Sarah's boots slammed into wet stone as she sprinted the final stretch, the glow of the stolen vase still clutched in her hand like a brand. Her blood was hot and her breath was ragged, but the gate was finally in sight — open, flickering torchlight beyond it, and Jace waving her forward like his arm was about to fall off.
"MOVE!" he shouted. "Come on, come on, come on!"
Mira was halfway through already, supporting Theo with one arm, dragging him out into the tunnel — his head was bobbing, eyes fluttering, but still breathing.
Sarah stumbled the last few feet, ribs burning, just as Jace shoved her through the wide wooden gate.
She barely got her balance back before he grabbed the inner gate bar and yanked it shut behind her.
"What are you doing?" she hissed, wheeling around.
"Buying us time," he said — short, clipped — as he slammed the metal latch back into place and jammed the thick horizontal bar down across the hinges.
"Jace—!"
"Go. I'll catch up!"
Lizardfolk voices were already rising behind them — barking, clashing, fast footfalls closing in. Shadows stretched across the walls of the village behind him as the crocodile destroyed it. Already the cavern was shaking.
Jace didn't run.
Instead, he turned — and grabbed the broken log he'd dragged into position earlier.
With a roar, he swung it into the gate's lock mechanism, cracking the metal frame and warping the hinge. The gate shuddered and jammed visibly — not broken or permanent, but enough.
Enough to buy a few minutes.
Jace vaulted up onto the support struts, scrambling awkwardly but fast — pulled himself over the top edge of the wall just as a javelin slammed into the wood where his leg had been.
Then he was gone over the top. Sarah ran to catch up to Mira and Theo.
She moved back through the tunnel, barely aware of her own feet as she kept her eyes on the outer edge. Mira was up ahead, Theo slung half across her back, her bow still in hand, breathing hard.
Sarah turned just in time to see a figure fall from the top of the palisade wall.
Jace hit the ground hard, landing with a thud and a roll, his momentum carrying him half off the smoothed path. He grunted in pain — then got up, limping but moving.
Sarah sprinted back, grabbed his other arm, and together they stumbled after Mira.
Behind them, the gate shuddered as lizardfolk slammed into it, voices rising in confusion and fury.
The tunnel sloped downward, water slicking the stone floor beneath their boots. Their footsteps echoed — rapid, unsteady, overlapping — the only sounds louder than their breath. Behind them, somewhere above, the world was coming apart, one monstrous roar and splintered stone wall at a time.
Jace let out a short, sharp laugh — half relief, half delirium. "We actually did it," he said, stumbling a little under Theo's weight. "We actually— I can't believe we—"
"Don't jinx it," Sarah muttered as she struggles to keep up.
Her face was pale. One temple streaked in blood. She still clutched the glowing vase like a relic, knuckles white on the narrow neck. She had found a way to cap it somewhere in her run but the light still leaked though lighting their way. Her other hand pressed to her ribs where she had been sliced during the escape.
Mira moved up beside her. "We need to stop," she said quickly. "Now. Theo's barely breathing."
"Not yet," Sarah said. "We need distance first. We don't know how far the lizardfolk will follow, or if there's more down here. We move."
"The arrow—" Mira's voice cracked. "Sarah, the arrow is still in him."
"I know." Sarah snapped back at her.
But they kept moving. The air was changing again — colder, thinner. The tunnel opened wider in places, narrowing in others, but always pushing them forward. It began to slightly slope upward but it was gentle and the path was still smooth.
Then Mira stopped. She turned and physically blocked Sarah in the tunnel.
"No," she said, voice shaking. "We do it now."
Jace froze behind them, breathing hard, one hand steadying Theo.
"Mira—" Sarah started.
"I held him up in the water while that monster rose. I watched him choke on his own blood. I thought he was dead. You don't get to keep gambling on how much longer he lasts."
Sarah stared at her. Mira's eyes were wild — scared, furious, desperate. Her hands trembled, but her stance didn't break.
Sarah stared at Mira — jaw tight, muscles locked — but it was Jace who moved first.
"She's right," he said. "We can't wait."
Sarah turned sharply, glaring. "You—"
"You're bleeding, Sarah." Jace's voice wasn't raised, but it was firm — cutting through the tunnel like steel on stone. "You're losing blood and you're not thinking straight. We have to do this now."
Without waiting for her response, he shifted Theo off his shoulders and gently lowered him to the stone floor. The movement drew a faint groan from Theo — the first sound he'd made since they'd escaped.
"Sarah," Jace said without looking up, "the vase."
Sarah stood frozen for a second longer — then moved. She knelt beside them, uncorking the container, the warm glow of the liquid casting strange shadows across the cave wall.
Jace turned Theo carefully onto his side. The arrow had punched clean through, the wicked broadhead protruding slightly from his back. Blood clung to it, sluggish and dark.
"Hold him," Jace said.
Mira knelt too, steadying Theo's shoulders with shaking hands.
Jace didn't hesitate. He wrapped his fingers around the broadhead, braced, and pulled — not slow just certain. The shaft slid free with a wet sound from his back, and Theo jerked in Mira's arms with a sharp gasp of pain. Jace began bleeding freely from his hand where the sharp head had cut into him but he ignored it.
"Now!" Jace barked.
Sarah immediately poured a stream of the glowing liquid over the open wound, the viscous potion hissing slightly where it met torn flesh. The blood stopped flowing almost instantly. Muscle began to knit.
Then, with hands still trembling, Sarah tilted the vase toward his mouth and coaxed a small sip past his lips.
Theo's head lolled slightly in Mira's grip, breath hitching. Sarah held the vase steady and coaxed another small sip into his mouth. His throat worked slowly — once, twice — and then he went still again.
Sarah looked up sharply. "Why isn't he waking—"
"He will," Jace said, already standing. His leg was bleeding again — a long slice from where he'd landed hard coming off the palisade — and his hand was still dripping from where the arrowhead bit deep into his palm.
"You next," he added, pointing to Sarah. "You're barely upright."
She hesitated, but only for a second. She took a cautious sip. Her face twisted — bitter, metallic, warm — but within moments, the color began returning to her cheeks. The cut along her ribs stopped bleeding. She exhaled, just once, shoulders finally dropping half an inch.
Jace held out his own hand. "Now me."
Sarah poured some of the potion over his palm, and the torn skin sealed almost instantly, the ache in his leg dulling beneath the surface hum of power. He took the vase and took a long sip of the vile concoction struggling to get it down.
Their notifications blinked into view at almost the same time.
Jace blinked. "Okay. That's…dam."
Sarah's eyes widened. "Mira. You need to drink this."
Mira, still holding Theo's head with one hand, grimaced as Jace offered her the vase. "Are you kidding? I'm not drinking dead centaur blood and who knows what else!"
Jace shoved the vase into her hands. "Drink. Now."
"Ew—no, I'm fine, I didn't get hit—"
"It's not for healing." Sarah cut in. "Don't argue."
Behind them, something cracked. Stone shifting. The unmistakable sound of claws scrabbling on damp rock. Voices echoing. The lizardfolk were coming.
Theo groaned suddenly, coughing and twitching. "...stupid cave... bite me..."
Stolen novel; please report.
Jace dropped beside him, slinging Theo's arm over his shoulder as Sarah took the other side. "Can you run?"
"Don't make me answer that," Theo muttered, but his legs moved under him — shaky, but moving.
Mira stared at the glowing potion like it had personally offended her.
"Now, Mira!" Jace snapped, lighting one of the torches he'd stolen from the lizard den. Fire sparked to life, throwing flickering shadows down the tunnel. "We are out of time."
Mira gagged once, squeezed her eyes shut, and tipped the vase back.
The taste was worse than she'd imagined — salt and rust and something living. Her whole body shivered. She lowered it with a sputter, coughing.
"Gods, that's vile," she croaked.
"Yeah," Sarah said. "But you'll thank us later."
"Not likely." was her only remark.
But Mira was already moving, catching up behind them. She capped the concoction and carried it with her.
And together, the four of them fled deeper into the tunnel, the light from Jace's torch bouncing wildly across the dark stone as the sound of pursuit grew louder behind them.
The sky was still dark, but the sun would begin to rise soon.
Harold sat in darkness in his quarters after a night of troubled sleep. The Lord's Hall was still quiet. He could hear his guards outside shuffling sometimes, and the kitchen was just starting to warm up.
His shirt clung to his back with sweat, breath tight as he moved through the final sequence of his mana drills. Energy pulsed through his limbs — brief, controlled — as he channeled mana through different circuits, isolating flow and function. A centering act.
His hands were pinned beneath his thighs, trying to still the shaking. He hadn't slept. Not really.
Not after nothing came back from Sarah's team.
The silence had eaten at him. He'd scoured the maps — what few they had. Re-read every report. Replayed every instruction he'd given her. A loop of decisions that churned in his gut like sour wine.
They should've checked in.
He exhaled. Closed his hands. Let the mana fade.
Then—Chime.
A soft pulse echoed in his mind, followed by the glow of system light behind his eyes.
[NOTIFICATION: Your Territory has discovered a Region Boss.]
[ENTITY: The Thresher King]
[Perk Gained: Instinctive Dread (Uncommon)
+5% awareness when within 1km of a Region Boss.
Harold sat absolutely still.
Didn't blink.
The shaking worsened. It wasn't adrenaline now. It was something older and colder — crawling up his spine.
They found it.
The timing… it made sense. They hadn't checked in because they couldn't. Something had happened. If they were still moving in the dark. It had to be bad.
The system didn't grant region boss perks for vague sightings. For this to trigger, Sarah's team had to be in direct proximity.
They'd seen it.
Maybe worse.
Outside, the settlement was starting to stir. Dim voices from the outer courtyards. The low clatter of buckets. The rhythmic knock of boots on wood and stone.
Today, the village was supposed to finish the Guild Hall. Shingles on the roof. Partition walls inside. The vault was waiting on the blacksmiths to finish the final locking mechanisms.
It all seemed so stupidly mundane now.
Harold sat in the quiet a little longer. The system light still glowed faint in his vision.
He leaned back and stared at the beams above, jaw tight.
"Godsdammit, Sarah," he muttered.
But under the words — pride.
And fear.
And anger.
He'd sent her out there. He'd made the call. The logic was sound — she was close, she was capable, she had the best chance of making it. There hadn't been another choice.
But that didn't matter now. Because all he could feel was the slow, crushing realization that he might have just lost her again.
And worse — he might have done it to her.
Harold clenched his fists, trying to quiet the shaking. It didn't work. His thoughts spiraled. Sarah's last words to him. The memories of his first life. A quiet lab in a quiet village. His passionless marriage. The long silence after she died. The mistakes. His wife leaving. The obsession that followed.
The things he did in the name of discovery. Of science.
He stood. Crossed the room. Opened the door to the hallway — pale fire light casting long shadows on the stone floor.
One of the guards stood to attention.
"Get Beth," Harold rasped. His voice felt foreign in his throat.
Then he shut the door again and sank back down onto the floor, back pressed to the wall.
The door opened fast. Boots on stone. A sharp breath.
Beth swept into the room with one of the guards a step behind her, eyes scanning the space— and froze when she saw Harold.
He was still on the floor. Back against the wall. Shoulders hunched forward, hands dug into his knees to stop the tremors. The faint glow of the system screen still hovered near him — dim now, fading.
He looked up at her briefly. And that was enough.
Beth's face softened immediately, the kind of softness that didn't come from pity — but understanding. She didn't ask what he was doing on the floor. She didn't say his name. Her mouth tightened, and she turned toward the guard instead.
"Go get food. Something hot. For both of us," she said, voice calm but quick. "Find Margret and let her know Harold needs her upstairs when she has a moment. No panic. Just let her know."
The guard hesitated.
Beth added, "And send for Josh. Please."
The guard gave a short nod and turned.
She waited until the door shut again.
Then she crossed the room quietly and sat down next to him. Not stiff. Not formal. Just lowered herself until her shoulder was against the wall beside his.
She didn't speak for a second. Let the silence settle.
Then, gently:
"For all you seem to try to hide it, for all that you have been through," Beth said softly, "you are still human."
She glanced sideways at him, voice low. "Talk to me, Harold."
Harold stared ahead — not at the room, not at Beth. Through it.
He didn't answer her right away. The tension in his body was so tight it barely looked like he was breathing. Then slowly, like something inside him cracked just enough, he spoke.
"She was the only part of my life that felt real," he said quietly. "Back then."
"I was a bad brother to her before Gravesend, then we clutched each other when this all happened. We traveled together for years. I got to see her grow up and see the amazing woman she grew into."
Beth didn't respond, she just waited patiently.
"I wasn't… anyone," he continued. "Not really. Just a half-talented alchemist in a quiet village. Made decent potions. Sold them at market. People liked me well enough. My wife…" He trailed off, jaw tightening.
"It wasn't really love. Maybe when we started but that fell off pretty quickly. We'd just… settled. Into something quiet and dry. A routine you forget how to walk out of. We didn't fight."
Beth shifted slightly beside him, listening.
"But when the letter came — about Sarah — everything just stopped." His voice lowered. "The world felt quiet. I remember thinking I should have been there, I blamed my wife, I blamed myself."
A pause.
"And I remember thinking," Harold whispered, "This is it. This is the most pain I'm allowed to feel. So I drank it down. Let it bury itself. I kept smiling. Kept making potions. Looked at making more… exotic ones…"
His voice cracked slightly. "My wife cried for me once, I think. I couldn't even do that part right."
His hands had curled into fists again. The shaking was back.
"I think I broke that year," he said. "Not all at once. Not like lightning. It was… slow."
Beth watched him, eyes full but steady.
"I started chasing everything. Every theory. Every model. Mana infusion. Natural catalysts. I didn't stop. I couldn't."
He breathed in sharp through his nose.
"My wife left when she realized I cared more about unlocking some new perk than asking if she'd eaten dinner."
He gave a bitter, soft laugh — not really a laugh at all.
"I told myself I was trying to solve death," he muttered. "But the truth was, I just wanted to punish the world that took her from me.
I love it here, but I hate it here…"
Silence.
The village outside stirred louder now. Buckets. Carts. The hammer of early-morning work.
Beth stayed beside him, still and grounded.
Then the door creaked open — soft and unhurried.
Margret stepped inside, a tray balanced carefully in her arms. She paused just long enough to assess the moment — Harold on the floor, Beth beside him — and said nothing.
She crossed the room and set the tray down gently. Then she lowered herself onto the floor with them, quiet and calm. Not to comfort. Not to intrude. Just… present.
Harold didn't lift his head.
He just closed his eyes, breathing steadier now, though his voice cracked on the next words.
"I sent her after a region boss, Beth. And now I don't know if she's alive."
Beth didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was soft. "She's Sarah. She's your sister. And she's still out there."
Margret added, cool and certain, "She's tougher than you think. Smarter than a lot of us. She's been taught well."
Harold gave a faint nod — not because he believed it, but because he needed to.
Beth glanced toward the door. "We'll get through this. One breath at a time."
She paused… then, with a small smile, "But Harold… I do think you need to talk to a shrink."
Harold snorted softly — the closest thing to a laugh he could manage.
Harold exhaled — long and rough.
Then, almost too softly to hear:
"I think you're right."
Beth blinked, surprised for just a second.
Margret didn't say anything — just gave him a small nod of approval, subtle but deeply felt. Beth, beside him, smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. " I had a few of the ones I know added to our recruitment list weeks ago. I have a lead on one of them. We'll get you some help Harold."
Beth chimed in "you have been through some of the most horrific years i have ever heard of. It's a wonder you are still functioning as you are Harold.
Harold gave a small, tired nod. His eyes were glassy, but he didn't look away.
Then Margret stood and offered her hand.
"Come on, Harold," she said. "All we can do is the next best thing."
He looked at it for a moment, then took it.
Beth rose too, helping on his other side, and together they pulled him carefully to his feet. He didn't stumble, but he moved slowly — like his body was remembering how to carry the weight again.
Margret pushed a plate toward him. Warm bread. Boiled eggs. Something spiced and fragrant in a clay bowl.
Beth pulled the chair next to him and sat again.
The door creaked open again.
Josh stepped in, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket, eyebrows lifting slightly as he took in the sight: Harold slumped at the table, food half-eaten, Beth perched nearby, and Margret still standing with her arms crossed like a particularly patient hurricane.
Josh blinked.
"Okay. So either someone died," he said, "or Harold admitted he's not, in fact, a magical robot built entirely out of duty and guilt."
Beth gave a snort of laughter before she could stop herself.
Margret rolled her eyes but didn't correct him.
Harold just groaned into his hands. "Josh…"
Josh just smiled at him laughing already…"relax" he said grabbing his half eaten toast. "What're we eating?"
The warm food helped.
The tremors had stopped — mostly. Not completely, but enough for him to move normally.
Harold sat at the edge of the long table in the upstairs chamber, half a slice of bread still in one hand.
Beth sat beside him, quiet, nursing tea.
Margret leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching without comment.
Josh was already there.
He sat sideways in his chair, one boot hooked on the rung, chewing thoughtfully on the piece of toast he'd stolen from Harold's plate like it had always been his.
After a moment, he said, "So."
No one looked at him.
Josh swallowed. "Good news is, you're eating. That usually means you're not about to walk into the woods and never come back."
Harold huffed quietly. "High bar."
Josh shrugged. "I set realistic expectations," he said, smiling.
Beth shook her head slightly but didn't hide her smile.
Josh tore off another bite. "Bad news is, if you sit here any longer staring at that wall, you're going to start inventing new ways this all ends badly. And I really don't feel like listening to those before noon. Honestly, it's insufferable."
Harold finally glanced over. A small smile tugged at his lips. "I'm so glad I can entertain you."
"You should be," Josh said with an exaggerated sigh. "It's really your only redeeming quality. It's not your looks."
Margret snorted once — barely audible.
Josh leaned back, eyes sharp now beneath the humor. "You spiral when you stop moving. You always have, especially lately. You sit still long enough and suddenly it's ten years ago and everyone you love is dead again."
The room went quiet.
Josh didn't apologize.
Instead, he nudged Harold's knee with his boot. "So. Eat. Then get up."
Harold frowned. "Get up and do what?"
Josh grinned — not kind, but familiar. "Come help us finish your damn Guild Hall."
"My what?"
"Your Guild Hall," Josh repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the window. "The one you've been micromanaging like it's the last thing holding the world together."
Beth murmured, "He's not wrong."
Josh continued, "You don't need to think right now. You need to lift something heavy, curse under your breath, and get sawdust in your clothes like a normal person."
He flashed a grin. "Work like one of us common men again."
Harold looked down at the bread in his hand.
Then, quietly, "You think that'll help?"
Josh met his eyes. "No. I think it'll stop you from tearing yourself apart while we wait."
Harold took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"…Alright," he said. "Where do you want me? But I'm bringing my coffee. And I'm not sharing."
Josh stood, already pulling on his gloves. "That's the spirit."
He paused at the door, glancing back with a crooked smile.
"Well, come on, my lord," he said, half-sarcastic.
Beth exhaled a soft laugh.
Margret pushed off the wall.
Harold stood — slower than usual, but steady.
Harold stepped out into the morning light, the last of the bread still in his hand. The air was brisk and clean — cold enough to bite, but clear enough to remind him he was alive. Even in April this high up near the mountains the air was still cool.
And waiting just outside the Lord's Hall, arms crossed over his chest, was Centurion Carter.
The man straightened as Harold came into view, sharp eyes scanning him in a way that only a soldier could — looking not at posture or protocol, but for wounds that didn't bleed.
"Didn't think I'd see you up already," Carter said. "One of the boys came knockin'. Said you needed someone."
"I didn't send anyone."
"Didn't say it was you who asked," Carter replied. "Just figured if a lord locks himself in a room for half the night and three of his people go in without coming back out for a while — it's worth checking."
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Harold stared at him for a second. Then: "Nosy."
"I prefer aware." he said, chuckling.
Harold exhaled, not quite a laugh. "I'm going to help finish the Guild Hall."
That made Carter blink. "You?"
"Yeah. Me." Harold started down the steps. "Come on. Come help. We'll finish the damn thing today."
Carter gave him a look like are you sure, but he followed without argument.
The morning unfolded in motion.
People were already up and working — and when Harold arrived, tools in hand, there was a brief moment of stunned silence before the rhythm resumed.
"Gods, somebody get a sketch of this," Mark called from the base of the scaffolding. "The lord is here to actually lift things."
"Apocalypse confirmed," Evan added, tossing up a hammer.
Harold barely caught it.
"Don't drop that," Carter muttered behind him. "I'm not sure you know how to actually use that."
They climbed to the roof, where slate shingles and pitch waited in neat piles. Cold wind whipped across the upper beams, but Harold felt steadier with each motion — arms burning, breath steady, work numbing the edges of everything else.
Down below, Mark and Evan wrestled a load of timber toward the half-built interior walls, laughing about how their blueprint was absolutely not crooked, no matter what anyone said.
Caldwell arrived next — sleeves rolled up, grease already on his shirt. He wheeled out the locking mechanism in a padded crate, clapped hands with one of the blacksmiths, and got to work bolting the vault's hinges into the stone.
Even Lira showed — her thick gloves dusted with gravel and eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. She had two of her miners with her, all of them inspecting the foundation beneath the Hall and bracing parts of the support with fresh reinforcements from the quarry.
Jokes flew. Hammers rang. Someone passed around hot tea and cold bread. The forge clanged in the distance. A group of children ran through at one point, tossing handfuls of straw at each other before being shouted away by their exhausted parents.
By the time his Guild Hall was finished it would be the largest building in the village by far. Able to accommodate every single adventurer in it, plus half again as many. It included a bar on the bottom level and the vault below that. Then two floors of rooms above it. It was a testament to how far the village had come.
Harold worked through all of it — sweating, grimacing, catching his breath every so often, and then going again. It wasn't easy nailing in a series of slate shingles and he found himself more than once using his mana to refresh himself.
At one point, Beth showed up with more nails and a smirk.
"Look at you," she said, "being useful."
He gave her a flat look. "Careful. I outrank you."
"Not up here you don't," she said, and tossed him a sack of tools at him harder than she needed to.
Someone must have nailed the last slate roofing tile in, because suddenly—
The system light burst across Harold's vision like sunlight off steel. For half a breath, the world went quiet.
[VILLAGE INFRASTRUCTURE COMPLETE]
[FOOD RESERVES: SUFFICIENT]
[POPULATION: SUFFICIENT]
[UPGRADE VILLAGE → TOWN?]
[CONFIRM?]
Harold read the notification as fast as he could, heart pounding in his chest. He hit confirm as fast as he could — and suddenly, the notifications rolled across his vision.
[WORLD FIRST: UPGRADE VILLAGE TO TOWN]
[PERK GAINED: COUNT (EPIC)]
Inhabitants are 12% more loyal and productive
Soldiers inflict 10% more damage and take 10% less damage
Crafters are able to unlock perks with 10% less of the requirement
The cheer started almost immediately. He could hear it ripple across the courtyard, first a few voices, then dozens more. The workers dropped what they were doing and turned toward him. Beth straightened. Mark let out a shout. Josh just blinked and muttered something under his breath.
The world first was amazing.
Harold knew that when people unlocked the perk after him, they would only be a Baron. They wouldn't get the settlement bonus. The other bonuses would be less than 12%. Probably 8%.
For a world first, it was probably the most impactful one he had gotten. Except maybe the one allowing his soldiers to learn mana skills easier.
There were a couple more notifications detailing some other differences.
The biggest one upgraded the recruitment portal. Instead of 30 a day he would get 60. It doubled how many recruits he would get a day.
When the other villages were built and their portals going, he would be recruiting 185 a day. About 25 a day from each village since they were epic-level villages.
Of that 185, a little less than 50 a day would be soldiers.
It was a massive upgrade and would allow him to expand his control significantly — if he could keep up with the expansion.
Josh stepped beside him, looking out over the celebration and chaos as people gathered around the newly finished Guild Hall.
"So…" he said, half-grinning. "What's it like being nobility? You feel fancier yet?"
Harold just exhaled slowly, eyes still on the glowing message as it faded.
"I feel tired," he said.
Josh snorted. "Good. Wouldn't want the title to ruin you."
Beth came up behind them, nudged his shoulder. "Still think you should've gone with a cape. Really lean into the 'Count' thing."
Harold didn't smile — but his eyes flicked to hers with something just shy of amusement. "You want me in a cape?"
"I want you in whatever makes people take you seriously."
"Tragically," Josh added, "we already passed the 'leather pants' phase."
Margret gave a theatrical groan from nearby. "You're all insufferable."
Caldwell leaned in…"I actually like the leather pants…theyre durable."
Harold just facepalmed and turned to face the crowd.
The cheering. The pride. The future forming itself, brick by brick, in the town square they'd all raised with their own hands.
It felt real now. More real than it ever had before.
He let out a long breath and turned back to the others.
"Alright," he said. "Let's sweep up."
"The Count doesn't like dust."
Josh clutched his chest dramatically. "Gods, it has gone to his head—"
The council room smelled faintly of sawdust, sweat, and old parchment.
It was early evening, just after the final slate had been nailed into place atop the Guild Hall. The low orange of the setting sun poured through the windows, casting long beams across the table. Not that there were many luxuries — no banners, no seal, not even proper chairs for everyone. Just a long worktable, mismatched seating, and stacks of paper that blew slightly when the wind shifted through the new wall slats.
They'd been here for eight weeks. Almost nine.
The end of their second month in a world that had tried its best to kill them.
Harold sat at the head of the table, legs aching, back sore, arms scratched raw from the shingles he'd helped carry all morning. A dented mug of weak tea sat in front of him. Everyone else looked just as worn.
Beth was seated halfway down the table, going over lists — parchment scrawled in careful hand. Her shirt sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and there was a faint grease smudge across one cheek from carrying tools.
Josh leaned back in his chair — one of the few that didn't creak when moved — arms folded, eyes half-lidded but alert. His coat was draped over the back of his seat, and his boots were still caked with mud.
Margret sat with a stack of ledgers in front of her, muttering under her breath as she scribbled with a surprisingly elegant steel-nibbed quill.
It had taken Harold almost three weeks to convince her to buy a proper set from Caldwell's quartermaster stash. She'd insisted her charcoal stubs were fine. Then she'd tried the quill, and hadn't looked back since.
Lira sat at the opposite end of the table, legs wide, posture casual but alert. Her work gloves were tucked into her belt and her short sleeves still had dust from the quarry clinging to them. She was sipping something that looked suspiciously like cold broth from a metal flask.
Carter was standing. Arms crossed. His armor notched and unpolished, one boot tapping a faint rhythm on the stone floor. He hadn't even sat down yet.
And Hale was absent — still escorting the last of the refugee families back across the far river. Two more days, they expected, before he returned.
This wasn't a formal council, Harold just wanted a recap of what they had done.
Harold cleared his throat. "Let's take stock."
Beth looked up from her list.
"Finished structures: thirty-two. That includes the Lord's Hall, the Guild Hall, both barracks, the mess area, one granary, the enlarged forge, and five of the additional Hall buildings we designed. We've also got various logging outbuildings, the tanner, the glassblowers, sawmill, one main storage barn, and a half-completed bathhouse.
"Caldwell's supply depot is done, along with the Tanaka pen. We've got prepared areas for brick-making and coal-burning, though they're still primitive setups.
"The mining depot run by Lira is fully operational, and there's a small housing section out there along with the fortified post — currently manned by two squads.
"The farming lots are coming along. We've started expanding them, but progress is slow. Irrigation's still a problem.
"We've also built stalls for the marketplace, and people have started constructing small homes in the marked housing lots we approved. I'm not counting those structures in this number, though — since they're privately built."
We have a plan in place for all the new recruits we will be expecting and training pipelines planned that will allow them a full 3 weeks of training to unlock what we are calling the basic set of perks. This will also allow them to get started on the Knight and elite path we are wanting for the Legion.
Beth nodded as she finished her update and glanced toward Carter.
Stolen story; please report.
He picked up without missing a beat.
He shifted slightly, boot still tapping lightly on the floor.
"Farming lots are in progress. We've started expanding the cleared fields, but progress is slow. Irrigation's still a problem. We'll need a long-term solution if we want reliable yields."
Beth added, "We've also constructed permanent stalls in the central market square. Some of the settlers have started building small homes in the approved housing lots — not part of our formal infrastructure count, but worth noting for population growth."
Carter grunted. "Security-wise, we've got the perimeter staked and cleared in a five-hundred-meter radius around the Landing. No formal palisade yet, outside of the barracks fortifications, but we've marked sites for future watchtowers on all major approach paths."
He paused.
"We currently have four cohorts — including the Prime. Only the Prime's been blooded, but the Knight training path is officially live. Captain Hale's requirements are strict, but workable. We'll begin rotating eligible personnel into the program as they qualify."
Josh gave a small nod. "It's the only reason Hale's not here right now. He's escorting the last wave of refugees back across the river, but he's planning to handpick the first new Knight candidates on the way back."
Carter continued. "Scout program's underway too. Garrick says the volunteers are raw, but improving. It's going to take months to really shape it into a proper recon wing, but we've got the structure. We just need time."
He finally looked to Harold.
"And we've mapped out how we'll process the recruits we're expecting. With the portal upgrade, we're anticipating sixty new arrivals a day, and about a quarter of those will be viable for soldier roles."
Margret chimed in, eyes still on her notes. "We've got full training pipelines prepped for those recruits. Three weeks minimum per cohort. They'll walk out with the basic perk set — strength, durability, stamina, and a utility perk. That also gets them started on the Knight or Elite paths. Legion quality. Not just numbers."
Harold sat back in his chair slightly, brow furrowed — but in thought, not doubt.
Beth folded her list. "It's not perfect. We're still exposed in a hundred ways. No secured pass. No outer wall. Food is stable, not surplus. And every major piece of infrastructure is still being held together by the same fifty hands."
Josh leaned in with a grin. "But for eight weeks' work?" He glanced around the table. "We're still standing. We're organized. And we just built a damn town."
Caldwell, who'd been quietly flipping through his own slim notebook, cleared his throat.
"If we're talking survival and structure, yes. But we're more than standing now. The economy's functional."
The room turned slightly toward him as he adjusted the small spectacles perched halfway down his nose — purely aesthetic, Harold suspected, but the man liked his affectations.
"Our current reserve stock includes three months of dried goods and grain at controlled rationing. The forge is running full-time now — we've got a consistent ore flow from Lira's mines, and the smelter is operational. Tools, nails, horseshoes, very and I stress this very minimal armor plating — all being produced locally now."
"Coin is being minted," and people are using it. Still no bronze but the chits are working for that purpose. The treasury is still strong with the sale of potions but demand is increasing instead of decreasing. We could make double and still not meet it.
Margret, for once, looked mildly impressed. "And supply chain?"
"Growing," Caldwell said. "We've got surplus leather, stable timber production, steady ore, and enough sand and clay for glass and brick. Nothing fancy, but sustainable. I've three apprentices tracking all inventory movement through the yards, and we'll have proper ledgers by the end of the month. We need more tatanka or something similar if we want to sustain this pace though.
He glanced toward Harold. "We're not just surviving anymore. We're transitioning. From a fledgling settlement to something real.
Then—
One of Margret's aides slipped into the room, breathing fast but composed, and made a beeline for her. He leaned down, whispering urgently into her ear, his voice too low for the others to catch.
Margret's pen stilled over her ledger.
Her eyes narrowed — not in alarm, but in intense focus — and then she straightened slowly in her seat, looking directly at Harold.
"She's alive," Margret said.
She reached out on multiple forum posts to make sure we would see it. She's expected to be back in two weeks and is very sure the Thresher King is going to make a mess of the waterways.
Harold didn't move at first.
Then he blinked — once — and let out a breath that shuddered through his entire frame. Not relief, not yet. But something close. A pressure loosening around the ribs.
"Two weeks," Beth echoed, quietly.
"Two weeks," Margret confirmed. "And she's coming home."
Harold nodded once, jaw tight. "Well," he said, voice low but steady. "We've done a lot in eight weeks. Let's keep working."
His gaze swept the table — calm now, resolved. His smile was wolfish.
"We've got a basin to unite."