Dawn cracked over Kartha's Edge, spilling gold over the dew-wet fields and worn fences. Emil stood outside the village gate, a spear in hand — though he hardly trusted himself to use it well.
Beside him stood four others:
Tarn, the ex-soldier. Balding, scarred, his armor worn from campaigns long past. Silent, watchful, but experienced.
Brother Alric, the former priest. Gaunt, dressed in tattered brown robes, carrying a staff topped with a rusted sun medallion.
Garn and Vollan, village guards. Young, nervous, armed with bows and stubby swords.
They were tracking a beast — reports of clawed prints near the livestock pens, something attacking sheep under the moonlight. Tarn suspected a dire wolf, or something worse.
"This is a test," Emil thought. "Of my body. Of this world. Of what I can become."
🐺 The Hunt
By midday, they reached the forest clearing. It was silent.
Tarn signaled. The group fanned out.
It struck fast — a hunched, black-furred creature with fangs like curved daggers. A shadowbeast, Alric whispered. "Born of cursed mana. Servants of the old wars."
The fight was ugly. Emil froze at first, heart racing, instincts screaming to run. But when the beast lunged at Vollan, Emil drove his spear forward — grazing its side.
Tarn landed the killing blow — a downward cleave through its skull.
Blood steamed on the grass.
As the group dressed the carcass, Emil suddenly felt a pulse in his chest — like static rolling down his spine. A screen blinked open.
🎖 [You have leveled up]New Skill Unlocked:
🛠️ Workshop Creation (Level 1)
Can establish a personal production workshop.
Limit: 1 active.
Output: Flintlock Pistols, Muskets (basic), Ammunition.
Recruitment Cap: 5 Workers
Materials required: Wood x200, Iron x100, Powder x50Gold required: 150 pieces
Emil's eyes widened.
Not magic. Mechanics. Infrastructure. Tools.
The Purchase
Back in the village, Emil offered to sell the shadowbeast's meat and hide. To his surprise, the local butcher paid handsomely — nearly 100 gold pieces for the rare meat alone.
He spent the next day wandering, searching — until he found a run-down granary near the river. Half-collapsed roof. Disused. Cheap.
He paid 120 gold. The owner laughed. "You'll be throwing that money in a hole, stranger."
But Emil had no intention of digging holes.
That night, the Workshop menu appeared.
🔨 "Activate Workshop Here?"[Yes]
The air shimmered.
Gears spun. Symbols etched into the wood. The ground beneath glowed faintly — and then the granary was gone.
In its place stood a crude but functional forge-workshop hybrid — blackened furnace, tool benches, powder racks, and a single glowing panel labeled:
"UNION: WORKER STATUS (0/5)"
👥 The First Union
He spent days watching. Talking. Quietly selecting.
Henna, the blacksmith's daughter. Sharp, fast, sick of shoeing horses for nobles.
Miklan, a farm boy with steady hands.
Thass, a crippled miner who still knew how to shape ore.
Orren and Fesh, twins — delivery boys, orphans, smarter than they looked.
He offered them quiet work, fair coin, and secrecy.
No speeches. No flags. Not yet.
"This is not a guild," he told them. "This is a union. A brotherhood of workers. You will not serve kings. You will not serve gods. You will serve yourselves — and those who stand beside you."
The workshop came to life.
Smoke rose.
Muskets began to take shape — crude, short-range, ugly, but deadly.
"Do not speak of them," Emil warned. "Not yet. Not until we are ready. Until then, we build."
Late one evening, Emil walked to the edge of the village, where the old tavern sat. He had heard whispers — that some here hated the crown, hated what it had done to the Assembly, to their families.
There, by the fire, he met Kael — a one-eyed herbalist, once a courier for the reformist party. A man who had lost his wife in the capital purges. Sharp, bitter, dangerous.
They talked long into the night.
By the end, Kael poured him a drink.
"You speak like a man who wants change," Kael said.
Emil looked down into his mug.
"I speak like a man who's seen what happens when change doesn't come."