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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Mista9000 on 2026-02-19 22:33:53+00:00.
This week our savvy spy sells science soup to a supply sergeant!
A wholesome* story about a mostly sane demonologist and his growing crew, trying their best to usher in a post-scarcity utopia using imps. It's a great read if you like optimism, progress, character growth, hard magic, and advancements that have a real impact on the world. I spend a ton of time getting the details right, focusing on grounding the story so that the more fantastic bits shine. A new chapter every Thursday.
**Some conditions apply, viewer cynicism is advised.*
Map of Pine Bluff
Map of Hyruxia
Map of the Factory and grounds
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*****
“Baron, I have an urgent task for you,” Aethlina said.
Rikad frowned. He was still planning his day as he sipped fresh apple juice, the remains of the inn’s breakfast spread out in front of him.
“Certainly, I’m sure one of our many–”
“This requires a human noble. You are the best one I have at hand.”
He was sure he heard disdain in her tone. His eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“I have arranged a meeting with the Legion. More specifically Sergeant Cruthersin, an important man in the logistics command.”
“Important? Sounds like some junior runt. What can he possibly offer us? One defector isn’t–”
“Assume less. Ask more. You will make him lunch. Specifically rehydrated chicken stew. He will be impressed and in a few months the Legion will be our customer. In a few years they’ll be utterly dependent. This was the plan. From the start.”
“Oh, that plan. Sure, if you want. I have a good thing going with my revenge rampage here, I’m not sure selling soup is–”
“Take the meeting. Sell the stew. Be useful.” The smallest flicker of confusion crossed the elv’s ageless face before she rose and left. “I cannot make it simpler.”
“I was always going to! I can sell sand to a…” He trailed off as she was already gone. “To a damned beach crab,” he muttered to himself. The note she left on the table had a time and address in the impossibly spidery font she wrote in.
“Fine, fine, fine. It’s what I wanted to do anyhow.”
He folded it into his pocket and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. It was annoyingly soon, across town at a Legion fort.
“Ros, you’re up. Get ready, I have a meeting, and you’re driving.”
“Aye!”
He considered a more complete escort, but if anyone tried overt action against him, the best option would be to flee. A fight in the streets was too messy, reputationally and legally.
Ros was the best of the best when it came to running and hiding in these streets.
The process was familiar now and it took next to no time for Rikad to be safely ensconced in their carriage, along with two steel casks of powdered chicken stew. They were about as big as a man could carry on his own, and in theory enough food for one man for one month. Easy math.
The Legion fort was a landmark, a huge sprawling fortification on the north side of Jagged Cove. It was the center of administration and training, as well as the first stop of countless recruits. The road to its gates was wide and smooth, and they made good progress, arriving with plenty of time for the meeting, which the note had scheduled for ‘late morning’.
The doors were iron-banded oak, thick enough to stop a battering ram, though they stood open in peacetime. A half dozen legionnaires stood in front of it. The carriage stopped, and Rikad hopped out. “Afternoon men, I’m Baron Steelheart.”
He scrutinised their armour, they wore heavy mail and half helms. One with a polished brass starburst on his helm had a shortsword on his hip, the rest held halberds. They wore red cloaks, all a bit faded but clean, other than two fresh-faced kids in green cloaks. As part of his role as Director of Intelligence, he’d read entire books on Legion procedures, so he saluted the gate commander casually.
“Emperor’s Peace, my lord. What’s your business?” The man was professional, his eyes alert and posture relaxed. Rikad approved.
“Meeting with a quartermaster, to discuss a supply contract.” Rikad made a point not to bore them with details.
“What’s the rank and unit of the man you're looking for? Cloak, fetch the logbook.” He said the last half to the youth in a green cloak.
“Sergeant Cruthersin, not sure the name of his unit, some supply company I imagine.”
A few tense moments later the logbook checked out and the green-cloaked youth led them deeper into the fort. The main road was flanked on either side by a smooth wall of barracks and offices. The narrow approach and high parapets left no doubt how an attacker would fare, assuming they got this far.
“So why'd they make you wear the different colour capes? Seems like a way to advertise you as a new guy.”
“Begging your pardon m’lord, I ain’t earned the red yet. ‘Sides, it lets people know I don’t know nothin’.”
“Hah, practical. If only there was a way to make lords that don’t know anything self-identify so honestly,” Rikad said with a smirk, but the young soldier didn’t join in.
They passed an immense parade yard, with hundreds of green-cloaked legionaries marching in rows and blocks. Five hundred shields rose at once. The sound cracked across the yard like a huge sailcloth tearing. Rikad frowned; they outstripped Pine Bluff’s force levels by a lot.
All that is the least dangerous tenth of a single legion. Saints save us if they are ever at our gates.
“A fresh cohort?” Rikad asked.
“Ain’t supposed to talk about legion business with civies. ‘Specially nobles. Sorry, m’lord.”
“That’s valid, no offense taken,” replied Rikad, gleaning what information he could with his eyes. Well-fed, motivated and cohesive. Uniform gear. A far cry from a noble’s retinue.
They were soon in front of a huge wood and stone warehouse with ‘No. 3’ painted in fading letters.
Their escort waited for him to dismount and for Ros to tether their horse and heft the two stew casks.
“Right this way, m’lord.” They were led into the halls and soon delivered to Sergeant Cruthersin’s office.
Rikad knocked, “Emperor’s Peace, I’m Baron Steelheart, friend of Director Aethlina.”
“Emperor’s Peace, come in! I wasn’t sure who to expect. What can I do for you? The Director mentioned there was a storable stew?”
Rikad sat down. “More than that, a whole new kind of rations. I hear that the field rations are both bland, and nutritionally incomplete?”
He surveyed the office. This wasn’t a real office, just a small crowded room of papers and a flimsy desk. No art, no crystal decanters or overstuffed sofas. More akin to a gang’s hideout than a lord's drawing room. The folding chair under him creaked constantly.
The quartermaster shook his head, “We do our best, the legion lives on its supplies. The details of what we got now are a state secret, but I am all ears to hear what you’re selling.”
Rikad smiled. Was it possible they thought a humble Director of Intelligence of a semi-adversarial power was some sort of a spy? The indignity!
“Ah, then the best answer is to try some! Can you send for a pot of boiling water? I’ll show you what happens when we mix waterless soup with water! Not to spoil the surprise, but it gets soupy.”
“Waterless soup? How unusual. May I?” the quartermaster reached for one of the casks that Ros held, and Rikad nodded.
“Oh! It’s lighter than I expected! This is a metal drum? Rather extravagant for rank and file?” he tapped on it and looked confused. “Legionary, fetch us a half pot of boiling water from the mess.”
The green-cloaked legionary just outside the door snapped to attention, saluted, and jogged off.
“Is there a trick to opening it? Iron packed rations, how unique.” The Sergeant turned it over in his hands.
Rikad produced a sharpened chisel. “I assume you have something to use as a mallet? And not iron, this is an alloy of steel, neither weevils nor stray arrows will damage dinner! I overheard the minds in charge of the process say that future production will be enameled, but these first ones are just waxed on the inside, painted on the outside.”
The quartermaster took the chisel, and hefted an oak nameplate from his desk to hammer it, cutting it open with rapid-fire clangs and bangs.
“I say, not soup at all, more like sandy flour, with lumps. And steel? Surely not? That would cost a hundred times what the soup would? Rather stew, I guess?” He corrected as he read the blocky letters under the icon of a chicken in a bowl.
No, cheaper than you’d expect. We’ve a small foundry turning out serviceable steel for our needs. I’ve bet it costs near two glindi a day to keep a man fed on campaign, even with just grain and dried meat. Am I close? The good news is this is only a touch more expensive. A hundred glindi per drum, and a drum is thirty soldier-days of food, active campaign days.”
“Woah, go back, what do you mean cheap steel? That doesn’t exist. There are rumours of knock-off steel knives all over the city, but no serious smithy has made a claim like that.”
Rikad paused, considering his options.
We can’t commit to arming the Legion, not when they might be ordered against us at any time. To say nothing of the level of scrutiny that would invite. A card best played later....
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