The retreat was a long, ragged march that strained every soul in the column. Fifty freed men and women stumbled through the trees, shepherded by soldiers who kept their armor muffled and their voices low. Wolves padded silently on the flanks, the frost in their pawprints marking the trail as surely as blood.

Auren and Ferin had the hardest task — running lean and fast ahead of the group, their Daos pressed into the land itself. Ferin dragged false trails through the earth, scattering broken branches and angled footprints to lead trackers away. Auren rode the wind, sweeping brush to conceal the column's weight, coaxing the air to smudge scents and carry sound away. It would never erase the truth — too many people. Then when one job was done racing to the rear to conceal what they could of their passage. It wouldn't be enough.

At the column's heart, the Oath-Perception stirred.

You didn't answer our call, Kelan's voice pressed across the tether, his tone frayed from exhaustion, pain and anger. We sent for you. Why didn't you use Brandflare?

Lira's voice followed, sharper. We could have been overrun, Harold. Fifty people isn't something you gamble with.

From the fort, Harold's reply came steady, his voice a cold line of iron across the bond. I need it for the real battle. "The one that matters. If I use it now, they'll expect it — and the surprise is lost."

A pause. Then: "And I was confident you could handle it."

Jerric lingered at the edge of the connection, silent, listening. The faint tremor in his bond made it clear he didn't share Harold's certainty.

Lira's thought pressed back, brittle with disbelief. "Confident."

Harold's voice carried no apology, no heat. "And you did. And now the soldiers won a real fight. You have all leveled up, people are closer to tier 3 and we need all the strength we can get. Even with the 2 we lost."

The tether dimmed, leaving them to the forest and their own breathing.

Around them, the column kept moving. Soldiers carried burdens when the freed faltered, hands clasping shoulders to drag one more step, one more stumble. The axe brothers had split — one marched forward with an older gnome woman clinging to his back, her legs swaying, her white hair matted with soot. He bore her weight without complaint, though his face was red with strain.

His brother walked at his side, snickering under his breath. "Careful there, you keep that up, and she'll expect you to carry her over the threshold too."

"Shut it," the first muttered, adjusting his grip as the gnome murmured thanks against his ear.

The brother just grinned wider. "Saints, he blushes. He actually blushes. That's it, you're smitten."

A ripple of laughter moved through the line, weary but welcome. Even some of the freed chuckled, tension easing for a heartbeat as the march pressed on.

Further back, The spear sergeant checked her squad, keeping stragglers close, his shield balanced over one shoulder. The platoon moved like an exhausted spine, holding the refugees together with discipline alone. Wolves padded between them, nudging children forward or circling the edges to keep the slow from drifting too far.

Near the rear, Daran kept pace with the elven woman. She was bruised, soot staining her once-fine features, her cloak torn to shreds. But she never faltered. She murmured to those near her, steadying panicked breaths, placing hands on shoulders to push them faster, straighter. She had no armor, no blade worth the name, but she didn't shrink back when fear clawed through the line.

Daran said little. His broadsword rested across his shoulder, crimson still darkening the steel. He glanced at her once, just enough to see the stubborn set of her jaw. He had expected the freed to scatter like cattle — but she hadn't. She'd stood, when she could have hidden. That counted for something.

And yet, as he watched her move between the others, there was something else. Not command, not leadership, but the way she carried herself, the way she looked unbroken even in chains. He felt it catch on him like a hook. Strange, unwelcome, but real.

He tore his gaze away, focusing on the treeline ahead. Reinforcements would come. Cavalry, riders, maybe worse. They had to reach the fort before the noose closed.

The column pressed on into the night, weary but unbroken. Even now an aura from lira covered everyone healing and relieving exhaustion.

The weary line trudged deeper into the forest, the sun a pale smear behind the canopy. Every footfall seemed to weigh twice as much, every breath coming ragged as if the woods themselves tried to smother them. The laughter from the axe brothers had faded, leaving only the shuffle of boots, the occasional whimper of a child, and the low growls of wolves circling their edges.

Then the Oath-perception stirred faintly, like a tug at the back of Lira and Kelan's minds. A warning.

"Hold, they're friendly," Kelan shouted.

The column slowed, soldiers raising crossbows, eyes sweeping the trees.

From the shadows ahead, figures emerged — squat, scaled, their armor mismatched but well-kept, blades and crossbows glinting faintly in the dark. The kobolds moved in disciplined formation, four of them, each with the hard, lean presence of Tier 3 Knights. They were trappers by their gear, hooks, coils of wire, and bundles of sharpened stakes clattering against their harnesses.

And at their center, leaning on a crooked staff wound in bone charms, was a shaman. His scales gleamed dull bronze, his eyes like two coals burning faint. A faint shimmer of curses clung to him, heavy enough that even the wolves bristled at the scent. He raised his staff and hissed something low in his own tongue — not hostile, but a command for silence.

Jerric followed them out of the brush, pale and weary, but upright. His hand rested on the shaman's shoulder as if to steady himself, his other arm raised toward the column.

"It's me," he called softly. "Hold your fire."

Relief surged through the line, though no one lowered their weapons until Daran gave a sharp gesture.

Jerric's mouth twitched into a faint, tired grin. "Brought help. Four trappers, all Tier 3 Knights, and one shaman. Stronger than I expected." He patted the shaman's staff. "He can guide us around the traps they've been laying down."

One of the axe brothers muttered, "About time we had someone who knew where all the spikes are."

The shaman's head tilted, the shadows of his hood stretching his grin into something eerie. His clawed fingers tapped the staff, and a ripple of curse mana slithered outward, twisting faintly in the air like black smoke before dissolving into the night. The wolves bristled, hackles raised, but settled at a single growl from Hal.

Jerric glanced at the shaman, then asked the question weighing on everyone's mind. "What can you do to conceal their trail?"

The shaman fixed him with a long, unblinking stare, then slowly turned toward the churned mud of the path they'd come down. Pressure settled over the company like a physical weight, heavy enough to make the breath catch in their throats. Mana gathered thick in the air, and then qi — coils of it spiraling like a storm before descending into the shaman.

He hunched under the force of it, shoulders trembling, but did not break. He stalked to Jerric's side, and though his lips didn't move, Jerric stiffened at the sensation of words carried across their tether. He laid a hand on the shaman's shoulder, and more mana poured through, deepening the spell.

Then the shaman moved into the column.

His claws plucked a single hair from every person he passed, whether soldier or freed. Some submitted uneasily. Others protested, jerking away until pressed by the need to keep moving. No one liked it. The act felt too personal, too binding, like something stolen rather than freely given. The air grew tauter with every strand, until even the wolves were restless, whining low in their throats.

Finally, the shaman stopped, sweat dripping down his scaled jaw. He sank the final hair into his staff and exhaled in a ragged hiss. The built-up mana burst outward, invisible but undeniable — a wave of curse that prickled across the skin like icy fingers. The spell settled over the trail behind them.

Lira's whip-hand twitched as she frowned at Jerric. "I could feel that being woven. That was a lot of mana and qi. The curse was strong. What was it?"

Jerric's eyes went distant as he listened to the shaman, his brow furrowing. The conversation stretched long, longer than most were comfortable with, until finally he nodded, still looking faintly unsettled.

"From what I understand," Jerric said slowly, "he bound every hair he took into the spell. Anyone who follows our trail, seeking the ones tied to those strands, will struggle. The ground itself will blur. Their senses will twist. They'll be distracted, misled. The closer they hunt, the more the curse will pull them astray."

Daran gave a single, short nod. "Good work."

Jerric managed a thin grin, but it faltered as quickly as it came. He sagged under the weight of weariness, his hand dragging down his face. "Lets get home, I've been out here with only these 5 as company for the last 24 hours."

The kobolds shifted restlessly at the edges of the column, their tails twitching, eyes reflecting faintly in the moonlight. Their discipline was alien, their silence unnerving, but no one doubted their value now.

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The march pressed on into the night, guided by wolves, hardened soldiers, and dungeon-born hunters — with a curse hanging behind them like a shadow.

The woods thinned, and through the gaps the faint orange of torchlight glimmered. A ripple passed through the column as weary eyes lifted — hope tugging them forward.

The fort came into view.

The walls rose dark and jagged, reinforced timbers bristling with sharpened stakes. A ditch circled it like a scar, frost still clinging to the edges where Hal's pack had patrolled earlier. And behind it, higher than any structure they'd yet built, the skeleton of a new tower rose into the night.

Logs lay stacked like bones, half-hewn and bound with rope, the few remaining men straining to raise them into place. At the center of it all, Harold worked bare from the waist up, muscles straining as he dragged a log into position on his shoulder. Sweat ran down his chest, cutting tracks through dust and sawdust, the brand on his hand glowing faintly in the sunlight. He set the timber with a grunt, turning to gesture instructions to Holt and the builders.

The refugees slowed, exhaustion forgotten for a moment as they stared. Some whispered, awed at the sight of walls, of order, of men moving with purpose. Others only watched Harold himself, the image of strength and certainty, a man working alongside his people instead of towering above them.

"Keep moving!" Holt barked, her voice snapping like a whip. She and the other sergeants moved through the column, directing soldiers and freed alike. "Form up in ranks! Children to the center, wounded to the left! Under the wall and shelter — move!"

The discipline spread like fire in dry grass. Soldiers took charge of small groups, shepherding them toward the gates. The freed, too stunned to resist, obeyed without question. Within moments, chaos turned to order, the column passing under the shadow of the wall into the safety of the fort.

The wolves padded in last, Hal shaking frost from his fur as he took his place at the gate, eyes glowing like icefire.

Inside, torches lit the half-built tower, their light spilling over the courtyard where the exhausted would rest. Refugees slumped against logs and walls, too tired to speak, their eyes wide with disbelief.

For the first time since the breakout, they were safe.

The courtyard buzzed with the low noise of order being imposed — sergeants shouting commands, soldiers sorting freed into groups, wolves weaving between the crowd. Harold straightened from where he'd set the last timber, sweat still dripping down his chest, when he saw them.

Kelan and Lira, weary but unbroken, stepped toward him. Behind them trailed Jerric, pale with fatigue but flanked by the strange, watchful kobolds he'd brought. The shaman limped at his side, scales gleaming the sunlight.

Kelan raised a hand in greeting, his face grave. "I understand why you didn't answer when we asked. You were right — if you'd burned that card now, they'd be waiting for it later. We handled it." He said it steady, no heat in his words, only acceptance.

Lira's lips were pressed thin. She stopped just shy of Harold, whip-hand flexing at her side. "I won't apologize for what I did," she said, voice clipped. "They were in cages. I couldn't leave them. But I will apologize for acting rashly. I should've told you first." Her eyes hardened. "Still, some of them will commit to the cause. Surely among fifty, there are hearts and skills worth Branding."

Harold wiped a streak of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze flicking between them. "I hope so, we need the help." His tone wasn't sharp, but it was unyielding.

He turned, eyes narrowing at the fort around them, at the weary forms settling under the walls. "I've been saving mana, and it's time to use it. I'll open the portal again once this lot is sorted. Meala and Rynar will come through to help sort this lot. They'll only have ten minutes, but it's enough. Those who want to join but cant or wont fight can go through. The others can either stay and fight or leave to find their own way."

His voice carried heavier now, hard enough that Kelan and Lira straightened unconsciously.

"The timeline's moved up. We can't wait anymore. The deception phase is over. They'll find us, sooner rather than later. That means it's time to bleed the Bloodnights." His gaze swept them all, lingering last on Lira's eyes, then Kelan's.

"Get what healing you can. Gather yourselves. Because you're going back out again."

The torchlight flickered across his brand, glowing faint on his hand as the weight of his words settled.

When the others drifted away to their tasks, Harold lingered in the shadow of the tower. His brand burned faintly against his palm as the system stirred, quiet but undeniable.

[Level Up Achieved.] [New Class Skill Granted.]

The glow wasn't what he had hoped for. His lips pressed thin as he studied the numbers, feeling the muted satisfaction settle in his chest. The fight had been costly — two Tier 4s dead, retainers scattered, a victory hard-earned — but the gain was smaller than he'd expected.

He had already put the points into Intelligence trying to gain more mana for the portal he needed.

So that's how it is, he thought grimly. The closer I am, the more it gives. Distance earns less. Pulling strings doesn't pay like being there on the field does.

The system answered with cold clarity:

[Class Skill Unlocked: Dao Vision] Once per month, you may grant another a vision of the Dao. The vision is not your own, but drawn from the echoes of Daos once branded in the past — fragments of insight left behind by those who walked a similar path.

Harold stilled.

Not his vision. Theirs. Every Brand that had ever been made, every Dao that had once been tied to past Branders, left a mark in the system's memory. And he could call it up. Offer it to someone else walking a similar road.

A single vision. Once a month.

It wasn't power in his own hands — but it was the kind of power that could shape others and sharpen them. Tilt the balance of a fight before it was ever fought, and he already had an idea for who to use it on.

He let out a long breath, gaze shifting over the fort. Refugees huddled under makeshift shelter, Holt maintaining order as food was passed out, wolves prowling restless beyond the walls. Every one of them carried potential. Every one of them could be honed.

"One vision a month," he murmured, voice low. "It'll have to be enough."

The fort's yard burned with torchlight. Shadows stretched long against the timbered walls, the smell of sweat, blood, and frost still thick from their flight. The freed huddled beneath the half-built shelters, eyes wide and haunted, too drained to rest but too wary to speak loud.

Harold stood before them, bare-chested from the tower work, the brand on his hand faintly aglow in the firelight. The soldiers gave him space, ringed around the group with watchful eyes, wolves stalking slow among them like shades of the night.

"It was my people who brought you here," Harold began, his voice cutting through the uneasy murmurs. "It was my people who dragged you out of chains and blood and gave you another chance. And yes…" His gaze swept the crowd, hard and unflinching. "…I am a Calamity. The same as in the stories. I'm here because the Bloodnight family earned it."

A gaunt man near the front spat into the dirt, his voice low but vicious. "Damn vampires. Don't deserve to live."

The words echoed louder than they should have. Harold's eyes locked on him, unblinking. The man shifted under the weight of the glare, but didn't look away.

One of the axe brothers broke the silence with a snort, striding over and cuffing the man across the back of the head hard enough to send him staggering. "Idiot. You just threw away the chance everyone else here is praying for."

The crowd stilled. No one else moved.

"I sent Kelan and Lira into the city," Harold said, his tone flat but steady, "to find people willing to join me. Fighters. Builders. Healers. Blacksmiths. Farmers. Everyone who can make a life in a place no sane soul would dare go — the high mountains where even the snow cuts deep. There is no soft road ahead. Not here. Not with me."

His branded hand lifted, the mark catching the firelight like an ember.

"You have three choices."

His words landed like hammer strikes on an anvil.

"One: stay here and fight with us. Bleed alongside the people who risked their lives to pull you free, against the family who will not forgive this insult."

"Two: come through the portal to my settlement. You will work, you will build, and I will do everything in my power to see you rise with me. But you will not sit idle. You will pull your weight."

His hand fell back to his side.

"Or three: you leave. Tonight. Right here. You walk into the woods and go where you will. But you will not stay in this fort unless it is to fight."

A murmur rippled through the refugees, tired voices whispering sharp and low. Some looked terrified. Some looked stubborn. A few straightened as if called to a higher challenge.

"You have ten minutes," Harold said, voice ringing flat against the timber walls. "Decide. When the time is up, my fighters march out again. Those who come with them prove their worth."

The night pressed heavy over them all, torches sputtering, wolves growling low, and the weight of the choice burning hotter than fire.

Harold's words hung over the yard like a blade. He didn't wait for the response. Didn't need to.

He turned and walked away, torchlight throwing his shadow long across the dirt. Behind him, murmurs swelled into whispers.

"I'll help."

The voice cut clean through the noise. The elven woman — bruised, cloak torn, her face smudged with soot but her posture straight — stepped forward without hesitation. "I'll fight, or build, or carry whatever you need. I won't waste what you gave me."

Kelan looked relieved, already moving to speak with her. Lira stepped in beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd, seizing on the moment to press the choice harder.

Daran, leaning against the courtyard wall, looked up at the sound of her voice. His eyes narrowed, the flicker of unease breaking through his usual iron mask. Harold caught the look out of the corner of his eye before the commander schooled his expression. Noted.

He let it lie and crossed the yard, finding Jerric sitting near the base of the half-built tower. The younger man looked drained, sweat still streaking his face, but the kobolds hovered near him like silent guards.

Harold found Jerric at the base of the half-built tower, sitting on a log with his head tipped back, shadows of the kobolds crouched around him like silent wardens. The shaman leaned on its crooked staff, eyes glowing faint in the torchlight, watching everything with reptilian stillness.

"You worked the land out there?" Harold asked.

Jerric straightened a little, fatigue heavy in his frame. "Dense. As much as I could make it in the time you gave me. Traps layered in every fold I could reach. Snares, pits, nails buried in the brush. Enough to bleed anyone who blunders in. It's a field of teeth now."

Harold studied him a moment, then pressed. "Your Dao's only mid-squire, maybe high if you've been pushing. So how are you summoning Tier 3 knights? That doesn't add up."

Jerric hesitated, then let out a crooked smile. "Because it's not just me anymore." He tapped his chest, then gestured at the kobolds. "The dungeon and I… we're speaking. Not with words. But I can feel it. And it can feel me. That bond, that understanding—it's helping me climb faster. My Dao's grown sharper just by being tied to it."

His expression hardened into something more thoughtful. "I've been collecting things. Blood. Hair. Fragments from beasts we've killed. I haven't given them to the dungeon yet… but I think it's waiting. Hungry. Like it knows what I'll do when I come back. And when I do, that bond will get stronger."

Harold tilted his head. "And the kobolds?"

Jerric chuckled, weary but proud. "That's a class skill. Lets me draw them up a tier. I'm still squire, but when I summon, I can force them higher—Low Knight in strength, Knight in Dao. Stronger than I should be able to call." He patted the shaman's shoulder. "And they follow like it's natural. Because it's not just me pushing—it's the dungeon lending a hand."

He paused, then added quietly, almost as if he was still wrapping his head around it himself: "The system gave me an occupation. Dungeon Architect. I can feel it when I look at them—how they want to build, how they want to shape. My class is about summoning but my occupation is about building. About guiding what a dungeon becomes. It's kinda like your class and occupation in a way."

Harold's eyes narrowed, weighing that. "Jerric, I think you have become the most important person in this fort. Here's the plan."

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