The crowd thinned after the armor was handed out.
People drifted toward their usual places—fires, quiet conversations, bedding laid out where it made sense. The day's labor settled into muscles and bones, the good kind of tired that came from building instead of running.
Evelyn waited until the noise ebbed.
She found Harold where he sat near the edge of the light, cane across his knees, eyes following the line of the half-finished palisade as if he could already see it complete.
"You felt it," she said quietly.
Harold didn't look at her. "Yes."
That was answer enough.
"The Earth Core," Evelyn continued. "One of them, at least. You recognized it."
He nodded once. "It didn't pull. It just… announced itself."
Evelyn smiled faintly. "That's how the right tools behave."
Harold finally turned his head, studying her expression. "You want me to ask for it."
"I want you to *use* it," she said without hesitation. "We have children here now. More mouths. More planting to do."
She gestured vaguely toward the darkened fields beyond the wall line.
"This land is good," she said. "But good land still takes time. If that core can shorten the gap between planting and harvest—even a little—we can't afford to wait."
Harold considered that in silence.
"You know what happens if it changes me," he said at last.
"Yes," Evelyn replied calmly. "You become better at what you already do."
He huffed a soft laugh. "That's a dangerous thing in some people."
She reached out and rested her hand over his. "You're not some people."
They sat like that for a moment.
"The earlier we start," Evelyn added, voice gentle but firm, "the sooner the soil adapts. Crops don't forgive hesitation. Timing is everything."
Harold nodded slowly.
"I'll speak to Mark in the morning," he said. "No drama. No rushing."
Evelyn squeezed his hand once. "Good."
He glanced toward the dark fields again, thoughtful.
"If this world is changing," he murmured, "then feeding people might matter more than walls."
Evelyn smiled, satisfied.
"It always has."
Above them, the stars burned cold and distant.
Below them, the land waited—heavy, patient, and ready to give back, if guided by the right hands.
________________________________________
Harold was up before dawn.
Not out of urgency—out of habit.
The homestead was quiet in that deep, pre-morning way when even the fires seemed to breathe slower. He brewed coffee the old way, poured it into a battered tin cup, and waited near the barn where the leaders naturally gathered before the day split into its moving parts.
Mark arrived first, jacket already on, eyes scanning the perimeter out of reflex.
Carl followed, axe resting across one shoulder, posture relaxed but alert.
Sarah came next, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, already thinking three tasks ahead.
They all stopped when they saw Harold standing there, cup steaming in his hands.
"Well," Carl said lightly, "this feels official."
Harold smiled faintly. "It is."
Mark gestured toward an overturned crate. "Let's hear it."
Harold didn't sit.
"I've felt one of the Earth Cores we recovered," he said plainly. "It recognizes me."
No surprise registered on any of their faces. Only interest.
"I'm asking to take it," Harold continued. "Not for strength. Not for fighting."
"For food," Sarah said quietly.
Harold nodded. "For soil. For planting. For timing."
Mark folded his arms. "You think it'll help that much?"
"Yes," Harold replied without hesitation. "Even a small acceleration compounds. A week matters. Two weeks changes everything."
Carl scratched his beard. "And the risk?"
Harold met his gaze evenly. "If it changes me, it will change me toward what I already do. Growing. Managing land. Planning cycles."
Sarah stepped forward slightly. "Evelyn agrees?"
"She insisted," Harold said, a hint of warmth in his voice.
That settled more than anything else.
Mark looked between them, then nodded. "We didn't bring these things back to sit on them."
Carl grinned. "If it feeds people, it's worth more than another fighter."
Sarah added, "And the earlier you start, the better the return."
Harold inclined his head. "Exactly."
There was no ceremony.
Mark turned and retrieved the Earth Core from where it had been stored, cradled carefully, treated with the same respect as any dangerous tool. He held it out.
"You understand," Mark said, "this doesn't make you untouchable."
Harold took it in both hands.
The weight was immediate—not just physical, but present. The core was dense, steady, unmistakable. It did not pulse eagerly. It did not flare.
It simply was.
Harold closed his eyes.
He didn't force anything.
He accepted.
The core sank into his palms as if the space there had been waiting for it, the dark mass dissolving into warmth that spread up his arms and into his chest. The sensation wasn't sharp or dramatic—it was grounding, anchoring, like bare feet pressing into good soil.
Harold exhaled slowly.
The air around him felt… settled.
He opened his eyes.
The Earth Core was gone.
"I understand," he said quietly, voice unchanged—but deeper somehow, steadier.
The ground beneath his boots felt closer. More familiar.
Carl watched him carefully. "You alright?"
Harold nodded. "Yes. And… yes."
Mark studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good."
Carl smiled. "Then we'll need you thinking clearly."
Harold nodded again. "I plan to."
As the sky lightened and the homestead began to stir, Harold stood empty-handed but heavier in all the right ways—ready to invest what he'd taken into fields, soil, and time.
The day's first hunt would go out soon.
But something more lasting than a patrol had just begun to grow.
________________________________________
Carl found Mark a short time later, just as the last of the morning preparations were being sorted. Packs were being checked. Armor straps tightened. Voices stayed low and purposeful.
"Got a minute?" Carl asked.
Mark nodded and stepped aside with him, away from the flow of people.
Carl didn't waste time.
"Jethro's been thinking," he said. "About what Emily sensed in town."
Mark's expression sharpened slightly. "The thing that didn't move."
Carl nodded. "He thinks it's a Dungeon."
Mark let out a slow breath—not surprise, but recognition.
"Yeah," he said. "That tracks."
Carl studied him. "You don't sound skeptical."
"I played enough games in my misspent youth," Mark replied dryly. "And I've seen enough real-world systems to know when something behaves like one."
He leaned against the barn wall, folding his arms.
"Fixed location. Monster pressure radiating outward. Semi-territorial behavior. Leaders instead of random swarms," Mark continued. "That's not chaos. That's structure."
Carl grunted. "Jethro explained it as a nest with rules."
"That's a good way to put it," Mark said. "And like any system like that, it rewards people who clear it—but it *punishes* people who rush it."
Carl's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the dungeon doesn't care about bravery," Mark said. "It cares about preparedness. You go in early, underpowered, disorganized, and it doesn't just kill you—it teaches the next wave how to do it better."
Carl absorbed that in silence.
"So pushing goblins off our land," Carl said slowly, "isn't the same as fixing the problem."
"No," Mark agreed. "It buys time. That's all."
Carl nodded. "Time to build walls. Grow food. Train people."
"And learn how this world actually works," Mark added. "Because the worst thing we could do is assume it follows the rules we want it to."
Carl snorted softly. "You saying we shouldn't even scout it?"
"Not yet," Mark said firmly. "Information is valuable—but provoking it before we can handle escalation is how you get wiped."
He glanced toward the fields, where Harold already knelt in the soil, hands resting on the earth as if listening.
"We're doing the right things," Mark said. "Foundations first. Logistics. Community. You don't take on a boss fight when your base is still wood and hope."
Carl smiled faintly. "You sound like Jethro."
Mark returned the smile. "Smart kid."
Carl's expression grew serious again. "If he's right… that thing isn't going anywhere."
"No," Mark said. "And that's actually good news."
Carl raised an eyebrow.
"It means the threat has an address," Mark continued. "And anything with an address can be planned around."
Carl nodded slowly. "When we're ready."
"When we're ready," Mark agreed.
They stood there for a moment longer, watching the homestead wake fully—walls rising, smoke curling, people moving with intent.
Somewhere beyond the trees, something waited.
But for now, the advantage belonged to the people who knew when not to fight.
And that, Mark knew from long experience, was often the difference between surviving—
And being remembered only as a warning.
________________________________________
Denise Carter showed up while the team was gearing up.
Not loudly. Not hesitantly either.
She walked up with her jacket already on, sleeves rolled, hair tied back tight like she didn't intend for it to get in the way. Denise was slightly on the chubby side—not unfit, just solid. The kind of body built by long hours on her feet, lifting boxes, moving fast when needed, carrying more weight than people expected and never complaining about it. There was strength there, and presence—grounded, unmistakable.
She stopped just outside the loose circle of people checking weapons and armor and waited until Mark looked up.
"I'm coming," she said.
It wasn't a question.
The yard went quiet in that subtle way—no one stopping what they were doing, but everyone listening.
Mark studied her for a long moment.
"This isn't a supply run," he said evenly. "It's a hunt."
"I know," Denise replied. "That's why I'm here."
Carl glanced at Mark, then back at Denise, saying nothing.
Mark tilted his head slightly. "You don't have combat experience."
"No," she agreed. "But I have experience being trapped. Being quiet. Waiting to see if something finds you."
Her jaw tightened just a fraction.
"I'm not doing that again."
Mark didn't interrupt.
"At the supermarket," Denise continued, voice controlled, "I spent days listening to things outside and hoping they didn't come in. Hoping someone else would fix it. I won't live like that anymore."
She met his eyes squarely. "I don't need to be in front. I don't need to be important. I just need to contribute."
Jethro watched her closely, head tilted slightly, already mapping possibilities.
Emily felt it too—not heat, not affinity—but intent. Focused. Heavy.
Mark exhaled slowly.
"Why now?" he asked.
Denise didn't hesitate. "Because if I wait until I feel ready, I never will."
That landed.
Carl finally spoke. "You willing to follow calls?"
"Yes."
"You willing to rotate out if we say so?"
"Yes."
"And if you freeze?" Carl asked.
Denise swallowed once. "Then you pull me back. But I won't run."
Mark looked at Carl again.
Carl shrugged. "She's honest."
Mark nodded.
"Alright," Mark said. "You're not frontline. You stay close. You listen to Jethro. You do exactly what you're told."
Denise let out a breath she'd been holding. "Thank you."
Sarah stepped in then, carrying one of the lighter armor sets Ruth had finished.
"This will do," she said, already handing it over.
Denise slipped into the Agility-pattern armor—and it changed.
Not dramatically. Not visibly to an outside observer. The hardened leather shifted by fractions, seams sliding, panels tightening and loosening as if responding to her shape and balance. The quilted cloth beneath redistributed its padding, settling her weight instead of fighting it.
The armor fit her.
Perfectly.
This was how armor worked now.
It didn't demand the wearer change.
It adapted.
Denise rolled her shoulders, bent slightly at the knees, took a cautious step, then another.
"It's not squeezing," she said, surprised. "It's… helping."
Sarah nodded. "That's the point."
Carl handed her a spear next—lighter than the frontline weapons, balanced for control, reach, and recovery. Denise tested the grip, adjusted her hands instinctively, and nodded once.
"No heroics," Carl reminded her.
"I don't want to be a hero," Denise replied quietly. "I just don't want to be helpless."
As the team finished readying, Mark caught something in her posture—nothing supernatural, nothing awakened.
But familiar.
The way she stood now.
Grounded. Ready to move. Ready to act.
Mark filed it away.
Whatever affinity slept in Denise Carter—
It wasn't fear.
________________________________________
The Team moved out without ceremony.
No speeches. No last-minute advice. The gate opened, they passed through, and it closed again behind them.
Mark led.
Jethro fell in naturally a step behind and to the side, already reading spacing, terrain, sightlines. Emily kept to the rear-left, fire-sense extended but restrained. Ethan ranged slightly wider on the right, light on his feet. Denise stayed just behind him, spear held low, grip tight but steady.
They didn't talk.
They didn't need to.
The hunting zone this time wasn't forest.
It was open ground—rolling fields broken by old fence lines, shallow dips, and scattered copses of trees too small to count as cover. Visibility stretched long in every direction. No ambushes. No hiding mistakes.
An hour in, Emily slowed.
Mark felt it before she spoke. The subtle shift in the team's rhythm.
"Contact," she said quietly. "Ahead. Dead center."
Jethro was already crouching, eyes scanning the horizon. "Distance?"
"Eight hundred meters," Emily replied. "Six goblins. One Hobgoblin."
Mark's jaw tightened slightly. "Last group."
"Yes," Emily said. "And they see us."
That much was obvious.
The goblins weren't charging.
They weren't retreating either.
They had stopped, spreading out instinctively, weapons raised. The Hobgoblin stood taller at their center, elongated arms hanging low, head cocked as it assessed them across the open ground.
No trees to vanish into.
No cover to abuse.
This wasn't a raid.
It was a meeting.
Jethro's voice stayed calm. "They don't like the terrain. No concealment. No flanks."
Mark nodded. "Neither do we."
Ethan shifted his weight, ready. Denise adjusted her stance without being told, spear tip angling forward, breath controlled.
Emily felt the heat signatures sharpen—hostile, alert, coiling.
The Hobgoblin barked something sharp and guttural.
The goblins answered, spreading wider.
Jethro exhaled slowly. "They're committing."
Mark's hand tightened on his weapon.
"Good," he said. "We end this one clean."
In the open field, with nowhere to hide and nothing to break the line of sight, two forces faced each other.
And both knew—
Only one group was walking away.