Skill Acquired: Hospitality's Reckoning
Level 4 Achieved
[Warning: Your power level exceeds the expected threshold for your current level. Subsequent levels may happen quickly.]
That last line made him pause.
"Overpowered?" Eugene muttered under his breath, rubbing his jaw. "That’s new."
Maybe it was because he had two Jennies now? Cozimia had been a powerhouse on her own, and now with the Jennie of Potential in the mix, he must have been stacking up abilities faster than the system expected. He didn’t fully understand how warlock levels worked here, but clearly, something about his progression wasn’t normal.
He tucked that thought away for later and glanced back toward the shadowed corner of the tavern. The one where that deep chuckle had come from.
His eyes locked onto the figure raising a goblet in a slow, knowing salute. Eugene squinted.
Was that guy...a chicken?
A second glance confirmed it: the man wasn’t just bird-like. He was a full-on chickenfolk—a short, round-bodied humanoid covered in white and brown mottled feathers. His beak curved slightly at the tip, giving him a perpetual look of mild amusement, and his dark yellow eyes gleamed with a sharpness that didn’t quite match his otherwise disheveled appearance.
Eugene tried not to stare, but his brain had already started spiraling.
It was still wild to him how this world worked.
Back on Earth, the closest thing to people like this were those creepy animatronic mascots at theme parks, but here? Here, people could just be animals. Well, humanoid versions of animals. Slap a -folk onto the end of a species and bam!—fully functional society members. Dogfolk, catfolk, lizardfolk, owlfolk, batfolk—whatever. It all worked.
And the crazy part? No one even got offended if you mislabeled them. Like, if you saw a tortoisefolk and called them a turtlefolk, they’d probably just shrug and go, “Eh, close enough.”
Did that happen all the time? Did tortoisefolk and turtlefolk have an ongoing rivalry about it? Or were they just collectively resigned to the mix-ups? Eugene was pretty sure that at some point, he was going to run into some poor sod who got called ‘ratfolk’ when they were actually a possumfolk, and he was dying to know how they handled it.
He blinked, shaking off the tangent, and refocused on the chicken man across the room.
The chickenfolk was an interesting sight. Despite his unassuming size, there was a strange mix of contradictions in his presence. Eugene had the fleeting thought that if this world had hipsters, this guy might qualify. He looked like someone who had been through a rough patch—his feathers were slightly ruffled, his tail plumage missing a few pieces like they’d been plucked or torn. He wore a vest that might have been stylish once, but now sat slightly crooked on his frame, one button missing, the fabric fraying at the edges. His cravat, entirely too large for his body, was tied in an exaggerated knot, making him look almost comically overdressed for the dingy tavern.
But his eyes?
Sharp. Too sharp. A little too calculated for a guy who looked like he should be bumbling around a barnyard.
The illusion of harmlessness only held if you didn’t pay attention.
His beak parted slightly in something resembling a smile. He gave a slow blink, the kind that usually meant I know something you don’t.
Then, in a voice as warm and friendly as a roadside merchant hawking snake oil, he said, "No need to look so surprised, friend. The name’s Galloquin, but you can call me Gall."
Eugene had the distinct, nagging feeling that he’d just stumbled into something interesting—maybe an opportunity, maybe a mistake, but definitely worth investigating.
With that in mind, he pushed himself up from his chair and made his way over to Galloquin’s table. The chickenfolk watched him approach with that same easy, knowing expression, lifting his goblet ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
Eugene slid into the seat across from him. "Eugene Calhoun," he said, offering his hand out of habit. "Figured I should at least say hello since you’ve been eyeing me."
Galloquin’s beak curved in something that might have been a smirk. He reached out to shake Eugene’s hand—and that’s when Eugene noticed. The chickenfolk didn’t have talons, or clawed fingers, or anything particularly bird-like at all. His hands, though covered in fine, pale feathers, were unmistakably human.
Eugene flinched slightly at the unexpected detail, though he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting in the first place. Did all birdfolk have hands like this? Did he want to know? He was suddenly aware of how warm Galloquin’s grip was—firm, but not overly strong, the kind of practiced shake a merchant or negotiator might use.
"Pleasure’s mine, Eugene Calhoun," Galloquin said smoothly. "I’ve been watching you do your thing around this tavern for a while now. Gotta say, I’m impressed."
Eugene nodded along, not sure where Gall was going with this, but the chickenfolk was already on a roll. He leaned back, gesturing loosely with one hand. "That’s why I can’t stand the whole ladder system. Kings, councils, magistrates—it’s all the same damn thing. A bunch of people perched at the top, making sure no one else gets high enough to knock them off. And the worst part? Most people don’t even realize they’re getting fleeced."
Eugene snorted. "Back home, we just call that ‘The Man.’"
Gall blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. "The Man, huh? I like that. Simple. Efficient. Almost poetic. And let me guess—The Man’s always got his boot on someone’s neck?"
Eugene raised his goblet in mock salute. "Exactly. The Man’s everywhere. You just gotta learn how to slip through the cracks."
Gall grinned, his feathers ruffling slightly. "See? That’s why I knew you were worth talking to."
He took another slow sip of his drink, then set it down, tilting his head slightly as if considering something. "Tell me, Eugene, you ever heard of The Number?"
Eugene raised an eyebrow. "The Number?"
Gall studied him for a moment, then something in his expression shifted—his eyes narrowing just slightly, his beak clicking softly. It was like a puzzle piece had just clicked into place in his head. "Wait a minute," he muttered, his voice slow and thoughtful. "That’s how I know you!"
Eugene tensed instinctively. "What?"
Gall snapped his fingers—or rather, made a soft clicking sound with his human-like fingers against his palm. "I saw you with Krungus. Night of the Eclipse of the Eternal Bloom. You were right there!"
The realization seemed to sober him up instantly. His previous looseness, the easy-going charm, all tightened just slightly. He studied Eugene now, not as a fellow trickster or an amusing drinking partner, but as something else entirely. Something worth scrutinizing.
"Huh," Gall muttered, more to himself than to Eugene. "So you’re his guy."
Eugene forced a casual shrug, hoping to keep the mood light. "I wouldn’t say his guy. We’re just… acquainted."
Gall scoffed, swirling his drink absently. "Acquainted with an ancient wizard, huh? Let me give you some free advice—don’t trust ‘em. Not one of ‘em. The longer a wizard’s been around, the more they think the world is just a game for them to tweak and prod at. And The Number? Please. They are The Man."
The sudden shift in tone was impossible to ignore. Eugene felt the air change, the warmth of their conversation cooling into something more rigid. Gall had gone from playful to wary, his gaze sharper now, more calculating.
Eugene didn’t like it.
He hesitated for a beat, then decided to test something. He let out an exaggerated sigh and took a sip of his drink before muttering, "Yeah, well, Krungus isn’t exactly the most reliable guy either. You should hear how many ridiculous stories he tells about himself. Pretty sure half of them are fake."
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Gall's eyes flicked back to him, his feathers barely shifting. He didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction.
"Now that," Gall said, tapping a finger against the table, "I believe."
A bit more time passed, the drinks dwindling as they found themselves caught in a cycle of roasting Krungus. Eugene tossed out exaggerated impressions of the old wizard’s grumbling paranoia, while Gall chimed in with mock-wisdom, mimicking the kind of grandiose nonsense wizards always seemed to spout.
"Oh, oh," Eugene chuckled, leaning forward, "how about this—‘The secret to true magical power is knowing when you’re already the most powerful in the room.’"
Gall burst into laughter, slapping the table. "Gods, yes! And then, lemme guess, he just refuses to explain what that means and vanishes in a puff of smoke, right?"
Eugene grinned, raising his drink in salute. "Exactly."
They laughed for a moment longer before Gall, still chuckling, wiped at his eyes with a feathered hand. Then, just as suddenly as before, his expression grew serious.
"You know, Eugene," he said, his voice quieter now, "I only have this strong of an opinion because I once worked for another member of The Number."
Eugene felt the weight in those words before he even had time to react. For a brief moment, his mind tried to fill in the blanks—Gall must have worked for Bahumbus or B’doom a long time ago. Maybe some old job gone sour, or just lingering bitterness from being under the thumb of a powerful wizard. That would explain his strong feelings, right? Not every member of The Number was some scheming tyrant.
Gall leaned in slightly, his once-relaxed posture shifting into something more guarded. His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial.
"I worked for Sharrzaman."
The name landed between them like a heavy stone, the surrounding noise of the tavern seeming to dull in Eugene’s ears. Gall’s eyes, sharp even in the dim light, searched his face for a reaction.
Eugene’s breath caught in his throat. The timing, the sheer coincidence of this conversation happening now—it was too perfect. The interface had mentioned a "rare coincidence," and this had to be it. Hazel Fortuna’s influence was all over this moment, wasn’t it?
He blinked, shaking off the thought. It was just paranoia. Just luck. Just—
His thoughts jumped to the interface. If this was one of those moments, he needed to get a read on Gall. A quick command in his mind, and the familiar flicker of magical text hovered at the edge of his vision, scanning the chickenfolk across from him.
[Scanning Target: Galloquin]
Name: Galloquin "The Clipped Wing"
Race: Chickenfolk (Gallusian)
Class: ???
Level: ???
Affiliations: Formerly: Sharrzaman's Retinue (Status: Defected)
Current Status: Unknown
Threat Assessment: Moderate (Deception Skills Detected)
Eugene exhaled slowly, scanning the details again, expecting—wanting—something more damning to appear. But nothing about Gall set off immediate alarms. No hidden affiliations, no secret warning of imminent betrayal. Just a moderate threat level and a nod to his skill at deception. Which, to be fair, Eugene already knew.
Gall, however, seemed to have made up his mind about something. He drained the last of his drink and stretched, feathers fluffing out slightly before settling back into place.
"Well, this has been a real pleasure, Eugene," he said, rising from his seat. "But I’ve got an appointment a few miles from here, and I’d rather not keep my associate waiting."
Eugene frowned. "That so?"
Gall grinned, adjusting his cravat. "Afraid so. But hey, if you ever need to find me, just swing by here and ask the bartender for Galloquin. He’ll point you in the right direction."
Eugene narrowed his eyes. "You make it sound like I should be looking for you."
Gall chuckled, tapping the table once. "Oh, I think you’ll want to. There’s plenty more to talk about, and I get the feeling you’re the type who hates an unfinished conversation."
With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, leaving Eugene sitting there, drink in hand, wondering just how much of this meeting had been orchestrated. And by who.
[Interface Notification: +50 Understanding, Coincidence Encountered]
[Level Up: Level 5 Achieved]
New Skill Unlocked: Instinctive Misdirection – Your natural ability to mislead and redirect attention has improved. Conversations flow in your favor more easily, and subtle deception becomes second nature.
+10% Charisma – Your words carry more weight, making persuasion and negotiation more effective.
+10% Awareness – You notice small details and inconsistencies more easily, making you harder to deceive.
Jennie Connection Bonus: Coincidence Synergy – When interacting with events marked as 'rare coincidences,' you gain additional insight and subtle nudges in the most coincidental direction.
[Warning: Your power level still exceeds expected thresholds. Unique progression detected.]
Eugene blinked as the notification flickered across his vision, the familiar surge of leveling up washing over him. He barely had time to process it—of course, this moment had granted him insight. Gall’s words, the timing, the entire setup—it was all part of something bigger. Something he was only just beginning to grasp.
As Eugene sat by himself at the table, he pulled up a few of his menus, scrolling through the abilities he had gained. There were far more than he had initially realized—many of them passive or gradual increases in power, which explained why he hadn’t noticed them taking effect. But mixed in with the minor improvements were some truly powerful abilities that he really needed to familiarize himself with.
Hospitable Rebuke – An automatic retaliation effect that delivers a subtle, yet forceful, magical reprimand to those who violate the rules of hospitality in your presence.
Welcoming Ward – A defensive ability that passively shields designated safe spaces, making it difficult for hostile forces to enter uninvited.
Communal Feast – Conjures a magical spread of food and drink that restores health to allies, removes minor afflictions like poison or fear. May only be used sparingly.
Hospitality’s Reckoning – The caster calls forth the full force of reciprocated goodwill and chance, sending arcs of golden lightning through every enemy who has wronged them or their allies. The bolts chain unpredictably, striking foes harder if they have committed more injustices, and subtly sparing those who have shown kindness. The final surge of power restores vitality to the caster’s allies, ensuring that fortune always favors the hospitable.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. No wonder the interface thought he was overpowered for his level. Between Cozimia and Hazel Fortuna, he was stacking magic in ways this system probably wasn’t built to track properly.
His curiosity piqued, he ran a scan on himself, this time paying attention to his gear as well.
[Scanning Target: Eugene Calhoun]
Name: Eugene Calhoun
Class: Warlock (Hospitality & Coincidence)
Level: 5
Affiliations: Bound to the Jennie of Hospitality & the Jennie of Coincidence
Threat Assessment: Unpredictable (Unique Progression Detected)
Equipped Gear:
- Black Cloth Robe – Provides medium protection and mild shielding.
- Agility Boots – Grants a +20% speed increase and +15% jump height.
- Bahumbus-Made Staff – Grants a little protection and increased casting power, also can hold the lantern at its top.
- Void Ruby Implant – Allows you to read stuff like this.
Eugene leaned back, drumming his fingers against the table. He wasn’t just some scrappy warlock with a couple of tricks anymore—he was accumulating real power. He needed to figure out what that meant before someone else decided for him.
Leveling up should have just been another notification, another step forward, but for some reason, it felt like more than that. Back on Earth, motivation had always been a struggle. It came in bursts—fleeting moments of inspiration followed by long stretches of frustration or apathy. He had spent so much time chasing productivity, forcing himself to care about things that felt hollow.
Like that one summer at Figeraldo’s, his old video store, when he spent six weeks in the stockroom, halfheartedly breaking down cardboard boxes and pretending to look busy. His manager, a balding guy with permanently sunken eyes, would shuffle past every few hours, nodding like he approved of Eugene's dedication, when really, Eugene was just moving the same three boxes around and counting down the hours until closing. The work never mattered, not really. No one cared as long as the store looked functional. He could have been a machine, and it would’ve made no difference.
But here? Here, motivation felt different. It wasn’t about keeping up appearances or slogging through pointless tasks for a paycheck that barely covered rent. It wasn’t about pretending to be useful. It was about survival, about progress that meant something. If he wanted to get stronger, he actually had to go out and do things—real things. The other day, he’d fought a pack of screaming, flesh-ripping worms out in the desert after asking Krungus to drop him off there for training. No backup, no easy escape, just him, the heat, and the churning mass of horrors he had to cut his way through. And now he could.
Every level, every skill, every choice had weight.
And if he was going to keep moving forward, he needed to start thinking bigger.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his lantern. The Veiled Pinnacle. That was where he needed to go next. If he wanted to keep Cozimia and the Jennie of Potential safe, it was the best place to hang the lantern and create a sanctuary. More than that, though, he needed to talk to them—really talk. Hospitality and coincidence weren’t just abstract ideas anymore; they were the foundation of his power. If he could understand them better, if he could figure out how to attract potential, maybe he could turn this power into something greater than just a collection of abilities.
Yeah. That was the move. The Veiled Pinnacle. A conversation with his Jennies. A chance to take control of the kind of warlock he was becoming.