The jungle trail narrowed as the army came to a halt.
Wagons creaked to a stop. Boots shuffled in place. The Legion began their careful, practiced routine — shields up along the perimeter, wounded guarded, pickets rotating out. It had become second nature now, like a ritual against collapse.
Sarah adjusted the strap of her satchel and turned toward the small team behind her — Mira, Jace, and Theo. They were already tightening gear and checking weapons. They didn't need instructions. They all knew what this run was.
Harold stood a few paces off, speaking low with Carter. His armor seemed heavier than usual today, not because of a burden of weight, but from the accumulated grime and fatigue. The dried blood clinging to one side seemed to breathe a metallic tang into the air, blending with the earthy scent of the jungle. His shoulder plate was dented from the last clash, giving off a faint squeal of metal when he moved. His face was drawn, as if the exhaustion had etched deeper than any sword could.
He turned toward her just as she stepped forward.
"Here," he said, offering her a tightly folded parchment sealed in dull wax. "My message. My handwriting's still terrible."
Sarah took it, looking at the mark in the wax of the Sprig and the blade. "I'll make up something dramatic if they can't read it."
Harold exhaled through his nose, not quite a laugh. "Just make sure they know we're not here to conquer their mud village."
She smirked. "You sure? Sounds like we could take 'em."
Harold didn't answer. He just looked at her for a second too long.
Then he glanced at the others, gave a nod — professional, commander-to-soldiers — and started to turn away.
Sarah caught his sleeve.
"Wait. You're gonna do that thing again where you don't actually say the thing you're thinking. So let's get it over with."
Harold paused, then tugged her a few steps away from the others, voice quieter now.
"You'll be moving fast. If they're hostile, don't play diplomat. Get out."
She stared at him.
"That's not what you were actually going to say."
He hesitated.
Then: "I hate sending you ahead. I'd rather send Hale, Garrick, or ten fully armed soldiers." He paused, flexing his fingers slightly as if testing the strength in his injured arm, the faint tremor betraying a hidden doubt. "But you're faster, probably not smarter, and they'll underestimate you." His voice dipped. "And I trust you."
Sarah swallowed, tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.
"I know," she said, suddenly tired. "But I'm seventeen, Harold. You know that, right? Like technically?"
"Yes," he said with mock exhaustion. "You've mentioned it a couple of times."
"I should be at a coffee shop right now, failing calculus and yelling at my friends about group projects."
"You were failing calculus anyway," he pointed out.
"That's not the point," she muttered.
She looked down at the message again, then up at him.
"I'll get there. I'll deliver it. I'll tell Lord Dirt-Trench to prep for guests. And I'll even try not to scare them."
Harold reached out, hand on her shoulder — and for a second, he wasn't a Lord, or a commander, or the one who killed the hobgoblin commander with a mana-lit sword and a broken arm. He was just her brother.
"Don't die, okay?" he said.
She rolled her eyes. "God, you're so clingy."
Then, more softly: "Yeah. Okay."
They stood like that for a beat longer. Then she stepped back and turned to the team.
"Alright, degenerates," she called, loud again. "We've got a VIP meetup with Lord Trenches. Let's move."
Mira adjusted her bow and gave a lazy two-finger salute. "On it, boss."
Jace cracked his neck. "Can we not get shot this time?"
"No promises," Sarah said, already moving.
They slipped past the front ranks of the army, onto a thinner trail. Behind them, the clatter of shields and tired boots began fading into the underbrush.
The jungle narrowed around them into the usual sweaty, vine-choked gauntlet. Low branches slapped at their shoulders. The trail thinned until it was barely more than a rut between roots.
They jogged at a quiet pace, not straining too hard. Occasionally, Sarah would slow briefly to scan the brush for signs of danger, finding only the persistent calls of birds and the unsettling drone of oversized insects.
Eventually, Jace broke the silence.
"If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is a really messed-up nature hike."
Mira snorted. "You mean, like, a team-building trip — but with actual death."
"Yeah. Like one of those overpriced survival retreats. Except instead of a wellness coach, you get ambushed by raptor-riding lizard men." Jace continued.
Theo grunted. "And instead of trail mix, it's jerky made from something that used to scream."
Sarah grinned, eyes still scanning ahead. "Okay, but real talk — what's the first thing you'd eat if you could go back for one day?"
"Easy," Mira said. "Ice cold milk. With cinnamon toast crunch. And a spoon that's not made of wood or sadness."
"Gyoza," Jace said immediately. "Like real ones, from that one place on 3rd. With the dipping sauce. I would sell one of Theo's kidneys."
"I would let you," Theo said. "Honestly, I just want a chair that doesn't try to collapse my spine. Maybe AC."
Sarah laughed. "I want a thirty-minute hot shower. And then... YouTube for five hours. Just garbage videos. People falling off skateboards. Compilation of cats fighting ghosts. That dumbass history channel where the guy yells about Caesar."
"God," Mira muttered. "Remember binge-watching junk just because you could?"
A pause stretched out.
Then Theo said, more quietly, "Kinda weird how much I don't miss it sometimes."
That slowed them a bit.
Sarah glanced back.
"Yeah," she said. "I mean, I thought I would. But it's like... this place hurts more, but it matters more."
Jace adjusted the grip on his spear. "Out there, it felt like we were just going through the motions. Everything is already done. No one can be the first anything; we can't make a difference on earth. Here we know we actually matter."
"You sound like you're about to start a cult," Mira muttered.
"I'm just saying." He shrugged. "Back on Earth, I was failing pre-med. Here? I helped hold a trench line against a charging lizard. And didn't die."
Theo nodded. "Here, we count every mile. Accomplishments matter; that feels... bigger. Building a settlement is bigger. Or as the legionaries like to shout. Vivat Imperium!"
Sarah didn't say anything at first.
Then: "Harold leans on us too much."
That sobered them somewhat.
"He tries not to," she added quickly. "But he does. It's not just the battles. It's everything. The planning, the jokes when things get bleak. He's got too much weight on him, and he... offloads some onto us. He acts like he knows what he's doing. But...he really doesn't."
Mira kicked a root out of her way. "It's 'cause he thinks you're unbreakable."
Sarah's lips twitched. "I'm flattered. I'm also on my third healing potion this week. I think my spleen's on strike."
"You've done a lot, but he's made some offhand comments, too. I think it's because he knows what you can become. Cause he's seen it right? In his past life." Theo said quietly.
They kept walking. The forest pressed in again. For a while, no one spoke.
Then Mira muttered, "I don't want to die in a mud village, Sarah."
"You won't," Sarah replied.
"How do you know?" Mira asked.
Sarah gave a grim smile. "Because you'll respawn, and I'd never hear the end of it from Harold."
That broke the silence again—laughter — not loud, but real.
"Okay," Jace said, "but we all agree that if we find a coffee stash in this place, we keep it and lie to Harold's face, right?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sarah said. "That man made me fight a troll. He doesn't get coffee."
They picked up speed again. The trail widened slightly.
But the joking didn't return.
Something in the air had shifted.
They felt it before they saw it — that moment when the air changed.
The jungle didn't end. It just... thinned. The vines were still there. The trees still pressed close. But the path underfoot hardened slightly, and there was more sky than there should've been.
They weren't out of the forest, but they were on the edge of something.
Sarah raised a hand, and the others slowed with her.
"No scouts," Mira murmured, scanning the trees.
Theo frowned. "No cesspit outside the trench? That's gotta be a horrible smell inside that berm. No fire pits. No trail markings."
"Too clean," Jace added. "Like no one's touched this ground in weeks."
Then they saw it.
The trench cut across the forest floor like a scar — deep and wide, angling slightly from left to right, ending in a sharp lip of packed dirt. Beyond it, just barely visible between the trees, was a squat wooden watchtower. Then another — far right. A third, just over the rise.
And one dead center, right above what looked like the only entry point.
Four towers all facing outward.
Sarah stopped at the edge of the trench, the thick air abruptly giving way to an unsettling stillness. The soil, rather than smelling of the expected earthiness, carried an oddly sterile scent, like something scrubbed clean of life.
"Okay," she said softly. "That's a lot more real than I expected."
The trench was rough but solid. Six feet deep, about four wide. Reinforced with mismatched timber and stones. Dirt piled behind it formed a low berm. She could make out the tips of more structures inside — maybe tents or shelters — but nothing clearly visible.
Everything was tucked behind the line.
"We've been moving half a day," Theo said. "And this is the first man-made thing we've seen. And where are all the people?"
"No outposts," Mira muttered. "No patrols and no guards. Where are their adventures? They should be out here patrolling and gathering resources. They've pulled everything in behind the trench."
"Or they've all been eaten," Jace offered.
Sarah didn't respond. She was watching the towers now. There were people moving around in there. But they didn't seem very observant.
"Maybe they're watching us right now," Mira said. "Waiting to see if we try something."
"Well, good news," Sarah said. "I'm too tired to climb a trench and stab anyone."
She stepped forward to the lip, not crossing, and raised her voice.
"Dalen's hold! I'm Sarah — sister of Harold of the Landing. I've got a message."
Silence. Then — the sound of movement.
A shape appeared at the top of the central tower, headfirst, followed by shoulders, and a bow slowly raised to readiness. Another figure joined him a moment later in one of the side towers.
They weren't aiming.
But they weren't waving either.
Sarah held up both hands and didn't move.
"Well," she muttered, "at least someone's alive in there. This place is a dump."
Report
It started with the sound of boots.
The sound of boots marching cut through the stillness, a relentless tide of heavy footfalls against the brittle underbrush. This steady, rhythmic crunch was accompanied by the soft clink of shifting metal, resonating from dozens, perhaps more, soldiers. Had it been two days prior, this symphony of war would have thrown the Hold into a frenzy of panic.
Now it just stirred a thin thread of hope... and a little fear.
Dalen stood just inside the trench line, near the narrow gap they called the entrance — little more than a break in the dirt berm and some angled boards someone once called a gate. He gripped the haft of his makeshift spear, even though he knew he wouldn't use it.
They came out of the forest in rows — three broad, heads high, walking like they had somewhere to be and didn't doubt they'd get there.
Not guards or scavengers with secondhand blades. Not farmers with repurposed tools. Soldiers, marching like they'd done it before. And they looked... good. Tired, sure. Armor scuffed with lined faces. But they were talking and smiling. Some of them were even laughing. Gods, even their adventurers were armed and armored.
Dalen hadn't seen people laugh in a while.
Behind them rolled wagons — real ones, not handcarts or stretchers with wheels. Full-sized, reinforced, proper wagons, pulled by massive, broad-shouldered beasts that looked like someone had crossed a bison with a tank. He had no idea what they were. Their antlers looked like they could gore one of these massive trees.
More soldiers walked alongside — some on stretchers, some limping, but they were alive.
Dalen blinked. People were gathering behind him now — filtering up onto the berm, peering out over the trench. Murmuring broke out almost immediately. There was no way to contain it. One woman started crying and didn't stop.
Then a wagon creaked as it shifted, and a small group emerged from beside it — a diamond-shaped formation around a single man in burned, tarnished armor and a half-torn cloak. He walked like his boots already knew every inch of the ground in front of him.
Same gear as the others. Same armor. Same rough edges, but he was different.
He didn't look around. His guards did — four of them in tight formation around him, his eyes constantly scanning. Not nervous or twitchy. Just… ready.
Dalen had seen loyalty before. The fake corporate kind. The kind you faked when your job depended on it. It was the only kind he'd ever known. This wasn't that.
Whoever this man was, his people actually cared about him and watched him as if his life mattered.
Sarah stepped up beside him, arms crossed, watching with a kind of familiar exasperation.
She jerked her chin toward the figure at the center. "There he is. Lord Harold of the Landing."
Dalen didn't reply. He just kept staring at the lines. Their equipment and the calm, capable way even the wounded held formation. Then he glanced back at his own people — the man with a stone axe tied to a sturdy branch. The girl who hadn't eaten properly in two days. One of his "guards" was wearing half of his armor and none of his confidence.
He swallowed hard. The contrast was embarrassing. Harold's people looked like a force...and He looked like survivors playing pretend.
Then the whole line came to a stop — smooth and practiced. Not parade-ground perfect, but like it was nothing new. Harold stepped forward, cloak dragging faintly behind him, guards shadowing his flanks. He stopped a few paces from the trench gap and raised a hand in greeting.
His armor was battered. One greave was held together with a leather strap. He looked like he'd been through hell.
But he didn't look afraid. He looked used to the armor, and he wasn't bothered by the dents and blood that marred it.
Harold stood steady, his tone measured, his voice cutting through the air with quiet confidence. "Good to see people surviving out here," he said, each word carrying the weight of experience. "You and your folks must've had it rough." His gaze swept over the battered shelters, assessing yet not lingering—each detail absorbed and stored.
"Those swarms in the forest were tough cookies to crack. It's impressive you held out this long."
He smiled — and it wasn't forced. It was just honest.
"Hope my sister didn't scare you," he added casually. "I know she looks like a forest monster sometimes, but I promise she's not that bad. Kind of an acquired taste, honestly."
Sarah held out her hand without looking away from him. "Give me that," she said to Mira. "I'm gonna shoot him."
The hall for Dalen's Hold wasn't nearly as grand as the one at the Landing, but then that was the difference between a legendary start and a bronze start. It was a half-sunken hall with a firm roof and solid foundations. It had a single long table inside, enough for perhaps 80 people, but it had no chairs. Harold could see the small storeroom it had in the back, but it was empty of the supplies it should have had. It smelled like boiled roots, smoke, and people too tired to care anymore.
Harold stepped inside and ducked his head slightly out of habit. No real reason — just something about the place made him instinctively smaller, like he didn't want to take up too much space. He'd started in a hall just like this last time. It brought back bad memories of what he and Sarah had gone through last time.
Dalen was already inside, trying to straighten something on the table as it mattered.
Harold scanned the room — the low ceiling, the hand-scribbled maps on the wall, a bucket in the corner collecting drips from the broken thatch.
Behind him, he could hear his people moving — not loudly, or like an invading force. They were setting things down, talking low, and dividing up tasks without being told.
He turned, eyes catching on the group filtering through the hold: thin villagers, wide-eyed children, an older man with a stick, and maybe a dozen people who looked like they hadn't slept in two weeks. This place was...rough...
His voice cut low.
"Vera," Harold called out.
She was already close, her short spears still strapped, hair tied back with that old blue cloth she always wore when she meant business. Her scarf was lowered, revealing her face. She was a remarkably beautiful and capable woman. The thought crossed Harold's mind before he ruthlessly crushed it. Even he had a hard time accepting it.
"I hate to send you out again," Harold said. "But these people are hungry."
Vera followed his gaze — to the boy by the wall, the one watching them with open curiosity and absolute stillness.
Her face softened—just a little.
Harold continued, "Think y'all can grab us something for the night? As much as you can manage."
Vera smiled faintly — the kind that didn't reach her eyes, but meant something anyway. "They'll eat before sundown."
She turned without another word and gave two sharp gestures. Her squad was already moving. A few other volunteers peeled off to follow her without being asked.
Harold turned his head slightly. "Hale."
The man stepped over, armor still dusty from the march. He looked tired but solid — the tired that had more to give.
Harold didn't lower his voice. "No rest for the wicked."
Hale gave him a look that said, " You're the wicked", but didn't argue.
"These people've had it rough," Harold said. "Think we can secure this place for them?"
Then he looked at Dalen, still awkwardly hovering near the table.
"If you don't mind, of course. It's your Hold."
He said it with the same flat tone he used when reporting supply counts.
Dalen blinked. "Uh. Yes. I mean. Of course."
Hale was already moving toward the entrance.
He glanced at the towers, the ditch, the broken lines of the berm.
"We'll have it ready before nightfall, my lord."
Soldiers began fanning out. Quiet and practiced, one dropped their pack near the entrance and started inspecting the tower joints. Another knelt beside the berm, running fingers through the dirt, checking for collapse points.
Harold waited until the motion was fully underway before he stepped toward Dalen.
He jerked his head toward the exit.
"C'mon," Harold said. "Let's see if we can help y'all out."
Harold walked out and took a slow breath, eyes scanning the Hold again.
Crude shelters. A fire pit was dug too shallowly—a half-constructed watchtower with three workers and no rope. Most of the villagers had gathered near the edges, watching the soldiers move — some whispering, others just... staring. They looked like refugees and moved like it, too.
The place had the look of people trying and trying without the tools and time. No one had training for the world ending, but they're still trying.
He spotted a group of kids by the far end of the yard, maybe ten or eleven years old, sitting on overturned logs, kicking at dust. One of them had a bit of string he was knotting aimlessly. No adult was near.
Harold turned slightly. "Carter."
Carter was already close, posture easy but alert. "Sir?"
"I know we packed some of those nets — in case we had to tangle anything big."
"Two of them, yes, sir."
"Grab both. Have one of the boys grab those kids and see if they can net any fish in that river over there. Careful, there should be some crocs in there; the tail is good eating if you can get it. Those nets should hold it."
Carter nodded once. "I got it, sir."
He turned and called out. "Optio Bren."
"Sir!" came the immediate response.
"Fish detail with the nets. Take those kids with you. They look bored, and you know how the legion doesn't like that."
The Optio smiled and peeled off before the sentence finished. Within seconds, one of his soldiers had broken into a jog, already moving. The guy was muttering something about Elroy while running away.
Harold watched it unfold, then turned his attention to Dalen, who looked like someone had just poured a bucket of cold water on him.
"Don't worry, they'll catch some fish, and the Optio will make sure most of it goes to those kids," Harold said.
"You just—" Dalen blinked. "That was... fast."
"We've had practice," Harold chuckled.
Before Dalen could say more, Tribune Tran and two of his aides appeared, carrying a simple burned and busted crate now dubbed the command crate.
Tran gave a short bow of the head. "My lord."
"Set it down, Tran. Thank you." Harold said, voice easy. "Right here's fine."
Dalen stared at it, as it might bite him.
"It's just a simple crate; it got beat up a little in our first fight. Goblins kinda got the drop on us. This crate survived. We don't have a table, so we've been using this.
Harold didn't sit, but rested a hand on the crate. "You can relax, Lord Dalen. Really. I'm here to help."
Dalen laughed, dry and uncertain. "That's the part I keep having trouble with."
Harold gave him a look. "It's a hell of a thing you've built here."
Dalen rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean... It's standing. That's something."
"It is," Harold said. "That's more than a lot of people managed. You've seen how many settlements have failed because of the raids from various monsters. I was lucky to pick somewhere we wouldn't be bothered."
Dalen hesitated. Then said, "When I came to Gravesend, I didn't know anything about perks. Didn't even know what that screen meant. I didn't know what picking 'Lord' would entail. I picked it because I was tired of having bosses."
Harold smiled faintly. "You wanted to be in charge."
"I wanted to make decisions without getting someone's approval first," Dalen said.
Harold nodded. "Makes sense."
"I didn't know there'd be soldiers. Formations. Whole supply lines and production chains to create. I thought maybe I'd keep people together and all of that would come together."
Harold glanced around again — at the half-built tower, the shelters, the fire pits.
"How many did you start with?"
"Five hundred."
"Just under four hundred," Dalen answered, glancing at a nearby board where names were listed. Several names were crossed out, hastily scratched through as each loss was realized. Every strike was a reminder of faces missing from mealtimes, benches left empty, and voices now silent. "We've lost people — mostly early. The second week was rough. Monsters, panic, bad decisions. It settled after that once we got the trench and towers up. But we haven't had contact with anyone. No other Lords, no messages. It's just been us. People don't reply to forum messages. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't shown up."
Harold nodded slowly. "Sounds lonely."
"It was," Dalen muttered.
They stood there for a moment, both watching Carter speak to a new group of soldiers gathering near the berm. They were pointing at the entry — the uneven gap in the earth — and already laying out thick-cut logs and digging post holes for them.
Dalen followed his gaze. "They're reinforcing the entrance?"
"That's a whole project," Harold said. "Not just posts — you want pressure-bearing walls, proper gateway housing. Maybe even a kill channel if things get ugly. But we'll start the process."
Dalen gave a helpless shrug. "We didn't know where to begin."
Harold studied him again — not harshly, just long enough to get the measure.
"You're not what I expected," Dalen said.
"What'd you expect?"
"I don't know. A chosen one. A tyrant. Maybe someone who talked more."
Harold gave a half-smile. "Tried all that. It didn't work."
Dalen exhaled. "You've seen worse?"
Harold looked at him for a long second, deciding how much to say. "I have."
Harold paused. His voice was calm and neutral.
"And this? It's not great. But you've kept four hundred people alive in the wild. That's not nothing."
Dalen looked down at the ground. "Feels like nothing most days."
"It's not. I promise. These are 400 more members of humanity you've kept alive," Harold replied.
Harold tapped the crate once, then turned to look back at the hold.
"You're not a bad man, Dalen. You're just not a great lord." Harold said.
Dalen didn't argue. Harold didn't push.
"But we can work with that," Harold said calmly.
The first thing he noticed was the ringing.
Not loud — not like an alarm — but rhythmic. Metal on metal.
Dalen sat up, groggy. The sun wasn't even fully up yet, just bleeding faint light across the treetops. The chill from the earth beneath him seeped through his clothes, grounding him in the moment. The scent of smoke lingered in the air, a reminder of the cookfires that had gone cold. Most of the Hold still slept. A couple of early risers stirred embers near the cookfires, but the rest were dead to the world, curled in shelters, slumped over bedrolls, and finally allowed a night of absolute rest.
But that sound. It wasn't work; he didn't know what that sound was.
He stood and followed it, past the cookpots and sleeping forms, until he reached the clearing near the trenchline.
And stopped.
Ten soldiers moved across the packed dirt with a fluid, sparring rhythm — half-speed, half-silhouetted in morning mist. It was getting into April, and the days were hot, but the mornings were still cool. Practice swords clashed with practiced control. Others knelt in circles off to the side, arms outstretched, drawing glowing lines in the air with slow, deliberate gestures, mana work?
In the center of it all was Harold.
He was stripped down to his tunic, cloak tossed over a branch, blade in hand. He moved like the others — focused, and efficient — but even in practice, Dalen could see the rhythm bend slightly around him. The others mirrored his pace.
He wasn't showing off or barking orders. He was just… doing it and leading by doing.
When Harold caught sight of him, he didn't stop. Just gave a short wave, like someone saying good morning, and went right back to it.
Dalen stood there for fifteen more minutes, arms folded awkwardly, watching as the session ended. His eyes traced the measured movements of the soldiers, each strike and parry. The cool morning air clung to him, accentuating the stillness, and he shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, an unconscious attempt to match their rhythm. Harold, wiping the sweat from his brow with the edge of his tunic, seemed almost a part of the landscape. The final strike clashed. Someone called "Time." The soldiers broke apart with nods, catching their breath.
"Morning," he said. "You sleep alright?"
Dalen shrugged. "Still getting used to it."
Harold nodded. "That's fair."
A beat passed.
Harold glanced around — at the half-awake Legionnaires already setting up cook lines, tightening perimeter patrols, and hauling supply crates with practiced ease.
Then he looked over Dalen's shoulder — at the slumped shelters and scattered, sleeping forms of the Hold's people.
He didn't say anything. But Dalen followed his gaze. And he saw it—the difference.
Harold turned back to him. "What's your plan for today?"
Dalen blinked. "Plan?"
Harold tilted his head. "How does the day usually start here?"
Dalen didn't answer right away. He looked back at the Hold again, at the people still motionless because exhaustion had made waking up optional. As the light of dawn grew stronger, illuminating the stillness with a soft golden hue, something inside him stirred awake alongside them. He looked at the Landing soldiers, focused, mostly cleaned, already into the second hour of the day. The sun, now breaking over the treetops, seemed to echo the soldiers' readiness, while Dalen felt a new resolve emerging with the morning light.
He didn't say anything.
Harold saw the look on his face and nodded. He'd seen it before.
"Okay," Harold said. "How about this. Let's gather your people. Don't worry about the watchtowers — my guys will cover it."
He turned and motioned subtly to Carter, who gave a quick nod and was already moving to relay the command.
Harold turned back. "I'll help you get everyone organized."
He gave a faint smile.
"They should be feeling better after sleeping on full bellies."
The river was cold. Not painfully so — just enough to cut the haze from his thoughts.
Harold scrubbed the grime from his arms, then ducked his head under and came up with a quiet breath. Beside him, one of his newer guards — Eddin, long-limbed and always humming — wrung out his shirt on a flat rock, steam rising off his shoulders in the morning light.
Harold glanced up. Near the bend in the bank, those same kids were back. Laughing now — actually laughing — as they flailed in the shallows with the nets, one of his youngest soldiers. Harold thought his name was Jenkins. He was splashing alongside them, showing them how to throw the net into the water.
He watched them for a moment without saying anything. They deserved this morning.
Harold dressed in silence, cloak still damp, armor slung over one arm. Then he started back toward the center of the Hold, with Carter and his detail flanking him loosely.
As they passed the trenchline, Harold felt the crisp, biting cold of the river water in his ears, a sensory echo of his resolve to witness change. The shock of the temperature cut through his morning lethargy, sharpening his awareness as he watched Dalen moving purposefully. Dalen was attempting to rally people, pointing and raising his voice, issuing instructions to the scattered shelters. Yet, most villagers simply sat there, some rubbing their eyes, a few pulling their blankets tighter. Two even went back to sleep without a care.
Carter raised an eyebrow. "Permission?"
Harold nodded. "Wake them up."
Carter smiled faintly — not cruel, but enough that Harold knew he would enjoy it.
He raised a hand and pointed. Two Optios peeled off instantly with their smiling, stern-faced squads. Harold could see a couple of them trying not to giggle as they worked.
The Legion way followed.
Orders barked. Blankets yanked. Cold water poured. The hold snapped into motion like a fire had been lit under it — a lot of shouting, more than a few curses, but also real movement.
Some younger person yelled out, "Fascist!" Carter didn't even blink; the Optio next to him just had a large grin.
Dalen didn't argue. He jumped in, helping pull people to their feet, shouting over the mess. "Everyone to the center! Now! Get your gear — if you don't have gear, get in line anyway!"
There was confusion and complaining. A kid started crying, but the momentum was real. In ten minutes, the center yard was packed.
Villagers stood in loose rows — uneven, disheveled, more dazed than ready, but standing. Behind them, Landing soldiers moved through the crowd like guardrails, helping form columns, keeping the edge from spilling out.
Dalen stood near the front, flushed and breathing hard, but upright.
Harold stepped up beside him, then onto the edge of one of the wagons. The wooden frame groaned faintly under his boots.
He let the noise settle before he spoke.
"Listen up."
He waited a moment, watching the crowd settle.
"We're not here to rescue you," Harold said.
That got a few heads to snap up.
Harold scanned the crowd — tired faces, dull eyes, shoulders too used to being hunched.
"You're not hostages. Most of you are not children. But you are survivors."
He let the word hang.
"We brought food. Medical supplies. Protection. You needed that. We gave it. But we are not a caravan. We're not a relief convoy. This isn't a stop on the way to safety."
"This is safety. Or it will be — if you build it."
He took a step forward on the wagon bed.
"My people work—every day. We hunt, we build, we train. We get up early. We go to bed late. That's what it takes to stay alive out here."
He pointed to the nearest group. "You want to eat tomorrow? You'll need to earn it today."
"We're going to organize you into work crews. Hunting, foraging, construction, and defense. If you don't know how to do any of those things, you'll learn."
Harold's voice dropped lower.
"We're not here to carry people who won't walk. You want to live? You need to help yourselves," Harold emphasized, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. He paused, letting the words settle in before asking, "Who here believes they can build something better?" The question lingered, a challenge to the villagers. A long silence followed. Some looked ashamed, while others looked ready to work.
This was the turning point—the moment when people either stood up or stepped aside. In that moment, Dalen realized that this was the leadership he both feared and craved, a guiding force that pushed him to confront his own potential and responsibilities.
Harold let the silence settle before nodding once to Dalen.
"Let's get to work."
The yard was still quiet, but it held a different kind of silence now.
The villagers stood where they'd gathered. Some crossed arms. Others whispered. A few yawned. But most were watching Harold.
Dalen stood beside him, a few pieces of slate one of the Optios had handed him earlier in his hands, eyes flicking between Harold and the crowd like he was afraid to miss anything.
Harold stepped down off the wagon and faced them.
"Alright," he called. "We're gonna sort you out by skill. One at a time — I want you to tell me two things."
He held up two fingers.
"One. What you did back on Earth. Your job, your trade, your experience — whatever you were good at."
He held up a second hand.
"Two. What do you think you can do here? And if you don't know, that's okay. We'll figure it out."
People looked at each other, confused. A couple started to move, but Harold cut them off with a raised hand.
"One at a time. Line up. Let's make this clean."
Carter barked a quick order. The lines began to form.
They came forward, slowly at first.
"I was a dental hygienist. I guess I could… help with cooking?"
"I did warehouse work. I can haul stuff."
"I used to code. Full stack. I, uh… can learn farming?"
"I don't know. I want to be useful."
One by one, Harold listened. Dalen scribbled frantically, asking names, marking down trades, drawing columns for labor types. Harold gave simple orders:
"Go fell tomorrow's shelter walls. Meet with Optio Bren after."
"The foragers need your hands. Go join them, gather what we need."
"You're a builder? Perfect. Go raise walls with Tribune Tran's team."
"Not sure? You're in with the tree team. Start swinging that axe today."
It went on for an hour.
By the end, they had the start of something. Crews. Names. Purpose.
Harold stepped back and looked over what they'd made—a rough draft of civilization.
Then he turned and pointed to five of the sturdier-looking villagers who hadn't shied from eye contact.
"You, you, you, you, and you — you're crew leads now."
One woman blinked. "Wait, what?"
"You're not in charge forever," Harold said. "Just today. Your job's to report in."
He turned to Dalen, then addressed the whole group again.
"At the end of each day, your crew lead will meet with Lord Dalen and tell him what you got done. You're only reporting results."
He pointed at Dalen.
"And tomorrow morning, you'll meet him again over breakfast, and he'll give you your priorities for the day."
Dalen straightened a little at that — surprised, but not protesting.
A few murmurs ran through the crowd. Someone said, "Finally," and wasn't being sarcastic.
Then Harold raised his voice slightly. "Adventurers!"
They came quickly — confident, a little cocky. Fighters, hunters, and combat types. They filtered forward from the edges — scrappier and louder than the crafters—some in mismatched armor, one with a crossbow strapped across his back.
Harold was very interested in where he got that.
Harold turned to Dalen, then over his shoulder toward the approaching figures of Sarah and Vera.
"You're with them for now," Harold said to Dalen.
Dalen blinked. "What?"
"They're going to show you how to organize the combat teams. Adventurers need quests. Their job today is to search for potion ingredients, scout, and hunt anything edible."
Sarah crossed her arms as she approached. "So we're babysitting?"
One of the older male adventurers heard what Sarah had said and stepped up. "I don't need any babysitting. We know this area better than any of you."
Vera snorted and rolled her eyes.
The adventurer saw that and stepped forward angrily. Dalen moved to stop him, but Harold held him back.
Dalen could see the wolf smile that had appeared on Harold's face. "Just watch," he said.
He moved to Vera and raised his hand, but she moved. Her body twisted faster than most of their eyes could follow, and she slammed the palm of her hand into the chest of the other man, throwing him back.
Laughter broke out amongst the group, loudest was Sarah's, and he could see Mira giving the guy the stink eye. The girl could be mean.
Harold just looked at him, "They're an independent lot. Find someone you trust and let them handle themselves until it affects what you are building. You need to protect your adventurers. They are not a renewable resource. You don't get any of them from your recruitment portal. Do not throw them away."
Then he got back on target, "I need you," he said to Dalen, "to generate the quest today. Location, goal, what we're looking for. Doesn't have to be fancy. I like to keep one quest open in case I need anything done urgently."
Dalen hesitated. Sarah gave him a look before saying. "Really? You've played games before," she said. "You know what to do."
Dalen opened his interface — still clumsy with it — and scanned the mission options.
"Uh… alright," he said. "Let's start with a basic ingredient recovery mission. A mission to scout, then another to hunt."
Harold stepped back and gave him a nod.
"I'll check in with the work crews. You learn how the adventurers organize."
And just like that — the Hold had a rhythm.
The next four days weren't quiet — they were focused.
And that made all the difference.
For the first time in weeks, no swarms loomed beyond the trees. No smoke on the horizon, indicating some kind of fight. No frantic rush to plug holes in the line or bury the dead. The forest stayed dangerous, but not ravenous. In that brief stillness, Dalen's Hold finally breathed and Dalen, with Harold's help, started to recover.
Harold didn't let Dalen waste it. He saw the opportunity and brought Dalen into key activities each day.
Every morning started the same.
Orders barked through the yard as Harold's soldiers drilled in open formation. Shieldwork. Paired sparring. Mana channeling left the uninitiated doubled over in sweat. Harold ran through drills too, moving beside his guard, not yet with effortless economy, sweat darkening his tunic. Dalen stood at the edge, knuckles white as he gripped the wooden training sword Harold had given him. For a moment, he hesitated, thinking of the weight of expectation on him—it wasn't just a simple drill; it was a chance to prove to himself that he could be the leader his people needed. With a sharp intake of breath, he stepped forward, stumbling at first, but kept his place in the line. Despite trembling muscles, Harold's encouraging words pushed him onwards, until he found a rhythm with the others.
Some of the local adventurers joined the drills out of curiosity, trying to understand the strange discipline that animated Harold's people. It wasn't flashy, some were more motivated than others, but it was a start.
Hale personally directed the training of the Hold's defensive core. He assigned Toman, a wiry ex-warehouse foreman, to serve as Dalen's would-be captain and put him through a grueling regimen. Toman and the soldiers from Dalen's Hold followed Hale's strict routines, which at times were so intense they made even the seasoned veterans wince. At least the river, conveniently close by, offered them a chance to wash up after training.
"This isn't about fighting monsters," Hale told the first squad one morning. "It's about fighting panic. You hold formation so the man next to you doesn't run. You hold for him. He holds for you. That's the game."
As Hale spoke, an older soldier in the ranks, known for his gruff demeanor, listened with a skeptical eye. This wasnt a way of fighting he was familiar with. He looked over the other Lords' soldiers, figuring it must work since they proved it in combat against those swarms. But dam did it suck.
Toman nodded, bruised and winded but listening. He would learn, or someone else would, that was just how the Army worked.
While the rest of the Hold slept or nursed sore limbs, Harold retreated to work alone in the back of his converted supply wagon. He transformed it into a makeshift alchemy station—lining it with crates, worn benches, and rows of drying herbs. Each night, he carefully selected ingredients, mixed vials, and crafted a couple of dozen batches of potions. The two groups of adventurers, under Vera's lead, had actually done a good job searching the forest for what he needed.
Healing was the priority, addressing wounds, infections, old fractures, and bad joints for the truly old. Silent pain became movement again. In four days, every soldier and villager who could be healed was treated. However, the healing spree came with its limits. Supplies of rare herbs and ingredients started to dwindle, casting a shadow over Harold's efforts. Some needed potions tailored to ancient injuries or more powerful ones he just couldn't make. Unhealed scars served as a stark reminder that magic had its boundaries.
"He thinks it's magic, but he's just cooking," Sarah had said, watching Dalen flee the alchemy stench.
"Sometimes that's all magic is," Harold replied, throwing her a look barely looking up.
The nets by the shallows filled steadily now, their mesh shimmering like silver curtains in the gentle current, anchored by stones and reinforced daily by laughing children who took the title 'Fish Team' a little too seriously. One girl, wielding a spoon as her scepter, declared herself Captain of the River Guard. Harold gave her a salute when he passed, and she turned bright red with pride and delight.
The fish were small but consistent. A tiny economy formed—smoked fish traded for firewood or cooking help. Often in the evenings, a few of his legionaries could be seen bathing or relaxing in the shallows of the water.
There was always a certain two making fools of themselves out there. They were using their mana to skip rocks over the river and entertain the kids. They were fools, but good fools. Harold was sure they were doing it to get the kids' moms to look at them.
Logging teams pushed deeper, chopping farther, building paths to bring back the haul. Hesitant axe swings turned into rhythm. Dalen was trying to make a deal to get some of the Tatanka for his Hold, but all Harold promised was that he would allow some of his people to come learn some of the domestication perks at the Landing before allowing any kind of trade. As Dalen negotiated, he mentally tallied future debts, considering how acquiring the Tatanka could bolster the Hold's position. These creatures were mostly docile, but the animal control perks helped keep them under control. Even a couple of the soldiers had gotten general perks for it.
That wood fed the construction teams — and by the third day, the frame of a second hall had risen above the dirt.
Not the bronze mess of a Lords Hall spawned with the Hold. A real hall. Elevated stone footing. The central beam was as thick as a Tatanka's leg. Rough lines marked space for a chimney, and the stone was laboriously gathered from the river.
"It'll take another week to finish after you leave," Dalen told Harold.
"But with this many people working? It'll happen." Dalen said with a little pride.
The adventurers had turned the forest into a proper hunting ground again.
Small game returned daily — deer, boar, giant turkeys, and once, half a forest cat the size of a compact car. Fresh claw marks marred tree trunks, hinting at the presence of something more fearsome. The forest seemed to hold its breath in certain areas, an eerie quietness that carried an unsettling promise. A few adventurers got too bold after finding signs of kobold raptors and had to be talked down.
"They hunt in packs," Sarah warned. "This isn't some taming quest."
Search missions turned up rare plants, minerals, and roots. Most Harold recognized. Some he didn't. One group — led, ironically, by the man Vera had laid flat on day one — returned with a mint-and-ash-smelling vine bundled in oilcloth.
"That's Aetherroot," Harold muttered, stunned. "This grows here?" Harold promised him some potions in exchange for it, excited to get back to the Landing and continue to teach the fledgling alchemists there. It made him even more excited about getting a proper herb garden.
The forest, it turned out, was a hotspot. Mixed forest and jungle humidity, dense canopies, and ambient magical fallout combined into something volatile, fertile, and dangerous.
On the second night, a wiry man named Ellis came to Harold, hands wrapped in cloth, eyes sharp.
"I need tools," he said. "Or what passes for them."
"We don't have a forge," Harold warned.
"I'm not asking for a forge," he grunted.
By morning, Ellis had carved dirt behind the second hall into a bare-bones workshop: two pits, a rack, soaking pits for bone shaping, and fire-hardened stones. He made tools—chisels from arrowheads, clamps from bent nails, wedges and knives from split bone. His first successful creation, a chisel made from broken arrows, sliced through a piece of oak as thick as a thumb. The onlookers watched in quiet awe, respecting the ingenuity in Ellis's method and the boyish enthusiasm with which he tackled his work.
"It'll never be enough," Dalen said.
"Enough for what?" he asked mulishly.
"For progress," Dalen said. "We need more."
Ellis shrugged. "Do you see a better shop around here? Leave me to my work, I'll get this place out of the stone age."
By day three, people were calling it the workshop, and a summoned blacksmith had shown up to work with him. The adventurers began bringing broken loot from the monsters in the area to get it going. Industry began.
As the settlement began to settle down, the aroma of smoke-tinged rosemary and sizzling garlic wafted through the air. A few older women gathered around their cookfires, orchestrating the symphony of scents as they prepared the evening meal. Someone found a stew pot, and another built a table from scrap, turning crafting into artistry amidst laughter and shared stories. Spices were exchanged like precious commodities, with touches of cumin and bay leaf adding depth to the concoctions. Benches were carved to cradle those eager for a taste. By the third night, over a hundred people gathered at the same fire, forming the heart of this budding community. The stew may have been weak, and the fish a little burnt, but it was food filled with the taste of camaraderie. One kid fried insect meat on a flat stone and declared it 'fine.' Someone badly sang, but laughter followed. It was human, it was home.
A former shipping manager from Texas took over the day's schedule from Dalen without being asked. He let her help, citing that he needed to start an administrative section. Like it was his idea. She tracked assignments with pebbles, keeping the slate board free for her notes.
"She's good," Carter said.
"Yeah," Harold murmured. "Keep an eye on her, we could use her in Caldwell's area."
On the third night, Hale found Harold sorting herbs by the firelight near his workshop wagon.
"Why are we still here?" Hale asked. Harold didn't reply immediately, but he looked over at Hale as he was playing with a twig in his hands.
"We've been getting daily coded forum updates from Margaret," Harold replied."I know, but why are we still here?" Hale pushed further.
"Because we don't have to rush anymore," Harold explained.
"By the time we're back, the Landing'll be something new," Harold said.
Hale nodded, still skeptical. "So why keep investing here?"
Harold looked toward the second hall. Toward the laughter by the stew pot. Toward the patrols quietly moving along the berm and the archers in the towers. Where the soldi gate was being constructed.
"Because this place is in our sphere," Harold said. "When we upgrade to a town — and we will — we'll be able to start our own villages."
"And this Hold will be one of them?" Hale asked worriedly.
He watched a squad teach the kids how to properly lash crates with the corded netting they made.
"Of course not. We can start villages at a higher level than this. We have talent and people. But this place is in our sphere and near the spot I want for a village. I want to take the time to make sure we are on good terms. Dalen will fall under me. I'm good with taking a few extra days and building that relationship now."
A long pause as Hale decided how to reply.
"So," Harold added, "what's the real issue?"
Hale went to answer, but not fast enough.
"In a hurry to see your girlfriend?" Harold asked teasingly.
"She's not my—"
"Sure, she's not," Harold smirked. "Tell you what. First leave rotation is yours. Take Margaret and go see the sights. The mountains will be beautiful in the summer."
Hale muttered something dark.
"What was that?"
The fires burned longer, but not from fear. For the first time, people weren't trying to go to sleep and forget their lives. They had lives to live again. Near the embers, children dozed off with smiles, their dreams untroubled for the first time in weeks. Sparks rose lazily from a just-constructed small forge, where sparks of a different kind began to kindle hope.
Every night ended the same: Dalen and Harold, hunched over the command crate, reviewing the day.
Dalen took better notes now. He interrupted less and asked clearer questions. Began to give out a few orders himself that were actually followed.
"He's becoming a lord," Carter said on the third night.
"He'll do fine. It's hard to blame him. This place was failing, but he did his best to keep it together, and in my past life, he did keep it together. Made this place a fortress that controlled where all these tributaries fed into the main river." Harold replied.
Carter just looked at him like he was crazy.
Harold just laughed alittle, "You know I was worried about meeting him, he was a figure from my past. We never met, but we knew of each other. I had heard a lot about him, and a lot of it wasnt nice. I'm glad we got here before he turned into that."
Carter looked at him for a moment before asking quietly. "Did you see that forum post about that village that was raided by some kind of rat people from caves? Only a few people made out, and they are looking for somewhere new to live; the rest were dragged into the caves. No one knows what happened to them."
Harold closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yeah, that settlement is out in the Luminious Hills. About three regions away. I've been struggling to figure out how to prevent things like that from happening. I think I need to make a forum post about common monsters and their attack methods. I just don't know how to explain the knowledge."
Carter looked at him for a moment, assessing the man he made an oath of service to. Harold was perched on the command crate, looking out over the hold as they began to settle down. A large fire was going in the center, and people were gathered around it, still talking among themselves. Sarah and her team were there with a few of the other adventurers their age, talking and laughing. Enjoying themselves.
"My lord, at some point, I think we need to say, ' Dam the consequences. At what point is our lead enough to maintain it? There are people dying and settlements falling almost every day. We can make a difference with what we know."
Harold looked at the man, "I'll think about it, Carter...I think you are right..."
They left on the fifth day.
There wasn't any fanfare or speeches; they would see each other eventually anyway.
Harold had taken Dalen aside the night before. Whatever was said left the younger lord looking troubled. Dalen's hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, the slight tremor betraying his inner turmoil. His eyes darted toward the towers as if he couldn't stand what he was hearing. Though no one else knew the content of their conversation, it was clear that the weight of their words lingered with Dalen as he walked away looking conflicted.
The steady rhythm of boots on dirt echoed through the morning mist as soldiers assembled outside the gate. Wagons were hitched. The tatanka, after several days of rest, pawed the ground eagerly, ready to move again.
The Hold woke early to watch them walk away. Soldiers said goodbye to friends they'd made among the villagers. There were tears, and the adventurers embraced, traded gear, and promised to meet again. One team had found mushrooms that looked suspiciously like popular Earthly varieties and passed them around the night before. Most of them were waking up dazed and foggy.
Harold had a good time watching their antics, at least it seemed like they'd had a good time.
Dalen stood near the rebuilt berm, one hand raised to block the morning sun, looking out over what his Hold had become in just a few short days. His new captain, Toman, stood behind him, already drilling the first few squads into formation.
It wasn't perfect, but it was starting to look like something that might last.
With a silent nod from Harold to Hale, the column lurched into motion, marking the real departure.
Thirteen days after leaving Harold's Landing, the army began the march home on the same route they'd come.
Wounded rode in wagons. Supplies were organized by function: medical, alchemical, dry goods, and weapons. Hale had restructured the unit, declaring the current force the Prime Century — hardened veterans who had earned that title in fire. The fresh recruits waiting at the Landing would form the next century.
They weren't returning with the numbers they'd set out with.
They'd left with nearly 200 legionaries and 60 adventurers. Now, only 142 soldiers marched — nine of them still wounded in ways Harold couldn't fix with what he had. Eyes. Limbs. Organ damage. Things he'd need more advanced alchemy and components to treat. Of the 60 adventurers, just 22 were returning. The rest should have respawned at the Landing — minus one perk each.
Some would call that a victory. There were no permanent deaths from the adventurers. The relic was secured. A major threat was eliminated.
But Harold knew better. He'd need every legionary he could get. The recruitment portals wouldn't last forever. They were meant to give humanity a foothold — not an infinite army.
They couldn't have done it without the adventurers, and Harold made sure to thank each of them personally. On the march back, he began compiling a more detailed bestiary of the Basin and its monsters, including their perks, drop rates, and habitats. Harold's determination to create this comprehensive list stemmed from some adventurers being unable to affect the battle, a situation in which the lack of such vital information had cost lives unnecessarily. By enabling adventurers to plan their builds more effectively, he hoped to prevent such tragedies from occurring again and reduce their impact dramatically. When he was done with it, he would hand it over to Mark and Evan.
He thought of Vera's sniper shot. Of Sarah's team's theft and sabotage. They were sharp tools. And Harold planned to build more.
They'd chosen to return via the same path. It was slower — but safer. Exploring a new route with reduced numbers was too great a risk. There were still dens out there, and if they stumbled across a big one, they might not survive it.
Each night they stopped, Harold gathered Hale, Carter, and Garrick around the fire. Harold did not believe in ruling in isolation. While some matters had to be kept close, others were meant to illuminate the path they all needed to follow. He shared with them his vision for what was coming next, the sites where he imagined new villages sprouting amidst the rough terrain.
Bronze: 1
Silver: 2
Gold: 3
Epic: 4
Legendary: 5
That's why Harold was so confident Dalen's Hold would eventually fall into his domain. They had no way to compete. His start was simply better.
But the real trick, Harold explained, was the timing.
The sooner he promoted to Town, the sooner his own villages could start generating resources and, more importantly, their own recruitment portals. It created a chain effect.
"Landing becomes a city," Harold said, sipping tea. "Then villages can become towns, and those towns spawn more villages. It builds quickly."
The others listened in silence.
Harold looked across the fire. "My village stones start one tier below the original spawning stele."
He let that hang for a second.
"And the original was Legendary."
Carter blinked. "So… all your villages start at Epic?"
Harold nodded once.
"That's higher than 99% of Lords ever reach," he said. "Last time, I knew of four Epic Lords. I'm sure there were more, but none were Legendary. Once the villages turn into a town, they can spawn a Gold stone and so on."
The silence grew heavier.
"So," Carter said slowly, "we're going to snowball in a way no one can compete with."
Harold gave a one-shoulder shrug and raised his tea. "Kind of, yeah, we'll just be recruiting too many people every day."
He glanced back at the fire.
"But there's a catch. When the original stele is ready to promote to City, there's a test."
Carter frowned. "What kind of test?"
"An army," Harold said. "It assaults your town. There's real consequences. It hits your walls, your people, everything you've built."
He exhaled slowly.
"Last time, only 30% passed that test on the first try. Towns and people were decimated."
Garrick looked horrified. "That's… awful. Why?"
"Because most Lords weren't ready. Still fumbling with the system. Some never left their walls. They never fought for their land, relying instead on their army and the Adventurers. Those things need to be crafted with a purpose. So when a hard target comes forth they had no counter. Then, when you combine that with a real army?" Harold's voice dropped. "It broke them. And some never recovered."
The fire crackled.
"After City status," Harold said quietly, "a lot of Lords started conquering each other. That's where a lot of humanity died. So much so that they were unprepared when the other races began to expand. I don't know much about their politics, I'm sure they also have their own infighting, but they sure came together a lot faster than we did."
He didn't say anything else for a while. Eventually, he added:
"When I become the first City? I'll post on the forums. The step-by-step process about the city test so others don't trigger it unprepared."
Garrick nodded slowly. Then Harold said. "That's when our job gets harder. I'll make a post when we get back about what we talked about, Carter.."
Hale asked, "What does that mean?"
Harold didn't answer and just let Carter update the man.
The next night after those fireside conversations, he pulled Hale aside.
Recruitment was always the long game — and Harold had started early.
He'd given Hale a list of names before they marched, people he needed added to the network. He didn't say why. Just that they mattered.
Some were famous adventurers, others were crafters who became big deals. Others were administrators, some generals, some of the most effective people from his last life, and Harold wanted to gather them all to him.
Now, Hale gave him the update.
Hale explained that the network was growing. They spoke in coded forum messages, but conveying nuance was hard that way.
There were other actors out there trying to do the same thing, interfering. Hale and Margret had started the process, trying to get every person to the Landing as they could.
They were using a variety of ways.
There was a Lord outside the basin who was building ships, but guess he wasn't very nice about it. Hale's contact was investigating the ships as a way to leave and make it to the Landing, only to find out the shipbuilder hated the Lord and was planning on building the ship and leaving as soon as it could float. He jumped at the chance to serve a lord who would shelter him.
Another was working as a merchant. A few lords had started within a couple of days of each other. They had found each other and started a brisk trade. He was just waiting to start a large caravan and get the guards he needed before setting off for the mountain pass that Harold had told Hale about. It would take almost two months of travel, but that caravan would be a welcome addition to the Landing. Harold wasn't the only Lord trying to domesticate some animals for labor.
The most interesting was a man whom Hale told him was already on the way. Guess he was a friend of Hales from back when. Hale told him where he was, and he just started walking. He sent updates occasionally but Hale expected the trip to take almost six months. Hale just shrugged, saying he liked to explore and would enjoy the walk.
He assured Harold that everything was working so far, even if it was smooth. If everything worked out, he would have the intelligence arm he needed.
The next night, Harold grabbed two mugs of strong tea and headed to see Sarah. It wasn't coffee or a good beer, but it would do for now.
Sarah sat cross-legged, a battered mug in her hands, sipping the thick, earthy tea the medics swore was "good for calming nerves." It tasted like boiled moss and dirt, but she drank it anyway. Each bitter swallow matched her lingering unease, hinting at unspoken fears that bubbled beneath the surface.
Across from her, Harold leaned against a log, cloak draped over his shoulders, armor buckled loose. He didn't say much — just sipped slowly from his own mug, eyes half-lidded, gaze fixed on the flames like they held answers he hadn't decided to share yet.
It had been a while since they'd had time to just sit.
He didn't need to plan, lead, or fight; they could be just… be siblings again.
Sarah nudged him with her boot.
"You always get quiet after a win. You know that?"
Harold didn't look away from the fire.
"Not quiet. Just thinking."
"That's what I mean. We win, and you start brooding like you lost your dog."
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. You've got a brood aura. Real alpha warlord energy."
He smirked. "Alpha warlord energy?"
"Big sad commander who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. The soldiers love it," Sarah declared.
"And you don't?"
"I'm your sister. I'm contractually obligated to mock you."
He sipped his tea. "Fair." He said softly.
They let the quiet stretch — not awkward. Just easy.
Sarah glanced at him sideways after a while.
"How is it?" She asked.
"How's what?" Harold replied, looking up from the fire.
"Coming back to Gravesend," she asked seriously.
He didn't answer right away, and the fire crackled between them.
"I've been wondering since we came here," she said, more softly now. "After everything that happened to you out here. After what you survived."
He looked up at the stars. Let out a slow breath.
"It's strange," he said at last, his thumb tracing a slow, clockwise circle around the rim of his cup. The movement was almost subconscious, echoing the sensation of time unwinding back to where he stood now. "Not what I expected."
"You thought it'd be worse?" she asked curiously.
"I thought I'd feel… more. Anger. Fear. Something."
He rubbed his thumb along the rim of his cup.
"Instead, I saw people hanging on by threads. So I just started fixing things." he said.
Sarah tilted her head. "That's very 'you.'"
"What?" he asked, his head tilted.
"Taking your trauma and turning it into a construction project," she said, laughing.
He gave a dry chuckle. "Better than bottling it up and punching walls."
"I do not punch walls," she exclaimed.
"You literally broke your hand in high school because—"
"Okay, first off, I had just been dumped—"
They both laughed. A bit too loud, but it felt good.
Then, Sarah looked at him again, the humor ebbing.
"You're not what I expected."
He frowned slightly. "No?"
She shook her head.
"To you… You died. After living through twenty years of horror in a world no one was ready for. You lost a wife. You were tortured for years, Harold. You watched humanity fall apart. And then you came back two decades early and you just got to work," she smiled faintly. "Remember that boxcar we used to play in? How you insisted it was a spaceship, and we'd sail away from earth for hours, talking nonsense like it was an adventure of a lifetime? You've always turned chaos into stability." Her voice didn't break, but it carried weight.
"To me, my brother went to bed ignoring me like usual… and woke up possessed. Up before dawn. Scribbling in notebooks like a madman. You stopped eating. You barely slept. Your hands shook. You muttered to yourself for hours. You scared me, Harold."
He said nothing as he looked at her. Finally, he turned away to look at the fire.
"Then you finally told me everything. And I didn't really believe you. I thought it was grief or a breakdown."
She looked around, eyes scanning the shadows beyond the firelight.
"But now we're here. And it's all true. More true — and more insane — than anything you told me back then."
She gave him a long look.
"And you're still not what I expected. You're more at home here than you ever were in that house. Especially after Mom and Dad died. I think this world suits you."
She hesitated.
"Harold… I wasn't a very good sister, was I?"
But Harold turned to her, quiet for a beat. Then scooted a little closer, setting the tea aside.
"Sarah… I wasn't a very good brother."
She blinked, but he held up a hand.
"No — let me say it." He said. "After Mom and Dad died, I buried myself in work. I had to finish school, pay the bills, and make sure we stayed afloat. I told myself I was doing it for you… But I wasn't there for you. Not in the way you needed."
He let the fire speak for a second.
"You lost your parents, too. But I didn't treat you like someone grieving. I treated you like another responsibility to manage. And I'm sorry for that."
Sarah's expression didn't change for a long time. Then — slowly — she gave him the smallest smile.
"If it helps… we got closer here." He explained. "We traveled together for a few years before I met my wife."
Sarah blinked. "Finally gonna tell me about her?"
"Nothing to really tell. It didn't last." He snorted softly. "You hated her."
"Did I?" Sarah's smile turned distant. "Yeah… I probably did. The end of the world does weird things to people. Sometimes you cling to whoever's nearby."
He looked at her with surprise. "When did you get so smart?"
She moved to slap a hand against him, but he just grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug.
He didn't say anything at first, but then... "I'm glad you're here, Sarah."
Then — just as the fire cracked again — she murmured:
"I'm glad you're here too."
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Really rough map of the Landing from before Harold Left