The morning after the ambush tasted of smoke and iron.

Under the overhang, Rysa worked with frantic patience, grinding herbs into paste, muttering measurements to herself as she boiled down what little remained of her stock. She had no mana left—none at all—yet she kept at it, binding the wounded with poultices and slopping draughts into their mouths as fast as she could brew them.

Beside her, Lira sat cross-legged, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on her knees. Her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, pulling what threads of life qi she could back into her core. She'd burned herself dry, and meditation was the only answer. Her skin gleamed with sweat, but her expression was calm—almost serene.

A few paces away, Jerric was pacing in small, nervous circles, his staff bobbing with every step. He whispered, too loud for the wounded not to overhear: "Lira, come on—just tell me where to put my points. I've got so many. Almost a hundred levels worth. Don't make me guess. I'll screw it up! And I have a Class to pick!"

Lira cracked one eye open, expression flat. "Not now, Jerric. Sit. Breathe. Wait until I'm finished, or you'll end up with a Dao of whining."

The boy groaned dramatically, but sat, still muttering to himself.

On the far side of the courtyard, Daran was bent low over a small fire, sharing bread with Elria, the elven woman. She was speaking softly, laughter threading through her words like song. Daran smiled—an expression so rare that it looked out of place on his weathered face. Harold caught the moment and let it pass without comment.

Kelan sat with his hammer and pick across his lap, his frame quiet but tense. His aura had shifted—more rooted, more certain, more looming. He was still within the squire tier, close to knight but he'd broken through to Tier 3, and Harold could feel him weighing the choice of a new class. Not far from him, Lira's bond tugged—she too had reached the same threshold, her path pulling her toward something down some kind of life and death user. How those paths combined would be interesting.

All around them, soldiers rested, meditated, or worked. Some were binding wounds, others shaping qi. Many had broken into Tier 3 themselves after the fighting, their auras rough and unpolished but undeniably stronger. A handful were already near the peak of the tier, sweating as they pressed themselves against the edge of advancement. They had advanced alot since their days as simple marauders.

A few had taken to the tower, hammering timber into place with bruised hands and weary shoulders. Harold had made it clear it was priority, and soldiers obeyed even half-dead. The tower's frame rose higher against the morning mist, though every thud of wood against wood rang like a challenge to the forest beyond.

Harold's eyes swept the yard again. That was when he saw Ferin.

The hunter was at the gate, bow slung, hounds clustered at his feet, and a single wolf at his flank. His hand rested on its back as he moved toward the open palisade, quiet as if he meant to slip into the trees unnoticed.

Harold left the tower's shadow and crossed to him. "Leaving so soon?"

Ferin stopped, but didn't turn. "Out," he said simply. "Need air. The dogs don't like walls."

Harold leaned against a timber post, watching the hunter in profile. "I don't blame them. Walls feel strange to me too, after where I came from."

That made Ferin glance at him, brow furrowed. Harold smiled faintly.

"I was from a planet supposedly disconnected from all this," Harold said. "A backwater world where Dao and Classes weren't supposed to touch. But the stories still leaked through. I never understood how."

Ferin tilted his head, curious despite himself.

"My last few years there… they were filled with a lot of reading. When I wasn't maintaining my home, I tried to keep my mind busy. Even tried to learn the piano once, but my fingers never moved well enough. Always wanted to, though." He huffed a short laugh. "So I read. Philosophy, at first. Because my mind wasn't right. I'd done a lot of very bad things to very bad people—and to a lot of people who just happened to be standing in the wrong place …. I didn't know how to accept myself. So I read." Harold glanced down trying to find his voice again.

His voice lowered. "Plato. Nietzsche. Kant. Camus. Kierkegaard. Laozi. Seneca. Schopenhauer. Machiavelli. All the ones who clawed at the edges of meaning and existence, trying to pin it down."

Ferin's eyes narrowed slightly, listening harder.

"When that didn't help, I moved on to mythology. I thought maybe if I looked at the oldest stories, the oldest personalities, I'd find something I could understand. Something timeless." Harold looked down at the hounds gathered at Ferin's feet. "And then there was you. With your bow, your Dao of the Hunt. Animals that flock to you. Fighting with you, moving as one. It reminded me of something I read then."

He straightened, his gaze steady. "Have you heard of the Lord of the Hunt?" he said softly.

Ferin shook his head slowly.

Harold let his voice sink lower, rhythm almost hypnotic. "He was a fae god, older than cities, older than walls. He came from a time when man roamed freely and were still scared of the night. When he raised his horn, the Hunt began. Hounds that never tired. Wolves that never lost the scent. Hunters who moved as one, bound to the call. The prey could run through0 night, storm, or winter—it didn't matter. The Hunt would not end until it was caught."

The hounds shifted, whining softly, as if the story brushed their fur. The wolf's eyes gleamed faintly in the morning light.

"That's what I see when I look at you," Harold said, words slow and deliberate. "Not just a man who tracks. A lord of the hunt. Seeking inspiration without a source must be hard. But use this story. Let it be a seed. When you wonder more about it, come find me."

He paused, then added, softer, "You're already in your middle years, Ferin. But you're meant for more than this. You supported me when I needed it. I'll support you however I can."

For a long moment, Ferin stared into the trees, silent but taut with thought. His hand tightened on the wolf's ruff, his breath slow. Harold felt it in the air around him—not a breakthrough yet, but a deep stirring, a pressure building under the surface.

Harold let the silence hang, watching Ferin's grip tighten on the wolf's ruff, the hounds' ears twitching at words they couldn't quite understand but seemed to feel all the same.

Then Harold stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. "Go find a place. Somewhere quiet. Sit. Meditate."

Ferin's eyes flicked to him, uncertain.

"When you rise," Harold continued, "don't just follow a trail. Hunt. Call a hunt. Extend your Dao. You are no simple tracker with dogs at your heel." He pointed at the wolf pressed to Ferin's leg, at the hounds waiting on his breath. "They know it already. You are a lord of your domain. Earn it. Take it."

The words pressed through the Oath-bond, steady and iron-bound.

For a long heartbeat, Ferin only stared, the weight of it sinking in. His jaw set, and he gave a short, sharp nod. Then, without a word, he turned, whistled once, and the hounds fell into step. The wolf padded beside him as he slipped out the gate, vanishing into the misted stumps beyond.

Harold stayed at the gate long after Ferin vanished into the misted stumps, the hunter's hounds padding silent at his heels, the wolf a shadow at his side. Lord of the Hunt… Harold let the phrase roll through his mind. Ferin had always been quiet, always skirting the edges, but it wasn't silence that defined him—it was patience. He stalked moments the way other men stalked game. All he needed was the right call, the right story to shape the edge of his Dao.

Harold exhaled, shoulders heavy. Maybe that's all any of them need. A hand on the back, a word in the ear. Someone to point at the path when the forest closes in.

He turned his eyes back to the courtyard.

Rysa, bent over her herbs, lips pursed with stubborn determination. She had yet to discover a Dao that called to her. Apparently been offered a few but none that she liked. Maybe he could help her settle one. Lira, still in meditation, her qi rebuilding one careful breath at a time. Her dao was solid, powerful and advanced. It was her class that was in turmoil and she would eventually have trouble coming to terms with her death side when she leaned on life so much. Jerric, fidgeting like a boy on the verge of manhood, desperate for direction. Eager for direction and to advance. Kelan, steady and solid, already pressing against the weight of a new class. Daran, laughing softly with the elf woman like he hadn't laughed in years. The constant edge of him still there but controlled by the softer presence beside him. Soldiers healing, others meditating,a myriad of daos were there, a few hammering timber into the tower with bandaged hands. Hal had gone off to guard some of his pack while they evolved. His pack had taken more lossess than he liked but the remaining ones would be more powerful. As is the way of conflict, hardship. The way of Calamity.

The bonds hummed, each thread tugging at him in different ways. Each one carrying strain, potential and hunger.

Harold rubbed his jaw, gaze narrowing. Ferin isn't the only one. Who else needs a little help?

Harold stayed at the gate for a long while, but the thoughts of Freedom and Soul gnawed too deep to ignore. He could feel one, bright and restless, always there when he reached for it. The other was just absence. Silence.

If Soul is there, then it needs something different. Something deeper than rules or bonds for me to connect with it. Something that calls to the part of me I've never learned how to hear or express.

Music came to mind—the piano he'd tried to play in the other life, fingers clumsy, keys out of reach. But there was no piano here, no ivory, no chords. What was left was life itself. Breath, touch, voices…feelings…

His eyes drifted toward the overhang.

Lira sat there, meditating with her legs folded beneath her, brown hair loose around her shoulders, her hands steady on her knees. The robes and leather armour she wore were cut and stained. She had been a steadying presence on him ever since he discovered her. In ways that Kelan couldn't be. Even drained, she seemed untouchable — calm, sure of the life and death that twined through her like a second spine.

Harold's stomach knotted. He'd tried once before, in another life, to open that part of himself. With his daughter. It had gone miserably. The silence that followed had carved a scar deeper than any blade. He'd tried to absolve it, tried to reach her again, but she'd never spoken to him after that day. The memory made his throat tight even now.

But he couldn't keep circling forever. If Soul was to be touched, could even be touched, it had to be through living life. Through making the mistakes that people made and living with the consequences. "Ah shit…" Harold muttered.

So he walked to her.

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She opened her eyes as he approached, steady as ever. "Harold?"

He stopped just out of reach. His voice came slower than it should, his chest tight. "I… need your help. With something I can't touch on my own." He forced a breath. Can we go somewhere and talk?"

They slipped away to a quieter corner of the fort, half-hidden by the unfinished tower. Only Daran and Elria could see them from where they sat, sharing bread and quiet words. He nodded at Harold, smiling at them a little.

"It's my Soul affinity. I can't sense it. Can't even… feel it. Freedom hums under my skin, I've learned to manipulate it but Soul—it's just absence. Nothing."

Her brow furrowed faintly, but she didn't speak. Waiting.

"I think…" His voice caught. He steadied it, softer now. "I think the only way to scratch at it is through life. Through things… through people… that make me feel. And that terrifies me more than anything I've faced."

He swallowed, his gaze falling to the dirt between them. "I can stay calm in a storm. I can face men with blades and bullets without shaking. But standing here, talking to you—" His voice cracked. "You scare me in ways they never did."

The words hung between them, heavier than steel, the silence stretching long. Harold clenched his fists, waiting for the storm he couldn't predict.

Lira let the silence linger just long enough for Harold to start hating himself for speaking. Then her lips curved, and her voice cut sharp.

"You fool man," she said.

Harold's head jerked up, startled, but she leaned forward, eyes bright, her words quick and sure. "You saved me from a life of servitude to people who only wanted to drain me dry. I've seen you throw yourself into fire for helpless children. I've watched you shoulder burdens no sane man would touch, trying to ease the weight on beasts and people alike. For someone who claims he has a lock on his emotions, Harold Greyson, I think you feel more than anyone here."

The corner of her mouth twitched with something like amusement. "You just hide it behind that gruff face and all your . Not very well, mind you."

Before he could find words, her hand lifted, fingers warm as they rested against his cheek. She tilted his face up, forcing his eyes to meet hers. He froze, breath caught in his chest. It was the one thing he'd avoided—opening himself enough to be seen, enough to be hurt.

But he didn't look away.

For the first time since his daughter's silence had cut him to the bone, Harold opened himself up. Truly vulnerable. The Calamity braced himself not against steel or flame, but against the possibility of love and the pain it carried.

Lira's eyes softened. She drew closer, hesitant at first, then with resolve. Her lips brushed his, testing, uncertain.

Harold broke. His hands found her waist, pulling her in, burying himself in the kiss. The Oath threads flared, but deeper still, something else stirred—something raw and aching, something he hadn't felt since before the scars.

His Soul responded.

It wasn't a pool of qi, not yet. But it was there—warmth and weight rushing through him, as if some long-locked door had cracked open at last.

The bond flared brighter, spilling out past Harold's control.

Kelan felt it first, sitting cross-legged by the overhang with his hammer laid across his knees. His stone-rooted presence rumbled, half amusement, half exasperation. "Finally," he muttered under his breath. "Maybe now they'll stop staring at each other like fools and get back to work."

Across the courtyard, Jerric jerked upright mid-scribble, staff clattering to the ground. The boy's eyes went wide as the Oath sang through him differently—closer, heavier, almost… intimate. "Why does the bond feel deeper all of a sudden—oh. Oh. Eww." He slapped both hands over his face. "I can feel them kissing. Gods, make it stop."

Out by the palisade, Hal lay stretched between the two Ashen she-wolves, their pale flanks pressed against his frost-rimmed fur. He felt the ripple too, but only snorted, settling his chin across his paws. Humans make it so complicated, he growled lazily through the bond. Why dance around it when you can just bite and be done?

The she-wolves chuffed agreement, nuzzling closer to him as if to prove the point.

Through it all, Harold clung to Lira, soul humming with a new rhythm. For once, he didn't push the bond quiet. He let them all feel it—awkward or not. Because for the first time, it wasn't just Freedom carrying him forward.

Lira broke first, laughter bubbling up from her chest. She pressed her forehead against Harold's for a heartbeat before pulling back, eyes shining.

"You hear them too, don't you?" she asked, amusement tugging at her lips.

Harold groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Unfortunately."

"Poor Jerric," she teased, chuckling softly. "He'll never recover."

But then her laughter faded, and her expression shifted. She searched his eyes, all the warmth still there, but steadied by something firmer.

"After this," she said quietly. "When it's done, when we have a breath that isn't stolen—we have to talk. A serious one. About what this is, about what it means."

Harold's chest tightened, but he nodded. "After."

She leaned in just enough that her hand brushed his cheek again. "But until then… let's finish this fight first."

Lira's hand lingered on his cheek, eyes steady, lips curving into something sly. "Well? Did you get it?"

Harold closed his eyes, reaching inward. Freedom thrummed where it always did, but deeper—past that—something stirred. A pulse, faint but real. His Soul, answering at last. He drew in a breath, opened his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah. I did."

Her smile sharpened. "Good. Means I touched you deeper than anyone else has."

Harold blinked, heat crawling up his neck. "…That's one way to put it."

Lira laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and leaned back just enough to look him over. "Don't give me that look, Harold. You kissed me in front of half the fort through your damned bond. We're in it now."

Her eyes gleamed, and she gave him a playful shove in the chest. "You're impossible."

"Not what you said a moment ago," he shot back, voice low enough only she could hear.

Her laugh bubbled out, quick and unguarded, but she shook her head and stepped away before he could pull her in again. "Enough. I have wounded to tend, and you have a fort to hold together. Try not to collapse it by staring at me."

As she turned, Harold caught sight of movement at the far side of the yard. Daran and Elria were still seated together, sharing bread and quiet words—but both of them were watching. Daran's lips curved into the smallest, most knowing smile Harold had ever seen on the man, while Elria's brows rose, her laughter muffled behind a hand.

As he turned from the quiet corner, his eyes caught Daran and Elria still seated together, sharing bread. Daran's smile was small but real, and Elria's laughter lingered like music. The elf woman had cleaned up, she was a stunning woman but Harold had eyes only for one woman. Harold met Daran's gaze across the yard and allowed himself the faintest grin in return. He lifted a hand, a subtle gesture toward the two of them, before moving on. Needing to work the excitement out of his body.

Harold exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. For once, it wasn't a battlefield that had him rattled—it was a woman slipping away, leaving his heart pounding louder than any war drum.

The tower rose higher against the gray morning, timbers hauled and braced by men who should have been resting. Sweat ran down scarred faces, shoulders strained under beams, yet no one complained. The work itself was a shield—they needed something to throw their bodies against that wasn't blood and steel.

Harold joined them, sliding his shoulder under a beam with the ease of habit. "Lift," he barked, and half a dozen men strained with him, the log biting into calloused hands as they levered it into place.

The axe brothers were loud as always, one cursing the other for being slow, the other grinning as he dropped the heavy mallet on his boot for the second time.

"That's twice today," Holt shouted from the ground, glaring up at them. "Next time I'll just cut the foot off and save us the whining."

Laughter rolled through the crew, and Harold chuckled with them.

Beside him, Kelan's branded dwarf worked with relentless steadiness, jaw set as he hammered iron nails into the cross beams. The brand on his forehead burned visible in the sun, a mark of Harold's Oath for all to see. Yet the dwarf bore it openly, without shame. "Stone and timber," he grumbled. "Neither bends. Neither breaks. Just takes time." His mana and qi infused every piece he worked on, each strike carrying weight beyond muscle.

A soldier nearby snorted as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Wish that was true of us. Don't know how many more fights like that last one I've got left in me."

"Not enough drink in this fort to get me through another night like that," another muttered, hammering a peg home with more force than needed. "Those Tier 4 Barans could move, some of those movements were too quick for me to keep up with."

"Quit your bellyaching," the dwarf shot back, not looking up. "You're still breathing. Be glad for it."

"Breathing's not the same as living," one of the axe brothers said, dropping onto the beam beside Harold with a grin. "When this tower's done, I want a roof over my head and a woman under it. That's living."

"Careful," Holt called from below, "say that too loud and you'll have me volunteering."

That earned another round of laughter. Even the dwarf cracked a crooked grin.

But after the laughter died, one of the younger soldiers spoke, his voice quieter. "What if they come back before we finish? Before we're ready? I don't… I don't want to die under half a tower."

The silence that followed was heavy. Men shifted, tools stilled.

Harold leaned his forearm on the beam, looking at the boy like he wasn't just another faceless recruit. "Then we don't let that happen. We finish. We fight." He tapped the timber with his knuckles, letting the weight of it speak. Then his mouth twisted into a wry grin. "And if we fall—at least we'll make the tower tall enough to land on someone's head."

The men barked out laughter, the tension snapping like a rope cut clean. Even the dwarf grunted approval.

The boy blinked, caught between relief and disbelief. "You really believe that?"

Harold smiled faintly, steady and sure. "I wouldn't be up here swinging a hammer if I didn't."

A beat of silence passed—then one of the axe brothers barked, "I'll tell you what I believe: if this tower's tall enough, maybe I'll finally get a woman willing to climb up into my bed."

That earned a roar of laughter.

His brother shot back instantly, "Only if she's blind and drunk enough to mistake you for the other one."

"Better blind than desperate," the dwarf muttered without looking up, hammering another nail home.

The laughter rolled harder this time, echoing off the half-built beams. Even Holt cracked a grin from below, though she cupped her hands and shouted, "Save your whining for the barracks—you lot couldn't build a bedframe, let alone put it to use!"

The men howled, the tension bled out, and the tower rose a little higher under the weight of their banter.

That broke the tension. Men nodded, shoulders eased, and the work resumed. Someone muttered about wanting a hot meal, another about missing the quiet of the woods, another about dreaming of gold and a farm far from here. The words weren't complaints anymore—just reminders of what they hoped to return to.

And Harold stayed among them, lifting beams, passing nails, sharing the sweat and the banter. Not as their commander above, but as a man among men.

Harold's hands stilled on the timber, gaze flicking to the mark. The Brand tugged at him, humming faintly.

This is it. The bond. The comradery. The laughter. The weight we share together. This is what scratches the edge of Soul.

He reached inward. Freedom thrummed where it always did, eager, restless. But this time he pressed past it, searching for that faint pulse Lira had helped him touch. He found it—not a pool, not a flame, but a deep well of warmth that rose the more he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his people.

He tried to hold it steady. Tried to keep it small. But Soul refused.

It surged, wild and insistent, bleeding through him before he could shape it. Freedom wrapped it, never listening to him, and carried it outward, and the air around the tower shuddered.

The men staggered. Some dropped to their knees as a pressure filled the yard—thick, undeniable, like the heartbeat of the world had pressed down on them all. The soldiers cried out, clutching their chests, not in pain but in awe. Their Souls brushed something they had never touched before.

One by one, their Daos flared like sparks. Holt gasped as her shield Dao rang like steel, deeper and wider. The axe brothers froze, then roared with laughter as their axes thrummed with deeper resonance. The dwarf slammed his hammer into the wood, and the impact cracked like stone breaking—a surge of power lifting him toward something greater.

Some of the soldiers shouted aloud as the pressure broke them through—low to mid, mid to high, even a rare few cresting into Tier 3 outright.

All around Harold, the air churned with qi, Daos resonating against one another, the fort itself trembling as though the bones of the earth had been woken.

Harold gasped, dropping the beam as the energy burned through him and out of him. He couldn't stop it, couldn't shape it—it poured from him in waves, raw and unrelenting.

The men bowed under it, not in worship but in weight. Every soul was pulled taut, every Dao laid bare. And in that moment, for the first time, they could all feel themselves in ways the Ascension Framework had never allowed. Class and current affinity didn't matter at that moment. It was what their souls cried out for, people with Daos that were wrong for them figured out what their real affinities were. Then advanced them under the waves of pressure from Harold.

Harold staggered, bracing himself on the timber frame. "Damn it," he growled, teeth clenched. "I can't stop it—"

But even as he tried, the energy sang through the fort, and every man and woman there rose higher, their Souls closer to their Daos than they had ever been.

Then Harold passed out…again.

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