Book One - Chapter Eight: Always Room for Improvement

The door hissed open and a soldier burst in, boots hammering the metal floor, five others trailing behind him like nervous ducklings. His voice cut through the room, sharp and practiced.

They were all dressed like the first two; full chrome helmets, mirrored and gleaming under the fluorescents.

“Colonel. Orders confirmed. Core Station’s bracing for invasion. First hits landed. Bombs at the site. Holding for now. First wave’s been repelled, but...” He flicked a glance over his shoulder, like he expected the second wave to crawl in after him. “More are coming.”

“Gotta ask,” I croaked. “What’s with the chrome stormtrooper cosplay?”

The most slender among them stepped forward. No hesitation. Popped her helmet off.

She was dark-skinned, sharp-jawed, her bright orange eyes leaking light like someone had stuffed a dying star behind them.

“It’s for Level Disparity,” she said, voice steady. “Mana shielding. Attack absorption. Looks stupid, works great. We’ve got an Artificer now. Best gear Earth’s got for fighting incursions.”

I triggered Inspect automatically.

[Corporal Amara Vance — Infantry Class: Space Manipulation Specialist]

Helmet back on. No ceremony, no posturing. She waved her hand in a wide circle and cracked open a portal like it was popping a beer can.

The air tore itself apart, a molten silver sheet stuttering into existence, shivering before snapping solid. The hum was low enough to rattle teeth.

Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to.

We stepped through.

One heartbeat we were in the medical bay— warning klaxons bleeding into the air, walls sweating the smell of burnt copper—

—next heartbeat, reality folded like laundry and threw us across existence.

My boots skidded across cracked obsidian. I staggered, nearly pitching off the edge of a floating platform hanging over a bottomless chasm.

Caught myself just in time—and looked up.

There it was. No doubt, no hesitation.

I’d never seen it before, but I knew it with certainty.

The Earth Core.

A skyscraper-sized sun, molten and raw, suspended in the center of a cavern so massive it defied logic. The thing throbbed with color: burning orange, violent neon blue, slime-green, nuclear pink.

It was as if someone had detonated a Crayola factory and then set the remains on fire for good measure.

Every pulse from the Core slammed through my ribs, rattled my teeth, rewired my brainstem. It was beautiful. It was horrifying. It looked exactly like the time I blacked out and threw up an entire bottle of rainbow schnapps after losing a very bad bet. A mental note: Don’t drink the Core.

I felt it. Oh, I felt it.

It wasn’t just heat or light, it was pressure, like being eyed by something too large and too curious. It sank into my skin. Made every nerve ending tingle in colors I didn’t have words for. Made my bones want to sing.

And it felt... good.

Too good.

The cavern was a mad cathedral. Blackstone pillars stitched together like broken teeth, ceiling black as night. Mana rivers poured in thick, glowing veins from the walls, carving molten trails down into the abyss.

Floating platforms orbited the Core like lazy, broken moons. Each one shifted in erratic, stomach-churning patterns.

Beside me, Colonel Riley was already moving, all crisp lines and purpose, scanning her HUD like she could command the chaos by sheer force of will. Twin blades hung at her hips, humming low, eager.

“Teleport successful,” she said without missing a beat. “Welcome to Ground Zero.”

Peña stumbled out of the portal behind us, landing in a graceless heap, arms flailing.

“Whoa,” he gasped, blinking at the insanity around us.

The Core pulsed again. I could feel it calling.

Somewhere deep inside, something primal in me started to answer.

And then my stomach folded itself into an origami crane of nausea.

I doubled over, no warning, no time to look dignified, and projectile-vomited a stream of molten neon.

It hit the platform with a splorch and sizzled like bacon in a witch’s cauldron; the exact same hideous orange, slime green, and electric pink as the Core itself.

Then something happened that had never happened before.

The vomit lifted off the ground, spun into a tight vortex, and shot straight into the Core, vanishing with a small, wet splash.

[INTERESTING REACTION DETECTED]

[BODY COMPOSITION: 86.7% COMPATIBLE WITH CORE ENERGY]

[SOMETHING INSIDE YOU RECOGNIZES SOMETHING INSIDE IT]

[ISN’T THAT NICE?]

“Jerry?” Riley snapped around, half-drawing her blade. “Report!”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, still squinting at where the puddle had been. “I’m all gouda,” I croaked. “Its just… kinda intense down here.”

“Core affects everyone differently,” she said, and turned back to her assessments.

Behind us, more soldiers stumbled through the portal–tactical armor, big guns, bigger eyes.

Some gasped at the sight of the Core.

One guy just stood there, laughed until he nearly dropped his rifle.

Nobody else puked rainbows, though.

Just me.

Of course, it's just me.

Riley snapped back into commander mode, voice cracking like a whip.

“Delta–secure the outer platforms. Echo–perimeter sweep. Martinez, I want comms open on all channels. Get relief to the stationed crew.”

I only half-heard her. The rest of me was tangled up in the Core’s pull.

Not sight, not sound.

Presence.

It was watching me without eyes.

Worse–it saw me.

“You feeling this?” I muttered to Peña

He nodded, fingers twitching, little blue gravity sparks snapping around his knuckles.

“Kinda feels like pounding a Red Bull and Four Loko at the same time,” he muttered. “Get a hangover just starting to drink it.”

“Those things are terrible,” I said, wiping my mouth again, “you drunk dial your ex before you open the can.”

Peña smirked. “So bad it tastes the same going up as it does going down.”

“I can never remember the up part,” I said.

He snorted, a quick flash of humor under the tension.

Riley returned, shooting us a look that could’ve shattered concrete.

I finally tore my eyes from the Core and looked around–really looked.

The base... wasn’t much.

Barracks bolted to chunks of floating rock. Sandbag walls and jagged mana crystals jammed into the ground like makeshift pylons. Watchtowers leaned at precarious angles, slapped together like a drunken Home Depot speedrun at two in the morning.

“How long’s this circus been here?” I asked.

“Seventy-six days,” Riley said, voice clipped. “Tracked some Xarnathi scouts here. They were drawn to it. Now we know why. Fought an entire platoon of them trying to hold the site. Some of the little green bastards are still down here, but they’re keeping to the deep tunnels. For now.”

“There are older, fouler things down here than goblins,” Peña said.

“The Mines of Not-Moria,” I muttered.

Riley led us across a narrow bridge–stone, slick with glowing veins of Core runoff–toward the central platform.

Soldiers saluted. Some smiled.

Most stared at me like I was either a grenade or the guy carrying a live one.

Riley caught me catching them. “Word's spread,” she said. “The Awakened Barista. Some think you’re a miracle. Others think you’re a lit fuse.”

“They’re both right,” I muttered, flexing my hands as the Core’s pulse set my veins humming.

The main platform held what barely qualified as a command center. A mess of holographic displays, radio towers held together by desperation, and a massive projected globe of Earth floating over everything.

Red pulses spiderwebbed across the continents.

Bleeding.

Spreading.

And for the first time since I got dragged into this cosmic mess, I had the sinking feeling we weren’t just losing.

We were already rotting from the inside out.

Alien strongholds flared like bruises across the holographic Earth.

“Karens have the eastern seaboard,” Riley said, tracing the battered coast with a finger. “Gravethralls swept most of Europe. Cerulians control the Pacific Rim. Xarnathi are scattered—nomads. Raiders.”

Peña leaned in, tapping a few scattered blue dots blinking across the continents. “And these?”

Riley's mouth tightened into something humorless. “Resistance zones. Human-controlled. What's left of them.”

At a nearby console, a tall man with a scar running from temple to jaw turned toward us, his presence cutting through the room like a blade. HARGROVE, his nameplate read. General, judging by the way soldiers pivoted unconsciously around him.

He gave Riley a nod. “This your miracle?”

His gaze swept over me. One long, unimpressed drag that snagged hard on my apron like it had slept with his wife.

“Jerry Long” I said, reaching out a hand. “Battle Barista.”

Hargrove blinked once. Slow. “Is that what you are?”

“It’s what the System labeled him,” Riley said quickly.

“I know,” Hargrove said, voice coarse enough to sand wood. “Read the reports. Real cowboy. Got Awakened, didn’t sign up. Spent the last few months of the world ending catching up on his beauty sleep.”

The space tightened. Eyes slid toward me. I dropped my hand.

Riley stepped forward. “Sir, that’s not quite—”

“I don’t like you,” Hargrove cut her off. “I don’t even like the idea of you. Some vigilante superhero wannabe. Maybe you’ll pull your weight. Maybe you won’t. Maybe—God help us—you won’t get more of my people killed than the job already demands. Doesn’t change what this is. Babysitting.”

I didn’t respond. He needed to say it, and I wasn’t the real audience.

I knew the drill — years in the service industry had trained me.

Let the customer vent, nod politely, and then do unspeakable things to their food.

Smile. Always smile.

But if I was being honest, I was getting kinda tired of Customer Service.

He stalked closer, boots grinding against the stone floor, voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “Never liked dragging civilians into my war. But someone upstairs wants you in. Fine. Do what I say. Stay out of the way.”

He stopped just short of grabbing my collar. “Question is, Mr. Barista—are you ready to make yourself useful before the death toll adds a few more zeroes?”

Okay, I was fucking done with this.

Did this guy not realize I outleveled him by at least twelve levels?

I could squash him like a fucking bug.

I opened my mouth to say as much—and the sirens howled.

Red lights slammed across the cavern. The Earth hologram snapped into focus, zooming hard on our location. Two monstrous energy signatures blinked into existence–closing fast.

“Gravethralls and Cerulians,” a tech shouted. “Three miles! Multiple vectors!”

“Right on schedule.” Hargrove didn’t flinch. He barked over the chaos. “Battle stations! Defensive positions! Lock it down!”

Soldiers surged into motion—strapping armor, checking weapons, voices clipped and sharp.

Riley grabbed my sleeve. “Move. I need you up high.”

I resisted for half a second. “Wouldn't I be more useful smashing things?”

“You are useful,” she said grimly. “As bait.”

That shut me up.

She wasn’t wrong. I pulled more aggro than Kanye at a Swift concert. More than Chris Rock at the Oscars. Like O.J. at a Memorial. But still slightly less than Amber Heard at a Bed, Bath and Beyond.

Always room for improvement.