Chapter 13: The Grove of Iron and Ash
We saw the walls long before we reached them—massive trunks fused with wire and steel, rising like a fortress the forest itself had agreed to build. No nails. No uniform cuts. Just raw weight and clever engineering. Sula said the trees used were Ironwood—dense, fire-resistant, hard enough to dull a Legion axe. I believed her.
Ironwood Grove wasn't a village.
It was a statement.
From the ridge, I could see how far it spread—not upward like Meridian's towers, but outward. A wide sprawl of lodges, watchtowers, and winding lanes flanked by barricades and wind-fluttered banners. Where Meridian rose like a jewel above the wilds, Ironwood Grove braced against them, thick with smoke and grit. A frontier capital, scarred and proud.
Curie floated beside us in a steady arc, scanning the walls as we approached. "Construction indicates excellent durability and tactical foresight. I detect multiple layers of defensive redundancy—modular ramparts, collapsible inner doors, overlapping fields of fire. This settlement was not built for aesthetics."
Sula smirked faintly. "No. It was built to survive."
We followed the old trade path until we reached the gates—twin slabs of ironwood reinforced with plates from downed Shell-Walkers, each one scarred from years of weather and war. A pair of sentries stepped forward—Kansani warriors in bone-masked helmets, axes at the ready. They didn't shout. They didn't posture. Just watched.
Sula stepped ahead, her voice calm but unmistakable. "Sula of the Split-Braid, returning with urgent cause."
The guards recognized her instantly. One of them nodded once, then thumped his spear against the ground.
The gates creaked open, not fast—but with purpose.
Beyond them, Ironwood Grove exhaled.
Smoke from cooking fires curled between lodges. Children darted through the alleys, weaving past adults in armor and ash-stained workers carrying crates of salvaged wire and bundled herbs. It wasn't chaos. It was life—loud, moving, always braced for something harder just over the horizon.
Sula led us inward, but her eyes drifted toward the east—the distant black plumes rising past the outer perimeter. The forgehouses. The Pile. The domain of the Ironbones.
We weren't headed there. Not yet.
Our path would take us deeper into the Grove's core—toward the warrior lodges, the infirmary, and the place where Jorta still lay. Waiting.
The guards' eyes didn't linger on Sula for long.
They drifted instead to the floating shape behind her—metal gleaming faintly in the waning light, arms twitching with precise mechanical grace. Curie hovered just above the ground, her optic pulsing with soft, non-threatening light, but that didn't stop the shift in posture.
One of the guards tensed, fingers wrapping tighter around the haft of his axe. The other took half a step back—not fear, not exactly. But memory.
Old.
Deep.
Not every Kansani lives long enough to fear machines.
But every warrior remembers someone who didn't.
Sula caught the movement instantly. She stepped sideways, planting herself between Curie and the guards, her voice sharp—not confrontational, but final.
"She's with me."
The older of the two guards—broad-shouldered, his face lined with sunburns and war paint—squinted at Curie like she was a ghost. "Mister Handy frame," he muttered. "Saw one turn on my cousin during a salvage run. Spun her shoulder out with one arm, burned the rest with the other."
Sula didn't flinch. "That wasn't this one."
He glanced at her—then at Rion, and finally back to the floating machine.
Curie, to her credit, said nothing at first. Then her optic adjusted, locking politely onto the speaker. When she spoke, her voice was soft. Not mechanical. Not cold.
Just… gentle.
"Bonsoir, guardsmen," she said, tilting forward in a slight aerial bow. "I mean no harm. I exist only to heal and to help. Your loss—while tragic—is not unknown to me. But I am not your enemy."
The guard blinked, caught off guard by the warmth in her tone.
"I was placed in sleep," she continued, "before the machines lost their way. I do not bear their anger. Only memory."
The younger guard shifted again, uncertain. The older one grunted, staring hard at her for a few seconds more—then finally stepped aside.
"She bleeds metal," he said to Sula. "If she turns..."
"She won't," Sula said.
He didn't argue. Just stepped back, clearing the path. The gate creaked wider.
We walked in.
And Ironwood Grove unfolded around us like a living heartbeat made of wood, metal, and memory.
The wide central avenue sloped gently downward into a basin of activity—what passed for a market, though "market" felt too tame a word. This wasn't a few scattered stalls. It was a small town's worth of trade, sound, and barter humming in every direction.
Shouts and haggling rang out from beneath salvaged tarps and dyed-cloth awnings. Traders passed sacks and pouches from hand to hand—each one jingling with the unmistakable sound of wealth in this world. Not coins. Not paper. Shards.
Raw metal, shorn from the bones of dead machines—bladed, jagged, sometimes filed into discs but often left in their irregular, glittering forms. I heard them clink and clatter as they were weighed, counted, and traded. The sound was harsh, not melodic, like stone knives grinding in a pouch.
To my left, a stall overflowed with fire-colored roots and pale blue herbs that looked like someone had pulled them straight from a bioluminescent swamp. A trader with white tattoos on her throat took a pouch from a customer, shook it next to her ear, then nodded and passed over a bundle of dried stalks. The pouch vanished into her belt.
Farther on, a young man with the arms and shoulders of a blacksmith was holding court beside a weapon stand. He was gesturing animatedly with a gleaming new blade—wide-edged, single-forged, with a curve near the tip that reminded me of kukris. A Kansani warrior stood before him in silence, head tilted, arms crossed. She didn't need to speak. The smith spoke for both of them.
I watched her pass him a folded scrap of hide—inside, shards clinked.
She took the blade without ceremony and turned back toward the warrior paths.
To the right, a mannequin stood propped behind a stall, armored in a full battle set. Bone-plated pauldrons, salvaged machine plating across the chest, and a mask of sculpted ceramic fused with what might've once been the shell of a Watcher. The armor gleamed in the filtered sun. The glyphs scratched into the wooden sign hanging beside it were meaningless to me—curling, slashing symbols painted in black dye. My Focus flickered with an attempt to translate, then gave up.
Still couldn't read it. Not yet. The system needed more samples. Or more time.
Across the lane, something even more familiar hit me like a half-forgotten memory.
An Oseram merchant.
Bearded, broad-chested, and already mid-argument with a pair of Kansani scouts. His wagon was a rebuilt chassis of an old transport, the tires long gone—replaced by thick wooden rollers etched with spiral burn marks. One side had been folded down into a display shelf. Rows of flint-igniter tools, bone-handled knives, multi-purpose vises, and even a crossbow rig with three tension dials arranged like a safe lock. The man's grin was wide and sunburned.
A crude banner hung above his head, scorched into a flattened sheet of steel.
I couldn't read the glyphs there either. But I didn't have to.
The swagger said everything.
Sula followed my glance. "He's back early," she muttered.
"Who?"
"Kardin. Oseram merchant. Shows up every other moon with a new story, a new wrench, and the same bad jokes. Never stays long. Just long enough to trade and get drunk."
"Respected?"
She gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Tolerated. He doesn't cheat. And he's smart enough not to ask for more than he's worth."
"Still standing," I said.
"Exactly."
Curie hovered beside us, optics flicking back and forth between the armor, the produce, the shouting vendors. Her voice, while soft, was tinged with marvel.
"This is… fascinating. A decentralized economic structure stabilized entirely on shared need and environmental scarcity. Remarkable. I am detecting nearly ninety-two distinct trade dialects—though Kansani seems dominant in this cluster."
The guards at the gate had stopped watching us, but I could still feel a few eyes from nearby rooftops. Sentries posted above, tracking movement like a reflex.
The Grove didn't welcome you like a home.
It let you walk like you belonged—until you didn't.
Sula tilted her head toward a side path that branched away from the market core.
"Come on. We're not here to shop."
I nodded, letting my eyes take in one last look at the Grove's beating heart.
The clang of shards.
The scent of iron, spice, and steam.
The quiet weight of a world still trying to live like it had something worth keeping.
I moved to follow Sula, but my eyes lingered on Kardin's wagon for a beat longer.
The Oseram merchant was already elbow-deep in his next pitch—waving a heavy-bladed tool that looked like a cleaver married a shock coil. His voice carried over the hum of the market, full of charm and calculated volume. A few passing warriors paused. One even reached for a pouch of shards.
And then I remembered what Sula had said.
He's back early.
That wasn't just small talk. Not from her.
If Kardin was smart—and merchants like him usually were—he wouldn't change his route without a reason. Too risky. Too many patrols, too many mouths whispering in the wrong ear. He ran these circuits like clockwork. Early meant something.
Maybe the Red Raids were heating up.
Maybe he saw the storm coming and was trying to bleed as much profit from the frontier as he could before the borders tightened. Before the Carja started claiming trade routes in blood instead of Shards.
I frowned, filing the thought away behind my eyes.
The Red Raids. I couldn't remember how long they lasted. Only that by the time of Aloy's Proving—five years from now—they were done. Snuffed out. A horror from just before the timeline started to shift.
But that meant right now, the Sundom might still be swinging.
And if Kardin was running scared—or greedy—either way, he'd know.
When Jorta was standing again, I'd find him.
And I'd ask how close the sun was to spilling over the horizon.
But I filtered these thoughts away and followed Sula. As we passed the edge of the market, the noise thinned. The path curved around a communal firepit, now smoldering with the last embers of a midday cook, and cut toward a series of longhouses built into the slope of the hill.
That's when I heard it.
Shouting. Not alarm. Not pain.
Play.
I slowed, turning slightly toward a clearing just off the path—where a handful of children had gathered in a loose ring. At first glance, I thought it was a sparring session—light, youthful footwork, mock blades made of wood and bone.
But then I saw the costumes.
One of the boys had smeared dark mud across his face and chest in jagged lines—trying, with childlike precision, to mimic the Kansani war paint. The lines were off-center and crooked, but the spirit was there. He stamped his foot into the dirt, let out a low growl, and raised his wooden spear in both hands.
Opposite him, another boy wore a dented cooking pot for a helmet and a tattered red blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. He wielded a short stick as a gladius, moving in practiced circles, quoting words I couldn't quite make out—but they had cadence. Authority.
The others watched from the edge of the clearing, laughing, cheering, placing imaginary bets.
Jorta and the Centurion.
They were reenacting the duel.
I blinked, letting the moment settle.
The pot-helmeted boy lunged, his gladius swinging in a wide, untrained arc. The mud-striped one caught it with his stick-spear and shoved forward, making a deep, guttural noise meant to imitate a battle cry. He was smiling. They both were.
Even here—only days removed from blood and fire—the story had spread. The legend had already begun to crystallize. Not as a tragedy. As memory.
As myth.
Sula paused beside me, arms crossed, watching silently.
She didn't interrupt.
Neither did I.
Let the next generation learn what it meant to fight.
As we watched the boys clash with their makeshift weapons—one painted in crooked stripes, the other wearing a cooking pot and shouting dramatic commands—a soft sound came from behind me.
Curie.
She hovered just over my shoulder, her optic flicking between the children, arms tucked gently beneath her chassis. "Ohhh," she cooed softly, her voice full of delighted wonder. "They are pretending. How precious."
Her tone wasn't mocking—it was earnest. Like something ancient and gentle inside her had stirred.
"They're mimicking your cultural champions," she added, almost academically. "Play, imitation... it's foundational for young developmental learning. I am very glad it persists." I figured she had some psychology programs tucked away in her.
Sula glanced back at her, brow raised, but didn't say anything. And Curie didn't offer more.
She simply watched, quietly pleased.
Sula's voice came low. Not sentimental. Just matter-of-fact.
"Jorta's been the champion of the Grove for as long as I can remember."
I glanced at her, but didn't speak.
She kept watching the play-duel, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"When I was little, I thought it was just me who saw him that way. The way he stood. The way he made the Legion hesitate without raising his spear. Like he was this unreachable mountain"
She paused, tilting her head slightly as the Centurion boy lunged forward with a dramatic grunt, only to get whacked in the leg and collapse with a groan loud enough to draw laughter from the others.
"But the older I got, the more I realized—everyone sees him like that. Not as a god. We don't worship men. But as something closer."
She gestured lightly to the clearing. "A standard. A weight to measure against. The kind of warrior you pretend to be when you're just learning how to hold a blade."
Her voice steadied, threading into something heavier.
"And if he doesn't walk again… if he never holds that spear…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't have to.
Because every child in that circle would carry the silence like a scar.
I looked at her then—really looked—and for the first time since we entered the Grove, I saw it:
She wasn't just trying to save her uncle.
She was trying to save the idea of him, too.
We walked on, the laughter fading behind us, toward the longhouse where Ironwood Grove's champion waited—wounded, but not yet fallen.
The longhouse was built like the bones of a great beast—arched timber beams bound by wire, shadowed cloth hanging in layers across the ceiling to keep the heat in. The air inside was thick with smoke, herbs, and quiet tension.
Jorta lay near the back, resting on a raised platform of padded hides and machine-fused planks. His leg was bound in a tight wrap of red-dyed cloth and ash-paste, strapped firm with bands of softened bark and shaped bone. A copper bowl steamed beside the bed, pungent with boiled moss and bitter root.
Three healers stood nearby—older Kansani women marked with ochre on their cheeks and long coils of wire at their belts. They paused when we entered, eyes narrowing.
One of them stepped forward. "He sleeps," she said firmly. "Too much motion risks tearing the wound again."
Sula didn't blink. "He needs more than rest. He needs restoration."
The elder frowned. "We've kept him alive."
"And he'll stay half-alive if that's all you're offering."
Another healer bristled. "The ash stopped the bleeding. The stim steadied the nerves. We've done all that can be done."
Sula took a step forward, tone sharpening—not in anger, but conviction. "You've done what you know. But I've brought someone who knows more."
The healers looked past her toward the floating machine, optics softly glowing, metal limbs folded in patient stillness.
"This," Sula said clearly, "is Curie. A healer with lost knowledge from the time of the Old Ones. She was put to sleep before the fall—before the madness in the machines. Her mind still holds what even our ancestors forgot."
There was a silence.
Not skepticism. Not yet. Just the weight of the claim.
Curie floated forward, her voice as soft as ever. "May I examine the patient?"
The lead healer narrowed her eyes. "And if he dies from your touch, machine?"
"Then blame me," Sula said flatly, stepping aside. "But at least do not blame yourselves for refusing help."
The healer's jaw tightened, then she gave the smallest of nods.
"Do it," she said.
Curie drifted to Jorta's side, her stabilizer arm extending. A soft beam of blue light swept across the leg. Her tone remained warm—but clinical.
"Compression was applied correctly. Stitching pattern: functional. Ash-paste: anti-inflammatory. Infection risk minimized." She tilted her optic, adjusting her scan. "However... muscle has begun to retract. Scar tissue forming. Neural cohesion incomplete. Without intervention, the limb will not recover its full capacity."
She turned toward them, gently but firmly.
"You did what you could with what you had. But it will not be enough."
I stepped forward as the Nanoboy unlocked, cold light spilling across my wrist. The stimulator—sleek, dark, humming with stored precision—rose from the mist and into my hand.
Sula looked to the healers, then to her uncle.
"We do this now," she said. "Or not at all."
No one objected.
Because at that moment, no one could.
The healers stepped aside, but one lingered—reaching down with careful hands and pressing two fingers to Jorta's brow.
"Champion," she said softly. "Time to wake."
Jorta stirred.
Not gently.
His breath caught sharp in his throat, and his good arm flexed instinctively. Before his eyes had fully opened, his torso twisted, hand already reaching for the spear leaned against the wall. When his gaze locked on Curie—hovering by his side, arms folded in patient stillness—his body surged.
Pain clamped him down a second later, but not before a snarl formed in his throat. "Machine—!"
Sula stepped in fast, placing both hands on his chest with just enough pressure to halt the motion.
"Uncle," she said firmly. "She's not a threat. Not a war drone. Her name is Curie. She's a healer—one of the Old Ones, from before the madness."
Jorta's eyes flicked between Sula and the floating frame. His jaw clenched, breath still shallow.
"I know what those things are," he growled. "I've seen what they do when they snap."
"She hasn't snapped," Sula replied. "She was locked away before that happened. Her mind's intact. Her purpose is healing, not harm."
He didn't look convinced—but he didn't lunge again either.
Curie, ever poised, floated forward slightly—stabilizers humming softly, her tone warm and professional.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she said cheerfully. "Please do not alarm yourself. I am designated CVRIE—Contagions Vulnerability Robotic Infirmary Engineer. But 'Curie' will suffice."
She gave a slight aerial bow, delicate for someone made of steel and carbon.
"I have no hostile functions. Only programming for wound triage, infection control, and critical tissue regeneration. Your niece has requested that I assist in the restoration of your leg. With your consent, I would very much like to do so."
Jorta squinted at her, then at me, then back at Sula.
"She's not here because she saved us," Sula said, softer now. "She's here because she can. And because we don't have anyone else who can do what she's about to try."
Another pause.
Then, with a grunt low in his throat, Jorta leaned back into the bedding, his hand falling away from the spear.
"Do it," he muttered. "If I'm to fall, I'd rather fall trying to stand."
Curie's optic pulsed, and one of her manipulator arms extended toward the stimulator in my hand.
"I believe," she said primly, "we shall stand together instead."
Curie floated to Jorta's side with a grace that belied her frame, stabilizer arms adjusting with surgical precision. The stimulator hovered between her claws—sleek and black, the silver filaments along its casing pulsing in readiness.
She rotated it once, scanning the seal lines with a diagnostic beam.
"Unit integrity: confirmed," she announced softly. "Redundant injections available. However... anesthetic reserves have fully degraded."
Her optic turned toward Jorta.
"I regret to inform you that this will be extremely painful. The standard protocol included a localized numbing agent—but the compound has long since destabilized. I have no means of replacing it."
Jorta gave a dry, rasping exhale. "You think that scares me?"
Curie hovered slightly closer. "It should, monsieur. This procedure will reactivate dormant neuromuscular pathways, re-sequence inflamed nerve endings, and forcibly stimulate cellular repair. Pain is not only expected—it is, unfortunately, integral to the reaction."
Jorta's lip curled—not quite a smile, but close. "Pain is an old friend," he said quietly. "Lets me know I'm still alive."
Sula's gaze flicked to him, jaw set.
Curie gave the faintest pause. Then:
"Very well. I shall proceed."
Jorta's lip curled—not quite a smile, but close. "Pain is an old friend," he said quietly. "Lets me know I'm still alive."
Sula's gaze flicked to him, jaw set.
Curie gave the faintest pause. Then:
"Very well. I shall proceed."
Curie turned to me and extended one manipulator.
I handed the stimulator over.
With a hiss of pressurized release, the casing expanded slightly—venting a brief puff of stale, sterilized gas. The injector extended: a dual-pronged device, longer than I expected, each needle trailing a faint pulse of light.
Sula took a step back, jaw tight.
The healers watched with silent dread.
Curie aligned the device to the side of Jorta's upper thigh, just below the worst of the wrappings. Her voice was low. Gentle. Efficient.
"Stabilizing."
A soft ping echoed from her internal sensors.
"Target locked."
Jorta's eyes opened, hard and ready.
Curie paused—just one second longer—and then:
"Administering."
The dual needles punched in with a quiet, mechanical hiss.
Jorta didn't scream.
He growled—a deep, brutal sound that rolled up from his chest like thunder. Every muscle in his body went rigid, his hand seizing the edge of the bed so hard the wood creaked. The skin around the injection site pulsed with a sudden, red heat.
Then the stimulator lit up.
Silver threads snaked outward from the entry point—tiny arcs of energy crawling along nerve lines, pulsing down through his thigh. His leg jerked, kicked, then spasmed violently as the muscles tried to reknit under forced command. Sula reached for him—but Curie held up one claw.
"Do not touch him," she said. "The process must complete uninterrupted."
Jorta's jaw clenched. His breath hissed between his teeth. Sweat beaded along his brow.
It lasted less than thirty seconds.
But it felt like war.
When the light finally dimmed and the stimulator retracted, his leg dropped back to the bed—twitching slightly, but no longer locked. Curie retracted the device with a gentle hum and nodded once, satisfied.
"Procedure complete. Neural conductivity restored to 87%. Muscle fiber damage reversed by 64%—regeneration ongoing. Full mobility should return within one to two days."
Jorta was panting, but his hand released the bed.
Sula moved to his side, lowering herself until their eyes were level.
He didn't speak.
But the look he gave her—sharp, grateful, stunned—was enough.
Jorta was panting, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled force. His hand uncurled from the bed, fingers twitching faintly, the sweat on his brow catching the firelight.
Sula moved to his side, lowering herself until their eyes were level.
He didn't speak.
But the look he gave her—sharp, stunned, and something deeper—cut through the silence.
It wasn't the relief of pain ending.
It was the kind that came from not failing. From knowing he'd still be able to stand for the tribe. That he wouldn't be remembered as the champion who fell and never rose again.
Not while breath still moved in his lungs.
Not while his leg still listened to his will.
Curie floated back a pace, cleaning the needles with a soft hiss of sterilizer mist. Her voice came gently:
"I apologize for the discomfort."
Jorta exhaled through his nose, still recovering, but he rasped just loud enough for us to hear:
"Discomfort's easy."
He let his head fall back against the bedding, eyes closed.
"It's the shame that kills you."
The silence didn't last long.
One of the healers—an elder with silver thread braided into her war beads—stepped forward, eyes fixed on the leg. Her movements were cautious, respectful. Not out of fear of Jorta, but of what had just happened.
She crouched low, hands hovering just above the flesh, not quite touching. Then, slowly, she peeled back the last wrap of red-dyed cloth from around the thigh.
The others leaned in beside her.
Their expressions shifted from wary skepticism to something else entirely—wonder.
The skin was still flushed from the injection, but already the worst signs of damage were fading. The swelling had gone down. The angry color of internal bruising was receding. More importantly, the leg was no longer stiff—there was a subtle twitch to the muscle, like it was already listening to the commands Jorta hadn't dared try to give it in days.
The elder's voice was low. "By ash and iron…"
Another healer reached forward, brushing two fingers lightly across the outer seam of the wound. The muscle didn't recoil. It flexed, faintly, in response.
"She wasn't lying," the younger of them whispered. "It's rebuilding him."
"No salve could've done this," the third murmured. "Not in a day. Not ever."
They looked at Curie now—not with suspicion, but something bordering reverence. Like a spirit-walker had stepped from myth into firelight.
Curie said nothing. She merely hovered, her optic dimmed slightly in what could almost be interpreted as humility.
The elder bowed her head, not low—but enough.
"You have our thanks," she said quietly. "And our eyes."
Curie's optic brightened, her voice soft and steady.
"It is I who should thank you," she replied. "Though I was unaware during my stasis, I am glad to know that the knowledge I carry could be put to use once more. That it served life, not silence."
She floated a little higher, stabilizers adjusting with quiet precision. There was no pride in her tone—only fulfillment.
"To be restored… and to help in kind… it is all I could have hoped for."
The three healers exchanged looks. Then the elder—still kneeling beside Jorta's leg—turned back toward Curie.
"Would you teach us?" she asked. "Not all at once. Not more than we can carry. But what you know… what we can learn?"
Curie paused.
Then, with a gentle whirr, she tilted forward in a soft bow.
"I would be delighted," she said warmly. "To share what I know is as sacred as practicing it. If you are willing to learn, I am willing to teach."
But then she added, after a beat:
"And in return… I would ask to learn from you."
The room stilled again—not with tension, but surprise.
"I possess data," Curie continued, "but little experience with the natural medicines and field preparations common in this region. Understanding the practical applications of your available resources will allow me to suggest better treatments—faster, safer recoveries tailored to what you can truly provide."
The younger healer—barely more than twenty winters—reached instinctively for a stylus and a scrap of stretched hide.
The elder nodded once, solemn.
"Then we will learn together."
Sula exhaled beside me, the weight on her shoulders finally beginning to ease.
And for the first time in centuries, a healer of the Old World and the healers of the New sat together—not divided by time, but bound by purpose.
As the healers gathered closer to Curie, questions already forming, hands drifting toward bone-styluses and bundles of notes, I took a small step back—giving them space.
Sula stayed at her uncle's side. He was still breathing hard, eyes closed now, but not from pain. From relief. From something deeper. The war hadn't left his bones—but for the first time in days, it wasn't winning.
That's when it hit.
A soft ping echoed in the back of my skull—subtle, precise. My Focus flickered, and the corner of my vision lit up with a clean pulse of blue.
[QUEST COMPLETE]Blood of the Champion
Objective: Restore Jorta's ability to fight and stand before the Kansani once more. Locate medical aid within Newton Medical, Retrieve the Regeneration Stimulator, Ensure safe application, Secure tribal acceptance of treatment
Status: SUCCESS Reward Unlocked: — Kansani Reputation: — Curie Affinity: Established — Title Gained: Restorer of the Champion — Future Opportunities Unlocked
The notification faded—
But then came the second ping.
Then a third.
Two separate pulses rolled across my Focus display, clean and quiet as falling ash.
[LEVEL UP]
Experience Gained: Major Milestone
Skill Points Awarded: 13
Perk Point Available: 1
[LEVEL UP]
Consecutive Achievement Bonus
Skill Points Awarded: 13
Perk Point Available: 1
Total: 26 Skill Points 2 Perk Points
I exhaled slowly, feeling it hit deeper than just numbers on a screen.
This wasn't just about mechanics. It wasn't XP farming or quest clearing. This was growth.
Real growth.
I'd navigated tribal distrust, the ruins of the Old World, a room full of tradition and faith—and found a way to bridge it with something nearly lost to time.
We hadn't just saved Jorta's leg.
We'd restored what he meant to these people.
I opened the interface mentally, letting the skill tree bloom across my vision in quiet branches of flickering lines. Medicine, Melee, Speech… new options waiting to be filled in.
But I didn't spend the points yet.
Not here. Not now.
Later—when it was quiet, when I could think, plan, choose.
For now, I simply closed the overlay and stood there a moment longer, the sounds of Curie explaining post-treatment care mixing with the scribble of bone styluses and the low murmurs of healers leaning in to listen.
Curie spoke softly with the healers, her voice full of calm authority, but I could feel someone watching me. Not Sula. Not the others.
Jorta.
I turned, and sure enough, he was looking straight at me—his breath steady now, his eyes clear despite the pain still hanging at the edges of every movement.
He didn't try to sit up. Didn't need to.
His voice was gravel—low, rough, but steady as stone.
"You fulfilled the task Elder Heka gave you," he said. "You crossed the ruins. You brought back what we could not. And more than that…"
He glanced toward Curie, then back at me.
"…you gave this tribe a second chance to learn the sacred art of healing. Not just wounds—but hope."
Sula stood silently nearby, but I caught the flicker of something in her eyes.
Jorta went on.
"You didn't run. You didn't exploit our need. You didn't betray the trust we placed in you."
His gaze didn't waver.
"And for that, Rion… you have mine."
He raised one hand—a gesture more deliberate than grand. It hung in the air like a vow.
"If you have a request," he said, "speak it. So long as it does not dishonor the Grove or its people, I will do everything within my power to see it fulfilled."
I didn't answer right away.
I looked at him—at the man everyone called champion, who had just offered me anything within his power.
And I didn't ask for coin. Or gear. Or status.
I stepped forward, steady, meeting his gaze.
"There is something," I said.
Jorta's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I want to learn," I said. "Deathclaw Kenpo."
The air in the room seemed to pull tight. Even the healers, still seated with Curie, stilled.
"I've seen what it can do," I said. "It's not just brutality—it's control. A style forged for this world. And I've got things ahead of me that demand more than skill. They demand something foundational."
Jorta didn't answer right away.
His gaze dropped—not in shame, but in thought. His hand rested on the edge of the bedding, fingers curling and uncurling against the hides.
"Years ago," he said slowly, "I would've said no."
Sula glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I built that style for a Kansani frame. For weight. Pressure. To kill beasts too strong for our blades and too fast for our arrows. It wasn't meant to be passed on lightly."
He exhaled, looking past me for a moment—toward the longhouse ceiling, toward some memory not spoken aloud.
"But lying in this bed—realizing I might not rise again, realizing there was no one else to carry what I made…"
He shook his head.
"If I'd died out there, my style would've died with me."
Then he looked at me. Direct. Focused.
"I'll teach you."
He let the words settle for a beat before adding:
"But not today. Give me a week."
His tone was measured. Practical.
"I need to walk first. Gauge what strength my body's kept. I won't pass on a crippled version of the form. You'll learn it right, or not at all."
He extended a hand—scarred, calloused, still strong.
"But when I stand… the lessons begin."
I reached out and gripped it.
"Understood."
Jorta smirked, faint but real.
"Good. You've got the look of someone who'll survive it."
Jorta held my hand for a moment longer before letting go.
Then his eyes shifted—to Sula.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Sula," he said, his tone lower now. "Stay. I'd speak with my niece… alone."
Sula blinked, caught off guard for just a second. Then she nodded.
Her eyes flicked to me, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Why don't you head back to the market?" she said. "You might find something useful for once. That bodysuit won't protect you from everything."
I arched a brow. "This coming from someone who still wears bones."
She smirked. "Bones don't tear at the seams."
I gave a mock salute. "I'll try not to scare any children."
"Too late."
I turned, the soft click of the longhouse door closing behind me as I stepped into the cooling air.
Jorta and Sula had things to say that didn't need my ears.
And me?
I had time to kill. And maybe—just maybe—I'd see what the Market had to offer. And see what that Oseram merchant has to say about what going on back in his homeland.