M'lod's ruins stood silent beneath the grey morning sky—not the peaceful silence of abandonment, but the watchful quiet of occupation. The village that had once housed three hundred forty souls, where children played in dusty streets and farmers argued over irrigation rights, now served as Vel'koda'mir's forward staging depot for their southern territorial holdings.
The earthen walls that had failed to stop the Central Army's assault had been reinforced with proper military engineering—timber palisades, watchtowers at regular intervals, overlapping fields of fire. The communal square where Chief Shy'yao once held council now functioned as a logistics hub, soldiers moving crates of supplies and weapons with practiced efficiency.
Inside what had been Torran's forge, a Vel'koda'mir quartermaster reviewed inventory sheets by lamp
light, the familiar anvil and bellows converted to storage racks. Lyria's former dwelling served as officer quarters. The temple where Misaki had learned to meditate was now an armory.
The soldiers occupying M'lod's corpse wore the crimson and black of Vel'koda'mir's Expeditionary Forces—professional troops who'd spent the past year methodically consuming Ul'varh'mir's southern territories like a slow-moving avalanche of steel and tactical competence. They worked without celebration or cruelty, simply doing what conquerors do: transforming enemy infrastructure into their own strategic assets.
A mounted messenger arrived as the sun cleared the eastern treeline, his horse lathered from hard riding. The duty officer accepted the dispatch with professional courtesy, read it quickly, and sent runners to wake the garrison commander.
Major Kral'then emerged from his quarters—formerly Chief Shy'yao's dwelling—and read the message with the expression of someone receiving expected but unwelcome news.
TERRITORIAL UPDATE - CLASSIFIED
Northwestern territories secured. Ul'varh'mir resistance collapsed following the Fall of Kal'then'var. Elvish forces hold everything north of the Vyr'qa River per treaty agreement.
Velkyn remains isolated. King's loyalists controlling only the capital and immediate environs. Estimate two months before final capitulation.
All southern commanders: maintain occupation. Prepare for redeployment once capital situation resolves.
Kral'then folded the message and fed it to the forge fire—still functional despite its new purpose. In one year, Vel'koda'mir had consumed what Ul'varh'mir's nobles had spent centuries building. The kingdom that had once treated frontier villages as expendable resources was now reduced to a single city awaiting inevitable surrender.
There was no satisfaction in the victory. Just the grim mathematics of superior strategy meeting inferior leadership.
"Sir," his aide appeared at the doorway. "The patrol reports movement on the northern approaches. Three individuals, civilian clothes, moving carefully. Ul'varh'mir military bearing despite disguises."
"Deserters or refugees?"
"Given their tactical awareness? Likely officers seeking asylum elsewhere."
Kral'then considered. Vel'koda'mir policy was clear: civilians were processed for integration, soldiers were detained for intelligence value, officers were executed as enemy combatants. But three officers fleeing a collapsing kingdom posed no tactical threat and might provide useful intelligence if they survived to reach wherever they were going.
"Let them pass," he ordered. "We're conquerors, not executioners. If Ul'varh'mir's leadership is abandoning ship, that accelerates our timeline anyway."
The aide saluted and departed. Kral'then returned to his morning reports, managing an occupation that had become almost mundane in its efficiency.
Two thousand three hundred kilometers northeast, in the crystalline council chamber of Lyn'tara'vel, the High Elvish war council assembled for what had become a weekly strategic assessment. The room's living crystal walls pulsed with soft bioluminescence—architecture grown rather than built, responding to the mana flows of those who occupied it.
High Queen Lyse'andra Vel'synthara stood at the circular table's center, her eight-hundred-year-old face showing the particular weariness that came from managing complex geopolitics with allies you couldn't fully trust.
"Vel'koda'mir has exceeded territorial projections," General Kal'tharos reported, his tactical maps showing the military republic's expansion in stark red. "They've secured eighty-seven percent of Ul'varh'mir's former territory in twelve months. The rate of acquisition suggests planning that began years before our own intervention."
"They were always going to invade," Archmage Vel'sindra observed from her position at the table's eastern point. Her thousand-year expertise in magical theory made her the council's authority on arcane matters. "The purge provided justification, but Vel'koda'mir's territorial ambitions predate Ashtherion'vaur's genocide by decades."
"The treaty holds?" the queen asked.
"For now. The Vyr'qa River demarcation gives us the northern territories we claimed. Vel'koda'mir controls everything south and west. Both nations agreed to leave Velkyn for last—neither wants the diplomatic complication of being seen as capital conquerors." Kal'tharos gestured to the map. "But the treaty is convenience, not alliance. We're circling the corpse of Ul'varh'mir like rival predators agreeing not to fight until after the meal."
"Eloquent and accurate." The queen's tone was dry. "What concerns me more is their use of dungeon artifacts. The intelligence reports are... troubling."
Vel'sindra nodded gravely. "We've detected massive magical drain from seventeen major dungeon sites across former Ul'varh'mir territory. Someone is manipulating the seasonal barriers—not breaking them, but extending them. Forcing dungeons to remain open past their natural cycle."
"Purpose?" another council member asked.
"Unknown. Dungeons staying open longer means more resource extraction, certainly. But the amount of magical power required to extend barrier systems..." The archmage pulled out crystalline calculation tools. "We're talking about artifacts of Predecessor origin. Multiple artifacts, working in concert, powered by mana sources that shouldn't exist in the current age."
"Vel'koda'mir is collecting Predecessor technology," Kal'tharos concluded. "Not for historical study. For active military application."
The implications settled across the council chamber like frost. Vel'koda'mir's expansion wasn't just territorial conquest—it was systematic acquisition of ancient magical infrastructure that the modern kingdoms barely understood.
"They're preparing for something," the queen said quietly. "This level of resource investment, this aggressive expansion pattern... they're not securing territory for its own sake. They're positioning for a larger objective."
"What objective?" another council member asked.
"That," Lyse'andra replied, "is what troubles me most. We don't know."
She stood, her movement causing the crystal walls to pulse brighter. "The treaty with Vel'koda'mir holds for now because neither nation wants premature confrontation. But we are not allies. We are rivals who've agreed to temporary cooperation while consuming mutual prey." Her violet eyes moved across each council member. "Maintain surveillance on their dungeon operations. Document every artifact acquisition. And prepare contingencies for when our convenience alliance becomes inconvenient."
The council dismissed with formal precision, each member returning to their respective domains. But the unspoken understanding remained: Xyi'vana'mir and Vel'koda'mir had signed a treaty to avoid war.
They had not signed it to maintain peace.
Three thousand kilometers southwest, Misaki walked through Stone's End's terraced levels with Sera chattering beside him and Kyn babbling contentedly from the sling across his chest. The one-year-old had developed strong opinions about being carried—specifically, he wanted to grab everything within arm's reach while providing enthusiastic commentary that sounded like language but definitely wasn't.
"Ba-ga-ma-sha!" Kyn declared, pointing at a merchant's vegetable stall.
"That's right," Misaki agreed, though he had no idea what the toddler was trying to communicate. "Very impressive observation."
"He's saying he wants radishes," Sera translated with absolute confidence. "See how he's pointing at the purple ones? That's his radish noise."
"His radish noise," Misaki repeated.
"Every vegetable has a different noise. Feya and I have been teaching him." Sera skipped ahead, her tool kit bouncing against her hip—she carried it everywhere now, the way some children carried favorite toys. "Radishes are 'ba-ga-ma-sha.' Turnips are 'go-go-tu.' Potatoes are just 'ta' because they're simple."
Misaki decided not to question the linguistic logic of a one-year-old's vegetable classification system.
They arrived at the communal kitchens during the mid-morning lull, the massive space quiet between breakfast service and lunch preparation. The industrial cooking infrastructure still impressed Misaki—stone hearths large enough to roast whole animals, cauldrons that could hold fifty liters of stew, water systems that delivered hot and cold through mythril pipe networks.
Millia worked at one of the prep stations, her experienced hands dicing mountain root with the kind of casual precision that came from decades of professional cooking. The thirty-something farm manager had transitioned into Stone's End's head chef with the same efficiency she'd brought to M'lod's agricultural operations.
"Haruto," she greeted without looking up from her work. Her knife never paused, each cut perfectly uniform. "Brought the children for sampling duty?"
"Brought them for lunch, actually. And to ask about something." Misaki settled Kyn into one of the available high chairs—the kitchens kept several for staff who worked with young children. "I've been thinking about vegetables."
"Dangerous habit for an engineer."
"Specifically, about starting a small communal garden. Nothing large—maybe twenty square meters. Growing mountain vegetables for the refugee quarters."
Now Millia looked up, her knife finally pausing. "You want to farm? You? The man who barely knew which end of a shovel was functional when you first arrived in M'lod?"
"I've learned a few things since then." Misaki pulled out a rough sketch showing his proposed garden layout. "Stone's End imports most of its produce from lower elevation settlements. That's expensive and supply-limited. But I researched which vegetables can actually grow at this altitude, and there are options."
Millia set down her knife and examined his notes with the focused attention she gave anything related to food production. "Sha'rell mountain greens. Tra'űlth root vegetables. Frost-hardy herbs. You've actually done proper research."
"The idea came from watching our food budget. Kyn eats constantly, Sera's growing, and imported vegetables cost three times what local would." He gestured at his calculations. "A twenty-square-meter plot could produce enough supplemental vegetables for maybe forty people if managed efficiently. Not replacing imports, but reducing dependency."
"The soil here is terrible," Millia observed, though her tone suggested professional interest rather than dismissal. "Mountain granite breaks down slowly. You'd need to build raised beds, import soil from lower elevations, establish drainage systems—"
"I'm an engineer who's been building fortifications for a year. Raised beds are structurally simple compared to twenty-meter walls." Misaki pulled out more detailed sketches. "And I have access to construction materials. The fortification project generates excess stone that's wrong size for walls but perfect for garden beds."
Millia studied his plans for a long minute. "You're serious about this."
"Completely serious."
"Then I'll help. Not because I think you'll succeed without guidance—you won't—but because communal food production is always worth attempting." She returned to her dicing, but her knife moved slower now, her mind clearly working through logistics. "You'll need mountain soil, proper drainage rock, cold-resistant seedlings. I can source those from my agricultural contacts. You provide the engineering and labor."
"Deal."
Sera had been listening with the focused intensity of a child learning something new. "Can I help? I'm good at organizing things! I could arrange the tools, measure the beds, maybe plant seeds—"
"You can absolutely help," Millia said. "Every good farm needs apprentices. Start learning now, and by the time you're my age, you'll know which plants grow where and why."
The eight-year-old beamed with the particular joy of being given adult responsibilities.
They ate lunch in the kitchens—simple fare of mountain bread, preserved meat, and the hardy root vegetables that formed staple cuisine at this elevation. Kyn managed to get food in his hair, on his clothes, and possibly inside his ear through toddler magic that defied physical laws.
Afterward, Misaki walked to the metalworking district with Sera chattering about garden plans and Kyn babbling contentedly in his post-meal haze. The forges here operated continuously—Stone's End's mining operations required constant tool maintenance, replacement equipment, structural supports.
Torran's workspace occupied a corner of the municipal smithy, his one hundred sixty years of experience granting him the privilege of semi-independent operations within the government facility. The old blacksmith looked up from sharpening a mining pick when Misaki entered, his weathered face showing surprised pleasure.
"Earth human. Haven't seen you in the forges for months. Finally realized engineering and metalwork overlap?"
"Something like that." Misaki pulled out carefully prepared technical drawings. "I want to commission a weapon. Custom design. Not standard Vulcan specifications."
Torran set down his pick and examined the sketches with the focused attention of someone who'd spent a lifetime translating ideas into metal reality. His expression shifted from curiosity to fascination to something approaching excitement.
"This is... what is this?" He traced the curved blade design with one calloused finger. "It's sword-like, but the geometry is wrong for any combat doctrine I recognize. Single edge, moderate curve, roughly seventy centimeters long. But look at this cross-section—you've specified thickness that's almost double standard blade design."
"It's based on a weapon from my world called a katana," Misaki explained. "But not exactly. Earth's traditional katanas were designed for a specific combat philosophy using differential hardening techniques and relatively thin blades. They were effective for their context but had limitations."
He pointed to the modified specifications. "I'm taking the basic form—single edge, moderate curve, two-handed grip—but adapting it for Vulcan combat reality. Thicker blade for durability. Wider fuller for weight reduction without compromising strength. Shorter length because I'm five-nine, not six-five like most Vulcan warriors."
"Why curved at all?" Torran asked. "Straight blades are simpler to forge and maintain."
"Because curved blades change how cuts interact with targets. The curve creates a draw-cutting motion even on direct strikes—the blade doesn't just impact, it slides along the edge as it cuts. More efficient energy transfer for someone who doesn't have overwhelming strength."
Torran was nodding slowly, his engineer's mind clearly appreciating the logic. "Speed and precision over brute force. That fits your combat style." He examined the metallurgical specifications. "You want this forged from mythril alloy instead of pure iron."
"Mythril-steel composite. Mythril edge for hardness and chakra conduction, steel core for flexibility and impact resistance. Can you work with those materials?"
"Can I—" Torran laughed, the sound carrying genuine delight. "Boy, I've been forging mythril composites since before your grandparents were born. The question isn't whether I can do it, it's whether you can afford it. Mythril costs twenty copper per hundred grams. This blade will need at least eight hundred grams."
Misaki did the math quickly. "One hundred sixty copper for materials. Plus your labor and forge fees?"
"Standard custom work runs forty copper base plus materials. But this—" Torran gestured at the drawings, "—this is art disguised as weaponry. I'd do it for thirty copper and the satisfaction of creating something new."
"One silver ninety copper total?" At Torran's nod, Misaki pulled out his coin pouch. The weight had decreased significantly over the year—fifty gold reduced to roughly twenty through living expenses, sibling care, tool purchases, and various necessities. But one silver ninety copper was manageable.
He counted out the payment. Torran accepted it with professional courtesy, then pulled out his planning materials.
"This will take a week. Maybe ten days if the mythril requires special preparation." The old blacksmith was already sketching forge process notes. "The curve will need precise heat treatment. The fuller requires grinding precision. The edge geometry is unforgiving. This is master-level work."
"That's why I came to you."
"Flattery accepted." Torran looked up from his notes. "I assume you want the blade optimized for your specific fighting style? I'll need to watch you train, understand your movement patterns, verify balance points."
"I train with Riyeak most mornings in the mining district."
"Then I'll visit tomorrow. Bring your current blade—I want to see what you've been working with." Torran returned to the weapon sketches, his expression showing the focused excitement of a craftsman presented with genuinely novel challenge. "Go. Let me work. Come back in ten days for the finished piece."
Misaki left the forge with Sera asking detailed questions about sword metallurgy that he only partially understood how to answer, and Kyn attempting to eat his own foot with single-minded toddler determination.
Ten days later, Misaki returned to find Torran waiting with a wrapped bundle and the satisfied expression of someone who'd solved a difficult technical problem.
"Before I show you," the blacksmith said, "understand something. This weapon is unlike anything Vulcan has seen. I had to develop new forging techniques for the mythril-steel lamination. The curve required heat treatment cycles I'd never attempted. The balance point calculations were fascinating and frustrating in equal measure."
He unwrapped the blade with careful reverence.
The weapon gleamed in the forge light—seventy centimeters of curved steel with mythril edge, the fuller running two-thirds of the blade's length creating distinctive geometry. The guard was simple but elegant: oval shape, slightly curved to match the blade's geometry. The grip was wrapped in leather in a diamond pattern that provided secure hold without excessive bulk.
The entire weapon weighed perhaps two kilograms—light enough for extended use, heavy enough to deliver real impact.
"It's beautiful," Misaki breathed, accepting the blade. The balance was perfect—the weight distributed exactly where his hand naturally wanted to find center.
"It's functional," Torran corrected, though he clearly appreciated the compliment. "The mythril edge will hold sharpness longer than pure steel and conducts chakra efficiently. The steel core prevents brittleness while maintaining flexibility for parrying. The curve does exactly what you described—creates draw-cutting motion on impact."
He gestured toward the training yard behind the forge. "Show me."
Misaki moved through his practice forms with the new blade, and immediately felt the difference. The weapon responded to his movements with fluid precision that his scout's blade had never achieved. Cuts that required force with straight blade geometry became effortless with the curve. The modified length meant no wasted motion adjusting for reach. The weight distribution let him transition between techniques faster than he'd thought possible.
"Faster," Torran observed, watching with professional assessment. "Maybe fifteen percent faster than with your old blade. That's significant in actual combat—the difference between connecting and missing, between blocking and taking hits."
Misaki ran through another sequence, this time incorporating heat manipulation—his Manipura chakra channeling through the mythril edge. The blade responded beautifully, conducting thermal energy along its length without the resistance he'd experienced with pure steel weapons.
"This is exactly what I needed," he said, completing a final overhead cut. "It's not trying to be a Vulcan straight sword or an Earth katana. It's optimized for my specific requirements."
"That's what custom work means." Torran accepted the blade back for a final inspection, checking edge alignment and handle security. "In Vulcan combat doctrine, weapons are just tools to shape chakra and mana attacks. Most warriors focus on developing their spiritual energy and treat swords as simple focuses. But you—" he handed the weapon back, "—you're thinking like an engineer. Making the tool itself do more work so your technique can accomplish more with less energy input."
"Is that wrong?"
"It's different. And difference is often where innovation lives." The old blacksmith gestured back toward the training yard. "Practice with it daily. The blade needs to become extension of your arm, not just tool in your hand. Then it'll perform like I designed it to."
Misaki bowed—the formal Earth gesture that Torran had learned meant gratitude and respect. "Thank you. Truly."
Walking back to the communal quarters with his new weapon secured across his back, Sera examining every detail of the guard and grip, Kyn cheerfully destroying a piece of bread, Misaki thought about the year that had passed since arriving in Stone's End.
The fortifications were halfway complete. His siblings were growing, learning, becoming real people rather than just trauma survivors. The refugee community had transformed from desperate evacuees into functioning members of Stone's End's society.
And somewhere twelve kilometers away, Vel'koda'mir continued their deception, making Seleun'mhir prepare for threats that might never materialize while the real danger remained invisible.
The curved blade pressed against his back felt like promise and warning combined. Tools could be optimized. Techniques could be refined. Engineers could solve problems through intelligent design.
But some threats required more than clever solutions.
Some threats required being ready to fight.