Life kept moving. It had been a few months since Rashan unlocked his perks, and things were going well.
With Indomitable Stamina, he had pushed himself into a new level of training—three-a-days. Something that would have broken a normal person.
Jalil was doing his best to keep up, but even with alchemical treatments, he still needed to rest. His body simply wasn't built to endure what Rashan could. So, they had come to a compromise. Jalil trained with him in the mornings and evenings, but Rashan handled midday conditioning alone. And while Jalil took a rest day every seventh day—something every warrior needed to recover—Rashan didn't.
Not anymore.
His body could handle it now. His stamina regenerated too quickly, his fatigue never lasted long enough to make true rest necessary. But he wasn't heartless. Out of his own stipend, Rashan paid for Jalil's alchemical recovery treatments to keep him from falling behind. Jalil had never asked for it, but Rashan wasn't going to let his closest companion suffer just because his own body had evolved past normal limits.
Some worried. His mother, especially. His father watched but said nothing. Adrien had grunted at him once and muttered something about "maniacs and their stubbornness" before continuing their drills.
But he didn't have time to care.
The war was coming. Resources would tighten. Supply chains would break down. The time to train, learn, and prepare was now.
That was also why he was expanding his finances.
His father had doubled his stipend again thanks to the success of his navigation maps, and instead of hoarding wealth, he had started investing. The smartest thing to do? Make more.
For now, he was spending more than he was making, but he had a simple philosophy: You have to spend money to make money.
One of his biggest projects was a better version of hardtack bread.
Hardtack was a staple of military rations, a dense, durable bread that could last for years without spoiling. It was used by sailors, soldiers, and travelers as emergency food, but the standard recipe was barebones—flour, salt, and water. It could last indefinitely, but it was rock-hard and bland.
His version? It was better.
His goal was to create something that could last ten years while also being nutritious, easier to eat, and more palatable.
He had refined the ingredient list to something practical but superior: wheat flour for structure, salt for preservation and flavor, and water to bind it all together. Honey acted as a natural preservative while also adding subtle sweetness and energy. Dried fruit—dates, figs, or apricots—provided additional nutrients and flavor. Chickpea flour, or ground chickpeas, added protein and fiber, making it far more nutritious than standard hardtack. The final touch was finely ground animal bone meal, safe for consumption, but rich in calcium and minerals, something most long-term rations lacked.
This was no longer just hardtack—it was a functional survival food. Something better suited for soldiers, sailors, and explorers.
The project was being headed by Amira, alongside a close friend of hers, a middle-aged baker who had years of experience.
This was just the beginning. If this worked? He could scale production.
Food was a weapon, just as much as steel and magic.
And Rashan intended to be prepared.
Rashan arrived at the bakery, the scent of flour and heat lingering in the air as workers moved with steady efficiency. Amira was already in the middle of things, her presence commanding yet effortless as she directed the workers with sharp, precise gestures.
The baker in charge, a dark elf named Drenas Varvyn, was a stocky, middle-aged Mer with deep gray skin and short-cropped black hair peppered with silver. His sharp crimson eyes flickered with the calculating gaze of a man who had spent years in his trade. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing flour-dusted forearms, and he barely spared Rashan a glance before muttering something to a worker about the heat of the ovens.
Drenas was good at what he did. That much was obvious. But he was also blunt, efficient, and had no time for nonsense. Rashan liked that.
He surveyed the operation. Half a dozen workers were stationed around the workspace—kneading, measuring, baking. It was controlled, methodical, but far from perfect.
His finances were bleeding.
He had about a year and a half before this venture drained him dry—assuming he sold nothing. That was the real gamble. If he couldn't move product, he'd have wasted a fortune on ingredients, wages, and alchemical testing to test the shelf life of his bread.
He stepped forward, picking up a finished piece of hardtack from the cooling racks. The biscuit was solid, firm, but not quite where he wanted it. He tapped the edge against the table, testing the resistance, then pressed a thumb against it. There was still a slight give—too much moisture.
Rashan clicked his tongue in thought.
"The dryness still isn't right," he said aloud.
Drenas snorted, arms crossed. "Aye, and the sky's blue."
Rashan ignored the jab. "The drier the ingredients, the longer the shelf life. We're sitting at four and a half years. I want ten."
"Then cut the honey."
"No. The honey's non-negotiable. It adds preservation and energy. What about extending the drying process before baking?"
Drenas huffed. "We can try, but that means longer prep times and slower production."
Rashan leaned against the counter, considering the tradeoff. Slower production meant higher labor costs, but a longer shelf life meant better value.
Amira, who had been listening in, finally spoke. "If we can prove ten years of preservation, we can sell to long-term suppliers—mercenary groups, naval fleets, even the Imperial Army. No one else is offering something that lasts that long and keeps soldiers on their feet."
Rashan gave a slow nod. That was the real goal.
They weren't just selling food. They were selling sustenance that endured.
He exhaled, making his decision. "Run a batch with an extended drying process. I'll cover the extra wages for the test phase."
Drenas smirked. "You got coin to burn, little noble?"
"I have investments to make, old baker."
Drenas let out a rough chuckle and turned to his workers, already barking orders. Rashan watched for a moment before stepping back, arms folded.
Rashan sat at the wooden worktable, his fingers drumming absently against the surface as he stared at two very different pieces of bread.
One was a piece of traditional hardtack—a small, pale, rock-hard square that had been baked until it was drier than the Alik'r Desert. It was dense, unyielding, and if thrown hard enough, could probably knock a man unconscious.
The other was his bread.
A rich, golden-brown square, slightly denser than regular bread but nowhere near as hard as traditional hardtack. It had a faint sweetness from the honey, a hint of warmth from the dried fruits baked inside, and was still firm enough to last years without crumbling to dust.
Two versions of the same idea. One built on necessity. The other built on improvement.
He picked up the hardtack first, rolling it between his fingers. This was what soldiers ate. What sailors carried aboard their ships. What mercenaries packed before long campaigns. It was designed for one thing—to last. Not to be enjoyed. Not to provide anything beyond raw, empty sustenance.
He knocked it against the table, the dull thunk making Jalil glance up from across the room.
"You planning to fight someone with that?" Jalil asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Considering it," Rashan muttered, examining the texture.
Jalil smirked and leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. "You do realize hardtack is supposed to be soaked before eating, right? You're not just supposed to gnaw on it like a desperate bandit."
Rashan exhaled. That was the problem, wasn't it?
Regular hardtack needed to be softened in water or soup before it could even be eaten properly. Soldiers hated it for that exact reason. Sure, it lasted forever, but unless you had time to prepare it, it was about as appetizing as chewing on old wood.
His bread, though? He picked it up next, pressing his fingers into it slightly. It was firm, yes, but not a rock. It had a slight give. A resilience. He tore a small piece off and popped it into his mouth. The taste was rich in comparison—subtle sweetness from the dried fruit, the nuttiness of chickpea flour, the familiar grainy texture of well-baked bread. It didn't need soaking. It was ready as is.
"This is going to change things," Rashan muttered, mostly to himself.
Jalil looked over at him again, finally interested. "You mean if it works?"
"When it works." Rashan tossed the hardtack aside and leaned back, arms crossed. "Think about it—soldiers march all day. They barely get time to cook. If they can just eat their rations without spending an hour soaking it, that's a game changer."
Jalil tapped his fingers against the chair. "So you're betting people will pay for convenience?"
"Convenience and nutrition." Rashan pointed at his bread. "The regular stuff? It's just flour and water. No real nutrients. That's why soldiers get sick after eating it for months straight. But this?" He held up his own version. "This has honey, fruit, and extra protein. You could live off it without your body breaking down."
Jalil gave a thoughtful hum, finally sitting up properly. "So what's the problem?"
Rashan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Drying process still isn't perfect. Right now, it lasts four and a half years. I want ten. If we can push it further, we can sell it to the navy. The longer it lasts, the bigger the market."
Jalil snorted. "And here I thought you just liked playing baker."
"I like playing businessman," Rashan corrected with a small grin.
Jalil shook his head but grinned back. "You know… most nobles don't sit around eating stale bread and thinking about supply chains."
"Most nobles are idiots." Rashan tossed another piece of hardtack onto the table. "I'd rather build something real than waste time at meaningless gatherings."
Jalil rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. We know you don't go to those things unless your parents force you."
"Exactly." Rashan gave him a smirk.
Jalil grabbed a piece of Rashan's bread and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Alright. I'll give you this much—it's good. Way better than that crap they serve in garrisons."
"Exactly," Rashan said.
He stared down at both pieces again—one old and outdated, the other new and necessary.
This wasn't just about making food. It was about creating something better.
And if this worked?
He wouldn't just be another noble.
He'd be the one supplying the future of war.
As he looked at his bread, he thought back to his last life—back when he was still on Earth.
He'd seen it before—starvation.
Not in textbooks. Not in documentaries. Up close. In the field.
As a Navy SEAL, he'd operated in some of the darkest corners of the world, and among all the horrors of war—the blood, the smoke, the screams—it was the hunger that stayed with him the most.
Silent. Slow. Unforgiving.
It wasn't the dramatic kind. No collapsed skeletons clutching their chests in the streets. It was quieter than that. Dirt mixed with rice. Babies too weak to cry. Men selling dignity for scraps. Villages where the dead were buried in silence because mourning took too much energy.
That was what war really did. It didn't just break bodies. It hollowed out souls.
In his past life, he'd never been able to do much about it. He followed orders, completed missions, moved on. The machine kept turning, and he had to turn with it.
But here—things were different.
He wasn't a saint. He'd done things—things he didn't talk about, even in his own mind. But if this business took off, if he could gain some power, some reach…
Maybe he could help. Just a little.
Maybe he could make sure that when the next war came—and it would—someone, somewhere, wouldn't have to starve.
And that thought… it meant more to him than gold, glory, or revenge ever could.