Chapter 11:
Internship of Doom
The Espiritu Inheritance
Chapter Eleven: Internship of Doom
In the corporate world, an internship is where you fetch coffee for people who make ten times your salary. in Sarimanok, I had a feeling the interns were just used as bait for the land-sharks.My grand, razzle-dazzle plan to impress the Guild Inspector had one fatal flaw:I had zero actual field experience.Sure, I could sell a lighter. I could explain the ergonomic benefits of a windproof flame to a barbarian. But I had never actually been in a dungeon. I had never camped in the Whispering Woods. I was a merchant selling parachutes who had never been in a plane.If I wanted to save the town's economy—and keep my rent-free house—I needed to understand my customers. I needed market research.I needed a ride-along.The Day OffThe morning after Marikit’s sleep-talk incident, the shop felt different. The air was heavier, charged with the phantom weight of the memories she had mumbled about.I decided to run an experiment.“Marikit,” I said, as she finished sweeping the floor (for the third time).“Yes, Kuya?” She snapped to attention, clutching the broom like a spear.I walked over to the counter and opened the cash box. I counted out fifteen Pilak.“This is your sweldo (salary),” I said, placing the heavy silver coins in her hand. “Plus a performance bonus for the ‘Sardine Incident.’”Her eyes widened. “But Kuya... this is too much. It’s not even Friday.”“It’s an advance,” I lied.Then, I reached behind the counter and pulled out a plastic bag that was radiating heat.“And this,” I said, “is lunch.”I handed her the bundle. Inside were two Styrofoam containers from Ninang Josie’s: Grilled Liempo (pork belly with skin so crispy it violates noise ordinances) and a massive serving of Pancit Guisado (stir-fried noodles).“Take the day off, Mari,” I said gently. “Go home. Spend the day with your mama. Share the food. No shop. No work. Just rest.”She stared at me, confused. The concept of ‘Paid Time Off’ was clearly alien to a street urchin.“But... who will watch the door?” she asked anxiously. “Who will tell the customers not to eat the silica gel packets?”“I can handle the door,” I smiled. “Go. That Liempo loses its crunch every second you argue.”She hesitated, then bowed deeply, her mismatched eyes shining.“Thank you, Kuya. Thank you po.”She hugged the food to her chest and skipped out the front door, the silver coins clinking in her pocket.I watched her go until she disappeared into the crowd.“Alright,” I exhaled, turning back to the shop. “Just me and the inventory.”The shop felt wrong immediately.Too quiet. Too still.It wasn’t just the lack of footsteps or the absence of her cheerful commentary while labeling shelves. It was the shape she left behind. An emotional negative space. Like a silence you didn’t notice until it started echoing.By midday, the sun beat down hard enough to turn the wooden floorboards into a griddle. I hadn’t sold a single thing. I was bored.I flipped the sign to OUT FOR LUNCH — BACK BEFORE DUSK, which felt more like optimism than a promise.I was heading upstairs to take a nap when I heard it.Squaaawk.The sound came from below.The cellar.The Ghost in the BakeryI froze on the bottom step.“BEP,” I whispered. “Scan.”[SCANNING…][Audio Analysis: Avian characteristics detected.][Mana Density: Moderate to High.][Species Probability: Hyacinth Macaw variant. Or a very confused dragon.][RECOMMENDATION: Contact animal control. Or acquire a tranquilizer.]“I am not tranquilizing a bird,” I said.I grabbed the PRO LED Torch from under the counter. It was a tactical flashlight meant for security guards, capable of blinding a bear at fifty paces.I walked to the cellar door. It was locked, just as I’d left it.I pulled the bronze key—the Key of the Sun-Serpent—from my waist chain. I inserted it.Click-thunk.The mechanism turned with a sound that felt old and deliberate. When I pushed the door open, the smell hit me like a barrel of burô (fermented rice) left out in the sun—sour, damp, yeast, and dust.“Hello?” I called out. “Any ghosts home? I have eviction papers.”Only silence.I switched on the torch.Fwoom.Ten thousand lumens blasted down the stairs, cutting through the gloom like a lightsaber. The beam illuminated mildew-slick stone walls and a forgotten workspace.I descended carefully. The stairs were stone, worn smooth by generations of feet.At the bottom, the room opened up. It was a bakery kitchen, frozen in time. A massive brick oven crouched in one corner, cold and dark. A long wooden table sat in the center, dusted white with flour that had settled decades ago. Rolling pins. Bread molds. Cast iron pans.So this was it.Where Lola Ynez and Susan’s grandmother once baked bread for the town. I could almost picture my grandmother here, yelling at dough to rise faster.I took a step toward the table—Whoosh.Something swooped from the rafters.Wind slammed into my head. I stumbled, swore, and swung the torch wildly.“Back! I have a flashlight and I’m not afraid to use it!”The beam landed on the table.Perched atop a wooden bread mold was a bird.It was a Macaw, but huge—easily the size of an eagle. Its feathers were a brilliant, electric cobalt blue, glowing faintly in the dark. Yellow rings circled its eyes, giving it a perpetually judgmental expression.It watched me like I was a late delivery that had arrived broken.My bracelet—the copper wire twist I’d found in the inventory—began to thrum against my wrist.Squawk.The sound echoed off the cellar walls, harsh and guttural. But the meaning hit my brain clean and sharp, translated by the artifact.[Bracelet Translation:]“You have the eyes of your grandfather, but the posture of a tired clerk. Stand up straight, Pepito. You are an Espiritu, not a question mark.”I nearly dropped the torch.“You… you can talk?”The bird clicked its massive black beak. It tilted its head.Click. Whistle.[Bracelet Translation:]“I observe. You talk. Mostly to that glowing slab in your pocket about ‘margins’ and ‘efficiency.’ The Old Woman would have thrown a rolling pin at your head for letting the oven get this cold.”“BEP isn’t a slab,” I muttered, offended on behalf of my AI. “It’s an advanced… wait, why am I arguing with a parrot?”[BEP ALERT: Subject is a Familiar. Utilizing bracelet resonance to bypass linguistic barriers. Note: Tone is unusually condescending. I do not like him.]I straightened up, trying to look less like a terrified clerk.“I’m restoring the legacy,” I said. “I brought the shop back. Look at the lights upstairs! We sold out yesterday.”The macaw shifted, its talons clicking against the wood. It puffed its chest out.Squawk.[Bracelet Translation:]“You brought light. Not foundation. Lighters and salt-fish do not make a home. You are a peddler, boy. Ynez was an anchor.”The bird hopped closer, inspecting me.“And now you plan to go into the forest? With what? That soft cotton skin?”I swallowed. It knew.“I need to understand the market,” I said carefully. “I’m planning a field trip. Short. Escort-heavy. Observation only.”The bird stared at me.Silence.Not rejection. Not approval. Just assessment.Finally, the bird ruffled its feathers and turned its back on me.Whistle.[Bracelet Translation:]“Do not die. The paperwork for a new owner is tedious.”“What’s your name?” I asked.The bird looked back over its wing.Squawk.[Bracelet Translation:]“I am Kapitan. Now get out of my kitchen. You smell like detergent.”I retreated up the stairs, locking the door behind me.“Okay,” I exhaled. “I have a magical parrot in the basement who thinks I’m soft. Great.”But as I walked away, I felt a strange warmth in my chest. The house wasn't empty anymore. It had a guardian. A very rude guardian, but a guardian nonetheless.The ProposalI washed up, changed into my least-wrinkled hoodie, and checked my reflection.“Espiritu posture,” I muttered to the mirror. “Not petitioner posture.”I left the shop locked and headed for the Town Hall.I found myself seated across from Lakanbini Susan Sumilang in her office an hour later.The room smelled of old parchment, lemony polish, and her ever-present floral perfume—sharp, elegant, unmistakably her. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily.Susan sat behind her ornate desk like a chess master mid-match. She looked tired.“So, Pepito,” she said coolly, interlacing her fingers. “You mentioned having another idea regarding the Barnacle & Blade inspector?”“Yes,” I said, leaning forward. “Showing products isn’t enough, Susan. I can stack noodles until the roof caves in, but if the Inspector thinks our adventurers are incompetent, he’ll shut us down.”Her gaze sharpened. “Go on.”“I need to understand the workflow,” I said. “I want to accompany an adventuring party on a standard contract. A low-level dungeon run or a forest patrol.”The room went silent.“You want me to spend political capital I cannot easily replace,” she said flatly. “To send a merchant into a combat zone.”My bracelet warmed. Steady.I held her eyes.“Is it survivable?” I asked. “Impossible just means expensive.”“The Forest of Amihan is not a park, Pepito,” she said. “People get eaten. Regularly.”“I’m not dueling wolves. Escort contracts. Observation only. I have… protective measures.” (I patted my pocket where the solar power bank and taser were).She leaned back, studying me.“The Whispering Seagulls Guild is unstable,” she admitted, her voice dropping. “Since the Vice-Master stole the treasury, the remaining captains are paranoid. They don’t trust outsiders.”“But they trust you,” I countered. “And they need supplies. I can offer them a discount on provisions in exchange for the ride-along.”“You are bribing them with noodles?”“I am incentivizing them with logistical support.”Susan stared at me for a long moment. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched.“You are behaving like someone who plans to stay,” she said softly. “Sarimanok notices that.”“Absurd profits help,” I grinned.She reached for a quill—a real feather, sharp as a dagger. She pulled a piece of heavy cream paper from a drawer.Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.She wrote quickly, her hand elegant and precise. She melted red wax over the fold and pressed her signet ring into it.She handed it to me.“This is a letter of introduction to Acting Guild Master Tina Moran,” she said. “She is… difficult. But she owes me a favor.”She looked at me, her eyes serious.“Do not get eaten, Pepito. I have grown fond of the coffee.”“I’ll do my best,” I said, taking the letter.The Gear CheckI walked out of the Town Hall feeling lighter, but also terrified.I had the letter. Now I needed the gear.I found a quiet alleyway and pulled out my phone.“BEP, activate Consultant Mode.”[CONSULTANT MODE ACTIVE][Objective: Survive Internship.][Risk Assessment: High.][Target Environment: The Whispering Woods.]I scrolled through the inventory. I had plenty of consumer goods, but very little in the way of "Dungeon Survival."“Okay, let’s see what we have in the ‘Random Junk’ folder.”I scrolled past the boxes of old cables and Christmas decorations.[Item Found: Industrial Staple Gun]Description: Heavy-duty. Spring-loaded.Potential Use: Close-range deterrent?[Item Found: Pepper Spray (Keyring Size)]Description: Expired 2023.Potential Use: Spicy seasoning for wolves. Or blinding a goblin.[Item Found: Duct Tape (3 Rolls)]Description: The universal fix.Potential Use: Everything.[Item Found: First Aid Kit (Car Variant)]Description: Band-aids, gauze, antiseptic wipes.Potential Use: Crucial.“It’s not exactly a +5 Sword of Smiting,” I muttered. “But it’s a start.”[ADVISORY: I recommend acquiring a shield. Or running shoes.]“I have the sneakers,” I said. “And I have the noodles. Diplomacy first, BEP. Violence second.”[Statistically, in a fantasy forest, violence is usually first, second, and third.]I walked toward the Guild Hall—a massive structure made of bleached driftwood and whale bones that dominated the lower docks.Step One of not getting eaten had officially begun.I touched the feather in my pocket—a gift from Kapitan the Macaw, or maybe just a shed feather I picked up. Either way, I took it as a sign.I wasn't just Pepito the Call Center Agent anymore.I was Pepito Espiritu. And I was about to go on the worst business trip of my life.
In the corporate world, an internship is where you fetch coffee for people who make ten times your salary. in Sarimanok, I had a feeling the interns were just used as bait for the land-sharks.My grand, razzle-dazzle plan to impress the Guild Inspector had one fatal flaw:I had zero actual field experience.Sure, I could sell a lighter. I could explain the ergonomic benefits of a windproof flame to a barbarian. But I had never actually been in a dungeon. I had never camped in the Whispering Woods. I was a merchant selling parachutes who had never been in a plane.If I wanted to save the town's economy—and keep my rent-free house—I needed to understand my customers. I needed market research.I needed a ride-along.The Day OffThe morning after Marikit’s sleep-talk incident, the shop felt different. The air was heavier, charged with the phantom weight of the memories she had mumbled about.I decided to run an experiment.“Marikit,” I said, as she finished sweeping the floor (for the third time).“Yes, Kuya?” She snapped to attention, clutching the broom like a spear.I walked over to the counter and opened the cash box. I counted out fifteen Pilak.“This is your sweldo (salary),” I said, placing the heavy silver coins in her hand. “Plus a performance bonus for the ‘Sardine Incident.’”Her eyes widened. “But Kuya... this is too much. It’s not even Friday.”“It’s an advance,” I lied.Then, I reached behind the counter and pulled out a plastic bag that was radiating heat.“And this,” I said, “is lunch.”I handed her the bundle. Inside were two Styrofoam containers from Ninang Josie’s: Grilled Liempo (pork belly with skin so crispy it violates noise ordinances) and a massive serving of Pancit Guisado (stir-fried noodles).“Take the day off, Mari,” I said gently. “Go home. Spend the day with your mama. Share the food. No shop. No work. Just rest.”She stared at me, confused. The concept of ‘Paid Time Off’ was clearly alien to a street urchin.“But... who will watch the door?” she asked anxiously. “Who will tell the customers not to eat the silica gel packets?”“I can handle the door,” I smiled. “Go. That Liempo loses its crunch every second you argue.”She hesitated, then bowed deeply, her mismatched eyes shining.“Thank you, Kuya. Thank you po.”She hugged the food to her chest and skipped out the front door, the silver coins clinking in her pocket.I watched her go until she disappeared into the crowd.“Alright,” I exhaled, turning back to the shop. “Just me and the inventory.”The shop felt wrong immediately.Too quiet. Too still.It wasn’t just the lack of footsteps or the absence of her cheerful commentary while labeling shelves. It was the shape she left behind. An emotional negative space. Like a silence you didn’t notice until it started echoing.By midday, the sun beat down hard enough to turn the wooden floorboards into a griddle. I hadn’t sold a single thing. I was bored.I flipped the sign to OUT FOR LUNCH — BACK BEFORE DUSK, which felt more like optimism than a promise.I was heading upstairs to take a nap when I heard it.Squaaawk.The sound came from below.The cellar.The Ghost in the BakeryI froze on the bottom step.“BEP,” I whispered. “Scan.”[SCANNING…][Audio Analysis: Avian characteristics detected.][Mana Density: Moderate to High.][Species Probability: Hyacinth Macaw variant. Or a very confused dragon.][RECOMMENDATION: Contact animal control. Or acquire a tranquilizer.]“I am not tranquilizing a bird,” I said.I grabbed the PRO LED Torch from under the counter. It was a tactical flashlight meant for security guards, capable of blinding a bear at fifty paces.I walked to the cellar door. It was locked, just as I’d left it.I pulled the bronze key—the Key of the Sun-Serpent—from my waist chain. I inserted it.Click-thunk.The mechanism turned with a sound that felt old and deliberate. When I pushed the door open, the smell hit me like a barrel of burô (fermented rice) left out in the sun—sour, damp, yeast, and dust.“Hello?” I called out. “Any ghosts home? I have eviction papers.”Only silence.I switched on the torch.Fwoom.Ten thousand lumens blasted down the stairs, cutting through the gloom like a lightsaber. The beam illuminated mildew-slick stone walls and a forgotten workspace.I descended carefully. The stairs were stone, worn smooth by generations of feet.At the bottom, the room opened up. It was a bakery kitchen, frozen in time. A massive brick oven crouched in one corner, cold and dark. A long wooden table sat in the center, dusted white with flour that had settled decades ago. Rolling pins. Bread molds. Cast iron pans.So this was it.Where Lola Ynez and Susan’s grandmother once baked bread for the town. I could almost picture my grandmother here, yelling at dough to rise faster.I took a step toward the table—Whoosh.Something swooped from the rafters.Wind slammed into my head. I stumbled, swore, and swung the torch wildly.“Back! I have a flashlight and I’m not afraid to use it!”The beam landed on the table.Perched atop a wooden bread mold was a bird.It was a Macaw, but huge—easily the size of an eagle. Its feathers were a brilliant, electric cobalt blue, glowing faintly in the dark. Yellow rings circled its eyes, giving it a perpetually judgmental expression.It watched me like I was a late delivery that had arrived broken.My bracelet—the copper wire twist I’d found in the inventory—began to thrum against my wrist.Squawk.The sound echoed off the cellar walls, harsh and guttural. But the meaning hit my brain clean and sharp, translated by the artifact.[Bracelet Translation:]“You have the eyes of your grandfather, but the posture of a tired clerk. Stand up straight, Pepito. You are an Espiritu, not a question mark.”I nearly dropped the torch.“You… you can talk?”The bird clicked its massive black beak. It tilted its head.Click. Whistle.[Bracelet Translation:]“I observe. You talk. Mostly to that glowing slab in your pocket about ‘margins’ and ‘efficiency.’ The Old Woman would have thrown a rolling pin at your head for letting the oven get this cold.”“BEP isn’t a slab,” I muttered, offended on behalf of my AI. “It’s an advanced… wait, why am I arguing with a parrot?”[BEP ALERT: Subject is a Familiar. Utilizing bracelet resonance to bypass linguistic barriers. Note: Tone is unusually condescending. I do not like him.]I straightened up, trying to look less like a terrified clerk.“I’m restoring the legacy,” I said. “I brought the shop back. Look at the lights upstairs! We sold out yesterday.”The macaw shifted, its talons clicking against the wood. It puffed its chest out.Squawk.[Bracelet Translation:]“You brought light. Not foundation. Lighters and salt-fish do not make a home. You are a peddler, boy. Ynez was an anchor.”The bird hopped closer, inspecting me.“And now you plan to go into the forest? With what? That soft cotton skin?”I swallowed. It knew.“I need to understand the market,” I said carefully. “I’m planning a field trip. Short. Escort-heavy. Observation only.”The bird stared at me.Silence.Not rejection. Not approval. Just assessment.Finally, the bird ruffled its feathers and turned its back on me.Whistle.[Bracelet Translation:]“Do not die. The paperwork for a new owner is tedious.”“What’s your name?” I asked.The bird looked back over its wing.Squawk.[Bracelet Translation:]“I am Kapitan. Now get out of my kitchen. You smell like detergent.”I retreated up the stairs, locking the door behind me.“Okay,” I exhaled. “I have a magical parrot in the basement who thinks I’m soft. Great.”But as I walked away, I felt a strange warmth in my chest. The house wasn't empty anymore. It had a guardian. A very rude guardian, but a guardian nonetheless.The ProposalI washed up, changed into my least-wrinkled hoodie, and checked my reflection.“Espiritu posture,” I muttered to the mirror. “Not petitioner posture.”I left the shop locked and headed for the Town Hall.I found myself seated across from Lakanbini Susan Sumilang in her office an hour later.The room smelled of old parchment, lemony polish, and her ever-present floral perfume—sharp, elegant, unmistakably her. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily.Susan sat behind her ornate desk like a chess master mid-match. She looked tired.“So, Pepito,” she said coolly, interlacing her fingers. “You mentioned having another idea regarding the Barnacle & Blade inspector?”“Yes,” I said, leaning forward. “Showing products isn’t enough, Susan. I can stack noodles until the roof caves in, but if the Inspector thinks our adventurers are incompetent, he’ll shut us down.”Her gaze sharpened. “Go on.”“I need to understand the workflow,” I said. “I want to accompany an adventuring party on a standard contract. A low-level dungeon run or a forest patrol.”The room went silent.“You want me to spend political capital I cannot easily replace,” she said flatly. “To send a merchant into a combat zone.”My bracelet warmed. Steady.I held her eyes.“Is it survivable?” I asked. “Impossible just means expensive.”“The Forest of Amihan is not a park, Pepito,” she said. “People get eaten. Regularly.”“I’m not dueling wolves. Escort contracts. Observation only. I have… protective measures.” (I patted my pocket where the solar power bank and taser were).She leaned back, studying me.“The Whispering Seagulls Guild is unstable,” she admitted, her voice dropping. “Since the Vice-Master stole the treasury, the remaining captains are paranoid. They don’t trust outsiders.”“But they trust you,” I countered. “And they need supplies. I can offer them a discount on provisions in exchange for the ride-along.”“You are bribing them with noodles?”“I am incentivizing them with logistical support.”Susan stared at me for a long moment. Then, the corner of her mouth twitched.“You are behaving like someone who plans to stay,” she said softly. “Sarimanok notices that.”“Absurd profits help,” I grinned.She reached for a quill—a real feather, sharp as a dagger. She pulled a piece of heavy cream paper from a drawer.Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.She wrote quickly, her hand elegant and precise. She melted red wax over the fold and pressed her signet ring into it.She handed it to me.“This is a letter of introduction to Acting Guild Master Tina Moran,” she said. “She is… difficult. But she owes me a favor.”She looked at me, her eyes serious.“Do not get eaten, Pepito. I have grown fond of the coffee.”“I’ll do my best,” I said, taking the letter.The Gear CheckI walked out of the Town Hall feeling lighter, but also terrified.I had the letter. Now I needed the gear.I found a quiet alleyway and pulled out my phone.“BEP, activate Consultant Mode.”[CONSULTANT MODE ACTIVE][Objective: Survive Internship.][Risk Assessment: High.][Target Environment: The Whispering Woods.]I scrolled through the inventory. I had plenty of consumer goods, but very little in the way of "Dungeon Survival."“Okay, let’s see what we have in the ‘Random Junk’ folder.”I scrolled past the boxes of old cables and Christmas decorations.[Item Found: Industrial Staple Gun]Description: Heavy-duty. Spring-loaded.Potential Use: Close-range deterrent?[Item Found: Pepper Spray (Keyring Size)]Description: Expired 2023.Potential Use: Spicy seasoning for wolves. Or blinding a goblin.[Item Found: Duct Tape (3 Rolls)]Description: The universal fix.Potential Use: Everything.[Item Found: First Aid Kit (Car Variant)]Description: Band-aids, gauze, antiseptic wipes.Potential Use: Crucial.“It’s not exactly a +5 Sword of Smiting,” I muttered. “But it’s a start.”[ADVISORY: I recommend acquiring a shield. Or running shoes.]“I have the sneakers,” I said. “And I have the noodles. Diplomacy first, BEP. Violence second.”[Statistically, in a fantasy forest, violence is usually first, second, and third.]I walked toward the Guild Hall—a massive structure made of bleached driftwood and whale bones that dominated the lower docks.Step One of not getting eaten had officially begun.I touched the feather in my pocket—a gift from Kapitan the Macaw, or maybe just a shed feather I picked up. Either way, I took it as a sign.I wasn't just Pepito the Call Center Agent anymore.I was Pepito Espiritu. And I was about to go on the worst business trip of my life.
Author's Note:Meet Kapitan, the Familiar. Every good wizard needs an owl; every good merchant needs a sarcastic parrot who judges their margins.The Internship: This arc is a classic "Escort Mission" flipped on its head. Usually, the hero protects the merchant. Here, the Merchant is the protagonist trying to figure out how to be protected.Tina Moran: The Guild Master. Expect someone scary.Next Chapter: Entering the Guild Hall. The "Sardine Diplomacy" is put to the test. And we meet the party.- Author
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