Chapter 6: Oath & Unemployment
Leon understood, from the woman’s expression alone, that the story held within her was not meant for casual telling.
There was a hesitation there—a fractional delay in the breath, a subtle arrest of the gaze—so fine it would have escaped a less attentive eye.
But Leon did not miss it. She had grown fluent in such pauses; she could read the slight pressure where a memory intruded upon the present.
She did not press. Instead, she shifted her posture and lowered herself onto the yielding bed of lilies, their blue petals arching beneath her weight but refusing to snap.
The very air felt deliberate, considerate, as if the silence itself were listening.
Her voice, when she spoke, held no urgency. “Yours is a deep story.”
The woman’s eyes flickered.
“But I have no time to hear it,” Leon continued, her tone not unkind. She had no desire to dissect another soul’s regrets.
She could easily guess what her story was like.
“I am not here to judge what you or your former master chose. Nor do I care how that power was circumvented.”
Leon released a slow breath. It felt heavier than air should.
“What I wish to say is simpler.”
Confusion surfaced quietly on the woman’s face.
“To act as the world’s guardian is meaningless.”
The words carried no disdain. They were uttered as one might note a change in the light.
“The world does not need you nor see you as guardian,” Leon said.
“It moves of its own accord. Nations rise, rot, and are replaced. Heroes are born, worshipped, forgotten. Evil is slain, only to be renamed when it returns in another guise.” Her gaze drifted over the endless floral expanse.
“That is the truth.”
The woman frowned. “Then why do you seek this power?”
A faint smile touched Leon’s lips.
“Because I have reached the end of my path.”
She placed a hand over her heart.
“My Tree of Wisdom is fully grown. No branches remain to extend, no directions left to choose. In stories, this is where the journey concludes.”
Yet she was still here.
“And I am powerless,” Leon added.
Had she potential yet, she might have pursued some grand design.
Had she room yet to grow, she might have struggled, rebelled, burned herself raw against fate with thr others.
But there was nothing left to cultivate.
Only time remained.
“All I require,” Leon said, her voice soft, “is a means to defend myself.”
She rose and approached. With each step, the space between them seemed to soften, to yield willingly.
“You have carried this burden too long,” Leon said. “Let it rest. The world will continue, whether you cling to it or not.”
A tear traced a clean line down the woman’s cheek.
And yet, she smiled.
It was not the smile of salvation, nor of triumph. It was the smile of one finally permitted to cease.
“Then,” the woman said, her voice a husk of sound, “make your oath.”
Leon did not hesitate.
“I swear,” she said, her voice calm and clear, “to live quietly. I shall not be the cause of the end of things, nor it's wise savior. I shall not seek to save the world, nor to destroy it.”
The lilies stirred, a susurrus of accord.
“I will walk, observe, and endure. I will protect what I see fit, and nothing more. I will accept solitude when it comes, and cherish peace when it appears.”
She lifted her eyes.
“And when all things inevitably fade,” Leon finished, “I will remember them.”
The woman nodded.
“Then stand by that oath,” she said. “From this moment, we walk together.”
The staff pulsed—a gentle, rhythmic light.
Not with judgment.
But with acceptance.
—--
Reality returned with all the grace of a dropped stack of dinner plates.
Leon blinked once, a slow shuttering of the eyes. She blinked twice, and the entire field of lilies was wiped from existence, as if it had been a particularly vivid daydream.
The contract was complete.
The staff—once ancient, solemn, —gave a sudden, violent shudder.
Then it began to shrink. Not with dignified resignation, but with the frantic, collapsing enthusiasm of a pop-up tent in a high wind.
Leon watched, mouth slightly agape, as the polished wood concertinaed inward, as though suddenly desperate to conform to minimalist design principles.
It became a scepter, then a wand, then finally a rather tasteful pendant that dove, with unerring accuracy, for the hollow of her throat and hung itself there.
She opened her mouth. A remark, suitably dry, was prepared.
Snap.
“Ow—!”
A ring, cool and definitive, had sealed itself around her finger with the unyielding finality of a notary public’s seal.
Before indignation could fully form, a wave of warmth rushed up her arm. Beneath the skin, delicate lines traced themselves with botanical precision, blooming across her wrist into an intricate, undeniably official-looking tattoo.
The symbol of the oath. The mark of the bond. The branding of eternal, magical company.
Leon lifted her wrist and stared.
“…so this permanent.. ,” she announced to the uncaring air.
'Of course it is. Why would it be anything else'
From behind her, Avesta let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Congratulations,” he said, and he sounded genuinely, annoyingly impressed. “You actually managed it.”
Leon looked down at the assembled regalia—necklace, ring, softly luminescent skin-art—and released a sigh that seemed to originate from the soles of her feet.
Avesta’s smile was a masterpiece of diplomatic neutrality.
As they turned to walk, his tone shifted, adopting a casualness that was itself a disguise. “Do you truly have the information,” he asked, eyes ahead but attention sharp as a blade, “on the ones responsible?”
Leon did not break stride. “Yes.”
He waited, the silence a question.
“But,” she added, the word smooth and calm, “that is precisely the category of information one only parts with when the buyer’s credit is exceptionally good.”
He glanced at her. “And what constitutes good credit?”
“Proximity. Leverage. A shared and pressing interest.” She offered a faint shrug. “The fundamentals of a fruitful negotiation.”
He considered her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. “Fair.”
The subject was tabled, as all potentially explosive subjects should be, with the tacit understanding it could be retrieved later, at greater cost.
They made it exactly three streets before Leon’s biology staged a coup.
Grrrrrrrrrrr-umble.
She halted mid-stride.
Avesta’s eyebrow ascended.
Leon placed a hand over her abdomen, fixing the offending region with a look of profound betrayal.
Without a word of explanation, she executed a perfect ninety-degree turn and marched toward the nearest establishment that promised edible goods.
Avesta blinked. “…Are we not—”
“I have not consumed sustenance since before I entering this city,” Leon stated, her voice flat as a slate. “All prior plans are hereby invalidated.”
Inside, she ordered with the focused intensity of a military strategist. When the food arrived, she addressed it with a solemn, systematic dedication that bordered on the ritualistic, defying any notion of interruption.
The bill was suprisingly paid by Avesta.
Leon was grateful to him and so with that came the end of the day.
———
A week passed.
Leon awoke one morning, stared at the blank expanse of her ceiling, and was struck by a realization so blunt it was physically uncomfortable.
She was unemployed.
She lay perfectly still for a full minute.
“…So this,” she murmured to the empty room, “is the celebrated quiet life.”
Her stomach, ever the punctual commentator, issued a low, resonant growl.
Leon sighed, a sound of ultimate resignation. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and planted her feet firmly on the floor.
“Right,” she said to the universe at large.
“Phase one: secure breakfast.
———
A week had drifted by since Leon washed up in Altesia.
Contrary to her most dramatic expectations, the universe had not immediately launched a multi-pronged assault on her person.
The apocalypse, thus far, had been respectfully postponed.
Instead, the world had done something truly sinister.
It had left her alone. With time. And thoughts. And a rapidly dwindling supply of money she won.
The sheer, unnerving normality of it all hit her mid-negotiation with a local baker, a man whose mustache seemed personally invested in the price of rye.
“Two coppers,” the baker declared, arms crossed like a fortress wall.
“Your sign says one,” Leon countered, jerking a thumb at a faded placard. “Is this a test? Are you assessing my moral character via pastry-based loyalty?”
“Sign’s from yesterday. Festival day.” He said it with the finality of a judge passing a sentence.
Leon peered at him. “A festival I, a thrilling new resident, tragically missed. Doesn’t that earn me a ‘Welcome to Town, Sorry We Didn’t Throw Confetti’ discount?”
The baker stared. The mustache twitched. A silent war played out between civic pride and the desire for a quiet life.
“Fine,” he grumbled, snatching the loaf.
“One copper. But only because you look like you’d stand here arguing until the bread goes stale.”
“A wise and merciful ruling,” Leon said, placing the coin on the counter with a flourish.
Triumphant, she grabbed her groceries and stepped outside. She took three steps, frowned, and simply… released her grip.
The bags did not fall. They plopped gently onto nothing at all, hanging in mid-air as if sitting on a very polite, invisible shelf.
She started walking again, hands in her pockets. The bags drifted after her like loyal, slightly confused ducks.
The past week had been one long, weird science experiment.
Her barrier powers, it turned out, were less "magic might" and more “extremely accommodating furniture.”
Need a shelf? Done. A step-stool? Instant. A perfect, weightless backrest while reading? Absolutely.
There was no chanting, no runes, not even a tingle. A barrier appeared where she wanted it, shaped how she liked it, with all the ceremony of deciding to blink.
The real party trick was the attributes. She’d made a barrier that was slightly warm, perfect for keeping her tea hot.
She’d made one that was cool, ideal for chilling a bottle of juice.
She’d once, out of sheer boredom, made a barrier that smelled faintly of lavender.
The power to reshape reality, and she was using it for interior ambiance and snack management.
It was all fantastic, until she tried to make a barrier that was pointy.
The moment she used it for the concept of “attacking” with any serious intent, the barrier would just… give up. It would become intangible fog, passing harmlessly through the target.
She could shape one into a razor’s edge to slice a tomato for a sandwich—culinary arts were apparently morally neutral.
But aim that same edge at a training dummy with intentions of attacking? The barrier would turn into a sad, useless cloud.
“Just like in the game.”
The floating thing was new, though.
She’d discovered it by accident when she absentmindedly stepped onto a barrier she’d forgotten to dismiss and spent a full minute gently bobbing three inches off her floor.
“This is ridiculous,” she’d informed the ceiling, before carefully willing herself back down.
Still, it had its uses. Like now, as her groceries trailed her home without requiring her to carry them. First-class service.
Truly insane , even the game version didn't exaggerate enough.
Back in her small, unremarkable apartment—chosen specifically for its lack of ‘rich’ vibes.
Leon let the bags settle on her counter. She flopped onto her bed, staring at the plain ceiling.
A low, grumbling growl erupted from her stomach.
She placed a hand over it. “We literally just bought food,” she muttered. “You have no sense of timing.”
The grumble repeated, more insistent.
The quiet life, she was learning, came with logistical hurdles. Like rent. And food.
And the fact that her supernatural retirement package did not include a pension.
Relying on strategic gambling was out.
Too flashy, and there was no need to attract unnecessary guys in the city for “statistically improbable odds won.”
She needed a job. A normal, boring one.
With a groan that was mostly for her own benefit, Leon sat up.
“Okay, fine,” she announced to the room.
“Operation: Gaining Employment is a go. But first,” she added, as her stomach voiced another loud protest, “ Immediate Sandwich.”
