The universe's sense of humor was, I decided, that of a bored, slightly sadistic middle manager. It would grant you a perfect, quiet life, then schedule a mandatory team-building exercise in the middle of your vacation. My life was a constant series of these exercises, and my new, determined neighbor was the annoying colleague who kept trying to get everyone to do trust falls.
For two days, I had monitored Leon from the absolute stealth of my cottage. The results were… concerning. My brutal "lesson" had not broken him. It had forged him. He was no longer the boy trying to perform heroic poses. He was a machine of repetitive motion. He rose before dawn and practiced basic sword drills until his muscles screamed. He'd then run laps around the outskirts of town until he collapsed, only to get up and do it again. He was training with a silent, grim intensity that was far more unsettling than his previous flamboyant failures.
He was also, notably, keeping his distance. He hadn't so much as looked in the direction of my cottage. A victory, technically. But it felt like the calm before a very persistent, very sweaty storm.
To counteract the unease, I doubled down on my sanctuary. The bakery. The scent of yeast and baking bread was the only aroma strong enough to overpower the metaphorical scent of Leon's desperate ambition.
I pushed open the door to The Crusty Loaf, the bell chiming its usual welcome. But today, the symphony was off. The air was thick with the smell of baking bread, yes, but it was undercut by another scent: the cold, metallic tang of anxiety.
Elara was not behind the counter, humming. She was standing before it, her hands clasped tightly in her flour-dusted apron. Her face, normally a roadmap of gentle smile lines, was pale and drawn. Facing her were two men.
My [Ultimate Appraisal] kicked in before I could stop it.
[Appraisal Target: Jasper]
Occupation:Tax Collector (Employed by Viscount Scribehold)
Level:3
Skills:[Intimidation Lv. 4], [Bureaucratic Obfuscation Lv. 5], [Smarm Lv. 6]
Current Thoughts:'Good. She's scared. Scared people pay faster. Don't like the look of that new guy who came in, though. Seems… bland. Unmemorable. Perfect.'
[Appraisal Target: Grunt]
Occupation:Muscle/Enforcer
Level:7
Skills:[Club Proficiency Lv. 3], [Standing Menacingly Lv. 5], [Limited Vocabulary Lv. 4]
Current Thoughts:'Hungry. Hope this is over soon. Maybe she has a spare pastry.'
"—simply a matter of updated land assessments, Mistress Elara," Jasper was saying, his voice a slick, oily thing. He held a scroll that looked officious and threatening. "The value of commercial properties in this district has increased significantly. The back-taxes, plus the accrued penalties and the administrative fee… it comes to fifteen gold crowns."
Fifteen gold. It was an astronomical sum. For a small bakery, it was ruinous. It was more than I had paid for my entire cottage and land.
Elara's hands trembled. "Fifteen? But… that's impossible! I've always paid my taxes on time! The fee has never been more than two silver a month! This can't be right!"
"The Viscount's ledgers are always right," Jasper said, his smile not reaching his cold eyes. "Of course, if you cannot pay, we can discuss… alternative arrangements." His gaze swept over the bakery, a predator assessing a piece of meat. "The Viscount is always looking for profitable new ventures. A buy-out, perhaps. At a… discounted rate."
The pieces clicked into place in my mind with the cold, hard finality of a vault door slamming shut. This wasn't a tax miscalculation. This was a shakedown. A targeted, malicious land grab. Viscount Scribehold, a minor noble my appraisal told me was notoriously greedy and up to his eyeballs in debt, had decided that a humble, successful bakery owned by a sweet old woman with no powerful allies was the perfect asset to seize.
My peaceful life, my sanctuary, the keystone species of my entire ecosystem, was under direct attack.
A hot, unfamiliar emotion surged in my chest. It wasn't panic. It was colder, sharper. It was rage. A pure, undiluted, cosmic-level fury that this small, beautiful, flour-dusted corner of my world was being threatened by a walking spreadsheet in a cheap suit.
I must have made a sound, because all three of them turned to look at me. Elara's eyes were wide with fear and a flicker of shame. Jasper's gaze was dismissive. The Grunt just looked bored.
"We're conducting official business here," Jasper said, his tone implying I was something he'd scraped off his shoe. "The shop is closed."
I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just looked at him. I let my [Absolute Stealth] drop, not to become more noticeable, but to allow the full, unnerving weight of my presence to settle in the room. I wasn't Bob the background character anymore. I was a fixed point in reality, and he was an anomaly that needed correcting.
Jasper's smug smile faltered. He couldn't have explained why, but the air suddenly felt heavier. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.
"I said, we're closed," he repeated, his voice losing some of its oiliness.
"I heard you," I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension like a knife. I looked at Elara. "Is everything alright, Elara?"
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her eyes were pleading.
Jasper recovered his composure, puffing out his chest. "This is a private matter between the Viscount's office and this establishment. It does not concern you. Now, leave, before my associate here escorts you out."
The Grunt took a step forward, cracking his knuckles. It was supposed to be intimidating. To me, it sounded like twigs snapping.
I ignored him, my eyes still on Elara. "Do you owe this money?"
"No!" she burst out, finding her voice. "It's a lie! A filthy lie! I've never been late! He just wants my shop!"
Jasper's face tightened. "Careful, old woman. Slander against a noble is a punishable offense." He turned his venomous gaze back to me. "This is your final warning. Leave."
I finally looked at him. I didn't glare. I didn't snarl. I just… appraised him. I saw the cheap dye in his tunic, the slight tremor in his hand that wasn't from courage, the hidden pouch at his belt where he probably kept his own skimmed-off profits. I saw a small, pathetic man playing at being a big one.
"She said no," I stated, the words final.
The Grunt had had enough. He lunged for me, a meaty hand reaching for my collar.
He never made contact.
I didn't use [Physical Apex] to move. I used it to stand still. As his hand closed on the fabric of my tunic, I became an immovable object. His fingers gripped, he pulled, and… nothing happened. I didn't budge an inch. It was like trying to uproot an ancient oak tree with your bare hands.
Confusion, then alarm, flashed across his dull face. He pulled harder, grunting with effort.
I looked down at his hand on my tunic, then back up at his face. "You're wrinkling the fabric," I said, my voice still perfectly calm.
I then shifted my weight, a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. It was a fraction of the power I'd used against Leon. But against a normal man, it was like being hit by a tidal wave.
The Grunt was thrown backwards as if by an invisible force. He crashed into a rack of cooling bread, sending loaves tumbling to the floor in a soft, sad cacophony. He lay there, dazed and covered in sourdough.
Jasper stared, his jaw hanging open. The color drained from his face. "Y-You… you assaulted a royal official!"
"I didn't touch him," I said, which was technically true. "He seems to have slipped. On the atmosphere."
I took a step towards Jasper. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the counter.
"You tell your Viscount," I said, my voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper that seemed to vibrate in the very wood of the shop, "that his claim is denied. There will be no payment. There will be no buy-out. If he or any of his men set foot in this shop again, the consequences will be… logarithmic."
I had no idea what that meant in this context, but it sounded sufficiently ominous and otherworldly. Jasper's eyes were wide with terror. He was no longer facing a simple adventurer; he was facing something he couldn't comprehend.
"Now," I said, gesturing to the door with my chin. "Get out. And take your… spilled ingredients with you."
Jasper didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, helped the dazed Grunt up, and the two of them practically fell over each other to get out the door, leaving a trail of shattered confidence and fallen bread.
The bell chimed their exit.
The shop was silent, save for Elara's shaky breaths. She stared at me, her hand over her heart. The fear in her eyes hadn't entirely vanished; it had just been redirected, mixed with a profound and unsettling confusion.
"Bob…?" she whispered. "What… how did you…?"
And just like that, the mask was back. The moment of terrifying stillness vanished. I slumped my shoulders, let out a breath, and ran a hand through my hair, suddenly looking like a flustered young man who'd gotten in over his head.
"I… I don't know what came over me," I stammered, putting a perfect tremor in my voice. "I just saw them bullying you and I… I got so angry. I guess I just stood my ground. That big one must have lost his balance." I looked at the fallen loaves on the floor, my expression genuinely pained. "Oh, Elara, I'm so sorry about the bread."
It was a masterful performance, pivoting from otherworldly enforcer to concerned, clumsy neighbor in the blink of an eye. The confusion in her eyes deepened, but the fear began to recede, replaced by a weary gratitude.
"Don't you dare apologize," she said, her voice firming. She came around the counter and started gathering the fallen loaves. "Those… those vultures. You stood up to them. No one has ever…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "But Bob, you've made a powerful enemy. Viscount Scribehold… he's not a man to be crossed. He'll be back. With guards. With real soldiers."
I helped her pick up the bread, my mind already racing, shifting from 'performative mediocrity' to 'covert operations.' The problem was no longer theoretical. It was a clear and present danger to my sanctuary. Jasper was just the messenger. The source of the infection was the Viscount himself.
"He might try," I said, my voice quiet again, but now laced with a confidence that made Elara look up at me. "But I have a feeling he's going to be very, very busy with his own problems soon."
She didn't ask what I meant. She just looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something new in her gaze: not fear, not confusion, but a flicker of hope. A belief that maybe, just maybe, her quiet, unassuming baker's boy was more than he appeared.
I bought my loaf, the transaction feeling more solemn than ever. As I left, the bell chimed, but it no longer sounded like a welcome. It sounded like a warning bell.
Back in the fortress of my cottage, I sat in my perfect chair, the uneaten loaf of sourdough on the table before me. The warm, comforting smell was now a battle standard. The line had been drawn, not in the sand, but in the flour.
My peaceful retirement was over. Oh, I would still have it. I would fight a war to preserve it. But the nature of the war had changed. I wasn't going to fight it with a sword or with speeches. I was going to fight it the way I did everything else: with information, precision, and an utterly unfair advantage.
Viscount Scribehold had threatened my bakery. He had frightened my friend.
This was no longer a matter of self-preservation. This was pest control on a noble scale.
I closed my eyes, no longer seeing the cozy interior of my cottage. Instead, I saw a map of the region, a map only I could see. My consciousness expanded, fueled by [Ultimate Appraisal]. I bypassed the town, the fields, the forests. I focused on a point to the north: Scribehold Manor.
Information began to flood into my mind, not as a torrent, but as a curated intelligence report.
[Appraisal Target: Scribehold Manor]
Owner:Viscount Theron Scribehold
Defenses:Stone walls (12 ft high), Iron-reinforced gate, Guard patrols (8 men, rotating shifts), Basic alarm wards (Low-level).
Security Weaknesses:Overconfident guards, poorly maintained ward on the eastern garden wall, the Viscount's own arrogance.
Primary Objective Location:Lord's Study (Second Floor, West Wing). Contains financial ledgers, correspondence, and a hidden wall safe behind a painting of a particularly ugly ancestor.
I had my target. This wasn't a quest for herbs or ore. This was a black ops mission. My objective: Find the Viscount's secrets. Find his leverage. Find the proof of his corruption and use it to dismantle his threat, not with a sword, but with a scandal.
A slow, cold smile spread across my face. The Viscount thought he was a predator. He thought he was playing the game of power and influence.
He had no idea that the game had just changed, and that I was the one who had just loaded the dice. He was about to learn a very important, very final lesson: you do not threaten the bakery of a man who can inventory reality itself.
The war for my quiet life had begun. And the first battle would be fought tonight, in the shadows of Scribehold Manor.