The smell of blood lingered in the air long after the Ashclaw Wolf had vanished.
Not the sharp, overwhelming stench Ethan remembered from training grounds in the Normal Plane, but something thinner—refined. As if the Lord Dimension had stripped away excess sensation along with excess matter.
Three cuts of Ashclaw Beast Meat rested on a flat stone near the center of the territory.
They didn't steam. They didn't rot.
They simply existed—dense, dark red, faintly veined with lines of subdued energy that pulsed almost imperceptibly.
Ethan studied them for several seconds before looking up.
The summoned man stood a short distance away, posture stiff, eyes darting between the territory boundary and the surrounding terrain. He looked as though he expected something to leap out at any moment.
Which meant he understood the situation instinctively.
"What's your name?" Ethan asked.
The man hesitated, then answered quickly. "Rowan. Rowan Hale."
"Do you know where you are, Rowan?"
Rowan swallowed. "The Lord Dimension. I… I've heard stories."
"Good," Ethan said. "Then you know lying helps no one here."
Rowan nodded immediately.
Ethan gestured toward the meat. "Have you eaten today?"
Rowan froze.
His gaze dropped to the stone. His throat bobbed as he nodded—then shook his head.
"I don't know how long I was… before the summoning," he said carefully. "But I'm hungry."
Ethan crouched and picked up one of the meat portions. It was heavier than it looked, solid and firm in his hand. When he focused, faint system information surfaced.
Item: Ashclaw Beast Meat
Quality: Standard
Effect: Restores stamina. Slightly improves vitality when consumed fresh.
No poison warnings. No hidden drawbacks.
"Sit," Ethan said.
Rowan obeyed instantly.
Ethan handed him the meat.
Rowan stared at it as if it might disappear. "Raw…?"
"Yes."
Rowan hesitated only a second before tearing into it with desperate hunger. The meat didn't resist. It separated cleanly, fibers parting without toughness. As he chewed, color returned to his face almost immediately.
A faint glow pulsed along the loyalty thread connecting him to Ethan.
Loyalty: 62% → 65%
Ethan noted it without comment.
Food mattered.
Not sentiment. Not speeches.
Sustenance.
Rowan finished the portion quickly, licking his fingers before realizing what he was doing and stopping, embarrassed.
"I—I'm sorry," he said. "Thank you, Lord Ethan."
Ethan didn't correct him.
Instead, he turned his attention inward.
A faint warmth spread through his chest—not physical, but systemic. The territory beneath his feet responded subtly, the pressure in the air easing by the slightest margin.
Stability: Unstable (Improving)
So that was the connection.
Subjects fed → loyalty increased.
Loyalty increased → territory stability slowed its decay.
A simple equation.
But simple didn't mean easy.
He had two portions of meat left.
One for himself.
One as reserve.
Ethan took the second portion and consumed it slowly, chewing with deliberate care. The taste was rich, almost metallic, but not unpleasant. As it settled in his stomach, he felt a faint strengthening—not a surge, but a confirmation.
Energy recycled efficiently.
No waste.
The third portion he wrapped in a scrap of cloth torn from Rowan's sleeve—with permission—and set aside.
"From now on," Ethan said calmly, "food is controlled. You eat when I say you eat. Not because I want authority—but because scarcity makes mistakes fatal."
Rowan nodded without hesitation. "I understand."
Good.
Blind obedience born of fear would break eventually.
Understanding born of necessity lasted longer.
A distant rumble rolled across the land.
Not thunder.
Movement.
Ethan rose immediately, scanning the horizon.
The broken ridgeline where the wolves had retreated shimmered faintly. Something had noticed the disturbance. The kill. The extraction. The territory's brief stabilization.
Predators didn't need eyes.
They needed opportunity.
"Rowan," Ethan said, already moving. "Pick up that bone shard."
Rowan scrambled to comply.
The Beast Bone Shards were crude, jagged fragments—useless as weapons but sturdy enough to mark ground or reinforce weak points.
"Mark the fissures near the boundary," Ethan instructed. "Anywhere the ground looks unstable."
Rowan hesitated. "Why?"
"So we don't stand there when something bigger tries to tear its way in."
Rowan went pale and moved faster.
Ethan turned his attention to the Summoning Gate.
It pulsed faintly now, runes dim but active.
One summon per day.
Which meant growth was slow.
Painfully slow.
He placed his hand against the stone arch again.
No new options appeared.
Instead, a secondary interface surfaced—something he hadn't noticed earlier.
Territory Maintenance Options:
• Structural Reinforcement (Unavailable)
• Basic Shelter Construction (Insufficient Materials)
• Stability Anchoring (Requires Energy)
Ethan focused on the last option.
A cost appeared.
Energy Required: Minimal
He confirmed.
The territory responded immediately.
The ground beneath the Summoning Gate hardened, fissures sealing as faint lines of light etched themselves into the stone. The shimmer at the boundary steadied slightly.
Stability: Unstable → Unstable (Anchored)
Not safe.
But no longer bleeding out.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Energy wasn't power.
It was control.
Rowan returned, breathing hard. "Marked everything I could."
"Good," Ethan said. "From now on, you don't leave the center unless I'm with you."
Rowan nodded again.
The land shuddered.
This time, it wasn't subtle.
A—a tear—opened near the boundary, energy spilling out like vapor. The ground warped as something forced itself through.
Ethan's grip tightened on the spear.
This wasn't a beast.
The shape that emerged was wrong.
Too tall. Too thin.
Its limbs bent at angles that suggested joints where none should exist. Its surface wasn't flesh, but a semi-solid mass of dark, rippling energy.
An Aberration.
Low-tier, judging by the instability—but still dangerous.
Rowan stumbled back. "Lord—!"
"Behind the gate," Ethan snapped.
Rowan didn't argue.
The aberration lurched forward, movements jerky and uneven. Each step drained faint traces of light from the ground, weakening the territory further.
Ethan didn't charge.
He moved sideways, leading it away from the gate, drawing it toward the fissure markers Rowan had placed.
The creature reacted slowly.
Good.
Ethan stabbed—not at its core, but at the ground beneath it.
The spear struck a weakened point.
The land collapsed inward.
The aberration shrieked—a sound like metal tearing under pressure—as half its body plunged into the fissure. Ethan didn't hesitate. He drove the spear down again and again, widening the collapse, forcing the creature deeper.
The territory trembled.
Then stabilized.
The aberration dissolved—not from the spear, but from the environment rejecting it.
Extraction available.
Ethan didn't approach immediately.
He waited.
When no further movement came, he spoke.
"Extract."
The remains condensed—but unlike the beast before, the result was sparse.
Extraction Result:
• Unstable Energy Residue ×1
No meat.
No materials.
Just volatile energy.
As expected.
Aberrations were never meant to feed territories.
They were meant to test them.
Ethan absorbed the residue carefully, feeling a sharp pressure behind his eyes before it settled.
Stability: Anchored (Holding)
Rowan emerged slowly from behind the gate, eyes wide.
"You killed it," he said.
Ethan shook his head. "The territory did."
That distinction mattered.
He looked at the land again—at the sealed fissures, the quiet boundary, the single shelterless expanse that was now his responsibility.
This wasn't about heroics.
It was about management.
Food. Energy. Stability. Loyalty.
Fail one, and everything collapsed.
Ethan turned back to the Summoning Gate and placed his hand against it once more—not to summon, but to mark it.
"This is the center," he said quietly. "As long as it stands, we stand."
Rowan nodded.
Above them, the crimson sky churned.
And far beyond Ethan's fragile boundary, something ancient took notice.