Arcane Exfil

Miles immediately collapsed into one of the velvet armchairs in the living room, vest, pack, and all. “Well hot damn. Rich don’t even begin to cover it. And here I thought them Highland Park houses were somethin’.”

Cole snorted. “One percent versus point one, dude. And that’s not even factoring the magic mirrors.”

“Yeah? Hell, I bet they probably got some fancy-ass Victorian bidet in the bathroom too. Slap a water rune on there, shoot it right up your ass.”

Ethan tore himself away from the temperature runes. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Bet you’re wondering if there’s a pressure setting, too.”

“Aw, hell,” Miles chuckled, raising up his arms. “C’mon now, that’s all you. I ain’t think up that shit; you did.”

Cole grinned, absently channeling that warmth he was starting to get used to. He formed a flat barrier almost subconsciously, about waist high. He moved it around. Huh; it might actually make transportation easier, if he could keep it steady.

He lifted his pack onto the surface. It held, but getting it across was another story, like trying to carry a full cup of coffee without spilling. By the time he managed to float it over to the couch, his forehead was damp with sweat.

“Show off.” Miles formed his own barrier. His pack slid right off the tilted surface. “Well shit.”

Ethan’s attempt almost made it onto a couch before his barrier yawed to the side, dumping his pack onto the floor. “Easy making it, damn hard keeping it steady.”

“Like training a new muscle. Shit, literally,” Miles said, concentrating on his second attempt. The pack wobbled but stayed up this time. “Hey, there we– fuck.” It slid off again.

Cole glanced at their gear. “We should probably start doing inventory. Figure out what we’ve got.”

Ethan opened his pack. “Well, we’ve got an hour ‘til food. Plenty of time to sort our shit out.”

“Yeah.” Cole looked around. “Plus some extra time to scope out our surroundings.”

Cole immediately got to work. It was the first chance they’d had to clean weapons since this whole mess started. His AK-74M was still caked with blood and sand from the construction site – everything had been non-stop since the skyscraper, and continued even unto their second life. Mack in the infirmary, meeting the king, magic lessons, and then messing around with those oversized bolt actions.

If there were any solace, it’d be the fact that the rifles were pretty usable even if they’d never see 5.45 again.

“Got three mags,” Miles reported, laying out his gear on a table. Dark flecks already marked the carpet where they’d left their bloodied equipment. His AKS-74U looked about as bad. “Two full, one partial. Shotgun’s still good, though.”

Cole popped his dust cover. Shit was a mess – construction site dust mixed with dried blood from those JNI fuckers shooting into the crowd. “Three and a half. Damn.”

“Three and change,” Ethan said, stripping down his FAL.

Even with their sidearms untouched, their remaining firepower wasn’t anything to get excited over. These would be their last mags until… well, forever, probably. And there was no telling what else might come knocking. “Quick clean now, full detail in the morning.” Cole glanced at the stained carpet. Fuck it; not like they could make it much worse.

The familiar routine helped clear his head a bit. Nobody had bothered them for at least half an hour – probably wouldn’t until dinner.

The remaining spread wasn’t much to get excited over, either. Three frags a pop, plus three more if they grabbed Mack’s stuff from the infirmary. Most of their flashbangs had gone into that high-rise breach. Cole had three left, Miles two, Ethan four. Three breaching charges between them. Their demo kit was mostly intact since they hadn’t needed to blow that bomb – or anything else, for that matter.

NVGs checked out, still stowed away neatly. Comms would need testing tomorrow, see what range they could get in a castle. Medical looked alright; they’d hardly touched their individual first aid kits, and Mack’s advanced one should last a good bit. Long enough to either learn healing magic or teach these guys how to make penicillin. Maybe both.

He rifled through the rest of his pack, gripping a slim rectangular object. On the list of the many things he’d miss, this thing was somewhere up there. He pulled his Samsung from his pack. No service – fucking shocking. Still had juice though. Calculator, camera, notes, cached manuals, even his Spotify downloads and Bloons Tower Defense. Definitely worth keeping charged. Thank God for spare solar charges. At this point, they may as well be holy relics.

“Well.” Miles set his cleaned AKS aside. “Reckon these are just wall hangers now. ‘Less 5.45 actually works on demons.”

Cole crossed to the windows, looking outside. Perfect view of the courtyard – as picturesque as any important noble might hope to see. But it was also exactly what you’d give soldiers you wanted to garrison.

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The stone window seat was a nice touch, real fancy noble shit that just so happened to make a perfect headglitch for covering the gates. Though Nuketown window wars probably didn’t compare to holding off literal demonic hordes. ṝ

“After today? Wouldn’t rule anything out.”

Miles stood up. “Fair enough. Guess I oughta check out the service hall.”

“I’ll walk around a bit. See what else is up here,” Ethan added.

Cole nodded. Being stuck with checking out the suite wasn’t all too bad; he probably would’ve done it anyway. He started with the usual spots – light fixtures, under furniture, behind curtains. Not that he’d recognize a magical bug if he found one, but he had to at least try. The heating runes in the corners seemed normal enough, same as the ones Fotham had shown them earlier, but fuck if he knew what else they could do.

If they had magical listening devices, they weren’t anything obvious – though what counted as obvious in a place with scrying mirrors was anyone’s guess. For all he knew, the king could watch them take a shit if he wanted to.

He’d scoured the common areas and three bedrooms and had just started a sweep of the final one when Miles came back. “Service hall loops around the whole floor. Got doors to at least six other rooms, all locked ‘cept ours.” He dropped into one of the chairs. “Ran into a maid. They’ve got keys, use it pretty regular.”

Ethan returned as Cole wrapped up with the last bedroom. “No neighbors. Got another suite next door before the hallway opens up. Same on the other side. Guards offered to show me around when they saw my vest.” He tapped the bloodied American flag. “This wing’s for ‘honored guests’ – suppose that’s us now. Got a decent view of the gardens on the other side.”

Three knocks at the service door interrupted them. The smell hit Cole before he even reached the door. Well, damn. If whatever they were bringing smelled this good through castle walls, dinner might just make up for this shitstorm of a day. The kitchen tour had already reset his standards – after watching Marwin cookery, MREs felt like some cruel culinary joke.

Old habits kept his hand on the Glock 21 in his coat pocket as he approached the door.

“Service, if you please.”

“Yeah, come in.” He opened it carefully.

She walked in with a service cart, pushing it along until they reached the dining area. “If it pleases my lords, might I inquire as to your preference for service? I shall gladly lay out the courses with all proper ceremony, or, should my lords prefer, I might arrange the dishes for your private dining. We are, of course, most mindful that customs of service may differ in your lands of origin.”

Looking at the food now, Cole just realized there was no way of telling what the food’s journey might’ve been. Maybe he was just being a bit paranoid, but he couldn’t tell if the food had been poisoned.

Okay, major faux pas incoming, but fuck it. What’s worse, after all – a social fuck-up or three dead heroes? God, that was such a messed up calculation to make over dinner. Even if it was a real, practical concern. Even if the kingdom would absolutely prefer the first scenario.

“Could you… uh…” Christ, this would’ve been so much easier if they’d thought about going to the kitchen.

Honestly, the real faux pas would be dying of poison because he couldn’t ask someone to taste test. Pretty sure Emily Post never covered the etiquette of asking a server to die for you, but hey, the maid must’ve signed up for this, right?

“Would you mind tasting each dish before we serve?”

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The maid barely hesitated before taking a small bite of each dish. Hell, maybe she moonlit as a food taster; seemed like the kind of multi-tasking medieval staff would do. Or maybe they just trained for this shit. Either way, her face showed no tells.

Nothing happened though. Just the same polite smile, like she taste-tested for upstuck dignitaries every other day. At least they’d been spared from hauling ass to Elina. That would’ve been one awkward conversation.

“Will my lords prefer the full service, or shall I arrange the dishes for private dining?”

Cole glanced at the others. Miles was basically on the verge of salivating like he belonged on My 600-Pound Life. He couldn’t blame him; the last thing they’d had was what, a protein bar before their final pre-mission briefing? “Just set it up casual, please.”

“Of course, my lord.” She began unloading the dishes onto the dining table. She also noticed the bloodstains on the carpet, but didn’t say anything. No bad blood, hopefully.

The spread put everything else they’d seen until now to shame. A nice steak dinner at Ruth’s Chris or Lawry’s? Nothing compared to this. First was the drell meat they’d smelled earlier, all wine-soaked and fancy. Then, cave pheasant that looked like regular pheasant’s goth cousin. Some kinda consommé with the marsh buck the cook had been on about. Warm bread that he wouldn’t have minded stuffing a bag with if this were a Cheesecake Factory.

“We have marsh buck consommé with koreth root,” she said, ladling it out. “Wine-aged drell flanks with viss rub, eastern cave pheasant, and riverfish in melted butter with shrolt. Master Marwin prepared extra portions, considering the day’s exertions.”

Nice. Magic probably burned calories like a motherfucker, so God knows they wouldn’t just be stuffing themselves like gluttons.

“When you finish your repast, my lords, pray leave the cart in the corridor. It shall be attended to before dawn. Might there be aught else my lords require?”

“Nah, we’re good. Thanks for uh, y’know.” Cole glanced down at the food.

“It is my pleasure.” She gave a curtsy before leaving.

Miles dug in before the door even clicked shut. “Well hot damn, fuck me sideways.”

“That good?” Cole grabbed a fork. The drell meat fell apart the moment he touched it. First bite and – wow. Okay. Yeah. This was definitely helping with the whole ‘summoned to fight demons’ thing. “Mmm.”

“Like wagyu and wine had a baby.” Miles was already halfway through his portion. “Gonna turn into a damn beefer if we stay.”

Ethan snorted around a mouthful of pheasant. “Not with the training Fotham’s offering, I don’t think.”

They demolished the food in comfortable silence. The consommé hit especially different. Something about hot soup after getting shot at just… worked. Whatever marsh buck and koreth root were, the combo gave chicken noodle a run for its money.

“So.” Miles wiped his mouth, finally slowing down. “We gonna talk about this shit or what?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Ethan said. “Go back, die in Jadira. Stay here, maybe die fighting demons.” He raised his fork. “Honorable, too. Unless they take our souls, or some shit.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Miles agreed. “Could say no to the Slayer thing. Be regular citizens.”

Cole set down his fork. “Not like the demons are gonna give two shits about that. You saw those rifles – they’re not building ‘em for fun.”

“Could try somewhere else,” Ethan said, but his tone made it clear he didn’t buy it himself. “Different city, maybe?”

“With what money?” Miles asked. “What papers? Hell, what language? This here translation magic, far as I know, only works with Celdornian. Ain’t got a Rosetta Stone for whatever gibberish they speak out there.”

Papers and language sure could be a problem, but if this were any other isekai where the natives collectively fawn over new food, then Cole sure as hell got money covered. “Ha, I bet we could probably make a fortune with the Chick-fil-A sauce recipe. Or even just good ol’ ketchup. But who knows if they even got tomatoes here.”

Ethan shrugged. “I mean, shit, they got apples, don’t they?”

“Ain’t seen a tomato, though. But regardless, we really only have one option available to us.”

“Fait fuckin’ accompli,” Miles muttered, pushing his empty plate back. “Can’t even be mad about it neither. They saved our asses – shit, probably saved Mack’s life too. But it ain’t like that changes the fact we’re stuck here with our dicks in the wind.”

Cole didn’t like the fact any more than Miles did. It just so happened that the best logical decision turned out to be the one Celdorne wanted them to take. “Yup. We’re basically indebted to ‘em. We’ve got weeks of training while Mack’s out anyway. Might as well use it.”

“So what, we tell the king we’re in?” Miles asked. “Just like that?”

“For now.” Cole finished up his riverfish and the shrimp-looking things that must’ve been the shrolt. “See how training goes. Then we revisit our decision when Mack wakes up, see if he agrees.”

Ethan chuckled.

Miles placed his empty plates on the cart. “Man, y’all know damn well Mack ain’t turning it down. Shit’s basically a dream come true for him.”

“True.” Cole got up, stacking the rest of the dishware on the cart. He wheeled it into the service corridor, empty save for a few flickering lights.

Returning to the living room, he spotted a little tea table by the window. Not exactly ADT, but those cups would make enough noise if someone tried any of the entrances.

He dragged it closer to the main entrance, earning a weird look from Ethan.

“What are you doing with – ah, good idea.”

“Yup.” Cole positioned it near the door, arranging the cups and saucers – bull in a china shop. “Makeshift alarm.”

Ethan grabbed another table, bringing it toward the service corridor.

Thank God Celdorne also seemed obsessed with Victorian tea culture. Though why this was the case would likely forever remain a mystery. More convergent evolution? Isekai’d Englishman back in the day? Anyone’s guess, really.

Cole tested the setup by the front door. Yeah, those porcelain cups would wake the dead if someone tried sneaking in. But frankly, anyone who could magic their way past castle walls probably wouldn’t bother with doors. “Alright, rooms. Doors all open, nothing obstructing them.”

Miles pointed to the room on the left, next to the master bedroom. “I’ll take that one.”

Ethan took the one across from the master bedroom. “We sleeping in kit?”

Cole considered it. Full gear would suck balls, but being caught with pants literally down would suck worse. “Stripped down, plates nearby.”

They spent the next fifteen minutes arranging furniture, so anyone on watch would be able to see both doors from a window seat in the living room.

“Alright.” Cole checked his watch. “2200 to 0100, 0100 to 0400, 0400 to 0700. That gets us up before their morning routine kicks in.” He nodded to Miles. “Garrett, second shift. Walker third. Use the down time to write shit down – anything that could help. Engineering, chemistry, tactics, basic science, whatever.”

“Man,” Ethan grumbled. “Wish I'd brought one of those civilization restart books.”

“Hindsight’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Miles shrugged. “Night y’all.”

“Night.”

Cole settled into his seat near the window. “Sweet dreams, fellas.”

He pulled out a small notebook from his pack as they retired to their rooms. The courtyard below was well-lit, torches supplementing whatever magic they used for the lightbulbs. The natural lighting almost seemed unsettling, but at least he didn’t have to strain his eyes looking down at his notebook.

Where does one even start rebuilding modern knowledge from scratch? The stuff they’d seen today – those rifles, the healing magic, the strangely Victorian or Gilded setups – it all pointed to a technological base that was advanced in some ways but had strange gaps in others. Like they speedran the industrial revolution using magic instead of pure steam power.

Then there were the odd alignments with things an alien planet probably shouldn’t be familiar with – 3 of their distance units being 3 feet, 60 of their weight units being about the same as 60 pounds.

Well, he could probably skip the basic stuff. These guys probably knew all about trigonometry and algebra already, maybe even calculus.

First things first – shit that would actually keep them alive. Partial derivatives could come after everything else, if he even remembered enough about them to write something cohesive.

So, weapons. Their current ammo wouldn’t last forever, but with the Gilded-Victorian tech level here plus magic, proper smokeless powder wasn’t impossible. Getting the nitration process right would be tricky, but he at least had somewhere to start. Maybe Miles or Ethan would be able to fill in the gaps or corroborate his info. He jotted down what he could remember on bullet weights, powder charges, primer compounds, and rifling patterns before wrapping up the section with disjointed notes.

Medical came next. He hated thinking about it, but he had to prepare for the worst case scenario. Mack’s recovery wasn’t a guarantee, and neither was the efficacy of healing magic. He needed to jot down everything he knew about proper field medicine – basic trauma procedures, wound management, anything he could remember about antibiotics from biology class. It wasn’t as much as he’d hoped for, but it was something; definitely better than if some random kid got isekai’d.

Lord willing, they’d have Mack up and about to handle all this for them. Now, what next?

Basic tactics wasn’t a bad bet. Viet Cong shit would likely come in real useful. But what about more advanced knowledge? Proper radio theory and electromagnetics would be handy, especially if the Celdornians already had some sort of background, however rudimentary. And hell, if his knowledge of cymatics and physiology came in handy for magic, what else might?

Three sharp knocks fucked up his train of thought. Shit, right when he had a thought about energy conservation and magic.

“My lords?” The voice was gruff, authoritative – likely from a knight. “Urgent summons from His Majesty.”

Cole glanced at his watch. 2350? The fuck kinda king held midnight – wait, didn’t he say something about using the Scrying Pane?

Yeah, he definitely did. And unless the damn thing broke in the time between Fotham’s demonstration and now, whoever was on the other side of the door must’ve been straight bullshitting.

Cole set his pen and notebook down, swapping them out for his AK-74M. Everything seemed legit – not in some Hollywood ‘too legit’ way, but in a genuinely authentic way. Shame Fotham’s little sermon stripped their pro forma perfection of any legitimacy.

But hey, maybe that was just his paranoia talking – seeing patterns in perfectly innocent midnight summons from a king who’d explicitly told them that he wouldn’t be using midnight summons to reach them. Certainly wasn’t suspicious at all that he’d do so at their weakest, when the exhaustion of nearly dying, dimensional travel, and magical training would be hitting hardest.

Three more knocks, as polite as the first set. “My lords, His Majesty awaits.”

As good as their facade was, they wouldn’t keep it up forever. Cole needed to buy time – enough for Miles and Ethan to get ready.