Ruho spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing his cargo pants with the dedication of someone who had literally no other clothing options. The water in the bath turned from clear to pink to brown to almost black as layers of dried blood, mud, swamp water, and crocodile viscera dissolved out of the fabric. He had to drain and refill the bath four times, watching the contaminated water swirl down some magical drain that probably led to nowhere because castle plumbing made no sense.
But finally, eventually, the pants were clean. Relatively clean. Clean enough that they didn't smell like death anymore, which was a significant improvement over their previous state.
He wrung them out as best he could, water streaming onto the marble floor, and carried the dripping cargo pants up the stairs. Past the second floor. Past the third floor. Up the narrow spiral staircase to the roof access where he'd fired the ballista at the Gigantosuchus.
The two moons were setting on the horizon, and the first rays of actual sunlight were breaking across the plateau. He draped the pants over the stone parapet, spreading them out to maximize sun exposure. The warm morning air would dry them eventually. Hopefully before the pirates arrived.
"Azirel," Ruho said, still wearing nothing but his towel. "What are the pirates doing right now?"
"Let me check," Azirel said, and suddenly a translucent window materialized in the air in front of Ruho, like a screen, but made of light and energy. It showed a bird's-eye view of his island, rendered in surprising detail.
Ruho could see his plateau marked with a small icon that looked like a castle. And there, on the southern coast about thirteen kilometers away, were two dots representing the pirate ships.
"They finished docking about thirty minutes ago," Azirel explained. The view zoomed in, showing the ships in more detail. They were massive vessels, three-masted, with black sails and what looked like artillery mounted on the decks. "Two hundred forty-eight men per vessel. That's four hundred ninety-six pirates total, give or take."
"Almost five hundred," Ruho whispered. "Five hundred armed pirates."
"Currently they're setting up camp on the beach," Azirel continued. The map showed tiny dots moving around the ships, organizing into groups. "They're also hunting. See those?" He highlighted several large bird-like shapes inland from the beach. "Those are giant moa birds. Flightless, about twelve feet tall, very tasty apparently. The pirates are killing them for food."
Ruho watched as the tiny pirate dots pursued the bird shapes. "How long until they reach me?"
"Well, you're thirteen kilometers from the shore," Azirel calculated. "Through pretty rough terrain. If they move at a normal pace, carrying supplies, setting up intermediate camps... maybe two days? But here's the problem."
The map zoomed out slightly, showing the topography. Ruho's plateau was clearly the highest point on this part of the island.
"They're going to want to scout," Azirel explained. "Standard pirate procedure when claiming a new territory is to reach the highest elevation and survey the area. That plateau of yours? That's the obvious choice. They'll probably send a scouting party within the next day or so."
"Shit," Ruho said. "Shit shit shit. I need defenses. I need—"
"YOU NEED THE TURRET SYSTEM!" Vexor's voice boomed suddenly, his presence manifesting with enthusiasm. "I've been waiting for you to have enough mana to power it!"
"Turret system?" Ruho turned away from the map. "What turret system?"
"The automated defensive turrets I installed throughout the castle!" Vexor said proudly. "Hidden compartments in the walls, retractable artillery on the roof, crossbow mechanisms in the arrow slits—the whole nine yards! But they require mana to operate. Specifically, they need two hundred mana points per ten-minute activation cycle."
Ruho's hope deflated immediately. "That's all my mana. For ten minutes. That's nowhere NEAR enough time to defend against five hundred pirates!"
"Well, it's not meant for sustained combat," Vexor said, sounding slightly defensive. "It's meant for repelling initial assaults. Buying time for reinforcements. Demonstrating overwhelming firepower to discourage attackers. Ten minutes of automated turret fire is quite devastating, I assure you."
"I don't HAVE reinforcements!" Ruho shouted. "It's just me! Alone! In a towel!"
"The towel situation is temporary," Vexor pointed out. "Your pants are drying."
Ruho ignored Vexor's rambling about turret specifications and defensive architecture, and headed back downstairs. He needed to think. Needed to plan. Needed to—
The smell hit him as soon as he reached the first floor.
The entrance hall still reeked. Dried blood from when he'd tracked it in after butchering the Gigantosuchus. The puddle of vomit from when he'd watched the blood hounds massacre each other. Various other biological fluids he'd deposited during his many near-death experiences.
The castle was a biohazard zone.
"I can't live like this," Ruho muttered, looking at the stains on the stone floor. "I need to clean this up. But I don't have cleaning supplies. I don't even have a mop."
"You could summon someone to clean it," Azirel suggested.
"Summon someone—oh! The Patron skill!" Ruho's eyes lit up. "I could summon someone who's good at cleaning! Who are the best cleaners in history?"
"Well, there's Florence Nightingale," Azirel said. "She basically invented modern sanitation practices in hospitals. Saved thousands of lives through proper hygiene protocols."
"Perfect! Who else?"
"Beatrice Beeton, also known as Mrs. Beeton," Azirel continued. "Victorian-era expert on household management. Wrote the definitive guide on cleaning, cooking, and domestic organization."
"Great! More options!"
"And Joseph Bazalgette," Azirel finished. "He designed London's sewer system. Revolutionized urban sanitation. Literally saved the city from cholera epidemics."
"Excellent!" Ruho said. "So I'll just summon one of them and—"
"WAIT A FUCKING SECOND, HELL NO!" Azirel's voice exploded with sudden outrage.
Ruho stopped. "What? What's wrong?"
"You can NOT just summon the greatest minds of modern sanitation to clean your floors!" Azirel sputtered. "That's—that's insulting! That's degrading! These are legendary figures who changed the course of human history! Florence Nightingale founded modern nursing! Joseph Bazalgette saved millions of lives! You can't just call them up to mop your entrance hall!"
"But that's what the Patron skill is for," Ruho protested. "Summoning people to help me."
"To FIGHT for you!" Azirel corrected. "To use their expertise in combat situations! Not to do your chores! That's like asking Albert Einstein to help you with your math homework! It's technically using his skills, but it's a complete waste of his potential and deeply disrespectful!"
"So I can't use the Patron skill to clean?"
"You CAN," Azirel said, his tone making it clear he was furious about this loophole. "Technically the skill doesn't have restrictions on what tasks you assign. But you SHOULDN'T. Because it's morally wrong. These are real people—well, real dead people—with legacies and dignity. You don't summon historical legends to scrub blood off your floor."
Ruho looked at the disgusting state of his entrance hall. Then at his towel. Then back at the mess.
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked. "Just live in filth?"
"Get a mop and do it yourself like a normal person!" Azirel shouted. "Or wait until you can afford to hire actual cleaning staff! Or learn basic household magic! There are OPTIONS that don't involve disrespecting the legacy of sanitation pioneers!"
"I don't have a mop," Ruho said flatly. "Vexor didn't include one."
"Then improvise! Use a stick and a rag! Use magic water from your bath! Figure it out!"
Ruho stood there in his towel, in his blood-stained castle, thirteen kilometers from five hundred pirates, with no clothes, no cleaning supplies, and a divine skill he apparently wasn't allowed to use for its most practical application.
"This is the worst afterlife ever," he muttered.
"You keep saying that," Azirel replied.
"Because its true"