Margaret didn't even wait for the faint grating sound of the chairs as they scraped against the stone floor before she stepped toward Harold.
"My Lord, a moment of your time?"
Harold arched an eyebrow. He'd barely dismissed the meeting. "Of course." He glanced over her shoulder. "Mark. Evan. Stand by, I want to see you after."
The two adventurer representatives exchanged a glance, then nodded, falling into quiet conversation near the council table. Already talking about work that needed to be done. It was gratifying to see everyone taking their roles so easily.
Harold led Margaret through the side door and down the short hall into what had once been a glorified storage closet. Now it was an office. The space retained the same footprint as before, still discreetly positioned at the back of the Lords Hall. The work crews had transformed it remarkably; the floors were level now, with smooth, joined planks that replaced the original, rough-hewn boards. The walls had wooden paneling, and a small hearth had been constructed in one corner with a proper chimney and a narrow iron grate. Amongst all this renewal, one item stood out—a battered ledger placed prominently on the desk. Its worn pages contained the financial chronicles of Harold's territory, each entry a testament to his ambitions and the fears of what was yet to be overcome. While it was a little sad to see the first building Josh had made go, progress was progress.
The warmth of low coals glowed faintly, the scent of roasted beans hanging in the air. A small pot of coffee sat steaming off to one side.
Harold's desk dominated the room now. Actual carved legs with drawers. Stained a dark, smoky brown. Where the stain had come from, Harold had no idea. Maybe it was natural. A tall-backed chair stood behind it, flanked by two simpler ones in front. Slates were stacked along one side, paper and ink across the other — bound notebooks, rough sheaves, even a small tin of sharpened quills.
He gestured toward one of the chairs for Margaret and took the other himself, leaning back and rolling his shoulders.
"Alright," he said. "What's going on?"
Margaret didn't sit at first. She glanced around the office — taking in the space like she was cataloging it — then finally eased down across from him, folding her hands in her lap.
Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp, and she didn't answer right away. Harold studied her for a moment, trying to figure out what she needed, but he still didn't speak. Margaret shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers tapping faintly on the wooden armrest of the chair, hinting at her inner conflict.
Margret opened her mouth, then closed it.
She took a moment to gather herself, then said, "My Lord, I want to give up my position and request a different one. I believe I am in the wrong job simply because I ran it originally, but there are other people who can do this job, and very few who can do the job I want."
Harold sat there a little surprised, but he connected the dots pretty quickly as well.
"Jeez, Margaret, you scared me there for a moment. I thought this was serious. You're thinking about the branch I asked you and Hale to set up?"
Margaret let out a short breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
"I am serious," she said. "But… yes, that branch."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering in pitch.
"I've spent the last week reorganizing one hundred administrators, setting up shifts, designing color-coded tokens for work assignments, and mediating which part of a potato gets counted for kitchen surplus. It's exhausting and not what I want."
Her hands unfolded, palms up. "I can do it. Obviously. But it's not where I'm needed most."
Harold nodded slowly, watching her carefully.
"I've read every report from the scouts—especially the ones Evan organizes. I've listened to what Hale wants to build, what you're worried about in the long term. The world is changing, and it's changing fast. What we are building? It's not just a town. It's a nation. And nations need intelligence. Counterintelligence. People who can track threats before they arrive and remove them before they take root."
She met his eyes then. "I'm the best option you've got."
Harold tapped a finger on the edge of his notebook.
"You want to run Internal Affairs," Harold said slowly.
"I want to build it," she corrected. "Properly. Not as an afterthought. Not just 'keep the peace.' I want the tools, the staff, and the mandate to safeguard this territory from the things that paperwork can't."
He sat back, processing.
Margaret added, more quietly, "You asked me to help design it. Let me be the one to shape it. There are a dozen good people in my section who could take over the day-to-day admin load. I'll train whoever you choose."
Harold let the silence stretch for a long few seconds, the crackle of the low fire filling the space between them.
Then he finally said, "You'd need a title."
Margaret didn't blink. "Director."
Harold nodded, smiling. "Alright, Director. Let's talk about what you'll need, but for now, I want this branch kept secret. Build it, but you will be my assistant. You will run my day-to-day schedule. I'm drowning in reports from every section. I need to stay up to date, but I need someone who understands what I need to know immediately and what can wait."
Margaret gave a small, knowing smile — the kind that said she'd expected as much.
"Understood, my Lord," she said. "I'll start building the foundation under that cover. Recruitment, compartmentalization, and early protocols. For now, I'm just your overworked assistant."
Harold gave her a look. "You were already my overworked assistant."
She allowed herself a thin smirk. "Yes, but now I'll be terrifying, too."
He chuckled under his breath and leaned forward, tapping the stack of slates and papers on his desk.
Start tomorrow. I want daily summaries, priority flags, and a brief every morning before drills. I'm sure you know what to look for better than I. Eventually, I'll go over all the reports, but I want to deal with them by priority.
Margaret gave a crisp nod. "You'll have it. And a list of candidates who won't blink when asked to work in shadow."
Harold leaned back, satisfied for now.
"Welcome to your new post, Director."
She inclined her head, then stood back straight, face calm.
Then paused.
"One more thing," she said. "If we're going to keep this quiet, I'll need your office keys."
Harold raised an eyebrow. "You're not even pretending to wait a week?"
Margaret smiled just faintly. "No, my Lord. I'm not."
Harold smirked faintly at her answer, then stood and moved around the desk, reaching for the door.
"That's enough treason for one morning," he said lightly. "Go ahead and send Mark and Evan in."
Margaret gave a small nod, the faintest glint of amusement in her eyes as she passed him. "Of course, my Lord. I'll make sure to lock up your terrifying secrets behind me."
When the door closed behind her, Harold exhaled and straightened his papers, readying himself for the next meeting.
Moments later, the door opened again.
Mark entered first, boots thudding softly. Evan followed, quieter, more watchful.
"You wanted to see us?" Mark asked.
Harold gestured to the chairs opposite the desk. "Yeah. Come in and shut the door."
Harold waited until it clicked shut, then folded his arms over the desk and looked between them.
"I've got something I want to talk to you both about."
Harold went over to the other table that used to hold a terrain model of the village and pulled over the box taken from the dungeon to the north.
"I wanted to explain what this is — and why it's so important."
Mark and Evan leaned forward slightly. The scent of something new and dangerous drew them like blood in water.
Harold set the carved totem down on the desk with a soft clack. It was small, about eight inches tall, shaped like a hobgoblin in a war mask. The totem's surface was cold to the touch, with a faint, almost imperceptible pulse emanating from its core. This sensation made it feel as if it were a living entity rather than a mere object. Stylized yet unsettling, it had a presence that was hard to ignore, its ominous aura lingering even in broad daylight.
"This," Harold said, tapping the totem gently with a finger, "is part of why dungeons are so important to us. This is the most important piece of loot we can get from a dungeon."
Mark frowned. "Looks like a relic."
"Close," Harold nodded. "But no. This is a Dungeon Totem — and it's about a thousand times rarer compared to other dungeon loot. You only get one out of maybe a thousand dungeon runs, give or take. And only a Lord can use it."
Evan tilted his head. "Use how?"
Harold leaned back slightly. "Once it's charged with ambient mana — about a month's worth, unless we find a way to speed that up — I can activate it. That triggers something called a Totem Questline."
"A special one," Harold said. "The totem creates an instanced quest for up to five adventurers, bound to the Lord's territory. It's tied to the dungeon it came from — so in this case, goblins. You'll fight harder versions, there'll be a storyline, and new mechanics. It won't just be a standard monster clear. They won't die if they fail the trial, but the totem and chance will disappear. Importantly, they will also have the choice to double the rewards if they forsake the respawn protection."
He paused, letting it settle.
I don't know all the details. I've only heard about these in my last life. They're rare. But from what I've gathered: if your team completes the quest, each member gets to choose a perk from a unique pool, tied directly to the dungeon type. Any perk that showed up in the dungeon is on the list, up to the rarity of the totem. Evan's eyes seemed to light up at the possibilities, imagining himself with the ability to see through the winding goblin tunnels, effortlessly navigating their dangerous labyrinth.
Harold nodded. "No full list, but think something like Warren Tactician — bonuses in tunnel fights, better trap detection, improved dark vision. Minor alone, but if we build squads around them?" He smiled faintly. "We can start developing more powerful teams. Or just reward the people doing the most dangerous work."
Mark glanced down at the totem. "And it disappears after?"
Harold shook his head. "No. After a successful quest, the original dungeon evolves. Completing these adds is the evolution condition of the dungeon."
That made them both straighten.
"And the Lord gets to choose how it advances. Whether I want to make another level of the same threat or increase the threat. A new monster I designed. Every time we complete a questline from that dungeon, it grows. "
Mark gave a low whistle. "And we'd be the ones who shaped it."
"Exactly," Harold said. "You don't just fight it — you forge it."
Evan pointed. "And what's the actual totem do for you?"
Harold picked it up again, turning it in his hands.
"Once completed, totems can be displayed in the Lord's Hall, like relics. And when they are, they grant a small passive buff — importantly...to me, and to all adventurers in our domain. It depends on the dungeon. It's the only way I know that I can get access to some of the adventurer perks."
He held it up.
"This one came from a goblin den. Its buff might be something like improved trap resistance or a small bonus to evasion. On its own, not much. But if we're clearing dungeons as often as we can? And we collect enough of these?" He set it back down. "It'll stack up."
"So every dungeon we clear…" Evan began.
"Might drop one of these," Harold finished. "And if it does, it becomes part of our legacy. But again: the drop rate is horrendously low."
There was a beat of silence as that sank in.
Then Harold added, "I was going to give this to my sister and her team. But Vera earned it. Sniping that kobold commander off the back of that lizard? That was one hell of a shot, and the scouting they did was invaluable. I'd like to invest in her team — see how far they can go."
"This one's almost done gathering mana," Harold said, tapping the totem again. "I think it'll be ready in the next few days."
He looked between Mark and Evan.
"Why don't you both talk to Vera and her team. Explain what this is — what they're about to do. And I'll let you know the moment it activates."
Mark gave a short nod, already making mental notes. Evan looked fired up.
Harold's tone sharpened just a touch, more command than conversation now.
"You have my full authority to outfit Vera's team with whatever the territory can provide. If they need arrows, we make arrows. If they need potions, rations, gear — get it to them."
He leaned forward slightly.
"We don't let them fail this quest because they ran out of anything. Understood?"
Evan nodded immediately. "Understood."
Mark gave a short grin. "We'll make sure they're ready."
Harold sat back, gaze resting on the totem once more.
"Good. Let's make sure this one counts."
The sound of hammering echoed through Harold's mind, a relentless cadence of construction that vibrated up from the floorboards and never seemed to stop. Each strike of the hammer felt like it was ticking away the days too rapidly, leaving him standing on the precipice of achievements that seemed perpetually just out of reach.
Progress was steady, near-constant. That kind of progress should've felt like a victory, but with every new milestone crossed, the same quiet worry began to build in the back of Harold's mind. They were close—painfully close—to the threshold for promotion to a town, but it hadn't come. And that absence sat heavy in his gut, like a missing sound in a rhythm he couldn't shake.
The army had begun systematically clearing the woods around the Landing, pushing out to the 20k radius Harold had ordered. Hale had divided his Centuries patrolling in opposite directions. Each with a squad from the new scout formations. They found a few smaller dens—nothing too threatening—and dispatched them with only minor injuries. The adventurers played a big part in that. There were reports of several different monsters seen in the mountains. Hale gave the initiative a green mark in his reports, but Harold kept flipping the slate back over, staring at it. Soon, Hale was preparing to march the army south to clear the dens around the planned village site near the south river.
Before he had stepped off, Hale met with Harold to talk about the campaign and what needed to be prevented the next time. The biggest, much to Harold's chagrin, was his conduct against the Goblin leader. Hale couldn't have Harold losing his head whenever Sarah was in danger, and Harold understood it, promising to control himself in the future.
Sarah and her team joined the efforts midweek, along with several adventuring teams eager for the experience. It was good work—a real contribution that didn't rely on dungeon diving or elite missions. Sarah often worked alongside Hale, and during a midday break, he sat beside her near the remains of a campfire.
Jace was talking to Sarah, who was complaining that she thought Harold was being too conservative with the adventurers.
"You're sharp," Hale said simply. "Let me ask you something. What happens when adventurers start dying for real?"
Sarah blinked. "That's dark."
He blinked while he waited for her answer.
She glanced at the others, then back at him. "I mean… eventually some kids here will grow up and become adventurers."
"Will they compare?" Hale asked. "To you? To Vera? To the ones who've been here from the beginning?"
Sarah didn't answer immediately. She looked down at her boots while she thought over his words.
Hale watched her a moment longer, then added, "You all have been doing this longer. You'll have perks. Your team has a world first that they will never be able to get. You get stronger just by surviving. Give you ten years… you'll be monsters. If you're still alive."
"He's buying time," Hale said. "For you. For all of you. So when the real war comes, you're not fresh recruits. You're powerhouses. Each of you has the potential to be very powerful; you're each an option in his toolbelt that we soldiers can't be. In a straight fight, one of our Knights has a good chance to beat you. But you don't fight straight fights. And that's what he needs. "
Sarah didn't argue, but Hale could see that she didn't completely understand what he was saying.
On the second day, the totem filled with mana.
Harold had felt it the moment it hit full charge. Like a vibration in his bones—barely there, but unmistakable. He wasted no time, and Vera and her team were called to the Lord's Hall that evening.
They were all equipped with the best equipment the Landing could make.
Harold didn't even know the Landing had a Fletcher, but Hale snapped him up and set up a workshop for him in his fort. Every day, people brought him any of their kills with suitable feathers.
Vera led them, calm and alert. Javelins slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked around the hall with practiced focus.
Behind her came Maggs, her bow already strung and slung low, fingers brushing the feathered fletching of her arrows. Her face still looked like stone. Dorrin, broader than the others, carried a kobold bow that looked to have been modified somehow. He also carried some kind of two-handed weapon that he must have gotten from one of the goblin berserkers. Maggs, nimble and sharp-eyed, carried twin quivers and two backup knives — just in case. And Tresh, the quietest of them all, moved like a shadow, his bowstrung tight and his expression unreadable.
Harold met them at the main doors with Mark and Evan trailing behind. There were no formalities today.
"This way." He said.
He led them through the back corridors, past sleeping coals and muted voices, to the quiet office tucked behind the Lords Hall. A low fire flickered in the hearth, but all eyes were on the desk — and the totem resting on it.
The carved hobgoblin figure glowed faintly now, like it was breathing in time with the quiet of the room.
Harold stepped behind the desk and looked at each of them.
"This is it," he said. "You're about to do something few ever will."
Vera stepped forward slightly. "Evan said it's a quest?"
Harold nodded. "Not just a quest. A Totem Questline. It's unique, rare, and you only get these from dungeon totems — and the drop rate is maybe one in a thousand runs."
Tresh gave a low whistle.
"Only a Lord can activate one," Harold continued. "Once it's ready — and this one is — it creates an instanced quest. Bound to our territory. Up to five adventurers can go in. There are no reinforcements for you. You'll only have yourselves to rely on, and what's inside is shaped by the dungeon it came from."
He nodded to the totem.
"This one came from the goblin dungeon. So expect goblins — probably stronger and smarter, maybe even magical ones. There'll be a story, mechanics, and challenges. It will be an adventure in its truest form with desperate stakes and all."
Lyn raised an eyebrow. "And the reward?"
"If you finish it," Harold said, "you'll each get to choose a perk. From a list of all the possible perks that could come from the dungeon. Including the ones from the dungeon boss."
Lyn grinned. "Sounds like fun."
"And when you complete it," Harold added, "I will be notified, and I will be able to advance the dungeon. Add another level, a special boss. I think it'll give me options, but I'm not sure either."
Dorrin flexed his fingers. "And what if we fail?"
Harold didn't smile.
"Then we don't get another shot. Not with this totem. These things are that rare. You will have the option of forgoing respawn protection when you enter for double the rewards. I'll leave that option to you. I would really rather not lose you, but that's my two cents. "
He looked around at each of them, meeting their eyes one by one.
"This is a big risk. No one will think less of you if you back out." Harold said.
Vera didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and said. "We're in."
Tresh nodded silently.
Lyn smirked. "We're not the ones who fail."
Maggs just rolled her shoulders and grunted.
Harold reached forward and placed his hand on the totem.
"It'll begin the moment I activate it. You'll be pulled into the instance. Good luck, and thank you."
He pushed mana into the totem.
It glowed. Slowly at first, then brighter — red and green pulses lighting the whole room. The carved hobgoblin figure shimmered, and the air around it began to hum, faint and low like the rumble of distant thunder.
The adventurers tensed, instinctively reaching for bows and grips.
Then the light exploded outward — a silent burst like fireflies caught in a hurricane.
The pulse wrapped around the five of them — and in a blink, they were gone.
No scorch marks. No smoke. Just the soft echo of the totem's last flare and the sudden emptiness where they'd stood.
Harold lowered his hand slowly.
Mark let out a breath. "That's a hell of a sendoff."
Evan looked to the now-inert desk. "They'll make it."
Elsewhere, the week's progress was marked with hammer strikes and fresh mortar. For Josh, the sawmill's completion felt like a personal victory. He had lobbied hard for it, convincing even the skeptics of its value. The difference it made was immediate. Logs were processed in half the time, and the planks became uniform. Workers started stockpiling lumber in proper racks, finally able to build in advance instead of chasing demand. Harold probably should have believed Josh earlier. Harold blamed Josh's prepper background for why he thought ahead like that.
Next came the bathhouse. Crews broke ground two days after the sawmill finished. Even without walls, the project lifted everyone's spirits. Josh had designed it to support dozens at once, with separate wings, stone piping, and heating built into the floor. The few stone masons had been working for a couple of weeks in advance to stockpile materials for the project. It would use a lot of lumber to heat, but they had plenty of that. It was already being nicknamed "the first miracle."
Beside the Lord's hall, the new potion hall had started rising. Harold's apprentices—now twelve strong—watched the foundation be dug with fanaticism. Most people had now used a potion made by these people or knew someone who needed one. The entire settlement was a worksite, and accidents occurred. The healing potions were invaluable. Harold planned to teach them mana control and how to create a herb garden in waves, using the workshop as a proper classroom.
He visited the forge that evening. What used to be a single small building with an exposed anvil was now a sprawling open-air smithy with six full workstations, each with its own bellows and fuel source. Over twenty apprentices now worked under the six core smiths.
Harold pulled the smiths into a quick circle after they'd wound down for the night.
"I've seen metals take on traits," Harold told them. "Swords that cut through anything, swords that can poison, axes that can throw a wind blade. Armor that dulls blows. I don't know how it's done, but I know it can be. I need you to think about how. What materials do you need? What kind of training? We've got time now—but not forever."
The Smiths looked at each other, thoughtful. A few nodded. One asked about working with alchemists. Harold said yes—whatever it took, he knew they had their own mana techniques, but none of them knew them.
On the fifth day, Margaret delivered her briefing.
"Morale's high," she reported. "New arrivals are integrating faster thanks to the housing crews. Forum chatter is mostly quiet, but…"
She slid over a slate.
"One thread caught my eye. It's from the village on the south end of the basin. Their Lord's a French politician. Apparently, he's treating the whole thing like a VR sim. People aren't happy."
Harold read the thread silently, then passed the slate back.
"Reply to it. Offer to take in anyone willing to make the trip, and they'll need to take the oath."
Margaret nodded. "And if he finds out?"
"Let him," Harold said. "Maybe he'll take it seriously, and if he does." Harold shrugged. "Who cares? I have no patience for someone playing games. Keep me updated on this. If we need to deploy people, I want them moving as soon as possible."
And yet—by the seventh day, there was still no town promotion. Harold reviewed the housing counts again. Food stores. Infrastructure. Council structure. Army size. The planned roads. Water access.
It was enough, it had to be enough. But the system remained silent.
Harold stood by the window in his office that night, watching torches flicker along the outer fields. The smell of lumber, sweat, and distant stew drifted in through the open shutters.
They were making great progress, so why did it still feel like something was missing?
Harold stood near the window, arms folded as torchlight flickered across his face. The Landing spread out before him, fires burning steadily along the paths and longhouses — a glow of quiet industry stretching farther than ever before.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"We're not used to seeing you stand still this long," Beth said lightly.
Margaret was a step behind, eyeing him. "I told her you were probably just brooding."
"I'm not brooding," Harold said without turning.
Beth raised a brow. "You're standing in a window that you asked poor, overworked Rimi to complete for you. There's deep sighing. It's textbook brooding."
Margaret crossed her arms. "All you're missing is a goblet of wine and a tragic backstory monologue."
Harold exhaled, rubbing his face. "I have a tragic backstory."
Beth smirked. "So, confirmed."
He finally turned, eyes tired but not without humor. "Alright, alright. You got me. I'm brooding."
Margaret dropped into a chair. "So. What's eating you?"
Beth joined her, flipping open her notebook. "You've been pacing like a man trying to outrun a thought."
Harold hesitated… then gave a slow nod and leaned on the desk.
"It's the town promotion," he said. "We should've hit it already."
Margaret sat up straighter. "You're sure?"
"We've met every obvious marker I can think of. Population? Over. Food? Not plentiful, but enough. Housing, trade, defense, infrastructure — we've even got a weak coinage system. The bathhouse is nearly done. We've formalized labor and the council. What the hell are we missing?"
Beth frowned, "How confident are you that those are the right markers?"
"I'm not," Harold admitted. "That's the problem. It's not like I've got a checklist. I just know how things felt last time. And this time… this feels right. But something's not triggering."
The three fell into a focused silence.
Margaret tapped her slate. "If this were a logic problem, I'd ask: what makes a village a town? Not just functionally or foundationally, but symbolically too. What embodies the spirit of a growing town?"
"Permanent structure," Beth muttered, "growth and forward projection? Continuity?
"We've got that," Harold said. "We're building permanent housing now. Shaped dirt roads. Hell, even the bathhouse is a cultural investment."
Margaret looked up. "Do we have a school?"
Harold paused. "...No. But I've thought of that, we have education going on. The kids get classes in one of the halls every night. I'm teaching the potion students."
Beth's eyes flicked to her. "Interesting. But they have no building."
Margaret leaned forward. "Education is future-proofing. You don't invest in a school if you plan to pack up and leave in a year. Maybe it needs to be a standalone structure. Show that we are taking it seriously."
Beth nodded. "And children make up a lot of the population. We have no formal education system and no building or dedicated staff."
Harold straightened a bit, walking back to his desk. "Hm, alright. That might be it." He mused to himself.
Margaret lifted a hand. "Not just that. What about the adventurers?"
Harold frowned. "What about them?"
Beth leaned back. "We have an Adventurer Affairs section. But it's just a room. They don't have a building of their own, a place to mark as a home of heroes in the making." Margaret clarified, "The system likely expects towns to have dedicated infrastructure for adventurers. They're essential to defense, exploration, and growth."
Harold groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "I… didn't think about building them a guildhall, but it can't be that simple."
Beth blinked. "Why not?"
"I am an idiot," Harold muttered. "I've been treating this like a survival checklist, and it is. It's why we use a stele to claim ground; it wants signs of an actual civilization. A school for the next generation. A guild for our frontline agents. Jeez, my previous village had two different groups that had buildings because they couldn't agree." As he thought over the mistake, Harold brightened up with an idea. "Why don't we involve the adventurers in the design process? Let them vote or suggest ideas for the guildhall. It would be a good way to make sure their needs are being met and engage them in the project."Beth slapped her notebook shut. "So we build them."
Margaret was already writing. "We don't have building crews free. But the bathhouse has enough momentum — we can redirect some labor."
Beth turned toward the door. "We'll need floorplans—"
She leaned her head out into the hall and bellowed, "Runner!"
A Legionary ducked in, startled. "Ma'am?"
"Go to the bunkhouse with the forge-built door. Tell Josh if he doesn't get his ass out of bed and start drafting a school and guildhall, I'll teach our children geometry using his corpse."
The legionary blinked, then nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Beth turned back calmly. "He's always more creative when he's mildly terrified."
Harold barked a short laugh.
Margaret stood, brushing her hands off. "So we build a school. A guildhall, then we'll see if that meets the requirements, and we can upgrade."
Harold nodded, "Let's do that, I have a feeling you're right though."
Margaret sniffed. "See? All that stress for nothing. You just needed us to solve your problems."
Beth grinned. "Honestly, I'm impressed you managed this long without us."
Harold groaned. "Remind me why I gave either of you jobs?"
Margaret smirked. "Because deep down, you enjoy being outsmarted."
Beth was already heading for the door. "Come on, Margaret. Let's go wake up my dumb husband and tell him he's building a school."
Margaret followed, calling over her shoulder, "Try not to brood while we're gone. You're terrible at it."
The door shut behind them, leaving Harold alone, scowling at the two retreating figures.
Harold lay awake in the stillness of early morning, the chill air biting at his skin as he drew deep, raspy breaths that echoed softly in the silence. The room was cloaked in shadows, the pre-dawn light barely filtering through the shutters. Then came the knock. It was firm, measured, and carried a seriousness that pierced the quiet; something Harold hadn't heard at his door before.
Harold was already sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to wake up, his boots halfway on, when someone knocked on the door urgently and opened it.
One of his personal guards, a senior legionary, stepped inside.
"My Lord," he said quietly. "Margaret is in your office. She says it's urgent and for you alone."
Harold stood, tension blooming in his chest. "Did she say what it's about?"
"No, sir. Only that you'd want to hear it before anyone else," the legionary replied.
Harold nodded once, fastening the last of his buckles. "Tell the kitchen I'll need a pot of coffee and have Centurion Raul woken up. On standby, not summoned. He's the senior Centurion here, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir, besides Centurion Carter." The legionary gave a short nod and stepped out.
By the time Harold entered the office, the fire in the corner hearth had already been stirred to life. The coffee pot steamed faintly on the small grate above the coals. Margaret stood beside the desk, her arms folded and face unreadable.
She didn't wait for him to sit.
"The south is breaking," she said immediately.
Harold's spine straightened. "Henri's village?"
Margaret nodded. "That politician idiot finally overplayed his hand. From what we can piece together, he got raided by a force of some kind of centaur and panicked. Desperate to retain control and fearing the loss of power, he tried to enforce full military conscription — untrained civilians, forced into units, with no say. At the same time, he ordered a seizure of food and equipment. When people protested, he called in his soldiers to arrest them, then executed a few as examples. His ambition to strengthen his hold and inability to manage the crisis turned into brutality."
"God dammit," Harold muttered.
Margaret remained flat-voiced. "Adventurers tried to protect civilians, and a fight broke out. Nearly three hundred fled on foot with few supplies, and only a handful of adventurers to guard them."
Harold frowned, already running the numbers. "Three hundred civilians on foot? With kids? That's a two, probably three-week march north."
"They'll never make it unless we help them, especially with a mobile force of monsters in the area. Even in the forest, they'll be found." Margaret said bluntly. "Henri sent soldiers after them, and one group of adventurers covering their rear took losses. They're posting running updates on the forum, and Henri is trying to justify it in return."
Harold swore under his breath. "They can't outrun soldiers."
"No, they can't," Margaret agreed. "And we don't know how many are chasing them."
He turned to the window, staring out across the quiet buildings of the Landing. The morning fog was still hugging the ground. It was clean and peaceful, but it felt like a lie now.
"Have they requested aid?" he asked finally.
"They've formally requested asylum from us, even to other lords. No replies, that we could find though. They're coming here regardless."
"Will they take the Oath?" Harold said. "I won't risk my soldiers when I need them securing our people."
"They say they are," Margret said…They're just people trying to get away from a bad situation. But those centaurs are still out there, and soldiers are chasing them. Most of their time will be spent hiding from pursuit, which means they'll be moving slowly.
Harold was quiet for a long moment.
"They'll be hunted the whole way here. We can't send civilians to meet them."
"I know," Margaret said softly.
Harold turned to the desk, clenching his jaw. "We're lucky—Hale's already out with three centuries near the river village site."
Margaret's brow furrowed. "You're thinking of sending him south?"
He's in the best position to intercept them. He's got the numbers. He's mobile. He's already operating near the river they'll have to cross. He can cross and find them. It'll be difficult getting the Tanaka and wagons over, but I'm sure he can figure it out. After all, Hale always did have a knack for turning impossible scenarios into just another day's work, even if it sometimes meant thinking a little too outside the box for my comfort.
Margaret nodded slowly. "That's the Prime Century with him, too, right?"
"Yes. I forgot the new Centurion's name, plus two more. I don't want him recalled—I want him to pivot. Find those civilians, bring them to the river site. We'll start the village early. They'll help build; if they take the Oath, it's theirs."
Margaret glanced toward the window. "And here?"
"We have a full century at the Landing, plus extra squads," Harold said. For a moment, he let the silence linger, the weight of what lay ahead settling like the morning fog outside. The room held its breath, heavy with anticipation. He continued, "Raul takes his trainees south. Tell them to build a simple road for the Tatanka wagons. And we need more adventurers to secure the route. Those Dens need to be cleared before they arrive."
"And the adventurers that are already there?"
Harold shook his head. "They stay. Their quests don't cover that area—an escort would risk them. They stay assigned or rotate to scouting and defense here."
Margaret folded her arms, thinking.
"I'll wake Raul and get him the orders," she said.
"Here, I'll write the order and stamp it," Harold said. "They'll need to get tools from the stockpile. We also need to pull in Beth and Josh."
Margaret nodded. "You want their village teams to go with Raul? Beth might not be happy, given her past run-ins with Caldwell over logistics. You know how she hates delays, and he hates things not being organized. It could lead to some tension."
"Yes, and the admin team. I want everything ready. I don't care about their issues with each other; let's test our systems. Make it clear we are not Henri. Start prepping the village; they'll have about a couple of weeks' head start. Caldwell and Josh handle housing, latrines, rations, and fishing setup. Beth can ensure it fits our plans."
"I also need to reach out to Sarah. She'll ignore orders and chase them down without respawn—she always does. She has not learned to temper that stubborn side of herself."
Margaret gave him a long look. "You're sure this is the play?"
Harold's jaw clenched briefly. "Yes. Time to see if our systems work. I just worry Hale will find bodies."
"Three hundred are being hunted. They're weeks out, a week from Hale. We won't let them die if we can help it."
He drew a line from the river village site southward.
Margaret stood. "If I know Hale, he'll make record time."
Harold looked up at Margret. "I hope so, he's going to need to."
The campfire had burned low overnight — just a faint ring of embers under a crust of ash. Hale crouched beside it, nudging a few slivers of wood into the heart of the coals. The glow pulsed back to life, casting long shadows around where he was sitting.
Most of the Legion still slept. He let them sleep in a little today. After clearing that den yesterday, they needed it. It was a nasty one. An ambush awaited them as they entered, and the prime century was forced to deploy and hold the gobs off the other Centuries as they assaulted the entrance. They lost people clearing it out, but it needed to be done. Now only the perimeter sentries moved at this hour—dark shapes in the mist that floated off the nearby river.
Hale sat back on his heels, exhaled once, and focused, opening the forum to look for any updates.
Open Forum Threads. Filter — General.
The blue-tinged panel shimmered into existence in front of him — hovering, crisp, and familiar. Hale scrolled past the usual noise. Trade posts, crafting questions, speculation about system mechanics. Someone exclaiming about a perk he earned. None of that mattered.
He was looking for one specific post. There it was.
Margaret always posted it the same way. The title formatting and phrasing. Even the punctuation followed a cipher they'd worked out together—a way to pass secure messages without anyone outside the loop catching on. But this time? The title was off.
Opal Contact / Trade Wind – Return Reversed – April Post 5
Return Reversed.
Hale's pulse picked up.
That was a signal — a code shift, for emergency instructions.
He stood immediately, stepping out into the chill morning air. The sun had barely broken the horizon, and mist hugged the ground, curling between the rows of tatanka and supply carts.
"Legion!" he barked. His voice cracked across the quiet like a whip. "Stand-to!"
There was a pause — one breath, two. Then the movement exploded through the camp. Runners sprang up from where they slept on the ground. Optios started gathering their men. Fires roared to life as fuel was added, and the camp roared to life.
Hale turned to the closest recon soldier. "Get the other Centurions. Tell them: command crate in full kit."
The legionary saluted and bolted. Hale returned to the panel and focused again.
System Panel: Open Forum Threads. Filter — General.
He started looking for another forum thread that had the new orders from Margaret. He found the message, then pulled a marked slate from his satchel — it wasn't for reading, but for the cipher etched across its surface. Matching the key to the code, he translated the message line by line.
"Confirmed refugee movement. 300 civilians. No military escort. Light adventurer coverage. Pursued by soldiers and monsters. Intercept and extract. Priority: Alpha. Build phase is to begin at river site via team from Landing."
Beneath the encoded message was a link—a thread from the refugees themselves detailing what happened. It was a plea for help and a promise to take the Oath. The quiet desperation of people being hunted wept through the message.
He swore quietly.
Two minutes later, the Centurions approached as one and saluted Hale as he stood there.
First was Centurion Varro — square-built, blunt-faced, still adjusting the straps of his chestplate. He carried a warhammer slung across his back in addition to his standard kit and always looked vaguely annoyed, even when calm.
Second came Centurion Ayen — tall, composed, with ritual tattoos across her knuckles and a mind like wire. She said nothing, just took her place at the crate.
Third was Centurion Parker, who was one of the people Hale served with in the war and someone Hale knew he could depend on to keep a level head. He was also the first one to get a handle on the mana skills for soldiers.
Hale nodded once. "We've got a situation."
He pushed the map to the center of the table and marked it with a stub of charcoal — one line north to south, another east to west, framing the Landing, the river, and the lands below.
"Three hundred civilians from Henri's basin settlement are fleeing north. They have no real supplies and no soldiers. Just a handful of adventurers fighting a retreat from Henri's soldiers. They're trying to hide and make their way to the Landing. Our orders are to find them and extract them. "
"We're going south," Hale said.
Ayen frowned. "That's at least a week's march. Maybe more."
"They won't make it without us," Hale said flatly. "They're being hunted."
Varro's voice was low. "By who?"
"Henri's men. Their village down there was raided by some kind of centaur. There's a fast-moving force out there they need to avoid, and they need to avoid the soldiers."
Hale looked each of them in the eye. "They're not dying out there. Not if we can stop it."
Ayen started to nod, but got a troubled look on her face.
"Captain, we only found one site to cross the river, and it's half a day to march in the opposite direction." Centurion Ayen said. "We will need the wagons and tatanka if we are meeting civilians."
Hale looked at her for a moment before he got a devious look on his face. "This is what we are going to do. Centurion Parker, how well can you swim..."
Margaret sat at her desk in Harold's outer office. A steaming cup of bitter black coffee rested beside her. The slate in front of her wasn't what held her attention. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the faint blue shimmer of the system panel above it, translucent text spilling down like a coded report. Each message brought a twinge of anxiety, the kind that clawed at her insides with the sharp talons of loyalty and ambition.
She flicked her fingers, sorting the incoming messages, filtering them by the secure tag Hale always used when replying to her. There. A single post in a buried general thread — innocuous to anyone else. She opened it and scanned the header.
"Morning Smoke Report — Wind Shear Across Plains."
A nonsense title and a code phrase. Meaning: Change of plan. High urgency.
Her eyes narrowed. She reached into her drawer and pulled out the cipher slate—thin strips of wax overlaying etched columns. It was the decode method they'd devised for urgent messages from the field.
Line by line, she began to work through it, murmuring under her breath as she translated the message aloud.
"Advance force crossing immediately. Mana-users only. Rafts for arms, armor, and supplies. Swimming crossing to hit trail fast. Main force to cross at ford, then reverse course and fast march south. Goal: intercept and extract civilians, disrupt pursuers. Leave no one behind. Kill Kill Kill"
Margaret blinked. Then blinked again.
She stood up so fast her chair scraped hard against the floor.
"That reckless, glorious bastard!" she hissed, half in awe, half in fury.
Beth looked up. "Hale?"
Margaret waved the slate. 'He's sending mana-users into the river with the plan they call 'Operation River Ghost' — floating armor on rafts while they cross now. The rest will make their hard march north to the ford, then do the expected loop back south.'
Beth blinked. "That's... insane. How many mana users does he have that can make that move? It can't be many."
Margaret jabbed the message. "It's brilliant. He gets to the refugees much faster if they move with mana."
She turned and practically stormed toward Harold's door.
Beth called after her. "Wait, where are you going?"
Margaret shot a look over her shoulder. "To tell Harold that his warhound is trying to outmaneuver gravity and sending his best mana users off without support."
It was still morning, but the sun was now fully over the eastern treeline. Its gleam danced off the wide, steady current of the river. Ten rafts bobbed gently at the shoreline, each loaded with armor bundles, weapons, and supplies. Soldiers who would drag them across stood barefoot in the wet grass, feeling the cold bite of the river's edge. Most were stripped to undershirts and pants, the chill in the air wrapping around them like the faint, earthy musk of wet leather that clung to their gear, underscoring their vulnerability.
A few dozen paces back, the rest of the Legion waited in formation — Tatanka hitched, gear was packed and ready to move the moment the river team launched.
Parker stood at the edge of the water, adjusting the line on his raft for the third time. "You remember that river crossing on the Mekong?"
Hale glanced over, expression flat. "The one where you lost your boots halfway cause you were drunk?"
"That one," Parker said, grinning. "Still the worst crossing I've ever done."
Hale gestured to the wide river in front of them. "Not for long."
Parker grimaced. "Guess I'll make new memories."
A splash sounded to their left, where two younger legionaries were awkwardly trying to balance their kit on a raft. One of them — gangly, shoulders hunched — looked about ready to bolt.
"Man, I dunno about this," the nervous legionary muttered. "Swim a river, run south, then march north again? And fight horses? This is gonna suck."
His buddy snorted, tightening the pack. "Not worse than drills and Hale screaming."
"Hey—"
"Plus," the second legionary cut in, grinning now, "we're rescuing people."
The first legionary blinked. "Yeah?"
"You know what that means, right?"
The first legionary frowned. "What?"
His buddy elbowed him. "There'll be grateful women. We'll be heroes, Jenkins. Think about it."
Jenkins stared, then nodded furiously as he caught on. "Oh. Yeah, okay."
"Get in the water, Jenkins! Or I'll teach you to swim with your spine!" Parker roared.
Jenkins yelped and jumped into the river as it had bitten him.
Hale raised an eyebrow at Parker. "You're always this charming before breakfast?"
Parker shrugged. "Only when I've got to motivate the intellectual elite."
"Sharp as ever," Hale said dryly.
"Sharp as a marble," Parker muttered, taking position.
Hale shook Parker's hand, a flicker of a past shadow flitting through his mind—a failed extraction, a memory he'd rather forget. "You know the plan: secure refugees, hold till we arrive." Parker saluted and turned toward the water, voice loud and sure.
"Let's go! We've got civilians to save!"
The raft was mostly packed—tight bundles of gear lashed down, bows wrapped in oilcloth, and the ration bag balanced for weight distribution. The river's edge gurgled nearby. The splash of Legion boots hitting water echoed faintly from farther upstream.
Sarah stood just off the bank, slate in hand, eyes narrowed at the glowing system panel hovering in front of her.
"Forum update," she muttered, voice flat. "Public post from Harold."
She read aloud, tone dry:
"Directive: All adventurers assigned to the River Clearing Operation are ordered to remain within designated quest boundaries. Southward movement into unassigned territory is prohibited. Respawn protections will not apply. That means you, Sarah."
— Lord Harold, The Landing
She let the silence sit for a moment.
Mira snorted from where she crouched by the raft. "Aw, he mentioned us. I feel special." She flicked a piece of damp rope over her shoulder and stood. "Also, we're already halfway across the river in our hearts, so... a bit late, isn't it?"
Theo frowned, arms folded. "He's right. No quest, no protection. If one of us falls—"
"We don't come back," Jace finished, chewing his grass. "How many times must we say it? We didn't come here to play it safe."
Sarah nodded once. "They're civilians. That's all that matters right now."
Theo studied her, then nodded. "Just checking we're not playing hero."
Jace gave a half-smile. "Heroic run through centaur-infested plains, more like."
Mira rolled her eyes. "I'm sure we'll be fine, we've already outrun some cavalry once. We can do it again."
"Noted," Sarah said dryly. "We follow the river south. The legionaries that crossed will move fast — we don't need to catch them, just stay on their trail. If they run into something they can't handle, we'll know."
Theo hefted his pack. "We don't even know where the refugees are."
Sarah pointed upriver. "They'll move toward water eventually. We'll find them, or Centurion Parker will."
Jace pushed the raft. "You think Harold's mad?"
Sarah didn't answer, then sighed.
"Harold's always mad," she said. "But he's also not wrong. He needs us alive. But I'm not staying behind and pretending I didn't see that post from those people. I won't." She demanded.
Mira clapped her back. "That's our boss. Let's go do something stupid."
Jace gave a dramatic bow miming taking his hat off. "South it is into the wild."
One by one, they stepped into the river — waist-deep, towing their gear raft behind them.
The current was steady, but they moved with purpose, following the fading splash of Legion rafts ahead, the sun already rising behind them.
Harold stood at the center of the Lord's Hall, his hand braced against the edge of the large planning board they'd mounted to replace the old terrain model. Bulletins flickered swiftly across the board: Unit positions updated, supply lines realigned, and priority tasks assigned. The room was quiet, save for the shuffling of aides and the occasional clipped voice, as they absorbed the flood of strategic intel. Even if it was relatively minor right now.
Margaret stood nearby, scribbling quick notes onto her slate as reports filtered in.
"Caldwell's finalizing the provisioning plan for the depot," she said, not looking up. "He's meeting with the section heads this afternoon to coordinate food storage and ration preparation. We'll be using part of the intake crew he's been training."
Harold nodded. "Tell him I want the numbers conservative. Let's plan for ten days of food for three hundred people."
"Already told him," Margaret said. "He's diverting extra containers for fish traps and passive gathering, too."
Another aide stepped in, handed off a note, and hurried back out.
Harold glanced at it. "Raul's departure was on time. He estimates six days to clear and shape the route south to the river village site."
"One construction crew is with him," Margaret added. "And a logging team from Lira's people — they'll harvest and prep structural wood along the route. Admin teams follow the Tatanka wagon tomorrow morning. They'll assist Raul until they reach the site."
"Good. Set aside some of the milled lumber for shipment once the road is passable. I want construction there to have plenty of material, even if it slows us here a little." Harold shifted his slate and drew a line across the river. "Any update from Parker?"
"He crossed with the forward unit two hours ago. They're burning mana and moving fast. He estimates they'll intercept the refugees in three days—not seven, like the main force will. Hale's team should have reached the ford by now. They'll cross and head south immediately."
Harold grunted. "Tell Parker I want daily reports."
Margaret smirked faintly. "Already ahead of you."
Another aide jogged in with a fresh slate.
"More healing brews from Elia's teams are being prepped," Margaret said, skimming. "She's asking that we start collecting used vials."
Harold chuckled. "She's getting some spunk. That's good."
Margaret's expression sobered. "No new posts from the refugees. They've gone silent."
"Smart," Harold muttered. "If I were chasing them, I'd be scraping the forums for trail markers."
She hesitated — just long enough to make him look up.
"And Henri?" he asked.
Margaret handed him a slate. "He's had a meltdown. He made a full public post. Threatened you directly—says any attempt to 'interfere in the affairs of another rightful Lord' will be treated as aggression."
Harold snorted and tossed the slate onto the desk. "Good. That means he's scared. His post mentioned more than just territory. He accused us of trying to undermine the 'traditional order,' an obvious jab at us sending people into what he deems his land."
Margaret stepped closer, voice low. "There's one more issue."
Harold stilled. "What now?"
"It's Sarah," she said. "I know you made a public post warning all adventurers not to follow the legion south."
Harold nodded. "Yep. And I fully expected her to ignore it."
Margaret's voice dropped further. "One of my people had an eye on her. He lost her team an hour ago. His best guess is she already crossed the river, and she's tailing the forward team."
Harold's face tightened.
"No respawn coverage," he said quietly. "No quest to anchor them. And they can't move like the knights can. They're alone out there."
He stared down at the map. South, far south, past the river, deep in those red-marked wilds, there was a thread of movement he couldn't track. The weight of responsibility pressed against his shoulders, unyielding.
From the distant woodlands beyond the hall, a deep, resonating boom echoed—a sound almost like distant war drums. It was a chilling reminder of the uncertainty ahead, each beat a pulsation of foreboding that reverberated in the room's silence.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
"Damn it, Sarah."
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Henri's Lord's hall smelled like sap, smoke, and frustration. This scent, a constant in his life now, underscored a bitter irony. Every breath was a reminder of his distance from the refinement he craved, his authority perceived as primitive and inadequate.
It wasn't a palace. It wasn't even close. But it was the best thing within three weeks of travel—rough-cut timber walls planed smooth by the system, a heavy table and even heavier unwieldy chairs, furs nailed to the walls for successful hunts. Henri had even had one of his actually loyal subjects carve decorative trim along the beams and table. He ran his hand over them, but it was uneven.
He hated that it still felt primitive. But more than that, he hated the weakness it implied—a lack of control that undermined his authority and ability to build the domain he envisioned.
Henri stood with both hands braced against the table. He stared down at a charcoal map of the basin. Pins marked paths that barely existed anymore. Strings showed patrol routes that used to mean something. With a sudden motion, Henri tore a pin from the map, letting it clatter onto the floor. The small act of defiance felt satisfying. He needed to leave his mark, to alter the course that the basin was tracing on paper. It was time to show that he, too, could change the land.
An aide stood across from him, shifting nervously.
"We… lost them, my Lord."
Henri didn't look up. "Lost them how?"
"The refugees scattered after the forest line. Adventurers screened their trail, and our patrols couldn't track them reliably. My brother was among them, Lord Henri, and the monsters..."
"Enough," Henri snapped. "So they vanished."
"Yes, my Lord." The aide stuttered.
Three hundred people—laborers, crafters, farmers—gone. Bodies that belonged to his domain, fleeing like frightened livestock.
"Any sign they're heading north?" he asked.
"Only rumor." My Lord. "But when we lost contact with them, they were heading north."
Of course. Henri replied.
The aide hesitated. "There's… more."
Henri straightened, voice cold. "Say it."
"Harold's Landing replied to your forum post."
Henri's jaw tightened in frustration and a little fear. "Read it."
The aide swallowed and pulled up the panel, voice steady but careful.
Being a Lord does not grant the right to rule without responsibility.
Authority exists to protect the people under it, not to abuse or execute them.
The Landing will not stand by while civilians are conscripted, starved, or made examples of.
If intervention is required to prevent further harm, we will act.
Silence filled the hall.
Henri laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"Listen to him," he said. "Moralizing. As if he's some philosopher-king instead of a jumped-up warlord with too many toys. I don't know how he got lucky enough that one of his summoned people can make potions, but it means nothing. "
The aide didn't respond.
Henri waved him off. "Leave me."
The man bowed and hurried out.
Henri turned back to the table and pulled up another forum thread—one buried deep, phrased carefully, visible to all but understood by only a few.
Stability requires respect for boundaries.
Unchecked expansion destabilizes the land.
A response blinked in moments later.
Agreed. Authority must remain inviolate.
The Landing grows… ambitious.
Henri's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Good," he murmured. "At least someone understands."
He began drafting a new post, this one public. He was careful in his writing. Polished with his political acumen and noble lineage.
Not an accusation—no, a concern.
Fellow Lords,
Recent actions by Harold's Landing raise troubling questions regarding the sanctity of Lordly authority.
If one Lord may intervene in another's domain under the guise of "protection," then no authority is secure.
We must consider whether unchecked interference undermines the very framework that allows us to govern.
He sent it.
Then leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.
No desertions—his soldiers were still loyal. But the adventurers? They weren't taking the bounties. Not the pursuit quests. Not the "recovery" quests.
They were choosing.
And now Harold's Landing was moving troops. Not adventurers but actual soldiers, and he didn't know how many.
Henri stared at the map again, fingers twitching. His response had been too fast and too organized.
He's in the northeast corner of the basin. How the hell is he projecting force that far south?
Was his domain already pressing against the river?
"This isn't how it's supposed to work," he muttered. "I need those people. I need them to get the industries back up and running. We were finally—finally—getting stable."His fist slammed against the table in frustration.
He reached for a tin on the table, an old habit from Earth he sorely missed, popped it open—and found it empty.
No cigars. No wine. No caviar. No comforts. No civilization.
Just smoke, wood, and mud, and a world that no longer cared who he had been. Henri longed for the luxury of his previous life—the salty bite of caviar on his tongue, the satisfying crack of a match lighting a cigar. These memories flickered through his mind, intensifying his determination to claw back control. He believed that his authority could restore order, no matter what this new world demanded. He would show them.
Henri closed the tin slowly.
"I need a drink," he said to no one. "A real one."
Then quieter—almost petulant:
"Someone ought to show him what authority is."
Elsewhere, dawn.
The morning air was cool, the kind that promised warmth later. Still, it clung to the shadows in the corners of the Landing. Early April in the hills of the basin. The sun hadn't cleared the treetops yet when Harold stepped into the courtyard at the barracks.
It still wasn't a grand place — just an open space inside a rough palisade, the only yard the fort had. All hardened stakes, packed earth, with a couple of solid towers manned by brand-new soldiers.
Centurion Carter stood to one side, arms crossed. He watched a line of freshly summoned legionaries drill under his eye. They moved like recruits—because they were. But they improved. Carter barked sharp corrections with that same calm, gravel-dragging voice he always used.
Harold didn't stop to speak. He crossed to the far side of the yard, where there was space to stretch, to breathe, to focus. He inhaled deeply and began.
He'd started with the potion method, his first mana system—delicate circulation like liquid through a cauldron. It had comforted and grounded him—a way to calm himself. But something had shifted.
He still began that way — circulation through his core, then outward through his limbs, careful and smooth — but now he pushed it further.
This wasn't potion-making anymore. Not exactly. He was making himself the potion.
The soldiers flooded their bodies with mana, empowering themselves by sheer will. Forcing it to obey. Harold was different. He empowered his body like ingredients — in sequence, and with intention.
He let mana sink deeper: into bone, into muscle, into blood. Legs first — bone to strengthen, then muscle to empower for speed. Then shoulders and back — for power. Then his arms, his hands. Then, finally, his weapon, he could feel the mana flow down the length, and the weapon began to sing as it moved through the air.
He felt the power flood through him. His body wanted to move and to strike. But this was about control. This was about learning how to manipulate mana to serve him.
The training sword felt heavy, but he worked through the forms. His movements were rough and ungraceful. He wasn't a swordsman—maybe never would be. But that wasn't the point. He needed to hold his own against foes until his knights could come to his aid.
The mana was building, and his will was wavering. He needed to move and burn. To channel the pressure in his chest into something tangible.
He'd found he could use less mana this way. Less brute force, more refinement. The soldier's method of will and dominance had merit — but this was something else. A hybrid of discipline and craft. A system built not just on pushing, but on understanding.
It was slower and hopefully smarter. A more refined method.
His breath grew heavier as he worked through the second set of forms. Mana rolled beneath his skin like a tide under pressure. His strikes were still sloppy — but they hit harder. His balance was steadier and his focus was sharper.
This wasn't training for war. This was sharpening the blade of his will. He needed that edge, especially today.
Centurion Parker was still a day out from the refugees. They believed the civilians had taken shelter in the forest — something Hale agreed with. Parker had already skirmished with the centaurs four times. The last two engagements had left men injured. The centaurs were lightly armed, but there were signs of organization that worried Parker.
And Hale's gamble looked like it might pay off — if Parker could maintain the pace.
Margaret had briefed Harold the night before about Henri's move. His threats and his appeal to the other Lords. It was a thinly veiled power play — but a dangerous one.
And Harold had to carefully consider his next move. He couldn't afford the other Lords coming together against him. He'd been counting on defeating them in detail, reducing losses by choosing his fights. That was part of why he'd gone to Dalen's hold first — Dalen had already lost. It was a clean consolidation.
But Henri…Henri had gotten bold.
And bold men, Harold knew, either secured their ambitions…Or died trying.
Harold knew Henri. In his last life, the man started late, likely due to the Centaurs, but gained power fast. He built ships, colonized islands, and grew rich from distant and scarce resources. His warships let him move troops up rivers, threatening the Basin before the other Lords could react.
Harold exhaled and drove the next strike into the practice post hard enough to make it shudder.
His next move would set the tone for the Basin. Should he let Henri's post stand, take the loss of face, which he didn't care about, but which would hurt his standing with other Lords?
Or… should he move to remove Henri now?
He cycled the mana again, sinking it into his legs, his arms, and launched into the final form, striking the post as hard and fast as he could manage.
He slowed as he reached the end of the form — exhaling hard, mana still cycling through his limbs. His skin itched faintly from the buildup. Sweat clung to the back of his shirt.
Then he saw her. Margaret stood just beyond the training yard, near the palisade entrance, her slate in hand. She wasn't watching the soldiers. She was watching him.
Harold straightened, letting the last of the mana settle. With one more deep breath, he grounded the flow and rolled his shoulders.
Two of his personal guards peeled off from the edge of the courtyard — Ren and Corwin. They had been his constant shadow. Each bore a spear slung across their back, and each had the faint shimmer of active mana running through their skin from the drills.
They fell into step behind him as he crossed the yard.
Margaret didn't speak until he'd passed under the palisade gate and joined her just outside the walls, where the morning breeze still carried the chill of spring.
"Didn't want to interrupt your exercise," she said, arching a brow. "Though if I had waited much longer, you might've tried to split that post in half."
Harold grunted. "It deserved it."
Her expression didn't shift, but her voice softened slightly. "We've got an update."
Harold's jaw tightened. "Good or bad?"
"Mostly updates," she replied. "But something's brewing."
He nodded once. "Walk and talk?"
Margaret glanced at the guards. "You're going to want privacy for this."
Harold gave the faintest motion with his fingers, and the two legionaries wordlessly stopped and maintained distance near the gate.
Then he turned back to Margaret and said, "Alright. Let's walk."
And together, they headed deeper into the Landing.
They moved past the edge of the palisade wall, boots crunching faintly on the gravel path that circled the outer buildings. Birds had started calling in the distance — high and sharp, hidden in the trees. The morning was already warming.
Margaret waited until they were clear of earshot before speaking.
"My team's been combing the general forums," she said. "Looking for any threads that mention us directly — or indirectly. There's been more of them lately."
"People are talking," Harold said flatly. "That was always going to happen."
Margaret nodded. "True. But one stood out."
She pulled out a notebook and showed it to Harold. Look at this, I summarized it as best I could. "At first glance, the title is nothing suspicious. No Lord's comment on it until later. Started by someone I suspect is an aide to Henri, but what caught my eye is that The Landing is mentioned by name half a dozen times. All of it couched in language about 'overreach,' 'setting dangerous precedent,' and 'undermining basin stability.'"
Harold frowned. "Henri's message already seeded the idea."
"Exactly," Margaret said. "This thread sprang up within hours of it. And the comments? They're vague, like they know people are watching. Mostly nodding along. A few of them speculate that if someone doesn't put us in check, there'll be more 'interventions' soon. It's subtle, but it's coordinated."
She swiped again. "One comment, though, stood out. The user mentions 'sending support to stabilize Lord Henri's position and ensure lawful order is maintained.'"
Harold's steps slowed. "What name?"
Margaret looked up at him.
"Arjun."
Harold's jaw clenched.
The name felt like a crack of thunder behind his eyes. Lord Arjun. Across the river, southeast of Henri's domain, a tactician and one of two Lords in the valley that would actually move with their armies. He had too many connections and just enough ambition to be dangerous.
"They were allies," Harold said quietly, voice taut. "Last time. Close, by the end of it, their trade routes, their armies, they worked together. But I thought they didn't start working together until much later."
Margaret nodded, watching his face. "Something you did may have changed that."
Harold didn't answer right away. He looked past her, toward the treeline beyond the Landing. The shadows of the hills. The fog is lifting slowly under the sun.
"So they're moving earlier this time," he said. "Reacting faster."
"It's not proof," Margaret said softly.
"No," Harold said. "It's enough."
He exhaled once, sharply. "We've just confirmed that Henri's not alone. And if Arjun moves? Others might follow."
Margaret gave a short nod. "So what's the play?"
Harold didn't answer yet.
But his mind was already moving — faster than his boots, faster than the wind — running possibilities, options, contingencies.
And none of them ended without a fight. "We need to finish our upgrade; they have until tomorrow evening to finish those buildings. We need to upgrade to a town immediately. Then…I need to contact Hale and Sarah. I can't let them coordinate."