Robert lowered himself onto a cracked block of masonry. His back throbbed, yet his eyes stayed sharp. Opposite him sat a man in spotless white, relaxed as though the ruins were a sidewalk café. Every movement hinted at quiet authority, but his expression remained friendly. When their gazes met, the stranger lifted a brow in polite greeting.
A snap of the man's fingers brought up a black-iron cauldron already full of stew. Steam spiraled into the gray sky, carrying the scents of pepper and roasted rabbit. A plank stacked with dark bread and pale cheese appeared beside it. Robert's stomach twisted, and he clenched his fists to keep from lunging for the food.
The man smiled and spoke in a steady baritone. "Hunger makes the strongest men weak. There's no shame in eating."
"I don't want to take what isn't offered," Robert answered.
"It is offered," the stranger said, conjuring two wooden bowls and spoons. "Share a meal with me, and we'll talk."
Robert accepted a bowl. "Thank you, sir."
"Call me Friend," the man replied. "Formality takes too long." He ladled stew into Robert's bowl and then into his own.
Robert tasted the broth and closed his eyes as warmth spread through his chest. "This is real," he muttered.
"It is as real as your need for it," Friend said, breaking a hunk of bread and handing it over. "Tell me, Robert—how long have you carried that tight coil behind your ribs?"
"Since the day everything changed," Robert replied. "Since the system, the dungeons, the fighting. You?"
"Longer than I can count," Friend admitted. "That is why I still cook for guests."
They ate for a moment in silence broken only by the pop of the stew. Robert raised one eyebrow in wry amusement. "Is this where you tell me a parable?"
"Yes," Friend answered, eyes crinkling. "Stories travel lighter than lectures."
Friend leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "A famine once stripped a country bare. Fields cracked, rivers vanished, and hope thinned like fog at noon. A young farmer lost family, livestock, and even his own name to drought, yet stubbornness kept him walking. One evening he found a dead tree with a spring bubbling beneath its roots. He drank, and the ground itself spoke. It told him life stays alive only while it passes from hand to hand."
Robert set his spoon down, listening.
"The farmer filled cracked pots and carried water to the nearest village," Friend went on. "He came back the next dawn and hauled more. Every trip drained him, yet the spring never emptied. Seeds sprouted, streams woke, and people remembered how to hope. When he collapsed, those he'd helped carried him to the spring and kept drawing water. No one could later point to the moment the land crossed from dying to living."
"So the lesson is that small work, repeated, changes everything," Robert said.
"Exactly," Friend replied, his tone softening. "Large gestures start fights. Small gifts start communities."
"What became of the farmer?"
"Some say he rooted into the earth and stands as the tallest tree in those fields," Friend said, brushing crumbs from his lap. "Others swear he still walks with the spring in a battered bucket. The truth depends on what you need to believe."
Robert nodded. "He did the right thing, either way."
"That answer tells me you still know the path forward," Friend said with quiet pride.
Robert studied him. "Why do you care whether I know it?"
"Because the choice will visit you soon," Friend replied. "I would rather you greet it prepared than panicked."
Harsh hyena laughter echoed among the ruins. Friend rose; a heavy club slid into his hand as though it had always been there. "Rest," he instructed. "I will handle them."
"I can fight," Robert protested, forcing himself upright.
"You will fight soon enough," Friend said, firm yet kind. "Tonight you heal."
Robert's vision blurred. He heard Friend call out, "Come on, mutts. Let's settle this," before sleep dragged him under.
Outside Doras Dagda the fields churned into a morass of mud, blood, and shattered roots. Every Clansman and Sanctum created defender was able to put their weeks of practice, training and mock combat to the test.
A front line of Kobrutes slammed their stone clubs down in practiced cadence, cracking spines and shoving warped boar-things back toward the trees. Above them, magi-knight fairies wove in staggered rows and fired needle-thin beams that lanced through exposed joints; when the lights struck, bone popped and scales burst like gravel under a hammer. Sir Graleth marched behind the brutes, shield held high, calling formations by number—each call triggered a practiced shift that closed gaps faster than the beasts could exploit them. From the ramparts, clansmen archers feathered the night with arrows tipped in alchemical resin; every other volley ignited on impact, marking kill pockets for the fire mages clustered just behind the wall.
Hamish advanced two paces past the Kobrute line, shoulders squared, greaves splashed red. He planted his right heel, drew a breath, and drove a Piercing Strike straight through a corrupted stag's breastplate of fungus-encrusted chitin. Without pausing, he pivoted, let momentum whirl the blade overhead, and clipped the legs off a serpent-wolf hybrid that tried to flank him. A radiant afterglow lingered on the steel; each fresh kill fed the aura, letting Hamish shrug off blows that would have staggered an ox. When three hissing hounds lunged together, he met them with Double-Beat: the first cut severed muzzles, the second rippled outward, dropping the pack in a spray of black ichor.
Rauri kept pace ten strides behind, boots skidding across slick ground. He traced runes in mid-air with both forefingers, the symbols flaring sky-blue before whipping down into friendly weapons. Every branded sword bit deeper; every branded shield rang like tempered iron rather than pine. A lumbering brute stumbled as a rune-lit spear punched through its clavicle, and Rauri snapped his wrist to shatter the sigil, detonating a burst of kinetic force that sent the corpse tumbling back into its own ranks. Between casts, he flicked smaller glyphs onto spent arrow shafts, turning them into glowing beacons for the next volley.
Chaucer treated the battlefield like a stage. He somersaulted through rolling fog summoned by ruptured mana stones, landing atop a fallen stump with daggers reversed in his palms. "Is that all you've got? My grandmother's stew had more bite," he shouted, voice bright enough to draw snarls from a cluster of tusked crawlers. They charged; he met them with a blur of silver, each stab aimed for the gap beneath a jaw plate or the soft tissue behind an eye. Finishing the last crawler, he flipped backward, landed beside a winded clansman, and clapped the man's pauldron. "Back to the line, hero. Your story isn't finished yet."
The air reeked of ozone, resin, and singed fur, yet the defenders pushed forward one measured yard at a time. Healers streaked glowing clay across wounds in passing, their touch sealing arteries before blood could pool. Overhead, a fresh wedge of fairies dove, coating the beasts in freezing dust, and the Kobrutes hit that patch a heartbeat later, shattering limb and armor alike. With each coordinated strike the corrupted wave thinned, and a new rhythm It was fierce, disciplined, and most of all, unrelenting. The brutal sounds of death and chaos, echoed across the battered fields of Doras Dagda.
Inside the settlement Lillia pressed her ear to Robert's chest, matching his heartbeat to the steady flow of her magic. Each time it faltered she poured life into his cracked mana core. Snow kept a palm on Lillia's shoulder, feeding mana despite her own fatigue, and no plea could budge Lillia from the bedside. Distant booms rattled the cottage walls, but she stayed focused on the man before her.
Snow lifted the curtain, saw orange flashes beyond the ramparts, and let the cloth fall. She bent to let chilled water drip onto Robert's lips. He swallowed, weak at first, then in small greedy gulps until he coughed and turned aside.
Outside, STEVE's voice rolled through the streets: "Kobold archers to the eastern wall. Three down. Fill the gap. Armored Kobrutes from DAVE en route. Report to Sir Graleth. Healers to Hamish, right-leg bite." Floating red letters above the plaza read WAR MODE ACTIVE. No one complained about orders tonight.
Robert's mana core flared a brilliant, blinding white, and the crack sealed itself. Lillia gasped, tears carving tracks through grime on her cheeks. Snow lifted a potion but paused when Robert's breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm. Fever ebbed away. At last his body accepted true rest, as though an unseen hand had granted permission.