Milo squared his shoulders, looking every inch the proud trainee. I could almost see the imaginary cape fluttering behind him, trailing dust, optimism, and a distinct lack of common sense.
The outskirts of Millcross had a battered dignity: crooked fences patched with hope, fields sprouting more rocks than wheat, the mud as stubborn as the people. The farmer's barn stood at the end of a rutted lane, flanked by cabbage patches and watched over by a suspicious chicken. More than one curtain twitched as we passed, a silent chorus of neighbors hoping for a good show and maybe, if fate was kind, a new disaster to gossip about.
Waiting by the barn was the farmer's wife: a mountain of a woman, apron knotted tight, arms folded, her stare sharp enough to flay cheese. Her eyes traveled from Milo's shiny badge to my battered boots and landed, unimpressed, on the sack of turnips I'd brought as a peace offering.
"So you're the heroes," she announced, managing to make the word sound like an insult. "About time. Those monsters chewed through the grain, the tools, and half the wash line. Nearly got my best ladle."
"Not the ladle," I deadpanned, and Milo snorted. The woman's frown deepened.
The farmer tried for a smile. "Don't mind Hilda. She hasn't slept a night through since the rats moved in."
"Neither has anyone who's ever met her," someone muttered from a nearby fencepost. Hilda glared, and the fencepost wisely shut up.
"Just clear the barn," she snapped. "Don't burn it down. And if you see my copper pot—"
"We'll fetch it," Milo promised, all bravado.
The barn loomed, doors hanging open like a dare.
We paused outside for reconnaissance. "Remember," I whispered, "slow, quiet, and stay behind me. We don't know how many there are or if they "
A tremendous squeal exploded from inside, followed by a suspicious crunch.
Milo gulped. "Think that was a rat?"
"Either that or Hilda's ladle seeking vengeance."
We crept to the door. The system flashed a window:
[Mission Status: "Barnyard Mayhem." Objective: Clear the barn of giant rats. Bonus: Recover lost household items. Penalty for setting barn on fire: Social exile, plus you'll owe Hilda a new wash line.]
The barn's interior was a symphony of chaos. Hay drifted in golden waves from the rafters. Everything reeked of old grain, rat musk, and desperation. Shafts of light cut the gloom, illuminating gnawed boards and mounds of "evidence" best left undescribed.
In the shadows, something moved low, fast, armored in dirty brown fur, the size of a terrier and shaped like a nightmare. Its back bristled with patchy scales. Its eyes glowed hellish red.
Milo ducked behind a barrel, whispering, "You sure they're rats?"
"Unless the farm breeds baby boars with fashion sense."
A second rat waddled into view, sniffing the air. It wore, inexplicably, a dented saucepan like a helmet. Behind it, more shapes rustled one dragging what looked like Hilda's missing wash line, another gnawing on a suspiciously familiar copper pot.
"Time for reconnaissance," I muttered. "Just observe. No heroics."
Milo saluted, then scurried along the edge of the barn, eyes narrowed, trying his best to move like a shadow. I watched, part proud, part horrified, as he tripped over a rake, toppled a pile of hay, and sent three rats into a panicked dash. They darted around his ankles one pausing to glare as if offended at the intrusion then vanished into the gloom.
"Stealth: needs work," I called.
Milo hissed, "I'm blending in!"
"Maybe with the haystacks."
The system popped up:
[Reconnaissance Skill: 2/10. Stealth Modifier: -3 (Socks Too Loud).]
I snorted, then crept forward myself. I used the faintest flicker of fire magic, just enough to brighten the dark corners without actually scorching anything. Rats blinked at the light, snarled, and retreated—one pausing to swipe at my boots with a tiny, armor-plated paw.
"Hey!" I yelped, hopping. The sole sizzled where a tiny burst of fire had singed it.
The system chimed in, dry as ever:
[Achievement Unlocked: "Burning Desires But Not Your Own Boots."]
With the light raised, we saw the enemy: at least a dozen giant rats, some armored with scrap metal, some simply fat and surly. Their eyes watched us with a blend of hunger and insulted pride.
Milo, emboldened, grabbed a broom and advanced, trying to look fierce. "Get out, you overgrown cheese thieves!"
The largest rat nearly half my height, with a patch of fur scorched silver rose on its hind legs, bared its yellow teeth, and hissed.
"Uh, Arielle?" Milo's bravado wilted.
The rat lunged. Milo swung the broom with all the elegance of a flustered duck. The broom connected, the rat screeched, and Milo lost his grip broom, boy, and rodent tangled in a slapstick whirl that sent them careening into a pile of hay.
I rushed forward, fire ready but carefully low. I didn't want a repeat of last month's "Unintentional Bonfire Incident."
Three smaller rats darted for the door. I flung a burst of flame in their path not enough to harm, just enough to scare. They skittered away, squealing, one leaping into an empty barrel and slamming the lid behind it with its tail.
The farmer, watching from the safety of a milk crate, cheered. "That's right! Show 'em who's boss!"
Back inside, chaos reigned. Milo, half-buried in hay, found himself face-to-snout with the armored rat. It hissed, swiped, and he scrambled backwards, narrowly missing a bite. The rat pursued, relentless.
"Milo!" I shouted.
"I'm fine sort of maybe not!"
The rat cornered him by a stack of feed sacks. I blasted a ribbon of flame just enough to make the rat pause, singe its whiskers, and shriek in fury. It whirled and charged at me this time.
Time slowed. Milo's eyes were huge. My heart kicked up, angry and afraid for him in a way I'd never let myself be before.
I dropped the fire and swept a shovel off the wall, brandishing it like a sword. "Back off, cheese-breath!"
The rat hesitated, sniffed, and sensing actual danger bolted through a broken board in the wall, leaving a chunk of fur and three other rats scattering in its wake.
Milo staggered up, eyes watering, face smeared with hay and pride.
The system pinged, smug:
[Motherly Instincts Unlocked Achievement Pending.]
We took a breath, surveying the wreckage. Milo's cap was askew, his badge dusty but intact. I was missing a bootlace and dignity, but otherwise unharmed.
"Next time, maybe a smaller quest?" I suggested.
Milo grinned, chest heaving. "This is way better than hiding from bullies."
Outside, the farmer and Hilda peeked in, astonished to see the barn only slightly worse for wear and us, alive.
But we weren't finished yet. Rats still rustled in the corners, defiant, plotting their next cheese heist.
I squared my shoulders, broom in one hand, fire ready in the other.
"Ready, partner?"
Milo nodded, eyes shining.
The real mayhem was just beginning.