The week passed quickly. Too quickly, if Harold was being honest.
Progress was steady, near-constant. The kind of progress that should've felt like a victory. But with every new milestone crossed, the same quiet worry began to build in the back of Harold's mind. They were close—painfully close—to the threshold for promotion to a town. But it hadn't come. And that absence sat heavy in his gut, like a missing sound in a rhythm he couldn't shake.
The army had begun systematically clearing the woods around the Landing, pushing out to the 20k radius Harold had ordered. Hale had divided his Centuries patrolling in opposite directions. Each with a squad from the new scout formations.They found a few smaller dens—nothing too threatening—and dispatched them with only injuries. The adventurers played a big part in that. There were some reports of a couple different monsters that could be seen from the mountains. Hale gave the initiative a green mark in his reports, but Harold kept flipping the slate back over, staring at it. At the end of the week Hale was preparing to march the army south to clear the dens around the planned village site near the south river.
Sarah and her team joined the efforts midweek, along with several adventuring teams eager for the experience. It was good work—real contribution that didn't rely on dungeon diving or elite missions. Sarah found herself working alongside Hale often, and during a midday break, he sat beside her near the remains of a campfire.
Jace was talking to Sarah and Sarah was complaining that she thought Harold was being too conservative with the adventurers.
"You're sharp," Hale said simply. "Let me ask you something. What happens when adventurers start dying for real?"
Sarah blinked. "That's dark."
He waited.
She glanced at the others, then back at him. "I mean… eventually some kids here will grow up and become adventurers."
"Will they compare?" Hale asked. "To you? To Vera? To the ones who've been here from the beginning?"
Sarah didn't answer immediately. She looked down at her boots.
Hale watched her a moment longer, then added, "You all have been doing this longer. You have perks. You get stronger just by surviving. Give you ten years… you'll be monsters. If you're still alive."
"I think he's buying time," Hale said. "For you. For all of you. So when the real war comes, you're not fresh recruits. You're powerhouses. Each of you has the potential to be very powerful, you're each option in his toolbelt that us Soldiers can't be. In a straight fight one of our Knights has a good chance to beat you. But you don't fight straight fights. And that's what he needs. "
Sarah didn't argue. Not this time.
On the second day, the totem filled with mana.
Harold had felt it the moment it hit full charge. Like a vibration in his bones—barely there, but unmistakable. He wasted no time. Vera and her team were called to the Lord's Hall that evening.
They were all equipped with the best equipment the Landing could make.
Harold didn't even know the Landing had a fletcher but Hale snapped him up and set up a workshop for him in his fort.
Vera led them, calm and alert. Javelin slung over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked around the hall with practiced focus.
Behind her came Lyn, her bow already strung and slung low, fingers brushing the feathered fletching of her arrows. Her face still looked like stone. Dorrin, broader than the others, carried a kobold bow that looked to have been modified somehow. He also carried some kind of two handed weapon that he must have gotten from one of the goblin berserkers. Maggs, nimble and sharp-eyed, carried twin quivers and two backup knives — just in case. And Tresh, the quietest of them all, moved like a shadow, his bowstrung tight and his expression unreadable.
Harold met them at the main doors with Mark and Evan trailing behind. No formalities today. Just a short nod.
"This way."
He led them through the back corridors, past sleeping coals and muted voices, to the quiet office tucked behind the Lords Hall. A low fire flickered in the hearth, but all eyes were on the desk — and the totem resting on it.
The carved hobgoblin figure glowed faintly now, like it was breathing in time with the quiet of the room.
Harold stepped behind the desk and looked at each of them.
"This is it," he said. "You're about to do something few ever will."
Vera stepped forward slightly. "You said it's a quest?"
Harold nodded. "Not just a quest. A Totem Questline. Its unique, rare and you only get these from dungeon totems — and the drop rate is maybe one in a thousand runs."
Tresh gave a low whistle.
"Only a Lord can activate one," Harold continued. "Once it's ready — and this one is — it creates an instanced quest. Bound to our territory. Up to five adventurers can go in. There's no reinforcements for you. You'll only have yourselves to rely on. What's inside is shaped by the dungeon it came from."
He nodded to the totem.
"This one came from the goblin dungeon. So expect goblins — stronger, smarter, maybe even magical ones. There'll be a story, mechanics, and challenges. It's not just go kill everything you see."
Lyn raised an eyebrow. "And the reward?"
"If you finish it," Harold said, "you'll each get to choose a perk. From a list of all the possible perks that could come from the dungeon. Including the ones from the dungeon boss."
Maggs grinned. "Sounds like home turf."
"And when you complete it," Harold added, "I will be notified and I will be able to advance the dungeon. Add another level, a special boss. I think it'll give me options but I'm not sure either."
Dorrin flexed his fingers. "And what if we fail?"
Harold didn't smile.
"Then we don't get another shot. Not with this totem. These things are that rare. You will have the option of forgoing respawn protection when you enter for double the rewards. I'll leave that option to you. "
He looked around at each of them, meeting their eyes one by one.
"This is a big risk. No one will think less of you if you back out."
Vera didn't hesitate. "We're in."
Tresh nodded silently.
Lyn smirked. "We're not the ones who fail."
Maggs just rolled her shoulders. "Been waiting for something like this."
Harold reached forward and placed his hand on the totem.
"It'll begin the moment I activate it. You'll be pulled into the instance. Good luck, and thank you."
He pushed mana into the totem.
It glowed. Slowly at first, then brighter — red and green pulses lighting the whole room. The carved hobgoblin figure shimmered, and the air around it began to hum, faint and low like the rumble of distant thunder.
The adventurers tensed, instinctively reaching for bows and grips.
Then the light exploded outward — a silent burst like fireflies caught in a hurricane.
The pulse wrapped around the five of them — and in a blink, they were gone.
No scorch marks. No smoke. Just the soft echo of the totem's last flare and the sudden emptiness where they'd stood.
Harold lowered his hand slowly.
Mark let out a breath. "That's a hell of a sendoff."
Evan looked to the now-inert desk. "They'll make it."
Elsewhere, the week's progress was marked with hammer strikes and fresh mortar.
The sawmill was completed midweek. The difference it made was immediate. Logs were processed in half the time. The planks were uniform. Workers started stockpiling lumber in proper racks—finally able to build in advance instead of chasing demand.
Next came the bathhouse. Crews broke ground two days after the sawmill finished. Even without walls, the project lifted everyone's spirits. Josh had designed it to support dozens at once, with separate wings, stone piping, and heating built into the floor. It would use alot of lumber to heat but they had plenty of that. It was already being nicknamed "the first miracle."
Beside the lords hall, the new potion hall had started rising. Harold's apprentices—now twelve strong—watched the foundation be dug with fanaticism. Most people had now used or knew someone who needed a potion made by these people. The whole settlement was a worksite and accidents happened. The healing potions were invaluable. Harold planned to teach them mana control and ingredient alchemy in waves, using the workshop as a proper classroom.
He visited the forge that evening. What used to be a single small building with an exposed anvil was now a sprawling open-air smithy with six full workstations, each with its own bellows and fuel source. Over twenty apprentices now worked under the six core smiths.
Harold pulled the smiths into a quick circle after they'd wound down for the night.
"I've seen metals take on traits," Harold told them. "Swords that cut through anything, swords that can poison, axes that can throw a wind blade. Armor that dulls blows. I don't know how it's done, but I know it can be. I need you thinking about how. What materials you'd need. What kind of training? We've got time now—but not forever."
The smiths looked at each other, thoughtful. A few nodded. One asked about working with alchemists. Harold said yes—whatever it took, he knew they had their own mana techniques but none of them knew them.
On the fifth day, Margaret delivered her briefing.
"Morale's high," she reported. "New arrivals are integrating faster thanks to the housing crews. Forum chatter is mostly quiet, but…"
She slid over a slate.
"One thread caught my eye. It's from the village on the south end of the basin. Their Lord's a French politician. Apparently, he's treating the whole thing like a VR sim. People aren't happy."
Harold read the thread silently, then passed the slate back.
"Reply. Offer to take in anyone willing to make the trip and they'll need to take the oath."
Margaret nodded. "And if he finds out?"
"Let him," Harold said. "Maybe he'll take it seriously, and if he does." Harold shrugged. "Who cares, I have no patience for someone playing games. Keep me updated on this, if we need to deploy people I want them moving as soon as possible."
And yet—by the seventh day, there was still no town promotion. Harold reviewed the housing counts again. Food stores. Infrastructure. Council structure. Army size. The planned roads. Water access.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
But the system remained silent.
Harold stood by the window in his office that night, watching torches flicker along the outer fields. The smell of lumber, sweat, and distant stew drifted in through the open shutters.
They were building something real here.
So why did it still feel like something was missing?
Harold stood near the window, arms folded as torchlight flickered across his face. The Landing spread out before him, fires burning steady along the paths and longhouses — a glow of quiet industry stretching farther than ever before.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"We're not used to seeing you stand still this long," Beth said lightly.
Margaret was a step behind, eyeing him. "I told her you were probably just brooding."
"I'm not brooding," Harold said without turning.
Beth raised a brow. "Window. Silhouette. Deep sighing. It's textbook brooding."
Margaret crossed her arms. "All you're missing is a goblet of wine and a tragic backstory monologue."
Harold exhaled, rubbing his face. "I have a tragic backstory."
Beth smirked. "So, confirmed."
He finally turned, eyes tired but not without humor. "Alright, alright. You got me. I'm brooding."
Margaret dropped into a chair. "So. What's eating you?"
Beth joined her, flipping open her notebook. "You've been pacing like a man trying to outrun a thought."
Harold hesitated… then gave a slow nod and leaned on the desk.
"It's the town promotion," he said. "We should've hit it already."
Margaret sat up straighter. "You're sure?"
"We've met every obvious marker I can think of. Population? Over. Food? Plentiful. Housing, trade, defense, infrastructure — we've even got a coinage system. The bathhouse is nearly done. We've formalized labor and the council. What the hell are we missing?"
Beth frowned, flipping pages. "How confident are you that those are the right markers?"
"I'm not," Harold admitted. "That's the problem. It's not like I've got a checklist. I just know how things felt last time. And this time… this feels right. But something's not triggering."
The three fell into a focused silence.
Margaret tapped her slate. "If this were a logic problem, I'd ask: what makes a village a town? Not functionally — symbolically. Foundationally."
"Permanent structure," Beth muttered. "Rootedness. Forward projection. Continuity."
"We've got that," Harold said. "We're building permanent housing now. Roads. Hell, even the bathhouse is a cultural investment."
Margaret looked up. "Do we have a school?"
Harold paused. "...No. But I've thought of that, we have education going. The kids get classes in one of the halls every night. I'm teaching the potion students."
Beth's eyes flicked to her. "Interesting. But they have no building."
Margaret leaned forward. "Education is future-proofing. You don't invest in a school if you plan to pack up and leave in a year. Maybe it needs to be a standalone structure. Show that we are taking it seriously."
Beth nodded. "And children make up just under ten percent of the population. We have no formal education system. No building. No dedicated staff."
Harold straightened a bit. "Hm, alright. That might be it." He mused to himself.
Margaret lifted a hand. "Not just that. What about the adventurers?"
Harold frowned. "What about them?"
Beth leaned back. "We have an Adventurer Affairs section. But it's just a room. They don't have a building."
"They have no guildhall," Margaret clarified. "The system likely expects towns to have dedicated infrastructure for adventurers. They're essential to defense, exploration, and growth."
Harold groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "I…didnt think about building them a guildhall but it can't be that simple."
Beth blinked. "Why not?"
"I am an idiot," Harold muttered. "I've been treating this like a survival checklist, and it is. But the system wants roots thrown down. It's why it makes us use a stele to claim ground — it wants signs of an actual civilization. A school for the next generation. A guild for our frontline agents. Jeez, my previous village had two different groups that had buildings because they couldn't agree."
Beth slapped her notebook shut. "So we build them."
Margaret was already writing. "We dont have building crews free. But the bathhouse has enough momentum — we can redirect some labor."
Beth turned toward the door. "We'll need floorplans—"
She leaned her head out into the hall and bellowed, "Runner!"
A Legionary ducked in, startled. "Ma'am?"
"Go to the bunkhouse with the forge-built door. Tell Josh if he doesn't get his ass out of bed and start drafting a school and guildhall, I'll teach our children geometry using his corpse."
The legionary blinked, then nodded. "Yes ma'am."
Beth turned back calmly. "He's always more creative when he's mildly terrified."
Harold barked a short laugh.
Margaret stood, brushing her hands off. "So we build a school. A guildhall, then we'll see if that meets the requirements and we can upgrade."
Harold nodded, "Let's do that, I have a feeling you're right though."
Margaret sniffed. "See? All that stress for nothing. You just needed us to solve your problems."
Beth grinned. "Honestly, I'm impressed you managed this long without us."
Harold groaned. "Remind me why I gave either of you jobs?"
Margaret smirked. "Because deep down, you enjoy being outsmarted."
Beth was already heading for the door. "Come on, Margaret. Let's go wake up my dumb husband and tell him he's building a school."
Margaret followed, calling over her shoulder, "Try not to brood while we're gone. You're terrible at it."
The door shut behind them, leaving Harold alone — scowling at the two retreating figures.