The claim that the great Lord Harry Potter Michael needed solitude to "collect his thoughts" was not, strictly speaking, a fabrication. The night was long, and the bed that had once belonged to the late, unlamented Andrew was a landscape of peculiar smells—a complex bouquet of old sweat, a cloying, musky perfume that had long ago turned rancid, and the faint, metallic hint of blood that no amount of scrubbing seemed able to erase. Wrapped in this olfactory tapestry, Michael's mind churned like a cement mixer, plotting and scheming.
The discovery of the… currency… in the latrine had changed everything. The immediate, crushing pressure of the debt to Brother Dong was gone, lifted by the prospect of those carefully laundered, pre-Collapse rectangles of paper. With that noose loosened, his plans underwent a sharp, decisive pivot.
First and foremost, with the means to settle his account now (literally) in hand, his desire to remain in the Wasteland evaporated. The harsh realities of this world—the constant grit, the pervasive stench, the ever-present threat of violence, the sheer, soul-crushing drabnessof it all—pressed in on him. He missed the mindless glow of his phone screen, the instant hot water of a shower, the overwhelming, ridiculous choiceof a supermarket aisle. He was a creature of modern comforts, however shabby, and this place grated against his every nerve. His decision was firm: tomorrow, he would return.
But this led directly to his second, more surprising conclusion: Cinder Town could not be abandoned. It must be strengthened, fortified, turned into a proper asset. His "iron rice bowl," as the saying went back home. The logic was suddenly, brilliantly clear. This world was a treasure trove, but its valuables weren't always obvious. Gold coins, yes. But also the "junk" no one here wanted—like jewelry, or more of those miraculous "wiping papers." With patience and a steady hand, he could siphon those treasures back to his world. This ramshackle settlement wasn't just a hideout; it was a claim stake, a beachhead for a very peculiar kind of inter-dimensional resource extraction. He spent hours in the smelly dark envisioning supply chains, security details, trade protocols. He would become a fixture in Yangcheng's wholesale markets, a procurer of bizarre goods for a bizarre clientele.
And then there was the other thing. The Qi. The faint, shimmering aura that had surrounded John and Andrew in battle. It was unscientific, impossible, and it had let a man parry an Ogre's blow. If this world had rules, that was one he desperately needed to learn. Being a leader who couldn't win a fistfight against one of his own barmaids was a precarious position. Next time, he resolved. Next time, I get John to teach me. If a minotaur can do it…
The lonely, scheming hours bled into a fitful sleep haunted by bizarre, fragmented dreams of dancing dollar bills with Andrew's face, of Zach chasing a tank made of toilet paper, of Jaunysmoke offering him a bouquet of wrench sockets. He woke feeling unrested, gritty-eyed, and with a profound sense of physical… grime.
"Ack—ptui!"
The sound was one of profound disgust. Michael spat the mouthful of tepid, oddly mineral-tasting water from the canteen into the dust outside the tavern's back door. He'd found a sliver of soap and a rag, and was attempting a morning ablution. He scrubbed his face three times with the damp cloth, watching in horrified fascination as the water in the small enamel basin transformed from clear to a murky, greyish-brown. The grit that came off him was astonishing. He hadn't felt this filthy since… well, since he'd arrived.
Sighing, he picked up the basin, ready to heave the filthy water onto the cracked earth.
"Master! No, please!"
The voice was a high-pitched, desperate squeal that made Michael jump, nearly sloshing the contents over his shoes. He turned to see Faye the Foxkin standing a few feet away, a wooden trencher holding a sad-looking lump of grainy porridge in her hands. Her vulpine face was a mask of pure distress.
"Don't… what?" Michael asked, utterly bewildered. "I'm just dumping the wash water."
"Could you…" Faye took a tentative step closer, her bushy tail twitching nervously behind her. "Could you possibly… bestow it? Upon me?" The word 'bestow' was spoken with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
Michael stared at the basin, then at her. The water was a slurry of dust, sweat, and soap scum. "You… want this? Are you sure? It's… well, it's dirty."
"Of course it's useful!" Faye's eyes, a startling amber, lit up with sudden hope. "If it's allowed to settle, then filtered through sand and cloth… there's at least half a basin of clean water left! Enough for all of us girls to wash our faces properly! Or…" she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could sell it. Two bottle caps, easy."
Michael stood there, the basin growing heavy in his hands. The sheer, brutal economy of it stole his breath. His morning routine, a thoughtless ritual of hygiene, was here a commodity, a luxury to be parsed and conserved. He felt a wave of something between pity and profound cultural vertigo.
"Uh… sure. It's yours," he managed.
The transformation in Faye was instantaneous. Her worried expression melted into a beatific smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Oh, thank you, Master!" In a flutter of movement, she set the trencher down, darted forward, and planted a firm, grateful kiss on his cheek. Her lips were soft, but the overwhelming scent that accompanied her—a mixture of woodsmoke, stale ale, and the faint, feral musk of fox—was nearly enough to knock him backwards. The brief, startling intimacy was undercut completely by the olfactory assault. His modern sensibilities, and his nose, recoiled.
...
After a breakfast of the glue-like porridge, which tasted of nothing but ash and stubborn survival, Michael gathered his nascent court. He surveyed them in the tavern's main room, the weak morning light painting their faces in stark relief.
His core assets: one (1) Ogre of singular appetite and alarming loyalty. Seven (7) able-bodied guards, bearing various fresh injuries—two hulking men with dark skin, one sun-leathered white man, and four hybrids of various bestial aspects. One (1) gimpy, cunning old man of indeterminate usefulness. Five (5) female servers, all hybrids, all possessing a feral, underfed beauty. Plus himself. The walking wounded from Jaunysmoke's attack numbered thirteen, their fates hanging by a thread. He'd contributed the half-pack of Banlangencold remedy to their care with a vague, hopeless notion that it might do something.
"You've probably guessed by now where I'm from," Michael began, his voice taking on a deliberate, portentous tone. He didn't wait for a response. "A Vault. A high-tier one. Well-stocked, well-protected." He let the lie hang, rich and promising, in the air.
The effect was electric. John's bovine eyes widened. Old Gimpy's wrinkled face split into a gap-toothed grin. Even the girls perked up. A live, functional Vault was the ultimate lottery ticket in the Wasteland—a symbol of preserved technology, medicine, and unimaginable riches. Their new master wasn't just strong; he was connected. Their loyalty, already purchased with caps and promises, now gained a layer of awe.
Sensing the shift, Michael moved quickly. "I return to my Vault today. When I come back, I'll bring… improvements. In my absence, you will hold this town. John," he pointed at the minotaur, "you command the militia. All guards answer to you. Recruit twenty more from the townsfolk—pick ones with families here. They get two-thirds of standard pay." The sudden promotion made John swell with pride, the humiliation of the previous night's "sacred duty" forgotten. He thumped his chest plate. "The town stands, Master, or I fall with it!"
"Old Gimpy," Michael continued, "you handle the tavern and daily town affairs. And I want you to collect things. Gold coins. Jewelry. And those… colorful paper sheets. All of them."
The old man bowed, his eyes gleaming with avaricious understanding. "Your will, my lord."
Just as he was about to dismiss them, a final thought struck. "One more thing. Is there anyone here who knows machines? I want to look at that tank, see if it can be salvaged."
To Michael's surprise, it was Old Gimpy who drew himself up with a shred of dignity. "That would be my area, Lord. My grandfather, it is said, was a senior engineer in the old Detroit. My father learned from him, and I from my father. I was the one who kept the Sherman… ambulatory."
Michael blinked. The timeline snagged. "Your grandfather? In Detroit? How… how old are you, Gimpy?"
"Thirty-seven summers, my lord," the old man said, a hint of pride in his raspy voice.
Thirty-seven?The man looked at least sixty. A cold suspicion dawned. He turned to John. "And you, John? How old?"
"Seventeen winters, Master! Nearly eighteen!" the minotaur bellowed cheerfully, his voice like rocks in a barrel. He had the build and bearing of a seasoned veteran.
Dread pooling in his stomach, Michael looked at Lynda. The Wolfkin woman, with her powerful frame and knowing eyes. "Lynda. The girls. How… how old is the oldest?"
Lynda tilted her head, thinking. "Thirteen? Almost fourteen, I think. Why?" A flicker of pride crossed her face. "The traders and customers always say we look young for our work."
The world seemed to tilt. Thirteen. Fourteen.They weren't women; they were children. Malnourished, hardened, terrifyingly adult in some ways, but children nonetheless. The memory of Faye's kiss, of his own earlier, fleeting appraisals, curdled into something sickening in his gut. The moral landscape of this world was not just harsh; it was fundamentally, horrifyingly alien.
He took a deep, steadying breath, the weight of his new role settling on him in an entirely different way. His final order of the morning was issued in a flat, unyielding tone.
"Old Gimpy. Note this. Henceforth, the Honey and Maiden will offer noadditional services. Only food and drink. Is that understood?"
The confusion on their faces was complete. But the command in his voice was absolute. He had come for treasure. He had found a kingdom. And he was suddenly, acutely aware that he had no idea how to rule it, or even how to look his own subjects in the eye.