The next morning arrived without incident.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Jason.
He woke before the bells again, body still sore but functional. The familiar dullness lingered in his muscles, but it no longer felt like it was actively worsening. He took that as a small mercy.
Downstairs, Aldric was counting inventory with an intensity usually reserved for funerals. Mira moved around him with practiced efficiency, ignoring his muttering.
Jason ate quietly and left before either of them could ask questions.
He headed back toward the outer ring.
Not because he'd agreed.
Because he hadn't said no.
The route looked worse in daylight. Cracks in the stone were easier to see, spidering outward from areas that had already collapsed. Someone had placed crude markers near the worst spots sticks, bits of cloth, anything to warn others away.
Jason crouched and pressed his palm against the ground.
The stone felt wrong. Not hollow, exactly. Just… stressed. Like something pushed beyond what it was meant to carry.
He straightened and looked around.
People watched him from a distance. Curious. Hopeful. Worried.
This was how it started.
Jason spent the morning doing what he could. Reinforcing edges. Marking safer paths. Redirecting traffic where possible. It wasn't a solution, but it bought time.
By midday, sweat soaked through his clothes and his arms burned from repeated strain. He forced himself to stop before exhaustion took over.
He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes.
The system nudged his awareness.
He checked.
Condition: Strained
Recovery: In Progress
No numbers changed.
Jason opened his eyes and stared at the cracked ground.
"So I can do this," he murmured. "Just not forever."
No answer came.
As the afternoon wore on, a man approached him a stranger, older, eyes sharp in a way that suggested long experience.
"You should involve a guild," the man said without preamble.
Jason wiped his hands on his trousers. "Guilds said it's not worth it."
The man snorted. "Guilds say that until enough people die to make it expensive not to care."
Jason didn't respond.
"Still," the man continued, lowering his voice, "you can't hold this alone. You'll break."
Jason met his gaze. "I know."
The man studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Then choose carefully who helps you."
He walked away without another word.
By evening, the temporary measures held. No new collapses. No injuries.
People thanked Jason as he passed. Some pressed coin into his hands despite his protests. Others simply nodded, eyes carrying a weight he recognized too well.
Back at the inn, Mira raised an eyebrow when she saw him. "You're late."
"Lost track of time," Jason said.
She handed him a mug and leaned closer. "You don't owe the world everything," she said quietly.
Jason looked at the dark liquid, steam curling upward. "I know."
He didn't sound convincing.
Upstairs, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling once more.
The cracks looked the same as always. Unchanged. Stable.
Jason focused inward one last time.
Condition: Strained
Recovery: Ongoing
Vitality: 12
Still nothing broken.
That was the problem.
When nothing broke, it was easy to believe you could keep going just a little longer. Easy to mistake endurance for sustainability.
Jason closed his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him under.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the Wasteland waited...not with urgency, not with threat, but with patience.
And patience, Jason had learned, was often the most dangerous thing of all.