The gates creaked open just before dusk.
Ethan felt the tension in the air shift as the first raiding parties filed back through—armor scuffed, boots heavy with mud and blood.
Marcus led them, shoulders broader than before, nearly brushing the gateposts as he ducked inside. Behind him, two Titan Blood fighters dragged a sack that clinked with the weight of claws and bone. Darren's group followed—thinner, quieter, but carrying their own haul: teeth, scraps of hide, and mutant cores glowing faintly in glass jars.
The hall buzzed as they entered. Survivors crowded closer, eager and afraid in equal measure.
Marcus clapped Ethan on the shoulder. "Seven kills. No losses. Just bruises." His smirk was grim but real. "The big bastards hit hard, but they fall harder when you stand together."
Darren dropped his bundle with a grunt. "Four more on our end. And we found them."
Ethan frowned. "Found who?"
Two gaunt figures stepped forward—a man and woman, thin but alive, clinging to one another as if air itself might tear them apart. A small child peered from behind them, eyes too wide for his face.
Whispers rippled through the hall. New survivors meant more mouths, but also more hands.
Ellie moved first, voice low and calm as she offered water. The tension eased, if only a little.
Keith rapped his staff once on the floor. "Empty your bags."
The fighters obeyed, spilling spoils across the long table: claws, fangs, shards of bone, pelts still damp, and cores pulsing like captured embers. The air hummed when essence touched the wood.
Then the light changed.
Golden script shimmered into existence above the table, hanging in the air for all to see.
> Stronghold Funds Updated
Total Currency: 1,275
A ripple of shock moved through the hall.
Ethan's gut tightened. So this is how they'll measure us now.
More lines formed beneath the first.
> Congratulations, mortals.
Your fortress has survived another day.
As reward, new functions are unlocked:
Construction – Build and upgrade your stronghold using accumulated currency.
Tasks – Complete designated challenges for additional currency.
Broadcasts – Transmit a beacon to draw survivors to your stronghold.
Warning: broadcasts may also draw predators.
New text blazed below, clear and cold.
> Deliver 20 mutant cores → +50 currency
Hunt 10 mutants → +25 currency
Construct 1 residence → +100 currency
Increase stronghold population to 100 → +500 currency
to 250 → +1,000 currency
to 500 → +2,500 currency
to 1,000 → +5,000 currency
Warning: Population attracts attention. The greater your numbers, the stronger the forces sent to break you.
Silence dropped like a weight.
Ravi's voice cracked first. "So the gods don't just want us alive—they want us clustered."
Keith's face was grim. "And nothing draws predators like a herd."
Marcus crossed his arms, eyes on the fading gold. "Then we use it. Walls first. If this is coin, we buy stone before the next wave."
Ellie snapped back, "And let people sleep in the mud? We need roofs. If we're bringing more in, they'll die of sickness before claws reach them."
Keith slammed his staff down, the sound cutting through argument. "Water and food. The croc guards the river, but we need cisterns, wells, storage. Starvation kills quicker than claws."
Voices flared again, fear turned to noise.
Ethan listened, eyes tracing the last line still glowing above them. It's not survival anymore—it's construction. A game, by rules we never agreed to.
At last Ravi raised his voice. "Enough! We can't build everything at once. Walls keep us alive, houses keep us human, water keeps us standing. So—walls, two residences, one cistern. The rest we earn."
The shouting ebbed. Nods followed—uneasy, but real. A compromise was still progress.
The script pulsed once, as if approving the plan, then faded—leaving only firelight and the sound of breathing.
---
The Fissure
Later, after the noise had died and jobs were handed out, Ethan stepped outside for air.
Mist clung to the ruins beyond the walls. The forest loomed dark and wet.
He leaned against the gatepost and closed his eyes—until a faint click-click-click reached his ears.
Not far from the gate, half a dozen ants—smaller than Aria's, mouse-sized but moving in perfect rhythm—scuttled across the stones. Each carried something: bark, bone, bloody meat. All headed the same way.
Ethan followed their line with his gaze.
Beyond the gate, just past the treeline, a narrow fissure gaped in the rock. The ants vanished inside one by one, never slowing, never turning.
He took a step toward it.
"Something wrong?" Ellie's voice came from behind him, quiet as ever.
He pointed. "Look."
She squinted. "Big bugs. Great. As if we don't have enough problems."
But Ethan didn't answer. His stomach tightened as the last ant disappeared into the dark.
Pests don't march like soldiers, he thought. And they don't build tunnels without reason.
The mist thickened, hiding the fissure and the faint glimmer of mandibles. Ethan stayed there long after Ellie went back inside, watching the place where the ants had gone—
and wondering what they were building beneath his feet.