Harold woke to the sound of boots on timber above him. Sentries paced the half-built walls, their voices low, watchful in the gray wash of dawn. The fort was alive. Held.

He lay still for a moment, feeling the sickness clinging to his bones. His body was hollow, as if every drop of strength had been wrung out. It was worse than any branding—like he had branded five people at once and left nothing in reserve. Even breathing felt heavy.

A bedroll shifted beside him. Lira. She was still asleep, her hair a dark spill across her arm, her face pale but peaceful for once. Her hand twitched faintly, as though her body was still practicing the spells and mana exercises like she had been doing before.

Harold forced himself upright, his stomach churning, vision swimming for a heartbeat. The camp moved around him—soldiers crouched at the fire, grinding meal into paste, others checking gear with methodical hands. Wolves padded through the yard, stretching their legs before fading back toward the gates.

At the far side, Daran cut through the morning air with his broadsword. His forms were sharp, steady, unbroken. He didn't need correction—he was the measure men corrected themselves against. Elria sat nearby, cross-legged with a length of bread in her hands, watching him with quiet intensity. Neither spoke. They had been inseparable.

Harold staggered once as he crossed the yard, bracing against the timber of the half-built tower. Heads turned; eyes followed. Not openly, but enough. Every soldier here had felt what happened yesterday.

Daran finished his form and lowered the blade, rolling his shoulders before looking over. His eyes were steady, unreadable, but Harold caught the faint flicker of something like respect.

"You're awake," Daran said simply.

"Barely." Harold's voice rasped, thin from the hollowness inside him. He looked around at the soldiers, some sitting straighter than they had yesterday, others smiling faintly as if a weight had been lifted. Auras felt more defined and they felt heavier. Even the air felt different—charged, as though the fort itself was holding its breath.

"So…" Harold exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "What happened?"

Daran lowered his blade, breath slow but steady. He wiped the edge across his sleeve, then rested it against his shoulder. Before Harold could speak, Elria rose from where she'd been sitting and crossed the couple yards, her steps quick, her expression unguarded.

"Harold," she said, stopping in front of him right next to Daran. Her voice carried more weight than usual, her eyes brighter, alive. "Thank you. I had been pressing at the edge of Knight qi for so long, so close I could feel it in my veins—and then whatever you did yesterday pushed me through. I broke through, it was a wonder what you did. I've never heard of anyone doing what you did. You gave me that."

Daran sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like a man worn thin by too much nonsense. "I don't know how you did what you did," he said flatly. His eyes pinned Harold, more frustrated than accusing. "But if that's what having a Brand feels like all the time, every man and woman here will be begging for one before long."

He shifted the broadsword down to his side and shook his head. "That wave of qi and mana—it tore out of you like a storm. You were yelling, Harold. Not just in pain—like it was relief too. I don't know what happened in you, but it slammed into all of us. And it made us… closer. To ourselves. To our Daos. Like they'd been behind a wall, and suddenly there was a crack we could reach through."

He looked away for a moment, scanning the soldiers scattered through the yard. Some sat in meditation, faces taut with focus. Others whispered excitedly in pairs. Holt leaned against the timber of the tower, her eyes shut tight, her whole frame humming with barely contained qi.

"Sergeant Holt was right next to you when it broke loose," Daran went on. "She went straight to the peak of Knight. In almost an instant. That's insane, Harold. I sent her to the corner to consolidate before she broke herself, but she's not the only one. Anyone near you advanced—some by levels, some by leaps."

He barked a sharp laugh that wasn't amusement so much as disbelief. "I'm telling you—this force isn't the same as it was yesterday. It's stronger. Wilder. And me? I went to High Baran."

The words hung between them, sharp and unreal.

Daran shook his head again, almost scowling. "I've been stuck in Knight for decades, Harold. I stopped leveling because I didn't want to get too far ahead but A month with you and I've broken through higher than I thought I'd live to see. It's insane."

Daran's jaw worked as if he wanted to stop, but the words kept coming, pushed out by the sheer weight of what he'd seen.

"It wasn't just Holt or Elria. That lava fool—" he jabbed a finger toward the man hunched by the cookfire, steam rising faintly from his hands as he stirred the embers—"he broke into Knight outright. His Lava Dao is sharper, hotter, more alive than it was yesterday. He could drown a squad in fire if he doesn't burn himself out first."

He turned, sweeping a hand over the yard. "Some of the soldiers picked up an extra Dao. You remember that distance kid? The one with the bow too big for him? Now he's got two—Distance and Bow both. Bow and Distance, Harold. If he lives long enough to hone them, he'll be an executioner on the field."

Daran's gaze cut to the Balance girl, sitting with her spear laid across her knees. She opened her palm, and qi shimmered along the edge of the weapon like a needle of light. "She picked up Penetration to pair with Balance. Together? She'll cut through armor like cloth one day."

He looked back at Harold, shaking his head. "Jerric's the one that staggers me most. The boy leapt to High Knight. I've never heard of someone his age holding that much qi—it should've burned him hollow. Yet there he sits, pestering Lira about points like nothing's changed."

A rough laugh escaped him. "And those axe fools everyone loves—they're Barans now. Still Tier 3, but Baran qi flows in them. Harold, I can count on one hand the number of people who've advanced their qi before their levels caught up. I could go on like this for every man and woman here."

His voice dropped lower, weight settling in it. "And it wasn't just the people. Those Ashen wolves—something happened to them. I don't know what, and I can't ask Hal about it, but I saw it in their eyes. They were evolving when the surge hit, and your… whatever that was… pushed them further. The whole pack went through something. Hal let out a howl in the middle of it—a kind I've never heard before."

For a heartbeat, Daran's voice faltered, his eyes narrowing as if replaying the sound. "I don't scare easily, Harold. I've seen things that could wipe us out with a glance. Things that have slaughtered armies like they were nothing. Sure, I ran—but I wasn't afraid. Not like that. That howl cut into me in a way nothing else has. It wasn't just sound. It was… fear itself."

He finally fixed Harold with a steady stare, no scorn in it—only the demand of a man who needed an answer.

"Harold… what was that?"

He finally fixed Harold with a steady stare, no scorn in it—only the demand of a man who needed an answer. "Harold… what was that?"

Harold swallowed, the hollowness in his chest echoing the question. "I think it was my second Dao," he said at last. His voice came low, rough. "Not just Freedom. My first affinity is Soul."

Daran's brows drew tight, but he didn't speak, waiting.

Harold exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've heard the stories—I reincarnated. For a time, I wasn't even flesh. I was just a soul, sitting in Verordeal's hall. He told me then that my soul had to go through its own Calamity to get there. I didn't understand it then—maybe I still don't. But I suspect that's why Soul stuck to me. Why it's the first affinity I carry."

He let his gaze sweep the fort. Men and women were different now—standing straighter, meditating with faces flushed, some laughing in disbelief at how sharp their Daos felt. Holt sat in the corner, qi boiling so bright she seemed to burn from within. She might even break through as well just like the brothers if she could consolidate her foundation. The axe brothers were arguing over whose qi had grown more, their bickering like boys who had no idea they'd just become Barons. The whole yard thrummed with the echo of what he'd unleashed.

Harold's eyes drifted to the overhang. Jerric sat cross-legged beside Lira, chattering at her in a rush about points, summons, and whether kobolds could ride wolves into battle. She sat pale but composed, listening with the patience of someone who had nothing left to give but gave anyway. She rubbed the tired from her eyes and as if sensing his eyes, she looked up. Their gazes caught. Her lips curved into a faint smile—tired, but steady.

"She's the one who opened the door," Harold said quietly. "I was too scared to try it alone. Too stubborn to admit I needed help. But she found a way to make me feel deep enough to reach it."

His mouth twitched faintly. "Kind of like what she did for you, looking at the tall elven woman next to him—opened a door you couldn't see yourself."

Daran didn't answer, though his jaw tightened.

"Difference is," Harold added, voice dry, "my door came with Jerric shrieking like a crow on fire in the background. Yelling ew and nasty in our heads. Hard to call it romantic when you're worried the boy's going to explode into pieces."

Across the yard, Jerric shouted something about kobold shamans, making the axe brothers roar. Lira shook her head, smiling despite herself—though her eyes lingered on Harold one heartbeat longer before she turned back to the boy.

Harold looked back at Daran. "That's what it was. My Soul affinity. It wasn't just qi or mana. I think it was my actual Souls power escaping and combining with my freedom. Spilling over—mine touching yours. That's why you all advanced."

The words fell heavy, and the yard seemed quieter for them.

Before Daran could answer, Elria, who had been sitting close at his side, reached over and gave him a light smack between the shoulders. Her eyes stayed on Harold, though her mouth curved in a wry smile.

"Gods, Daran," she said. "You glare at the man like he's stolen your supper when you should be thanking him. You broke through to High Baran last night—after how many decades stuck where you were? Show a little grace."

Daran scowled faintly, not at her words but at the touch, though he didn't move away. "I wasn't ungrateful. I was asking."

"You were glowering," she countered, arching a brow. "There's a difference."

"I don't glower," he muttered.

Elria laughed, the sound soft but rich, lightning the area around them for a moment and for just a moment Harold saw something unspoken between them—the way Daran didn't quite step back, the way Elria didn't move her hand off his shoulder even after the smack. Neither of them seemed to notice it themselves, caught in that strange space between comradeship and something deeper.

Her gaze slid back to Harold, her smile softening. "He means thank you. Even if he doesn't know how to say it properly."

Harold let out a slow breath and lowered himself onto one of the beams stacked for the tower, the wood solid beneath him but his body anything but. Every muscle ached, every breath felt shallow, and his chest still carried that hollow, wrung-out sickness he couldn't shake.

He rubbed his face with both hands before looking up at Daran and Elria. "I'll have to ask you to handle this part, Daran. I can't coordinate it myself. Not like this."

Daran frowned, stepping half a pace closer. "You can't even open the portal?"

"I can," Harold said, voice low, "but only cause its only costing me mana. The rest—moving people, sorting what we keep, what we send—you'll have to see to it. I'm still rung out."

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He exhaled again, heavier this time, staring down at his hands. "Someone told me once the only way to recover a soul is time… and a few rare spiritual ingredients we sure as hell don't have. So I'll sit, I'll open the door, and the rest is yours to run."

Elria shifted beside Daran, her voice quiet but firm. "Then sit. You've done enough. We can carry the rest for now." Her eyes softened as they met his. "I meant what I said earlier—you gave me more than I thought I'd ever touch. Let us give something back."

She rose, brushing the dirt from her cloak, and glanced toward the overhang where Lira still sat with Jerric rattling at her ear. "I'll fetch her. You shouldn't be trying to hold yourself together alone."

Without waiting for reply, she crossed the yard, her steps light but purposeful.

Harold leaned back against the timber and let out another breath.

Harold braced himself on the beam, every breath still thin. "The gear," he said hoarsely. "Illga and the orc smith have been working through the night. Whatever they've managed to finish, we need it back now. Every blade, every plate. Get it through before the portal closes."

Daran nodded once. "Done." His eyes flicked toward the far side of the yard, where Jerric was still huddled over his collection of vials and scraps, muttering to himself. "And the boy?"

Harold's mouth twitched. "Fetch him. He's got his samples for the dungeon. Let him run them through, then drag him back before the door seals."

Daran gave a sharp grunt, already moving.

"And food," Harold added, forcing the words out before exhaustion claimed him again. "Whatever Meala and her cooks can spare. The men won't last on paste alone."

The portal shimmered in answer, light spilling across the courtyard as it began to bloom open. Harold sagged back against the timber, closing his eyes. As lira came over laying a hand on him.

Morning seeped dim through the heavy curtains of the Bloodnight estate. Within the council chamber, the air was thick with incense and smoke, the long table buried under ledgers, half-unrolled maps, and scraps of bloodied armor dragged back from the field.

Matriarch Marrowen presided in silence, her stillness more commanding than the arguments that buzzed around her. She let them tally before she demanded clarity.

An elder with a neat hand and sharper tongue cleared his throat. "Two hundred retainers stand ready to march now. All Tier 2, their sergeants Tier 3. Armed and armored in our fashion—steel and discipline both."

Another elder added, "A further two hundred will arrive within four days. Drilled, not green, but not yet hardened by the field. If we wait, our numbers will double."

Marrowen's fingers curled faintly on the carved arm of her chair. "And cavalry?"

Her son shifted uneasily. "Two wings, fifty riders each. Well-blooded, but cavalry will not serve us well in the forest. At best, they can harry supply lines or guard the flanks if the enemy seeks to flee into the plains."

A third elder spread his ledger open, voice flat. "Food for a month's march. Longer if stretched, though morale will fray. Steel and bolts enough to outfit the retainers twice over."

The numbers lay heavy on the air. Two hundred now, two hundred more within days. Cavalry ill-suited to the terrain. Supplies enough, but not endless.

Another voice rose, deeper, carrying the weight of bloodline authority. "And from the family: fifty-three Sentinels of our line. Tier 3 Knights, each tested, each sworn. Fourteen Barons as well—Tier 4, all kin. The family below Tier 3 will remain here, to preserve the house. And the elders will hold their seats, as is tradition."

Marrowen's gaze swept the chamber, the firelight catching in her eyes. Retainers and kin alike bowed their heads as the count settled into silence: two hundred retainers now, more to come, fifty-three Sentinels, fourteen Barons.

She let the weight of it linger before she spoke. "Then that is what we march with. Strength of steel, strength of blood. The Calamity will see not hesitation, but the full measure of our house."

A younger elder with sharp features leaned forward, voice clipped. "And what of support from the city? We have called in favors. Many of the noble houses owe us for decades of protection and coin."

Another elder, older and wearier, gave a small nod. "The House of Cindral has pledged a levy of two hundred spears. House Velth will send fifty crossbows and the wagons to carry them. Others offer coin or supplies. They will not march their blood into the forest, but their debts are binding."

Murmurs stirred around the table.

Marrowen raised her hand, silencing them. "As expected. The nobles will pay their due, but not with their own flesh. They will give steel, food, and silver, and leave the fighting to us. That is well. Better they keep their grip on the city, for we may yet need its walls. Our family will carry the blade. The city will feed it. Use what coin we have to hire a couple more diviners and people that can scout from afar. We will need it when we march."

Marrowen's fingers tapped once on the carved arm of her chair, the only sound in the chamber until she spoke.

"Then our strength stands thus: two hundred retainers ready to march now, another two hundred in four days. Two wings of cavalry, fifty riders each, Fifty-three Sentinels of our line—Tier 3 Knights, each hardened—and fourteen Barons of Tier 4. From the city, we draw food for another month, steel enough to arm us twice over, coin, and the levies of lesser houses. And none of the real combat power of the Nobles."

Her gaze swept the chamber, cold and final. "This is what we march with. Enough to remind the Calamity that we are Bloodnight."

The council murmured agreement, the weight of the tally filling the room like the toll of a bell.

Then her son cleared his throat, his voice lower than before. "Mother… there are whispers in the city. Troubling ones. That some nobles do not merely send us supplies—but also send them to the Calamity. Food, medicine, even scouts, warriors. They say he walks with freed slaves, and that some among the houses look kindly on it. That the more of us he kills the better."

The chamber stilled. The elders shifted in their seats, the brazier smoke curling heavier in the silence that followed.

Marrowen's gaze narrowed, her nails biting into the armrest.

Marrowen did not flare with anger. She did not raise her voice. Instead, her eyes half-lidded, her fingers drumming once, twice against the carved armrest.

"Then tally them," she said. "Name the houses whispered of."

Her son hesitated, but under her gaze he obeyed. "House Cindral, though their aid came quickly and without hesitation. House Velth, quieter but less clean in their loyalties. The lesser lords of Gharas and Teyne are also named. Old blood, weak coffers, they may see in the Calamity a chance to shift the order."

A ripple of disgust ran through the elders. One spat into the brazier. Another muttered of betrayal.

Marrowen silenced them with a glance. "No. Not betrayal. Hunger. These families have lived too long beneath our shade. They wish to test whether the Calamity is stronger than their own leash."

Her lips curved faintly, not in humor but in a predator's calm. "Good. It means when the Calamity burns, we will know which nobles are weak enough to cut free. Their debts will not be forgotten. Their children will remember who holds their leash."

The elders bowed their heads, chastened.

Marrowen leaned back in her chair, eyes gleaming in the smoke. "Mark them. Watch their movements. Let them feed the Calamity. Every loaf, every arrow they gift will only be taken back from his corpse when we grind him into ash."

Marrowen let the murmurs of the council fade into silence. The smoke curled upward, the firelight casting long shadows across the chamber. She rose from her chair, her presence alone stilling every tongue.

"Enough," she said. "The city whispers, the nobles fumble with their debts, and the Calamity gathers freedmen and beasts. Let them. All of it will be settled in the field."

Her gaze swept the elders one by one, steady and cold. "Prepare the banners. Ready the retainers, the Sentinels, the Barons. We march in two hours. The forest waits for no one, and neither do I."

The scrape of chairs and rustle of robes filled the chamber as the council rose together. Elders bowed their heads, family knights pressed hands to hearts, and even her son bent low beneath her stare.

Marrowen's voice followed them as they filed out, a whisper that curled like steel in the smoke. "Caution in the step. Boldness in the blade. For the Bloodnight.

The tower creaked as they climbed, the fresh timbers still settling into their weight. The soldiers below were finishing their meal, voices carrying up through the dusk. It was a reinforced tower with stairs going up from the bottom. Half up the stairs are shielded by think plank walls around the outside of the tower. It was less a watchtower and more a war tower standing in the center of the fort a full 25m above the walls.

Kelan led the way, his heavy steps making the beams creak. He ran a hand along the railing, eyes sharp as he studied the new frame. "Sturdy," he admitted, "but we can do better. If we knew the craft, we could mount siege weapons here—ballistae, maybe even a catapult. High ground wasted without teeth."

Lira followed close behind Harold, her hand brushing his arm once as he slowed on the steps. Her eyes flicked over his face, pale in the lamplight. "You shouldn't be climbing yet," she said quietly. "You still look hollow."

Harold managed a thin smile. "Better hollow and upright than flat on my back."

Jerric was already halfway up, parchment tucked under his arm, pointing at joints and beams like he'd built the tower himself. His voice carried down, excited, "We could add another platform here—oh, and maybe a pulley lift, so we don't have to haul supplies up by hand!"

By the time they reached the top, twilight had deepened into shadow. A table waited near the railing, solid and simple, the map of the region already spread across it. Kelan had seen to that—Harold could tell by the stone weights holding the corners down, rough chunks taken from the ground.

Harold sank into the chair with a sigh, resting his hands on the edge of the table. The view stretched far into the treeline, and for the first time that day he felt a little less like he was bracing against the storm.

"It's been awhile," he said, his voice carrying low but steady. "We've been so busy fighting, building, surviving—we haven't taken a real count. Let's see what strength we've gathered."

Kelan leaned forward, planting both fists on the table, while Lira folded her arms, watching Harold as though every word carried more weight than the map itself. Jerric unrolled his parchment beside the map, already scribbling numbers.

For a moment, the four of them stood together at the tower's peak, early evening settling over the fort, ready to reckon with what they truly had.

Harold leaned over the table, his fingers brushing the map's edges. "Alright. Let's put it plain. What do we actually have for the fight ahead?"

Kelan grunted in agreement, folding his arms. Jerric leaned in eagerly, charcoal already smudging the corners of the parchment. Lira stayed back a pace, her eyes never leaving Harold.

Harold started with the core. "One understrength platoon. Daran's soldiers—blooded, disciplined, more dangerous now than they were a week ago. Mostly tier 3 and most of them knights after my show yesterday. We'll call that 25 people. Lira, how are the injuries there? I know we took alot but between you and Rysa they should be mostly good now right?"

He tapped the map, his voice steady, though quieter than usual. "We've got the axe brothers—fools, but Barons now. That axe dao with their class is something. They're a terror in close combat. Daran too, high Baran, sharper than he's been in decades. Add Auren and Ferin—both Tier 3, but they punch above it. Ferin's close to the next step and evolving his dao, I believe."

He shifted his hand to the next mark. "Wolves. Hal's pack—fifty strong now, maybe more. Hal has been out recruiting and shepherding some of the beasts in the area for my own purpose."

Kelan gave a small nod at that, as if it needed no argument.

Harold continued. "Branded. You three. Kelan—you're a Tier 3 Knight now, but you stood against a Tier 4 Baron. What's your new class, and what can you do?"

Kelan set both hands on the table, his voice slow and heavy. "My class shifted. I was a Stonewright Bastion. Now I'm a Bastion Forger. I get bonuses when building with mana and using the materials of whatever ground I've claimed. Here in this fort, I probably cut the mana cost in half, maybe more. And I can build quicker—my Dao integrates into the class more cleanly. The best part is a skill that lets me saturate materials with mana to increase their density, make them tougher. It's what I've been doing all day on the walls. No new attack skills, but my stats climb faster as long as I fight on ground I've claimed as my bastion. That part only came once I evolved the skill."

He paused, then added, almost grudgingly, "It feels right. Not just to fight—but to hold what we build, and make it last."

Harold nodded once, then shifted his gaze. "Lira. Same question."

Lira leaned back against the railing, pale eyes catching the lamplight. "Mine was subtler. The system offered me what I already walk—the edge of life and death. My new class is Gravecaller." Her voice didn't tremble, though Harold noticed the tension in her hands. "I can heal as before, but deeper. I can pour life mana into wounds that should not close and give back breath to lungs that have already gone still. When I fuse life into my healing, the results are wondrous. But it uses the body's own resources. Like a meal—if the body is weak or starving, there's only so much I can do."

Her eyes darkened, steady as stone. "And when death takes hold… I can call it back. Raise the fallen to fight again. They aren't alive, not truly, but they obey until the mana burns out of them. I gained new skills to strengthen the undead and sharpen my healing tools. What nearly broke me yesterday wouldn't cost as much now. It's a bitter gift, but in a siege, it may save us."

For a moment, the only sound was the distant howl of wolves rolling from the tree line. Then she looked directly at Harold. "It frightens me. But I'll use it, if I must."

Harold let that hang a moment before glancing at Jerric. His mouth twitched. "…and then there's Jerric. High Knight with a dungeon at his back, kobolds at his call, and more energy than sense. Tell me what you can do now."

Jerric grinned, unashamed, practically bouncing as he slapped a parchment onto the table. "Finally! Tier Two! Dungeon Guide! That run to drop my samples was the last condition. Now the system recognizes me fully. My class doesn't work like yours—I don't pick new ones at each tier. I just get more skills in the trade."

The words spilled out in a rush. "I can alter parts of my bonded dungeon now. Create temporary trial spaces—small, short-lived, but enough to test things without burning real resources. I can summon more kobolds at once, and they drain less mana. And I can sniff out dungeons, trace their residue. Then there's this—" he shook the parchment, grinning wider, "—a bounty list from the dungeon itself. He puts things on here he wants me to find or recover. If I bring them back, I get rewards—items, skills, even stat points. My top summons now are Tier 4 Mid Barons, and thanks to the upgrades, I can maintain two of them at once aaand I think you will like some of the creatures my dungeon has that I can summon."

Harold raised a brow, but his tone stayed even. "Useful. As long as you keep yourself alive long enough to use it."

Jerric just smirked, unbothered.

Harold's hand shifted to the far side of the map. "Another nine of your freed slaves are in various classes and dao but they will make a good reserve."

"Rysa and her brews are a force multiplier."

He sat back in the chair, letting the tally settle. Harold rubbed the beard he had growing in…I dont think this will be enough. I had intended to bleed them some more.

Silence stretched as dusk deepened, the wolves' howls faint in the distance. Harold's gaze swept across the three of them, then down at the map again.

"This is what we fight with."

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