Harold's bruises were still throbbing when a firm voice cut through the morning bustle.

"Tub's waiting," Maela called, arms crossed as if daring him to argue. "You won't be dragging mud and blood into my hearth."

I blinked at her, still catching my breath. Behind the longhouse, steam curled faintly from the wide-banded tub the carpenter had pieced together—a clever thing, iron hoops hammered flat from Illga's test runs at the forge cinched tight around thick planks. The wood was fresh, resin still sticky in places. Crude, but sturdy.

Two of the older children stumbled past with sloshing buckets, their cheeks red from the chill stream. Part of their chores now—hauling water until someone figured out a pump system. They dropped the load into the tub with a splash, giggling as Hal shoved his nose over the rim for a curious sniff.

"Get in," Maela said, the corner of her mouth twitching like she might almost smile. "You've the look of a man who rolled down a mountain, and I won't have the recruits thinking their calamity-leader can't handle a bit of soap."

The water was cold, of course. Mountain-fed, sharp as glass. But after days of sweat, smoke, and dirt, it was almost welcome. I sank in with a hiss between my teeth, every bruise waking up fresh.

Somewhere nearby, the camp stirred. Axes rang from the treeline, hammers clanged at the forge, and the low murmur of voices rose like a heartbeat from the hearth. The beginnings of a village. A place taking shape.

And I sat there, dripping, knowing I'd have to shape myself to match it.

I had already earned a lot of gains this morning from sparring.

I had gained the skill Staff Fighting and levels in my Mana Empowerment skill as well as Mana Shaping.

The ache in my arms was proof enough of the work, but the skills were the real reward. Every step forward mattered, no matter how small.

The plan for today was simple enough on the surface: gather the strongest group I could and test the entrance to that dungeon I'd found. The recruits needed to get blooded somehow. Better to let them bleed in the Vale—under watchful eyes—than out in the open world where a mistake would mean death.

Eventually, we'd have to go further. Out into the wilds beyond these mountains, beyond the walls we hadn't even finished raising. But not yet. Not while we still had stone to set, fires to tend, and children who thought of this place as their first real home.

We needed time to consolidate. Time to forge new weapons. Time to raise homes from the ground, shape barracks and walls. Time to tan leather and stitch armor thick enough to turn a blade.

But time was the one thing we didn't have.

Thirteen days. That was all. Thirteen days until the next Calamity—until I was dragged back into the cycle to bring ruin down on some poor sod who never asked for it.

Every nail driven, every brick of stone laid, every child's laugh around the hearth—all of it was borrowed against that clock.

I climbed out of the tub, the chill in the morning air biting harder once the water was gone. The rough cloth scraped my skin as I dried, then I pulled on my clothes piece by piece, the familiar weight grounding me again.

Three of the younger kids stood nearby with buckets, faces red from the cold. They shuffled their feet as if waiting to be dismissed.

"Thank you," I told them, letting my voice carry weight. "You did well bringing this up. Now—get to the fire before your fingers freeze off."

Their eyes brightened at the praise, and they scampered toward the longhouse, buckets clanking together.

When I followed them in, the warmth hit me first, then the sound of axes. Near the hearth, two of the older boys had split logs stacked around them, woodchips littering the floor. Every fire in the settlement needed feeding—barracks, forge, hearth, watchfires. It was endless work, but their rhythm was steady, and the pile was already growing tall.

I paused to watch them for a moment. Not long ago, those same hands had probably been cutting purses or scraping in gutters. Now they were splitting logs for something larger than themselves.

I settled myself by the hearth, the heat soaking into me after the tub's chill. The crackle of burning logs, the scent of pine resin—it was the first time in days my bones felt warm all the way through. For a moment, I simply let it wash over me.

The kids hovered close, still flushed from hauling water, eyes flicking between me and the fire. They'd earned the warmth. I leaned forward, resting elbows on my knees. "Alright," I said, voice low but carrying. "I need some of you to run messages."

Their heads snapped up.

"Find Auren, Kelan, Ferin, and Lira. Tell them I want them here at the longhouse—now. Clear?"

Three hands shot up before I'd even finished. The eagerness was almost painful in its purity.

"Good," I said, pointing them each to their task. "Run fast, then back here to the fire. Don't linger out in the cold."

They scattered, boots slapping against the packed earth, and I leaned back in my chair. The warmth still seeped into me, but my mind was already moving ahead—to what came next.

I stayed near the hearth, letting the fire thaw the ache out of my shoulders, but my mind was already three steps ahead—supplies, training, the dungeon, and how much time we had left before Calamity forced its hand again.

Maela passed behind me, her apron already dusted with flour. I caught her hand lightly and pressed a few bronze coins into her palm. "Make sure the little ones who've been hauling water get some of this," I said. "They've earned it. Shame we don't have any sweets for them."

Her brows softened, and she gave me the faintest smile. "Coin spends better than sugar out here, Harold. But I'll see to it."

I nodded, watching as she slipped the coins away. Across the hall, two of the bigger kids were still splitting logs, their thin arms straining with each swing. The sound of the axe head biting wood echoed like a steady heartbeat. They glanced at me once, then went right back to work—no complaint, no hesitation.

The older girl next to them though kept looking at him with a fierce look on her face.

The older girl splitting wood kept throwing glances my way. Not shy ones. Fierce. Like she was measuring me, weighing me against something in her mind.

Finally, she set the axe aside and marched up to me, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She couldn't have been more than fifteen—sharp eyes, jaw set tight, a body hardened by hunger and survival more than years.

"Is it true?" she asked, voice firm but carrying that tremor of someone gambling everything on the answer. "That you can mark people. Give them a… a tattoo. And they become powerful."

The crackle of the fire filled the silence between us. A couple of the other kids stopped their chores to watch.

I met her gaze, steady. "Where'd you hear that?"

Her chin lifted stubbornly. "Doesn't matter. I just want to know if it's true. Because if it is—I want one. I don't care if it hurts. I'm not going to stand here useless while everyone else fights. I want to defend myself. I won't be weak again."

Her fists were clenched at her sides. Demanding.

Her words dug into me. For a heartbeat I considered them, felt them turning in my chest. She thought my Brands were shortcuts—an easy way to strength. But that wasn't it at all.

I crouched down so I was eye-level with her, my voice low but steady. "Listen. My Brands don't make people powerful. They don't hand out strength or skills like bread from a sack. What they do is far stranger—and harder."

The firelight flickered across her face, and I let the weight of my words settle. "A Brand doesn't change who you are. It makes you the truest version of yourself. It takes what your soul cries out for—your affinity, your deepest self—and drags it into the open for the world to see. It doesn't give you power. It shows you what power you were meant for all along."

I lifted a hand, gesturing toward the longhouse, where I knew Kelan was still likely sketching his walls and towers. "Take Kelan. He wanted to build. To protect a home that couldn't be broken this time. That's what his Brand shaped him toward. Lira—" I tilted my head toward where the young healer often worked. "She's closer to life and death than most ever will be. Her Brand reflects that."

The girl's fierce stare didn't falter, though her fists loosened at her sides.

I leaned in slightly. "So the real question isn't whether I can give you a Brand. The question is—what does your soul call out for? When you close your eyes, when fear grips you, when you dream—what is it that you long to be? Because the Brand won't make you anything else. It can't. It only sets your truth in stone."

I let the silence hang there, waiting, letting her wrestle with it.

The girl's mouth opened, then shut again. Her brow furrowed, and for all her fire a moment ago, the silence stretched long. She wanted to answer—wanted it badly—but whatever truth lay inside her wasn't ready to surface.

Maela's hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. "Enough for now," she said softly, her voice like warm bread from the oven. She steered the girl back toward the waiting chores, a bucket and broom waiting by the wall.

As the girl drifted away, Maela lingered. Her eyes, tired but kind, met mine. "They've all carried more weight than children should," she said quietly. "Lives cut harder and shorter than they deserved. Here—" she gestured around the longhouse, to the crackle of the hearth, to the laughter of younger voices rising from the corner, "—the work keeps their hands busy, and the walls keep them safe. It's more than most of them ever had."

Her words hung between us, simple but sharp with truth. This world may have offered more options than my last one—more chances to climb if you survived long enough to try—but it was harsher, too. More unforgiving. The kids proved it. They moved with the same weary caution I'd seen in broken men back home, eyes dulled by lives that had already taken too much. Children shouldn't look like veterans.

I found myself staring into the fire, the crack and hiss of the wood filling the silence Maela left behind. Safety here was fragile, stitched together with iron bands and stubborn hope. But maybe, it could be enough to dull those beaten eyes.

It was then that the people I asked for entered, Ferin and his dogs trailing a little behind as he talked with Auren.

It was then that the people I'd sent for entered, Ferin with his dogs trailing a little behind as he muttered something to Auren. The hunter gestured wide with one hand, his voice low and sharp, while Auren listened with that same calm intensity he always carried. Kelan followed close, already brushing bits of dust from his sleeves as if he'd come straight from the stoneworks. Lira slipped in last, her eyes quick to sweep the hearth and the children before she joined us.

The room settled, the fire throwing shadows across faces that had grown used to listening for purpose. My purpose. The weight of it pressed heavier each time they looked at me with expectation.

Thank you all for coming so quickly, I forgot to put out what I want to do today at our meeting this morning, I'll get better at all this eventually. But I want to explore the entrance of the dungeon this morning. Thoughts?

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Ferin scratched behind one of his dogs' ears, eyes narrowing. "A dungeon's not the same as the wilds. My bow won't be half as useful in those tunnels—but I'll come."

Lira folded her hands, her expression grave. "I'll struggle to heal those above my tier. If the two of you"—her gaze flicked to Kelan and Daran—"take wounds too deep, I may not be able to pull you back."

I nodded, letting their words settle. "Then we go in knowing the risks."

The group broke off quickly, each to their own corner of readiness.

Ferin checked his quiver, running his thumb across fletching with a hunter's ritual precision while his dogs circled impatiently. Auren sat cross-legged by the fire, shaping threads of mana into hard blue sparks, testing how steady his control held. Daran didn't bother with subtlety—he tested his spear, tested its heft, then drove it three times into the dirt until the shaft bowed. Then brought out his large broadsword and tested the edge on it again. Kelan vanished into the work tents, emerging with stone dust already on his sleeves, muttering about "load-bearing arches" no one else could quite picture.

Lira moved the quietest. She slipped back to her cot, gathering her satchel of herbs and what little dried poultices she had, hands steady but her eyes betraying the weight of risk.

I took the time to breathe. Adjusted the straps of my armor. Tested the balance of my staff. Mana pulsed at the edge of my will, tempting me to call it early—but I forced myself to save it. There was no knowing what waited beneath the earth.

Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of sharpening blades, tightening buckles, and the low murmur of voices that filled the longhouse with a strange energy—half nerves, half anticipation.

When we finally regrouped, it was at the far lip of the plateau where Kelan was already at work. He had marked the ground with stakes and lines that only he seemed to understand, muttering about foundation stones and the tower that would one day anchor this approach.

He straightened as we arrived, brushing grit from his palms. "Good," he said simply. "You're all here. Past this point, it's wild ground."

The air felt heavier as we gathered around him. The mouth of the vale stretched beyond, a jagged path leading down toward the mountainside where the dungeon entrance waited in shadow.

I looked over the group—Kelan, Daran, Lira, Ferin, Auren. The strongest team I could muster.

I reached out with Oathsense to Hal and told him and his pack to stay close to this area, if anything happened he was the strongest one able to respond. Then we moved out into the woodline with Ferin and Auren already moving to scout ahead.

I reached out with Oathsense, my will brushing against Hal's bond. The frost wolf's acknowledgment rippled back like a cold wind through my chest.

Stay close to the vale, I told him silently. If anything happens, you're the strongest one able to respond. Protect them until we return.

Hal's answer was a low rumble across the link, his pack echoing it with a chorus of sharp barks. Then the bond quieted, leaving me with the comfort of knowing a predator greater than any steel wall prowled behind us.

We moved out.

The treeline swallowed us in moments, snow-draped branches closing over like the jaws of a beast. Ferin and Auren were already moving ahead, one hugging the ground like a shadow, the other keeping to higher cover with his bow half drawn, eyes scanning for movement.

Behind them, Kelan trudged forward like a walking wall of stone, every step purposeful, while Daran's recruits—those chosen to carry gear—kept their distance from his broad back, as though afraid he might notice their mistakes. Lira kept her satchel clutched tight, her eyes never still, watching the underbrush for signs of the plants she would need.

I stayed in the center of it all. Watching. Listening. The snow crunched under our boots, muffled yet sharp in the valley's silence. For all the strength we carried, the woods pressed heavy, reminding us that out here the world did not care how many plans we had for tomorrow.

I let the silence ride for a while, our boots crunching against the snow, before finally asking the thought gnawing at me.

"Daran," I said low enough that only he would hear, "how does your Tier 4 strength stack against something like that frost bear we crossed the ridge to avoid?"

His jaw flexed as he glanced at me. For a moment, I thought he'd brush me off. Instead, he gave a short grunt.

"Tier for tier? I'd take it head on. But beasts aren't men, Harold. A frost bear doesn't fight with fear or hesitation. It doesn't hold back its claws because it's worried about breaking its stance. It's all teeth, muscle, and instinct. That thing on the other side of the mountain could tear through a band of Tier 2 fighters before they could scream."

I swallowed, the memory of its roar echoing in my head. "So even at Tier 4, you'd call it even?"

"Closer to a coin toss," he said flatly. "If I had a spear and room to move, and we were the same level, I'd bet on me. In the wrong ground, with ice underfoot?" He shook his head. "The bear. Every time."

His eyes narrowed, and he jabbed a gloved finger toward me. "That's why you don't measure yourself against monsters like that, boy. Not yet. You build. You prepare. And when the time comes, you don't fight fair—you fight smart. That's how men survive against things stronger than them."

I bristled at being called boy, the word sharp as a slap. He didn't know my history—how could he? And I wasn't about to enlighten him. Not yet. Let him think me green if he wanted.

What mattered was the truth in his words. I knew well the value of preparation and timing. You didn't take on something bigger head-on, not unless you were ready to bleed for it. You set the ground, you stacked the odds, you struck when the enemy blinked.

It was the same lesson, just dressed in different armor. Back home it had been patrol routes, lines of sight, and when to squeeze the trigger. Here it was frost bears, wolf packs, and men with more mana in their blood than I could dream of right now. Different battlefield, same law and I had seen how one man could flip the script the same way that one tier 3 we took down almost did.

The treeline broke, and the yawning mouth of the dungeon came into view—a wound in the earth framed by frost and stone. Cold air spilled from it, sharp and damp, carrying the faint stench of rot.

Daran raised a hand, halting the recruits who had trudged along behind us. His voice cut the silence like a blade. "Recruits, listen well. You don't step one boot past this line." He jabbed his spear into the dirt a good twenty paces from the dungeon's edge. "This hole isn't for green boys to gawk at. You'll stay out here. Your task is simple—make this ground ours."

He gestured to the slopes around us, thick with brush and crooked trees. "Drop every sapling you see, cut the undergrowth to stumps. I want clear sightlines, no shadows for wolves or worse to creep in. Fell enough timber and stack it—we'll need it for posts and barricades."

A few of them shifted uneasily, eyes darting to the cavern's black maw. Daran's glare froze their nerves. "Quit staring at the dark. The danger is always closer than you think. Your hands don't stop moving until I say so. Chop. Clear. Build. When the fort comes, it starts here."

Axes were drawn, and the ring of steel on wood soon filled the valley. Daran turned his back on them without hesitation, as though their obedience was already settled, and looked at me with a sharp nod.

The difference in confidence was night and day. Out on the steppes, these people had clung to life by desperation alone, half-armed, half-starved, fighting off guards who were just as ill-equipped. Here, the air itself seemed heavier. The recruits knew it too. They weren't squaring off against men in dented helms anymore. The dungeon loomed like a hungry maw, and everyone felt the pull of it.

I gathered the core group close, voice low but firm. "Here's the plan. We press forward until the first encounter. If it's Tier 3, we take it—but we don't overreach. We push only as far as Lira's mana allows. Once she can't keep patching us up, we pull back. No pride in dying pointlessly."

Lira adjusted her cloak, jaw tight. "Healing Tier 2s already drains me more than I'd like. I'll hold as long as I can."

"That's why we're here," I said. "If we can help you climb to Tier 2, it changes everything. The stronger you get, the longer we can last down here. Ideally, today is the start of that."

Kelan planted his hammer on the ground, the sound echoing like a promise. Daran's eyes were fixed on the dark, measuring it the way a soldier weighs an enemy line. Ferin was already nocking and un-nocking an arrow, as though his hands couldn't keep still.

I looked at each of them in turn, letting the silence hold for a breath. Then I exhaled. "Stay tight. Watch each other. First blood belongs to us."

And one minor matter I said as I looked at everyone….my health is reduced by 90% because of my class. If people could look out for me..

"And one minor matter," I said, voice low. "My health is reduced by ninety percent because of my class. If people could… look out for me."

Ferin blinked at me, dumbstruck. "Ninety percent? You're walking around with—what, a rabbit's heartbeat? And you still think this is a good idea?"

Auren gave a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Spirits, no wonder we couldn't figure out how you took us down. A man who can't take a punch somehow toppled a whole crew."

Before I could answer, Daran spun on his heel, fury flashing across his scarred face. "Enough." His voice cracked like a whip. "You're not going in. You know nothing of dungeons—nothing of this dungeon. The first clear is a death sentence even for the seasoned. Monsters fight harder, traps cut deeper. And you?" His glare bored into me. "You can't deal damage. You can't take hits. You are no help in there. Not this time."

The words struck harder than his training staff ever had.

I squared my shoulders, forcing my voice not to waver. "You're wrong, Daran. I can help. I can heal my brands mid-fight, refresh their skills when they're running dry, and I can disrupt enemy abilities. That matters more than swinging a sword."

Daran's jaw clenched, ready to bark me down again— —but Kelan's voice rumbled beside him. "He's not wrong, but neither are you."

Daran turned, brow furrowed. Kelan's eyes flicked to mine, and I felt the familiar tug of Oathsense brush against my mind. His words came quiet, almost secret: Harold, test those powers through me. If you can trigger heals or refreshes on command, then you don't need to walk into the dungeon to prove your worth. You can stay here, behind the lines, and still keep us alive.

I nodded faintly. Out loud, Kelan added, "Let him try with me just inside the entrance. If he can do what he says, then he supports us without stepping into a deathtrap. Until then, best use of him is out here—helping these recruits clear the ground, fortify the entrance. That way we're safer on both sides."

The recruits paused in their chopping, half-listening. Daran's gaze shifted between me and Kelan, irritation fighting with practicality.

My jaw tightened, teeth grinding at the compromise being shoved onto me. Stay outside while they risked themselves in the dark? While I played nursemaid to recruits with dull axes?

"I can still—" I started, but my voice broke into something closer to a growl. My eyes flicked to Lira, searching for her to back me up.

She crossed the clearing with her healer's calm, though the set of her mouth was firm. Her hand touched my arm, grounding me. "Harold," she said softly, low enough that only we could hear, "please stay. You're needed here. If you fall inside, we lose more than one man—we lose the one who ties us all together."

The words hit like a hammer. I wanted to argue, to spit back that I wasn't fragile, that I wasn't dead weight. But the way she looked at me—steady, unflinching, and painfully aware of the truth—snuffed out the words before they left my tongue.

I exhaled through my nose, sharp and grudging. "Fine. I'll stay here.

Lira only gave me the faintest smile, one part reassurance, one part sorrow.

As Lira stepped away to rejoin the others, her hand brushed mine in passing—brief, fleeting, but enough to leave an ache of consolation in her wake. I curled my fingers around the memory of it and forced myself to watch as the group made their final preparations.

Daran barked his last instructions to the recruits, setting them to clearing brush and chopping trees for a palisade. Ferin whistled sharply for his dogs and Auren checked the fletching on his arrows. Kelan stood tall, one hand resting on the unfinished stone he had been shaping, the other brushing the haft of his pick as if steadying himself for what came next.

The five of them gathered at the mouth of the dungeon—an ancient arch of black stone carved into the hillside, cold air whispering from within. Torches were lit. Weapons checked. Even from where I stood, the tension hummed like a wire drawn taut.

I clenched my fists at my sides. This was the first step into something larger, and I was stuck on the outside. Then they stepped inside and disappeared.

Then a voice slid into my mind, firm but not unkind.

Kelan, through Oathsense: Harold. If you're to be of help… let's test it. Use that power of yours—Brandsurge. See if you can use it through the dungeon restrictions.

The words resonated like a tug on the tether between us, his brand glowing faintly in my awareness.

I drew a slow breath, heart hammering. This was it—my chance to prove that even outside the dungeon, I wasn't useless.

Kelan, through Oathsense: Harold. If you're to be of help… let's test it. Use that power of yours—Brandsurge. See if you can use it through the dungeon restrictions.

The words resonated like a tug on the tether between us, his brand glowing faintly in my awareness.

I drew a slow breath, locking onto that connection. Normally, calling on the Brand was like opening a door—steady, natural, almost effortless. But now… it was like pushing against a wall of stone.

The dungeon's presence pressed back, heavy and cold. My pulse spiked as I shoved harder, Willpower flaring.

"Move," I hissed under my breath, teeth gritted.

The power lurched, jagged and reluctant. It felt like dragging a chain through mud, every inch straining at me. Sweat beaded down my temple as I poured myself into it—not mana this time, but sheer will.

Then, with a sharp snap in my chest, the tether surged alive.

I could feel Kelan stagger forward, bracing on his pickaxe as light rippled faintly along his veins. His breath hitched, and through Oathsense I felt the shift—strength flaring, his focus sharpened, his soul burning closer to its own flame.

"You did it," Kelan said, the words carrying pride and a hint of surprise. Then, with a flicker of dry humor: "You're missing the look on Daran's face."

I exhaled hard, leaning against the stone arch with trembling hands. My lungs burned, every breath dragging like gravel, and my Willpower felt scraped raw—like I'd torn strips from my soul just to force the Brand through.

I can do it, I said across the tether, voice tight. But not often.

Kelan's confirmation came like a steadying hand on my shoulder.

I straightened, though my body begged to sag, and gave a single nod. That was enough for now. They began to move deeper into the dark, and I stayed by the arch, Will still thrumming faintly in my veins.

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