The coals in the fireplace were still glowing, just barely. The faint smell of charred pine mingled with the air, and a soft crackle of a last ember punctuated the silence, providing a low, steady heat that hadn't quite given up from the night before.
Harold stood in the doorway of the Lord's Hall, arms folded, one boot resting on the threshold like he was debating whether actually to leave.
Harold shifted his weight back and forth, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his folded arms. He glanced back over his shoulder, a small frown creasing his brow as he rubbed a sore spot on his knee, reluctant to join the soldiers gathering for drills.
The barracks field was already filling — soldiers gathering in clusters, stretching, tightening straps, getting ready for drills. Garrick's voice carried even from here, barking cadence before the sun was fully up.
Harold sighed.
It wasn't that he hated the drills. But every joint hurt, and he'd been up late watching Elia thread mana through a damn kettle. And it would all feel more reasonable if he could start the day with a hot cup of coffee. Or end it with a beer. Either. He wasn't picky.
But no. Still no beans. Still no hops. There was some wheat, but it was needed for food. Still no miracles.
He ran a hand over his face and blinked at the gray sky. Then the world blinked back.
WORLD FIRST
DUNGEON CLEARED
Perk Gained — Expert Dungeoneers
• Adventurers from Harold's Landing gain a +20% increased chance to earn a perk from Dungeon Bosses on their first clear.
• First-time dungeon chest rewards are increased by 50%.
Harold froze.
The message burned into the back of his mind with that now-familiar finality. Last time a Lord claimed this perk on the far side of the human sphere — and his adventurers became the best in the world. They held the line against other races on the strength of arms alone.
Perks from dungeon bosses were rare. This perk made them far more tangible. As long as there were dungeons to run, Harold's Landing had a future.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Sarah was successful.
A cough behind him broke the moment.
He turned to see a young woman — one of Caldwell's daughters — standing awkwardly, trying not to interrupt.
"Dad says he needs you at the treasury. Said it's important, Mr. Lord"
"Of course it is," Harold muttered, looking at the woman owlishly from the corner of his eye. She met his gaze momentarily, the silence hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. He knew she was doing it on purpose, but he just couldn't prove it.
He gave one last glance toward the barracks field — Garrick was already pointing at a slate and probably assigning someone to run drills with weighted poles again.
Harold sighed again and stepped out into the cold.
"Tell Mr. Caldwell I'll be there after the morning drills, please."
Then, muttering more to himself than anyone else:
"Just one cup of coffee. That's all I'm asking."
By the time Harold made it back across the settlement, the sun was properly up — a pale gold smudge behind heavy gray clouds. The air still held its bite, but the cold felt cleaner after drills. Or maybe that was just exhaustion talking.
He was sweating again. Dust clung to his sleeves, his thighs ached, and the spot where Garrick had jabbed him in the ribs with a training pole was starting to bruise.
Beside him, Garrick strolled like he hadn't even broken a sweat.
Harold wiped a hand across his face. "If I don't get to use that bath tonight—"
"You won't," Garrick said immediately. "Promised it to one of the kids. He puked during formation drills and still finished the set."
"Strategic vomit," Harold muttered. "He's playing the long game."
"He earned it," Garrick said, chuckling.
They passed between two storage sheds, both still roofless, logs stacked nearby like ribs waiting to be set. At the far end of the lane stood the treasury — or what passed for it.
It wasn't impressive.
The building had a solid, squared foundation of genuine stone quarried and hauled from Lira's mine, each slab a testament to effort and craftsmanship. Its walls were like a patchwork, reinforced with uneven bricks from the first successful kiln run by Beth and Josh, a mixed testament to progress. Thick timbers made up the primary structure, fitted with a rustic hardness, sealed with layers of mud and resin.
There were no windows. The door was oak, warped slightly but thick, and banded with a single strip of darkened metal across the middle. No lock — just a wooden latch pegged into place, and two Legionnaires standing nearby with their helmets under one arm.
The guard straightened when he saw Harold approach. Garrick gave him a nod, and the man stepped aside without comment.
Inside, the room was cooler than outside, shaded and still. The walls were lined with shelving built from reclaimed planks. Neat bundles of dried herbs were tied with cordage and labeled with slate. Clay jars sat in rows, sealed with wax. A few wide, woven baskets held bundled cloth, twine, old nails, iron scraps, or strips of hide. There were very few barrels, maybe two, tucked in the back, and no crates at all. Preserved food was staged in the back. Near the edge of one shelf, a cracked jar contained the last grains of salt, each one precious and dwindling, a silent reminder of the scarcity Harold faced. They still hadn't found any salt, and it was quickly becoming an issue. There was only so much smoked meat he could handle.
The center of the room held a long worktable. Behind it sat Mr. Caldwell.
He had three slates laid out before him — two covered in tight rows of numbers, the third a rough ledger divided into columns. He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said, still writing. "Let me guess — Garrick made you run again."
"I run when I have to," Harold said, stepping inside. "And I regret it every time."
Caldwell gave a noncommittal grunt. Then, I finally looked up. He saw Garrick standing quietly behind Harold, laughing to himself.
"Alright," he said, gesturing toward the wall behind him. "Let's talk about what we have, what we don't, and who's been skimming off the top."
Harold raised an eyebrow.
"This sounds like the beginning of a very encouraging conversation," Harold muttered.
"Alright," Caldwell said, sliding a slate across the table. "Here's what we've spent in the last five days."
Harold leaned over the rough table. The slate was etched in clean lines — categories, tallies, short-hand values. It wasn't pretty, but it was consistent.
"Five more chickens?" Harold asked.
"Forum trade," Caldwell said. "Two hens, three roosters. Better than eggs. We traded a cracked loom and some of the dried apples for them."
Harold frowned. "I didn't know we had a loom."
Caldwell looked up briefly. "I had a simple floor loom made, but it cracked. We've got some flax variant growing nearby — we gathered what we could, and I wanted to try spinning it. That loom was a pain to move to the Stele for the trade. And that idiot traded us the chickens without a cage, and we spent the next 30 minutes running them down."
He shrugged. "Figured I'd try to sell the loom. The lord on the other end bought it to use as a model for his own people."
Harold looked at him, a little surprised. "That's good thinking."
He scanned lower on the slate. "How many bricks did we get from the last kiln firing?"
"Not enough," Caldwell muttered. "Clay didn't settle evenly. We got twenty-four usable, six cracked. Those went into the new hall and reinforced the treasury wall here."
Harold nodded toward the floor. "The stone?"
"Lira's people again. Dragged it up from the mine with what little ore they're still getting. Every block was a twelve-person job. She's prioritizing ore, but without real picks, it's slow. I'm trying to avoid buying ore off the forum — it's going at a premium right now."
Harold rubbed the side of his jaw. "Fair."
Caldwell grabbed another slate and turned it toward him. This one was shorter — but labeled in bold, chalky letters:
Inventory Discrepancies
"Three jars of resin are missing over two days—one bundle of cordage. Someone took a jar of dried peppermint. That one's a favorite among, well… everyone. They chew it for focus."
Harold's brow furrowed. "Small stuff."
"Exactly," Caldwell said. "Someone is being careful. I wouldn't call it sabotage — just lifting what they think won't be missed."
"You think it's someone from inside?" Harold asked.
"I know it is. They're only taking things from the lower shelves. Always when the room's quiet and it's the same pattern."
"What about the guards?"
"Already rotated one out with Garrick there," Caldwell said. "He didn't make a fuss. If it gets worse, I'll bring it up at the meeting."
Harold gave a slow nod. "What's our silver and gold count?"
Caldwell moved to the side and pulled an expansive basket from a mid-shelf. Inside were rough clay bowls lined with dried grass. But nestled within were glints of dull silver and the deeper yellow of raw gold — nuggets, shavings, even a melted lump about the size of a fist.
It was more than Harold expected.
"From potion sales, mostly," Caldwell said. "Still raw. I've sorted it by weight. If we melt it, we can cast something passable."
Harold crouched, inspecting. "Not coins, though."
"Not yet. But we can make and stamp them," Caldwell said. "I had a metal punch made —it's crude, but it leaves a mark. Enough to prove authenticity if someone tries to shave or chip them."
He tapped the table. "Also… a silversmith came through the portal yesterday. He's a Novice, but he's good with tools. If we build a small crucible, we could put him to work."
"Ok... what's your idea?"
"A basic pay model. Start small—token wages to laborers, builders, runners — anyone working for the settlement. The amount doesn't matter right now. It's the principle."
Harold raised a brow.
"We track what people earn," Caldwell continued. "Later, they can use that for goods, trade perks, and first pick on gear. Makes them feel like they have a stake. I've already asked a few people if they would like it and it was a resounding yes."
Harold glanced at the melted silver. "And when the ore runs out?"
Caldwell smirked. "We get more. You said yourself there's silver in the hills. And if we keep the potions flowing, that Lord on the forum will keep buying. Word is, he's got a mine but can't keep the monsters off it. His adventurers can't hold the territory."
Harold's eyes narrowed. "I think I know who you mean. He was the first to mint coins last time. Got a good perk from it, too."
He paused. "Still. We're not mining until we can support ourselves. Food first. Then housing. Then silver."
Caldwell gave a dry laugh. "So you do listen. But that minting perk seems useful."
Harold stood and walked over to the slate wall. His finger tapped a column labeled:
Private Holdings — still empty.
"No one's earned enough to spend," he said.
"Yet," Caldwell replied. "But when they do? They'll remember who made it possible."
Harold shot him a sharp look, but Caldwell didn't flinch. Then he softened — just a little.
"It doesn't have to be a real economy yet," Caldwell said. "But people work better when they believe their effort leads somewhere. You want them loyal? Give them something that's theirs."
Harold didn't argue. "Alright," he said finally. "Let's do it. But keep a reserve. If we need to make emergency purchases, I don't want to be scraping coins off the floor."
Caldwell nodded.
"And if we're minting anything," Harold added, "we're doing it right. Bring that silversmith to the morning meeting. If he's handling the wealth of the Landing, he's taking an oath."
Caldwell looked hesitant for a second before asking what was bothering him. "Why do we care about gold and silver? We don't stick with the barter system? We'd make a killing with the potions right now."
Harold looked at him and walked over to the crate to sit on it. He closed his eyes, debating how much to tell Caldwell before finally figuring there was no reason to keep it close.
"I know I told you about the natural races that actually are from here. They have cities and territory of their own. They're some of the most powerful races here. But they trade in silver and gold. Bronze too for their small coins, but if we want to trade with them, we will need. They have all the best tech, but there is one item we need to buy from them as soon as possible, and I'll leave it at that." Harold paused, his eyes fixing on a distant point as if seeing something Caldwell couldn't. "Let's just say, it's a tool of such devastating precision that, if wielded right and a little human knowledge, it could tip the balance in ways we haven't even dared to imagine yet."
The morning drills were already well underway.
The barracks yard was a churned-up patch of packed dirt and sweat-stained cloth. Dust hung thick in the morning air, gritty and insistent, a tangible presence that clung to Harold's skin and caught in his throat. Two ranks of soldiers moved in unison, poles raised, shields braced, boots stamping in time. Garrick's voice cracked over the line like a whip, calling cadence from the front.
"Advance!"
The formation pushed forward — it wasn't perfect, but close. Feet struck the earth in near-unison. Dust rose, caught in the low winter light.
Harold was in the second rank again, legs burning. The shield strapped to his arm was slick with cold sweat, and the weight of the training pole across his back was heavier than it should have been. He grunted as he stepped forward, doing his best to brace. A thought flickered through his mind, quick and sharp: Would today be the day he finally caught Garrick's approving nod, or would he once again fall short, just another soldier in the ranks? The man was brutal.
It was brutal work — repetitive, dull, painful — and still the best thing for the soldiers they had. Drill enough, and fear stopped being the first instinct. At least that was the theory. The jury was out on whether Harold believed it.
Garrick called a halt, and the formation stilled with a rough crash of boots.
"You break ranks again, I'll make you march perimeter laps until your boots rot!" he shouted.
Harold shifted his shield and exhaled through gritted teeth. His whole body ached. He was already planning a long soak in the bath later — assuming no one used all the hot water again. Just a quiet evening. Maybe a warm corner of the hall. Something that didn't involve getting hit with poles.
He glanced toward the path running east, little more than a worn rut in the ground, packed by weeks of use.
That was when he heard it.
A distant, rolling rumble. Not thunder. Not voices. It was something more profound, a rhythm that settled into your bones, like a war-drum beaten by giants. The unexpected pulse reverberated through the air, hinting at a mass yet unseen.
Many, many boots and something else.
Harold's head snapped up. Garrick had already turned, one hand raised to shade his eyes. The soldiers shifted uneasily in the line.
Then came the shouts carried on the cold wind.
Figures appeared at the edge of the treeline, first a few, then more. They moved at a steady pace with the kind of weariness Harold recognized immediately. One soldier trudged alongside the others, his left boot torn and flapping with each step, catching on stray stones. An adventurer walked with a slight limp, using his spear as a makeshift crutch.
Marching back from something hard. And behind them— The herd.
Dozens of shaggy, snorting shapes. Massive, dark-shouldered tatanka. Their heads hung low, hooves thudding in uneven rhythm as they were herded down the slope toward the open fields east of the barracks. More than a hundred — maybe closer to the full count Hale had promised.
The breath caught in Harold's throat.
"They actually did it," Garrick muttered beside him.
The returning column was flanked by adventurers and soldiers working in pairs, using long poles and bundled cord barriers to keep the herd from scattering. The tatanka moved slowly, but deliberately — their bulk churning the earth with every step.
From where Harold stood, he could see the makeshift pens northeast of the barracks. Crews were already running to open the temporary fencing, waving rough cloth and shouting to guide the lead animals in.
At the front of the column, Hale walked with a slight limp, one arm strapped against his side — dirty, tired, but upright. The four Optios were close behind, their colored cloth armbands dulled with sweat and ash. The whole force looked like they'd lived through a war; they were half-covered in mud, and more than a few of them looked injured.
Then another group emerged from the woods at a sharp angle — dirt-smeared, armor mismatched, a ragged banner trailing behind them.
Sarah.
Harold didn't wait.
He crossed the field fast, boots sliding in the churned earth, and closed the distance in long strides.
Sarah looked up just as he reached her.
Her face was gaunt and her eyes red. Her braid was half-undone. She didn't even get a word out before Harold wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight.
She didn't resist. The smell of blood, sweat, and smoke clung to her, but Harold didn't care. She buried her face in his chest for a moment, just long enough to breathe like someone who finally could.
He kept one arm around her and glanced up — just in time to see Mark moving fast from the direction of the hall.
Evan had just stepped into the clearing, and the moment their eyes met, Mark didn't slow.
They collided in a rough hug — no words at first. Evan just leaned into him, the makeshift sack on his back forgotten for now.
Mark's voice was tight. "You look like shit."
Evan gave a hoarse chuckle. "You'd cry if you saw the other guy."
They didn't let go.
Harold finally eased back enough to study Sarah's face.
"What happened?"
"Later," she muttered. "We made it. That's the short version."
Carter approached from the side, spear dragging slightly as he moved. He nodded once to Harold.
Behind them, Jace dropped to sit on the nearest rock with a grunt. "God, I missed the dirt here."
"You mean the dirt that doesn't try to poison your boots?" Theo muttered. He looked like he hadn't slept in a day and a half — eyes rimmed with red, gear dusted in soot and something that looked suspiciously like blood.
"I mean dirt that's not alive," Jace replied. "That slime pit was a war crime."
Mira unbuckled her satchel carefully and laid it on the ground. Her hands were shaking slightly. "We cataloged what we could. Most of it is ruined. I salvaged a few of the herbs you told us to watch for." She paused, then muttered at Sarah. "Ask him..." motioning with her eyes at Harold.
Sarah just rolled her eyes and mouthed. "Later."
Theo stretched his arms overhead, then winced and stopped halfway. "Don't let her fool you," he said, jerking his chin toward Sarah. "We barely made it. No maps, two dead ends, and one boss that had a sword as large as me!"
"You're not supposed to try blocking it with a wooden shield," Mira said.
"Thanks, Mira," Theo snapped. "Maybe lead with that next time."
Sarah snorted. "Next time, I'm sending you into the pit first."
"You say that like I wasn't already."
Harold blinked at all of them. They were clearly exhausted, grimy, bruised, with mouths still full of adrenaline, but they were alive. Together. And it wasn't just the banter. It was the way they stood near each other, like soldiers who have been drilled until fear is no longer the first instinct. The way none of them moved far without a glance at the others, forged through shared trials into something more than just a team.
He turned back to Sarah, who shrugged tiredly.
"We're still standing," she said.
"You did well," Harold said.
Jace gave a tired thumbs-up. Mira just nodded once. Theo muttered something about needing a nap before he punched someone.
Harold finally let out a long breath and looked toward the returning herd.
The day had barely started. But it was already a win.
Harold stepped back, scanning the exhausted faces around him — soldiers, adventurers, villagers beginning to gather at the edges of the yard. The dust from the herd was still settling in the air.
"Alright," he said, raising his voice enough to carry.
The conversation quieted. People turned toward him — Hale, Garrick, Carter, Sarah's team, even Evan, now standing beside Mark at the edge of the group.
"I want leaders only right now. Hale, Garrick, Carter, Evan."
He glanced at Sarah. "You too. Mira, Jace, Theo — get food and rest. You've earned it."
Jace grunted in approval and didn't need to be told twice. Theo gave a mock salute and limped toward the hall. Mira gathered her satchel and followed, quiet as ever.
When the core group had circled, Harold continued. "Priority is getting that herd squared away." He glanced at Garrick who picked up without missing a beat, "I'll send whoever I can spare to assist." Harold nodded, turning to Carter. "Pick reliable people to rotate watch on the pens. We can't have them wandering off or spooking in the night." Carter gave a firm nod, understanding the urgency.
"Evan," Harold continued, "any urgent fallout from the dungeon?"
Evan shook his head. "Nothing that can't wait. We brought back some items, but I'd rather we rest before diving into details. That perk Sarah and her team got is a doozy. World first, increased chance of getting a Perk from dungeon creatures and 10% more loot each clear."
"Good," Harold said, already knowing what the perk was. "If it's not pressing, take care of your people. If you're able, I'd like all of you to attend the morning meeting tomorrow. We'll sort the reports then."
Everyone nodded.
Harold turned back to Sarah. Dirt clung to her face like warpaint. Blood — old, not hers — streaked one shoulder. Her braid was half undone. But her eyes were steady, and her hands weren't shaking.
"Go get cleaned up," he told her quietly. "Eat something. Rest. Then find me later, and we'll talk."
She gave a tired half-smile. "You gonna let me get a beer with that?"
Harold gave the ghost of a grin. "I would kill for one as well. Maybe I should steal some of that grain Caldwell has."
Sarah nodded once, then turned away toward the halls.
Harold watched her go. Then turned back to the others. "Let's get this locked down. We'll celebrate tomorrow — if everything still holds."
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Harold's office was quiet.
The stone foundation kept the morning chill from settling in too deep, and the air smelled faintly of rough leather, old canvas, and the clean dampness of freshly washed clothes. The space was simple — four wooden walls, a small window, and nothing on the shelves but ledger slates, very little rolled parchment, and field gear that didn't have a better home.
The centerpiece of the room was the wide, scarred table at its center — a map of the basin spread across it, held flat with smooth stones and small iron nails hammered through the corners. Lines had been scratched onto the surface with a sharp tool — not elegant, but precise: trails, fields, the forest edge. Ink was too valuable, so additions were etched when needed. The nails were from one of the blacksmiths being trained, and he made them too small, so Harold took them.
On the far wall, a second, smaller table held the newer layout — a carved map of the village itself, updated slowly and carefully by Beth and Josh over the past couple of weeks. The detail was impressive — each new building added when finished, each plot marked, adjusted, and redrawn when plans changed. It would be moved to Beth's office when she got one, but for now, much of the zoning was done there.
The leaders gathered around the main table, boots scuffing lightly on the packed floor. Most of them looked like they had just come off a week-long patrol — which, to be fair, they had. Despite their seasoned demeanor, a subtle tension vibrated through the group. Margaret's eyes met Harold's briefly before she looked away, her jaw clenched as if holding back a comment. Hale rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers lingering as if to soothe a headache, while Evan's gaze flickered toward the map, an unreadable expression crossing his face. For a moment, silence descended, the room silent save for the shuffling of feet and the faint rustle of clothing, as if an unspoken doubt hovered just above the heads of those gathered.
Beth and Josh were near the building map, muttering to each other under their breath. Hale took one of the low stools near the map, favoring his injured side. The wrappings were at least clean. He wouldn't use the healing potion when it would heal naturally with a little bit of time.
Evan sat beside him, cloak draped loosely across his shoulders. He hadn't spoken since arriving, but his eyes moved constantly — between the map, the door, the people in the room.
Margaret sat like she always did — upright, hands resting on her knees, watching everything.
Lira stood near the back, eyes wide but determined, dirt still under her nails from the mine.
Caldwell was seated at the table with a small pouch for later.
Harold stood at the head of the table, one hand braced on the map.
Everyone was clean, or close enough. It was a miracle, considering most had spent the past week sleeping rough or washing in the creek. The new bathing area by the creek had earned its keep. Yet, for all this cleanliness, there were visible signs of scarcity elsewhere. The lack of proper gear and makeshift bandages were reminders of prevailing shortages. Cleanliness seemed like a brief respite, a small victory against a backdrop of missing necessities. While some enjoyed this reprieve, others still wore clothes mended with frayed thread and boots worn thin by constant use.
He didn't waste time.
He scanned the table — the marks, the notes, the rough plans they'd worked from since the first week.
Harold looked up at Hale, "ok start us off, please."
"We got the herd. One-thirty-three", Hale says. "They made it back in one piece. So did the dungeon team. His tone didn't change."
"We lost a few adventurers. They'll respawn, but it still costs us. We used every healing potion we had on the legionaries to keep them standing. We'll track it. Some of those ambushes were complicated."
No one interrupted.
"The goblins were a constant thorn in our side," Hale continued, nodding toward Mark and Evan. "I don't think we'd have made any progress if the adventurers hadn't been so good at flushing them out. They tried to ambush us more than once — hit us every night. And once the herd got moving, it only got worse. We needed everybody to keep them moving in roughly the right direction."
He rubbed his jaw. "The tatanka drew out those forest cats — the ones that stalk the tree line. We lost a few to them. They'd come in low and fast, trying to pick us off at night. It was a constant fight to keep the column moving."
Hale exhaled slowly. "We kept the herd mostly intact, but it took everything we had. We lost three tatanka to predators on the second night. Two more slipped off during a weird storm — couldn't recover them."
He glanced toward the building map briefly, then back at Harold. "The pens held. The field crews met us just outside and helped drive them in. Took most of the morning. They're penned northeast, same as planned. Temporary fencing is holding, but it won't last more than a couple of weeks. Some of the larger bulls already tested the edges with the herders driving them back. We are lucky they are mostly docile animals."
Harold nodded once. "Anyone gored?"
"One adventurer caught a horn in the leg during the last push," Hale said. "He'll walk again, but not soon. Evan's people covered us the whole way — made sure we didn't get flanked. Garrick's runners kept comms up the whole time. Honestly?" He paused, letting the silence settle for a breath. "We got lucky."
There was no pride in his voice—just fact.
"The herd's calm now, but they're not domesticated. We've got maybe a week before they start testing us again. They need food, structure, and people keeping them occupied and tired. We're burning labor to keep them from breaking the fence."
Harold looked around the room. "But you got them here."
Hale gave a tired nod. "We got them here."
Beth was the next to speak, stepping around the table to glance at the etched layout of the village on the far wall. She looked tired, but steady — calloused hands resting on the edge of the map.
"We got the pens set," she said. "We used everything we had that could hold weight. Took the last of the good cordage and most of the straight beams from the lumber stockpile."
Josh chimed in, "Rotation's the next step. If we keep the herd in one place too long, they'll ruin the soil. We've marked two more fields to clear, but it's all by hand. And people are feeling it."
Beth nodded grimly. "Not enough carts. No wagons yet, though that's changing soon. Every beam, every stone, every bundle of grass — it's all carried or wheeled in one of the few wheelbarrows. Injuries are stacking up. Strained backs, sprained ankles, hands torn open. The complaints are getting louder."
Harold's expression didn't shift, though he sensed the weight of frustration hanging in the air. "People expected work," he reiterated, understanding the gravity behind Beth's words but choosing to address it with quiet acknowledgment. "Understand that your fatigue is seen and your effort is invaluable to all of us." Beth nodded slowly, a hint of gratitude flickering in her eyes before she continued. "They expected work," Beth agreed, "not grinding themselves into the floorboards. No breaks, no ease, no end in sight. They're starting to mutter."
Josh pointed at the map again. "We've got three halls in progress: two more sleeping halls, a storehouse, and a roofed general workshop. We can get them done, but not without nails. We could do it without the nails, but it would take almost twice as long to make the joints. Nails make it simpler."
Beth added, "We need more tools. More fasteners. We're reusing anything metal we can. Nails are pulled and straightened, and hammers are shared between four crews. We need more metal, or we'll stall."
Harold gave a short nod. "Caldwell, can we buy iron ore? Surely someone has some they are selling."
Caldwell didn't look up from his slate.
"We can," he said. "But not cheap. Everyone's building right now. Tools, nails, reinforcement — it's the same story across the forum. Demand's up, supply's thin. Anyone sitting on ore knows exactly how valuable it is."
He finally glanced at Harold. "Best offers are north — two Lords with working forges and too much charcoal. They'll trade ore, but they want potions or livestock in return. Not silver or raw goods. Only finished products."
Caldwell tapped his fingers against the table.
"I think if we trade some of the Tatanka, we can get enough ore to satisfy what Lira needs to get the mine going."
Hale shifted where he sat, then spoke next. His voice was quieter than usual, but even.
"Legionaries are recovering. Some minor wounds, two still off drill rotation with strained knees and bad bruising. No fatalities."
He looked at Harold. "They're rough around the edges still, but they held formation when it mattered."
Evan leaned forward, voice rasping slightly. "Adventurers weren't as lucky."
Mark added, "We lost three. They'll respawn — the quests were marked — but that's three people who might not step out again for a while. Spirits are shaken."
"They weren't ready," Evan said bluntly. "Not for a long haul like that. They ran hot the first day, burned all the potions keeping the soldiers alive, and after that…" He shook his head. "We were patching people with boiled cloth and pressure. Every night brought something new. Goblins. Those forest cats. Even the weather started hitting harder. They understand why they had to do it, but without proper gear and support…"
Mark added, "We've got a few who want to push again soon. But they're all asking the same thing — more potion coverage, or they don't go."
Harold folded his arms. "We barely made the last batch. I need more vials and more ingredients; a greenhouse would be a godsend, but we don't have the time to get our glassmaker to do that. I'll see what I can do about the potions."
Josh added, " One good plow would make a difference. The tatanka can pull — we don't have the gear to use it. Summer is coming up, and we need to plant everything we can. We can clear more fields, but we need to make some plows. It takes forever to do by hand."
That's when Lira spoke up from her spot near the back. She shifted her weight, voice a little rough from the mine dust. "We found a vein," she said. "Deeper in the slope. Looks stable — decent yield if it holds."
Mark looked up, alert. "You're sure?"
"Sure enough," Lira said. "But we need better tools. We're spending half the day prying rocks with bars and breaking picks. It's too slow."
Harold didn't answer right away. He looked across the table to Caldwell.
Caldwell looked up at Harold, then gave a quick nod.
"I'll get on the trade today — see if I can get ore moving to the smiths by nightfall. Lira, meet me after this. I'll need specifics so I can tell them what to prep for."
"Ok, Evan, the dungeon now," Harold said.
Evan shifted his stance, then nodded.
"We've got the dungeon report. One second."
Without waiting, he stepped out of the office. The door creaked open and shut again. The rest of the room stayed silent, heads turning slightly as muffled voices came from outside.
Moments later, Evan returned — this time with Sarah, Mira, Jace, and Theo in tow.
They looked better than they had on arrival — cleaned up, bandaged, fed, and tired. Worn at the edges in a way that didn't wash off. The quiet kind of tired that came after days with no backup and no margin for error.
Sarah gave Harold a nod and dropped a flat slate onto the table. It skidded to a stop near the edge of the basin map.
"That's the route we took. Dungeon's shaped like the lower levels of an old tower — twenty rooms, probably more. It's a maze layout. Half the doors were hidden or trapped."
Jace pointed at the slate. "Cramped halls. Narrow corners. Goblin ambushes every few rooms — tried to flank us in the dark. Theo nearly lost a leg to a pit trap with a slime at the bottom."
"I got out," Theo said too quickly to be natural, flexing his knee with a wince. "But not clean."
Mira added, "It wasn't just the goblins. The deeper we went, the smarter they got. Spear walls. Leather armor. Coordinated pushes. I think we only beat it cause of some of the potions you gave us."
Sarah nodded. "The final room had a shield line. Largest hobgoblin commander we've seen yet — two ranged in the back. They were set up like they knew we were coming."
Harold looked at her closely. "Casualties?"
"None," Sarah said. "We were lucky. If we'd lost anyone, they'd have respawned back here. But everyone mostly walked out. It wasnt an easy fight."
Harold gave a slight nod — relief flickered in his eyes for just a moment before it vanished again.
Theo stepped forward and dropped a rough sack onto the edge of the table. It landed with a dull thump. He unwrapped the top and pulled it open — gold and silver spilled out, along with a small, gem-encrusted wooden box.
"Loot," Theo said. "We brought back a small cart of gear. It was a pain to drag through the forest until we met up with the herd. Some pieces we might be able to clean up and use. The biggest wins are the weapons and armor we can get from the dungeon. If it keeps paying out silver and gold like that, everyone's going to appreciate it."
Mira added, "The map's rough, but it'll help. We tracked each room. Pathways, trap markings, enemy placements. Saved on slate."
Evan folded his arms. "We absolutely need to garrison that tower and rotate our teams through the dungeon. Carter and I talked on the way back — we recommend a full century of personnel stationed there to protect the site and the surrounding area. The goblins were thick, and we had to fight off multiple assaults at night."
Sarah looked at Harold. "If we're going back — and someone will — we need potion coverage. We burned every drop we had on day one. After that, it was torn cloth and timing."
Harold nodded slowly. "Understood. You'll get priority. Get the slate copied and filed. I want that route known to every team that goes in after you."
Theo raised a brow. "So… what about payment?"
"You'll be compensated," Harold said, voice even. "We'll sort through what you brought back and assign fair value. If it's usable, it'll be distributed. If it's not, it'll be sold or salvaged. Either way, you'll get a large cut. I can already tell you that box is something I've only heard rumors of — and I've never seen one this ornate. I believe only I can open it."
Jace glanced around quickly, trying to look innocent.
Harold gave Sarah one last look.
"Well done," he said. "Go rest. I owe your team."
Sarah nodded, and the four of them stepped back, quieter now — the weight of what they'd done still settling in.
Harold let the room settle. Everyone had spoken. Reports delivered—no more excuses.
He planted both hands on the basin map, the faint grooves of trail lines and field plots worn smooth beneath his palms.
"Alright," he said. "This is what happens next."
The room stilled again.
"Everything on the slate gets finished inside two weeks. No more rollovers. No more stalling. That means the new halls, the smithy expansion, the field clearances — all of it."
He looked to Beth and Josh. "Get what labor you need. If you're short on tools, work with Caldwell. If you're short on hands, Hale and Margaret will get you who you need."
He turned to Lira. "Start pulling ore from that vein. Prioritize volume. No point in finding good iron if we can't get it out of the ground. Coordinate with Caldwell today. If anything slows you down, I want to know about it, and I want it handled as soon as possible."
To Mark and Evan: "Adventurers did well, but I know they need better gear and more support. For the time being, that's just gonna have to wait until we are a functioning settlement. We won't garrison the dungeon until we have upgraded to a town. If teams want to go run the dungeon, make sure they know what to expect."
He paused, then continued.
"We need to start stockpiling food—more than just what we eat. We're on the edge of qualifying for a Town upgrade. One of the requirements is a sustained food reserve."
A few brows lifted at that — even Caldwell.
"I suspect we are close, and I want to see if we qualify at the end of the two weeks. But we start now, and we'll be ready when it counts. I want every surplus root cellared, every bit of excess grain stored. If it spoils, it's a problem. If it disappears, it's a crisis."
He glanced at the smaller map — the etched layout of their growing settlement.
"And like it or not, we're starting to see trade take shape. Even if it's just barter, that's the beginning of an economy. If we keep it moving, we'll have the pieces in place when we need them."
Then Harold took a breath and straightened slightly.
"In one week, I'm taking the garrison out."
Silence.
Hale's shoulders squared, but he said nothing. A few others leaned in instinctively.
"It'll be a full operation," Harold continued. "Do not tell anyone outside this room we will be leaving, but the length of time we will be gone should be about three weeks."
That word landed with weight.
"You don't need to know where we're going or why yet. Just know that you need to start preparing your people."
He let his eyes move across the room — over scarred wood and worn uniforms, over tired eyes and ink-stained hands.
"For seven days, you focus on building, preparing, and holding this place together. When I leave, most of the muscle goes with me. That means the Landing has to stand on its own."
Beth nodded, quiet but firm. Margaret's eyes narrowed slightly, already calculating. Caldwell didn't even blink — he was too busy thinking ahead.
Harold stepped back from the table.
"I want every one of you ready."
The heavy morning fog rolled over the fields, wrapping everything in a thick, swirling mist. The training yard, though, pulsed with life—shields were firm, and the sharp scent of sweat was already mingling with the crisp air. Boots slapped rhythmically against the ground and the barked cadence of commands sliced through the fog, setting the tone for an intense day.
But something was different.
Hale stood in the center of the yard, arms crossed, his face stone. Garrick was nearby, but silent, deferring command without a word.
"Full gear," Hale had said before the drills started. "Armor, shields, helmets. Training poles — I want your shoulders burning by the time this is done."
A tension hung in the air that was thicker than the fog, a silent promise of challenges yet to come. They were training for war.
Two full centuries lined the yard. Formations were called. Columns shifted. Rows bent and snapped forward. Shields slammed together, poles drove forward, and boots churned the earth. Every maneuver was repeated. And again. And again.
Hale walked through the ranks like some rector of war. His eyes missed nothing. When a flank lagged, he barked. When a shield slipped, he corrected it — with liberal strikes of his own pole if needed. He was a firm believer in physical reminders.
By the third hour, half the garrison looked like they'd run a full day's march.
"Century against century," Hale ordered. "Simulated assault. One breaks through, one holds. Then we swap. No one leaves until I say." He paused, glancing at the determined faces before him. "Consider the terrain we're likely to face, with narrow paths and sudden ambushes. Our opponents will be relentless. Today's drills prepare you to read, react, and overwhelm them before they adapt."
Harold was in the center of it like everyone else — shield strapped, pole gripped, boots sinking into the churned dirt. Sweat rolled under his collar. His arms ached from the endless thrusts, and his legs shook with effort.
He wasn't alone.
Every time the formation rotated, the jabs started up again, not from enemies, but from his own soldiers.
"What did you do, Harold?" Garrick muttered from his left, wiping his brow with exaggerated slowness. "Steal Hale's pillow?" His voice had that usual sing-song mockery, the kind only he managed to pull off with a half-bemused, half-serious lilt.
"I told him his tea was weak," Harold said under his breath.
"Must've called him soft," another legionary joked, his tone light but his words a bit sharper than Garrick's laidback taunts.
Garrick chimed in again, "Did you steal his boots? Or maybe insult his mother?" His laughter was a dry chuckle, one that seemed to say he could keep this up all day.
"I heard he told Hale he was getting soft."
"He told him nothing could go wrong!"
Harold just grunted.
Someone behind him groaned, "Next time, send a letter."
Hale's voice cut through the joking like a blade.
"Again!"
Later, during a shield wall rotation, a younger soldier broke formation. His footing slipped on a turn, his shoulder lagged — and he was flung out of place.
Hale was there in a second.
He didn't yell. He just stood the soldier up, reset the formation, and drilled it again. With him. Again. And again. Until the soldier understood
No one laughed after that.
It wasn't until drills ended that Hale said a word beyond instruction.
He turned to his Optios and pointed.
"Mana control," he said. "Now. No exceptions. You'll need it soon. And we need you to be competent."
The field slowly cleared — some limping, some groaning — but all moving toward the designated field. Some of them tried to sneak off to wash up, but the Optio's caught them. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows through the training yard.
Hale stepped up beside Harold.
He didn't speak at first. Just looked out over the emptying yard, the deep grooves worn into the dirt and the echo of bootfalls still hanging in the air. Those grooves and echoes mirrored his own state – worn and tired yet still reverberating with the need to move forward. Despite the exhaustion creeping into his bones, there was an urgency pushing him onward, just as the cooling air whispered the end of another day.
Then, quietly: "I need to know what we're walking into."
"I can't say yet," he finally replied.
"You said you needed them ready," Hale continued. "So I'm pushing them. But if I don't know what we're facing, I can't truly prepare them. Is it terrain? Numbers? Something worse?"
Harold exhaled through his nose. "Something worse."
"Then tell me," Hale demanded.
"I can't. Not yet." Harold replied tiredly.
Hale's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he looked out over the field, where soldiers were scattered in pairs, practicing slow mana drills — palms faintly glowing, breath steady and shallow.
"I'm not asking for a secret," Hale said. "I'm asking for a chance to do my job."
Harold hesitated. Then: "The thing we're after is protected. We'll have to take it. It won't be easy. But you'll have time."
Hale gave a short nod. Then turned and walked away.
That night, the Lord's Hall was warm — firelight flickering against rough-hewn beams, laughter echoing off stone and wood. Soldiers, adventurers, civilians — all packed into the great space, nursing bruises, bread, and bruised egos. The smell of stew and smoke hung thick in the air.
Harold sat at the long center table, leaning back in his chair, boots out, arms crossed.
His tunic was still damp from training, hair sticking to the back of his neck. But for once, he looked... content.
"You pissed off the wrong man," Garrick said, slumping into the seat beside him with a whole bowl of stew. "Pretty sure you made Hale angry enough to kill. I'm an old man! I'm not used to this kind of effort anymore."
Harold just grunted, too tired to form words.
Margaret passed behind them and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Next time, ask Hale for favors with words, not drills."
"That was with words," Harold muttered.
"He only understands smaller ones," she said.
That was when Beth arrived, grinning like a fox, a cloth bag in her hands.
"My lord," she said sweetly. "A gift."
Harold eyed her. "Beth…"
She set the bag on the table.
The smell hit first — rich, roasted, bitter. Coffee beans.
Harold's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that?"
Beth shrugged. "Salvaged. Maybe."
"I am unbribable," Harold said, flatly.
"That's not what the beans say," Beth said, still smiling.
"I'm not telling you anything." Harold groaned. "You incorrigible woman."
That was when Margaret reappeared — and this time, she wasn't empty-handed.
She held a cup, and it was steaming. She set it down in front of him — delicate, perfect, already brewed.
Harold stared at it as if it were a divine artifact. His hands hovered over it, reverent.
Garrick just stared at them. "Hey, what about me? I've been out there suffering too!" He exclaimed.
Harold turned a murderous look on Garrick and did his best imitation of Smeagol. "Mine!"
"You do not fight fair," he said, turning and pointing at Margret.
"Nope," Margaret said. "Now tell us what you're dragging half the garrison off to fight."
Harold picked up the cup. Sipped then groaned.
Then leaned back, eyes closed. Defeated.
"Just one sip?" Garrick moaned from across the table.
"Fine. Get the council," he said. "But you're all swearing a bigger oath. This doesn't leave the room. I'm serious. This can't leak. Come on, Garrick, you can join."
Beth blinked. "Wait, really?"
Margaret raised an eyebrow.
Beth laughed. "We didn't actually think that would work."
"I am a weak, weak man," Harold just muttered.
The door to Harold's office shut with a dull thud.
He set the cloth bag of coffee beans on the edge of his desk like it was a treasure hoard. The others followed in behind him — Margaret, Beth, Hale, Caldwell, Evan, Josh, and Garrick — each stepping lightly despite the late hour. The mood had shifted. The jokes were gone. What came next felt heavier.
"Sit," Harold said.
They circled the large map table. The fire from the hall still clung faintly to their clothes, but the office air was cooler, sharper. Somewhere outside, a nightbird called.
Josh just moaned, "I was just about asleep."
He stepped to the side of his desk and picked up a small, worn piece of parchment — its edges curled from use, the script plain and deliberate.
"I wrote this the night we landed here," he said quietly. "It's not long. But if you say it, you're mine — and I'm yours. No halfway. You all know oaths here are different from those on Earth."
He held the parchment up and began to read.
"I swear on my name and my work,
To serve the Lord of Harold's Landing, and what it may become.
To stand by this land, and the one trusted to lead it.
To keep the secrets of my Lord,
To protect what must be kept safe,
And to do my part in building, in fighting, and in holding the line.
For Humanity and my Lord
Then he looked around the room.
"One by one," Harold said. "Say it and mean it, please. I was trying to avoid asking this for a little longer. Blame those two meddlers," he said, motioning to Beth and Margret.
Beth stepped forward first, her voice calm and steady as she repeated the words.
"I swear upon my name and my work."
She finished, met Harold's eyes, and stepped back.
Caldwell was next. He didn't hesitate, "haven't felt this alive in years" — just lowered his head slightly and spoke the oath in full, slow and measured.
Then Margaret. Her voice was quiet, but there was iron in it.
Evan followed, the corners of his mouth set in a thin line — not fear, but understanding.
Finally, Hale.
He said each word like a hammer striking stone.
When they were done, Harold placed the parchment on the table and pressed his palm to the center of the slate again.
"I swear in return," he said, looking at each of them. "To guard what we build. To lead with everything I am. To bleed for the people I claim. And to never ask what I would not do myself."
The slate warmed faintly beneath his hand. The room held still — air taut like a drawn bowstring.
Then it was done. They were bound by more than just loyalty.
By choice and promise, enforced by Gravesend itself.
Harold looked at them — Margaret, Beth, Caldwell, Hale, Lira, Evan, Josh, Garrick — each one now bound by more than just duty or role. Bound by a choice.
He reached across the table and took the small cloth bag of coffee beans that Beth had tempted him with earlier. Cradled it for a moment, then tucked it under one arm as he moved to his desk and leaned on its edge.
"Alright," he said. "Here's what we're doing and why I've been quiet."
"Every region has a relic. At least one, I know of two of the larger ones that have two. Powerful Artifacts from previous fallen races. At least that was the theory last time. No one knows where they came from, but they don't move. Each one affects the territory of the Lord that controls it in some way. They can be buffs, or they can be something more tangible like an actual weapon."
He tapped the edge of the basin map.
"Ours is north-west. It's far — a week of marching with a force our size. It was a known relic of humanity in my last life until this region fell. A couple of lords tried to recover it during its fall, but they failed."
Caldwell raised an eyebrow. "So you picked this starting spot for the relic?"
Harold nodded once. "That was part of it. The relic here boosts cultivated crop growth. It improves yield — even in bad soil. Even affects wild plants a little. Cultivated ones grow faster; this whole basin once fed most of humanity. It roughly improves the speed by about a 3rd. Enough to get another crop within a year."
Beth blinked. "So we could grow more… everything?"
"If we can claim it and hold it," Harold said. "A large part of my plan involves leveraging my knowledge of Alchemy. With this artifact, we could have more ingredients to make more potions and solve our food dilemma."
He let that hang for a moment.
"Last time, two lords tried to hold it together. Claimed it in a joint operation. Never agreed on anything after that — they argued over who got what, who got the output. It never worked; the Lords here argued constantly over it."
Margaret folded her arms. "So you're trying to claim it before those other Lords get their act together."
"That's the plan, this was the first relic humanity discovered last time, or at least the first one posted on the forum, though last time it took them a couple more months to claim it. The Lord picked his starting spot almost right next to it."
"What's guarding it?" Hale asked.
Harold didn't answer right away.
"The relics all draw trouble of some kind," Harold said. "Two swarms — goblins and kobolds surround this one. They're fighting each other, and sometimes the Lord to the west. But they're both drawn to the relic."
"It's a large swarm," Harold said. "And one we have to win fast. We can't afford a pitched battle with both swarms. They will overrun us. Get in, break the swarm, grab the relic, then get back. Get out before the other Lord sends a response."
Caldwell scratched his jaw. "And if they do?"
Harold met his eyes. "Then we fight them too."
Silence returned — this time tighter, more focused.
Beth finally broke it. "Why not wait a little longer then? You said it took them a couple more months to claim it. Why can't we wait another 2-3 weeks then? You'll have more soldiers, you can farm the goblin dungeon for more weapons."
Harold exhaled, then looked around the room.
"Because the longer we're in Gravesend, the stronger the protections around these relics get," he said. "This one — it's the swarms. Goblins and kobolds, both drawn to it. Fighting each other now, yes. But that won't last. The longer we wait, the more they grow. The more they fortify. This is well-researched and validated. It was theorized that claiming the relics is supposed to be difficult no matter what stage we are at in Gravesend."
He let that hang, then continued.
"Right now, we can hit them in detail — catch them mostly scattered and uncoordinated. If we wait a few weeks, we'll be looking at something I'm not sure we can win with acceptable losses."
"That's also part of why I pushed so hard on Roman-style formations. Shield walls. Coordination. Drills. It works in tight spaces. It works against hordes. And it works when you're outnumbered. I can brew a couple of things that will give us an edge in the fight, and that's something Gravesend couldn't have accounted for."
Harold looked at each of them in turn.
"This isn't a gamble. It's a deadline. And if we miss it, we don't get as good a shot."
The weight of Harold's words settled in again, but this time there were no protests.
Beth gave a slow nod, her eyes scanning the basin map. "Alright," she said quietly. "We'll be ready."
Margaret leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "I'll start prepping fallback plans. Just in case."
Lira said nothing, but the set of her jaw said she understood. Caldwell muttered something about supply chains and pushed off the table, already running the numbers in his head.
One by one, the others filed out — some solemn, some thoughtful, all of them changed by what they'd heard. The door thudded shut behind them.
Only three remained.
Hale stood by the far window, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. Mark leaned against the wall, silent but clearly mulling something over. Evan sat back down across from Harold, rubbing at the scar along his forearm with absent fingers.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Hale, moving from the window, eyes still on the map spread across the table, reached out and traced a finger along the distant border of their known world. His gesture lingered over territories far beyond their current station.
"This isn't just about the relic," Hale said.
Harold didn't respond immediately.
"You're thinking ahead," Hale continued. "Way ahead. Raiding other regions. You're trying to snowball fast and early, then raid other regions for their relics. That's why you asked us to start creating that new force."
"I've told you what happened last time; I won't allow it to happen again," Harold said.