to pummeling you into the upper Ranks!”

  “I… just have one question,” Det said after another bite of the bread.

  “Second thoughts already?”

  “Not in the least,” Det said, tapping his chest with his free hand. “Is the Mistguard going to keep providing the clothes?”

  “Aaaaaaah,” Simmon said. The man leaned forward across the table, a conspiratorial look on his face. “You found the non-burlap boxers, did you?”

  true benefits of joining the Mistguard. Silken underwear.