The administrative hall of the border garrison smelled of stale dust, burnt herbal coffee, and quiet desperation. Haggard deities lined the worn stone counters, all wearing the same tight, pleading half-smile as they leaned toward the reception desk.
One man in a frayed wool tunic pushed a stack of papers across the counter, his voice thin with nervous hope. "This is my eighteenth application, ma'am. I put my reservation in last year—if you could just take a look—"
The receptionist kept her perfect, polished customer service smile, flipping through the pages with a single flick of her wrist. "Paperwork is complete. Background check is clean. Service record is unremarkable, but free of major infractions."
The man's shoulders shot up, his eyes bright with fragile hope. "So I'm cleared? I can head out?"
The receptionist shook her head, still smiling. "I'm afraid not. Your penmanship is insufficient."
The man froze. "Insufficient? That's standard official script! I practiced for three months!"
She tapped a single character on the top page with one manicured nail. "Your given name. Tiezhu. The left radical of the character for 'iron' is missing its final hook stroke."
She crumpled the entire application into a tight ball and tossed it into the overflowing waste bin beside her desk. "Next."
The man crumpled to his knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Please. I'll give up my 230 merit sign-on bonus, just let me—let me—"
Two uniformed guards materialized out of the corner, hooked their arms under his, and dragged him toward the door. His shouts echoed down the hall, but no one in line so much as lifted their head. Every person there was already leaning over their own papers, squinting to check every stroke of every character, just in case.
Laia stood at the back of the room, blinking.
She'd expected military red tape. She hadn't expected it to be this absurd.
The receptionist's smile never faltered as she looked out over the silent line. "Next applicant?"
No one stepped forward. Everyone was too busy re-checking their handwriting.
Laia raised her hand, tentative. "I'm here for the three-month temporary abyssal hunting detail."
Before she could finish speaking, a padded armchair slid across the floor and stopped directly in front of the counter, as if pulled by invisible strings. A steaming cup of herbal tea and a plate of glazed lemon cake materialized on the marble surface beside it. Her letter of recommendation from Lord Thorne vanished from her hand before she could even pull it fully out of her satchel.
Three seconds later, a glowing divine contract slid across the counter to rest in front of her.
The receptionist's smile was still perfectly professional, but it was bright now, warm—the kind of smile someone wore when they'd just hit a recruitment quota six months ahead of schedule.
"Wonderful, ma'am," she said, her voice bright. "If you'll just sign here, you'll receive a one-thousand merit signing bonus immediately, a free private residential villa, and three months of full complimentary meals. Full benefits package included—divine core health coverage, realm maintenance stipend, injury compensation, the works. All we ask is ten active hunting days per month, with a minimum of one kill per day. At the end of your term, you're welcome to apply for a permanent commission, no extra paperwork required. If you'd rather move on, of course, the door is always open. The Imperial Abyssal Command is a stable, century-old institution with zero risk of dissolution."
Laia stared at the cake, then at the contract, then at the beaming receptionist.
How badly understaffed was this place?
She read the contract twice, line by line, looking for fine print, hidden clauses, traps. There were none. Ten days a month. One kill minimum per day. That was trivial. No mandatory extension. No predatory terms. It was cleaner than any rental agreement she'd ever signed for her dorm room.
She kept glancing back at the door where the screaming man had been dragged out. If the terms were this good, why had that guy begged to get in and gotten rejected over a missing stroke?
She signed her name at the bottom, careful to make every stroke perfect just in case.
The receptionist let out a quiet, relieved sigh as the contract glowed and sealed itself. It had been six months since their last new recruit. The abyssal mortality rate hovered at forty percent. The minimum term was three months, and even with better benefits for longer contracts, almost no one came back for a second tour. Upper command had issued a mandate last quarter: if headcount dropped below two thousand, half the administrative staff would be reassigned to frontline duty.
She'd just saved her own job with one signature.
She practically floated out from behind the counter to personally escort Laia to her quarters.
The other applicants watched Laia walk away with wide, pitying eyes. The hair on the back of Laia's neck stood up.
It's fine, she told herself. Lord Thorne's recommendation carries weight here. There's no way there's newbie hazing with his name attached.
That thought vanished the second they rounded the corner and her new residence came into view.
It was a two-story standalone villa, built from pale stone, with a fenced backyard and a glowing ward array set into the roof. It had a front porch with a wooden bench. It had flower boxes under the windows.
"Free?" Laia said, blankly. "You call this free?"
She'd lived in a closet-sized dorm room for three years. She'd paid half her monthly income in essence fees for a realm that kept springing leaks in the veil. This was better than any apartment she'd ever even dreamed of renting in the divine capital.
Who in their right mind would leave this?
The handover took less than an hour. She was issued a standard hunter's badge, a utility belt with storage pouches, and a detailed map of the outer abyssal hunting zones. By mid-afternoon, she was already slinging her hunting rifle over her shoulder and heading for the perimeter gate, practically bouncing on her heels.
Up on the second-floor balcony of the veteran barracks, two old hunters leaned against the railing, smoking rolled bitter herbs and watching the gate.
"Look at that," one said, snorting. "Another fresh idiot marching straight for the abyss. Bet she forgot to clock in for orientation first."
The other, a grizzled man with a scar slashing across his throat, spat a stream of herb juice over the railing. "Eh. They all come in bright-eyed. They all leave crying, if they leave at all. Doesn't matter if they've got Void Resistance. Abyss is a different beast."
He tapped the side of his head. "Void eats at your realm walls. Abyss eats at your faith. Gets in your subjects' heads. Whispers to them. Makes them question you. Half the newbies come back after a week with half their followers having renounced their faith. No faith, no essence. No essence, no realm. Then they're begging to get shipped home, broke and broken."
He snickered. "Give this one a month. Max. She'll be crying at the front desk begging for an early discharge."
Then the first veteran leaned forward, squinting, and yelped.
"Wait a second. She didn't put up a ward shield. She just walked right in."
The purple mist of the outer abyss rolled out past the gate, thick and glowing faintly, swallowing the rocky landscape whole. Laia paused at the edge, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
Nothing happened.
No searing pain. No creeping cold. No quiet whispers worming into the back of her head. The mist felt like regular air, if a little thick and dusty. And unlike the void, where her divine sense was muffled and blurred, here she could feel every living thing within half a mile, clear as day.
She blinked, scratching her cheek.
Everyone always said the abyss was way worse than the void. What was all the fuss about?
She shook her head, hefting her rifle higher, and started jogging deeper into the mist.
No time to stand around thinking. Other hunters might be out here already, snatching all the good kills. Those merit points weren't going to earn themselves.
Fifty thousand merits for the Box of Avarice. She was going to hit that number in two months, max.
She grinned, and vanished into the purple fog.