Harold took the long way through the settlement.
People noticed when he didn't, and he had the time, and it was expected of him.
The new sleeping halls were going up faster than he expected. Frames already set, roofs half-laid, crews moving with practiced efficiency instead of frantic guessing. The scent of fresh-cut timber hung in the air, mixing with the earthy smell of turned soil, while fine dust settled softly over everything like a thin veil. He stopped once to watch a pair of workers argue about spacing, waited until they figured it out on their own, then nodded and moved on. Another crew was already digging the foundations for the next one.
Near the blacksmith's building, the ring of metal was steady and controlled. Nails stacked neatly in shallow crates. A member of the construction crew was already headed over to grab them. A couple of apprentices hovered close, watching every motion like it might vanish if they blinked. He saw some of the goblin swords stacked for smelting.
"Afternoon, my lord," one of them said, straightening too fast.
"Afternoon…Chris, right?" Harold replied. The man smiled, "Yes, sir. I'm surprised you remember."
Harold looked at the blacksmith who came from the summoned portal. "How many nails did the universe conspire to bend today, Master blacksmith?"
The blacksmith gave a hearty chuckle, the sound resonating like a hammer striking an anvil, "Oh, not as many as yesterday. It's the cosmic order of things slowly lining up."
"That's an improvement," Harold said. "Keep it up."
He didn't linger. Lords who hovered made people nervous.
Further down, Beth and Josh's crews were wrestling beams into place for the kitchen overhang. Josh was laughing about something, sleeves rolled up, dirt streaked across his face.
"We're still short two tables," Beth said when she spotted Harold. "But the frame's solid."
"Tables can wait," Harold replied. "The shelter can't, and this place will make meal time a lot easier."
She nodded, satisfied. "I'll have the plan for the town to you at the end of the week. I need to see a few of my colleagues to confirm a couple of things. We also really need to work on the cesspits. They're getting out of hand."
"I'll leave it to you, Beth. We'll dig new ones if needed." Harold replied easily.
At the edge of the clearing, people were already lining up the first batch of clay bricks to dry. The charcoal pits smoked gently nearby, watched by someone who had learned the hard way not to walk away from them too early.
Harold felt it then. The shift in the air, the subtle tightening of shoulders, the way spines straightened ever so slightly as he passed by. It was not born of fear or awe; rather, it was a quiet recognition of his presence—a presence that seemed to carry its own weight, commanding attention without demand. Although he was one of the few not clad in the roughspun clothing of the settlement, there was something more than just his attire that set him apart. His eyes, steady and calm, scanned the workers with a slight, reassuring nod. His voice, whenever it carried through the air, held a timbre of warmth and quiet confidence, evoking a shared assurance among the people. In those small interactions, a sense of collective purpose seemed to ripple through the settlement.
"Lord."
Margaret appeared at his side without ceremony, slate tucked under her arm.
"You're doing the circuit," she said.
Yes, I am," Harold replied. "Anything on fire?"
"Not literally," she said. "Two minor disputes about sleeping assignments. I handled them."
"Thank you, Margaret."
She fell into step beside him without asking. They walked in companionable silence for a bit, watching the village move.
"You look steadier today," Margaret said eventually.
"You know…I feel it. I had a good conversation with Sarah," Harold replied.
She nodded, accepting that for what it was.
They reached the Lord's Hall together. The main space had been cleared and repurposed, benches arranged in a loose half-circle. A dozen people were already there, sitting quietly, hands folded, eyes alert—future potion makers.
Harold stepped inside, and the low murmur died immediately.
"Good," he said. "You're early."
A couple of people straightened, proud.
He took his place near the front, closed his eyes briefly, and reached inward.
The system answered.
Two panels unfolded, clean and precise.
WORLD FIRST: First Rare Potion
+12% efficiency for all potions
+20% effectiveness to all rare-tier potions brewed within the village border
WORLD FIRST: First Uncommon Potion
+8% efficiency for all potions
+20% effectiveness to all uncommon-tier potions brewed within the village border
Making those potions for Sarah had been worth it for the settlement perks alone. The gains were tangible and immediate. If only other master artisans had regressed as he had, people who carried that kind of experience backward with them. He could have stacked production advantages until the system itself bent.
Harold turned back to the group seated before him.
"Today," he said, "we're not brewing anything."
A few shoulders slumped.
"We need you to get these mana exercises down before you touch a kettle," he continued. "We are going to work until it clicks for at least one of you. That's your task. All day. Every day. Until it does. Remember, your success isn't just for your own benefit. Every step forward you take strengthens our entire settlement. The skills you gain and the potions you eventually create will safeguard everyone here, ensuring our community thrives together."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"There are multiple reasons we need to start potion production," Harold said. "Survival is one of them. But mainly because I have earned settlement potion production perks that make us completely overpowered when it comes to potions. We need to leverage that advantage."
One of the trainees raised a hand cautiously, "My lord, these perks you mention... How exactly do they work? It sounds almost like something from a game."
Harold nodded with understanding, "That's a fair question. The perks enhance our ability to brew more efficient and effective potions, almost like bonuses that improve production and quality. Imagine being given a tool that enhances your capability—like a craftsman's set of superior tools."
He continued, "Just a reminder: the one who does it first will get the crafter perks for it, since I can't earn them. And that will make that lucky person a very powerful alchemist."
He sat on the edge of the table, posture relaxed, but his attention sharp.
"Close your eyes," he said. "Breathe. Don't chase the mana. If you feel nothing, that's fine. If you feel too much, stop."
Hands settled. Eyes closed.
Margaret moved quietly to the back of the room, slate tucked under her arm, watching for the things Harold had taught her to notice. Tremors. Shallow breaths. The tension that came from forcing instead of allowing.
Harold guided them gently—no pressure or rush.
Outside, hammers rang. Smoke drifted. Voices carried as the settlement continued to take shape.
The fresh air that swept in from the open door contrasted with the smell of the fire within the hall. Margaret stood near the back and watched as Harold taught his potion students.
Most of the people sitting on the benches had their eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration. A few shifted uncomfortably. One breathed too fast. Another kept clenching and unclenching their hands, chasing something that refused to be caught.
At the front, Harold spoke softly, correcting posture, slowing breaths, reminding them not to force what wasn't ready.
She'd heard that tone before. Not here or like this. But in quieter rooms, in another life.
When she'd first met him, Harold had been young. Early twenties at most. Too young to be making the claims he'd made with that calm certainty. She'd been deeply skeptical.
She'd only agreed to meet him because a friend she trusted had insisted. Someone who didn't waste favors or panic easily. He was now involved in training the soldiers; it was amazing how easily he fell into his role here.
Just listen, he'd said.
So she had listened.
What stood out wasn't the confidence. It was the look behind his eyes. The kind that didn't belong to someone his age. She'd seen it too many times in her previous line of work. Trauma layered over trauma. Loss that hadn't been processed, just carried. The way his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He'd looked like someone who'd survived something he shouldn't have.
Then he'd taken a few basic ingredients. Things she recognized and could have repurchased at a market home. He'd worked them carefully, methodically, without flourish.
And he'd healed a shallow cut almost instantly. That had changed everything.
Since then, her world had expanded at an uncomfortable pace. Monsters were real. Death was constant and real. Organization mattered more than ideology or race. They all needed to pull together to survive here. She'd watched people fall into roles with surprising ease.
However, the chaos was apparent elsewhere. In another settlement, tales of disarray painted a stark contrast. There was a meeting held where the air was thick with frustration, the shouts of leaders replacing clear planning. Supplies dwindled as arguments over authority escalated. One morning, a distraught scout recounted how a hastily decided fortification had collapsed, putting everyone at risk. These stories underscored Harold's measured competence and the dire need for structured leadership.
Part of that was fear. The threat of death was a very effective motivator. A few people had already gone missing. But it wasn't the whole story.
Margaret had spent enough time on the forum to know how bad things could get. Other settlements were barely holding together. Arguments over authority. Hoarded supplies. Leaders are shouting instead of planning. People are still trying to pretend this was temporary. The politicians were the worst ones. Too many Lords exercising authority with no idea that there were consequences to things.
She could easily believe the stories about Harold's past life, how humanity had fallen to incompetence and infighting instead of the other races.
Most of the other settlements were only just getting started.
Here, people worked.
She looked back toward Harold.
He still looked young. That hadn't changed. But the way he moved through the room, the way he corrected gently instead of commanding, the way people trusted him without being told to—it was in the details. A slight nod here, a relaxed posture there, each subtle gesture conveyed an approachable authority. These micro-movements spoke of emotional intelligence in motion. That was new. There was almost an aura about him that made people want to listen. Or maybe it had always been there, buried under grief and necessity.
Margaret adjusted her slate and made a quiet note as one of the students' breathing finally evened out.
This wasn't magic. It was structured. And watching it take root, she understood why so many other settlements were already falling behind.
They were trying to survive. Harold was building something with a purpose; he was a man driven because he knew what would happen if he didn't.
She felt Hale before she saw him.
Not the sound. The shift in space. He stopped just close enough to be noticed, not near enough to interrupt. When she didn't look over immediately, his hand brushed lightly against her wrist, brief enough to be accidental to anyone watching.
"You always stand where you can see everyone," he murmured.
Margaret kept her eyes forward. "Old habits die hard."
"Dangerous habit," Hale said. "People will notice, assume you're in charge."
She allowed herself a small smile. "I am in charge. Of paperwork. Which is infinitely more terrifying."
His fingers brushed hers again as he leaned a little closer, this time unmistakable and still subtle. The warmth of his touch lingered, creating a comforting tension that seemed to echo both their heartbeats. "Are you picking up these mana exercises he has them doing?" he said softly. "Or should I be worried about competition?"
"Only if you plan on doing something foolish," Margaret replied.
He chuckled under his breath.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching Harold guide the group. Hale's shoulder pressed lightly against hers, a steady presence.
"He's different from what I expected," Hale said eventually.
Margaret hummed. "Most people are different from expectations.. He's changed since coming here, though."
Hale tilted his head. "You trust him."
"I trust what he's building," she said. "And I trust that he's already paid for his mistakes. And maybe I do trust him. You've read the forums, it's chaos out there."
Hale studied Harold for a long second. "He carries authority easily."
"Yes," Margaret said. "And somehow still finds time to worry about everyone else."
Hale's hand settled briefly at the small of her back, protective rather than possessive. "You've been falling into old habits."
Margaret glanced sideways at him then. "And does that bother you?"
"No," Hale said quietly. "You're right that someone needs to move in his shadow to keep everything running."
She didn't answer. She didn't move away either.
At the front of the room, one of the students finally gasped softly, eyes snapping open in surprise.
Harold smiled, just a little.
Margaret felt Hale's thumb trace a slow circle against her spine, hidden by the angle of his body.
"Looks like it's starting," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "It is."
By the third day out, Sarah's feet hurt in the specific way that meant she'd stop noticing it soon.
Evan slowed the column with a raised fist.
The movement was automatic now. Packs settled. Boots stopped crunching leaves. Someone behind her whispered, "Finally."
Sarah snorted quietly and slipped forward to Evan's shoulder as the trees thinned.
The land opened into a shallow basin, grass rippling like water. The sweet-rot scent of damp earth mixed with the freshness of crushed grass beneath her boots as Sarah stepped forward. A sudden cool breeze whispered through the tall blades, carrying the earthy aroma and a faint echo of the forest's quieter sounds, immersing them deeply into the landscape.
"Oh," Jace breathed. "That's a lot of steak."
"Don't call it that," Mira muttered. "It's still looking at us."
Buffalo. Or something close enough. Big. Thick-furred. Horns like curved stone tools. They grazed slowly, unbothered, but not careless. The biggest ones drifted outward, always between the herd and the forest.
Sarah counted without meaning to.
"Hide alone would last us months," she said.
"And bone," Theo added. "And enough fat to make everyone smell like smoke forever."
Evan nodded. 'And something we can't move ourselves. We could make pemmican with this.' He paused, a brief glimmer of something warmer touching his features. 'My brother back at camp, he's always complaining about the food. Give him a taste of this, and he'll think we're living like kings out here.'
He studied the basin a few seconds longer, then glanced back over his shoulder.
"Hunter," he said quietly.
A man, a few years older than the rest of them, stepped forward. Broad-shouldered and quiet. His eyes never left the herd. He'd been one of the first that Caldwell insisted they bring along.
"You're running this back," Evan said. "Estimates one-fifty to one-eighty head. Big animals buffalo-like."
The hunter nodded once, already committing it to memory.
"Tell them they'll need hands," Evan continued. "A lot of them. They'll have to figure out the herding, but this is a resource we can't ignore."
The hunter grimaced. "Understood. Want me to mention the predator?"
"Yes," Evan said immediately. "Same one Sarah flagged earlier. Bigger and faster than the ones we've seen. Tell them we're not hunting it."
Sarah snorted quietly. "Yet."
The hunter shot her a look. "Better you than me."
He took off at a jog, slipping between the trees with practiced ease. They watched him disappear before anyone spoke again.
The quiet didn't last.
Carter moved up from the soldier line, shield tucked under one arm, eyes still scanning the trees as he approached. He stopped just close enough to be heard without raising his voice.
"Something's off," Carter said, his voice low. "Birds went quiet a half hour ago. Not spooked. Just... gone."
Evan nodded slowly. "There's a predator out there. As the words left his mouth, a memory resurfaced in Carter's mind—a different clearing, the same eerie stillness settling over a battlefield just before chaos erupted."
"Yes," Carter agreed. "But not just that. The forest feels crowded."
Sarah felt the hairs on her arms rise. Around her, her team shifted instinctively.
Jace muttered, "I hate it when people say that."
Mira shot him a look. "You hate it when people say anything."
Carter's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Keep it tight tonight. No wandering. Double watch after dark."
"Understood," Evan said.
Carter gave a brief nod and returned to the soldiers without another word, already calling out quiet corrections as he went.
They made camp as the light faded.
The fires were dug in and concealed—a tighter perimeter. The soldiers took the outer ring and slept in pairs with their weapons within reach. Sarah's team settled closer in, backs to trees, weapons within reach.
When the fires had burned down to embers and the forest settled into its night sounds, Carter wandered back over, carrying a dented cup of something that smelled faintly of smoke.
He stopped near Sarah's group. "You did well today."
Jace blinked. "We did… nothing."
"Exactly," Carter chuckled. "Most people mess that up."
That earned a few quiet laughs.
He settled onto a log, careful to keep his profile low. Evan joined him a moment later, the two of them sitting side by side without ceremony.
"You ever figure it out," Evan said quietly, "why a crafter would give up their perks to be a soldier?"
Carter didn't answer right away. He stared into the coals, turning the cup slowly in his hands.
"Well, I got younger when we arrived here, that was something Harold didn't tell us about. On purpose, I think. But soldiering is all I know; this is just a different type of it," he said finally.
Evan glanced at him. "You know you don't respawn."
"I know." Carter shrugged. "But how is that any different from Earth? Now I'll get some mana powers once we figure it out."
"And if you die out here—"
"Then I die," Carter said calmly. "Made peace with that years ago. A harder war than yours. Less press coverage but more funerals."
Evan looked to protest, but it ended in a small laugh.
He looked up at Sarah, then the rest of the team. "You kids move better when someone's watching your flanks." Sarah tilted her head slightly but didn't respond. Her eyes held steady on Evan, and her jaw tightened just a bit, a silent acknowledgment that neither completely agreed nor openly challenged his words.
Jace opened his mouth. Mira elbowed him hard enough to knock the thought right out.
Evan snorted softly. "Easy war, huh?"
Carter's mouth twitched. "You got issued better coffee, and you didn't walk everywhere like us."
"Yeah," Evan said. "We got told it was all about hearts and minds."
Carter nodded. "We got told not to get attached."
Evan glanced at the fire. "Well, that didn't work for either of us."
"Nope," Carter said. "But at least the gear got lighter."
Evan smiled faintly, "That's cause we had actually to fight. Not just radio a fire mission."
Then Carter stood laughing a little. "Get some rest. I've got first watch."
The fire cracked, sending sparks up into the dark. A single spark drifted farther than the rest, caught on an unseen current. It landed softly beyond their circle, unnoticed, a tiny ember on the cusp of catching. It was an omen, faint and foreboding, whispering of chaos that might follow.
Evan nodded. "Try not to die."
Carter smirked. "You first."
Sarah leaned back against her pack, listening to the forest, to the breathing of her team, to the steady presence of the soldiers beyond the light.
Carter walked by them a moment later. "Get some rest. I'll wake you if the woods decide to get loud."
He walked back to his post, silhouette dissolving into shadow.
Jace let out a breath. "I like him."
"Me too," Theo said.
Sarah didn't answer right away. She watched the dark beyond the firelight, the trees swallowing everything the embers couldn't reach.
Jace broke the silence. "So… anyone else absolutely convinced something's watching us?"
Mira snorted. "That's just the forest. It does that."
"That is not comforting," Jace said.
Theo poked at the ground with a stick. "I liked it better when we could hear bugs and birds."
Sarah finally looked back at them. "Alright. Nobody's wandering tonight."
Jace raised a hand. "Didn't plan to."
"That includes bathroom breaks," she added.
Mira groaned. "You're the worst."
"I know," Sarah said. "I accept this."
It was as if they moved by an unspoken agreement, each person shifting closer to the fire. A subtle glance was exchanged among them, and a collective breath tight enough to bind them together. The quiet creak of leather belts and the hard rustle of roughide made it sound like a well-rehearsed dance. They weren't crowding, just… closer.
Theo glanced at the line of soldiers beyond the light. "Those guys don't look like they ever sleep."
"They do," Sarah said. "Just not when they're supposed to, I caught that one with the big nose sleeping when he stopped earlier in the day."
Jace leaned back on his pack. "Carter scares me."
"He's nice," Mira said.
"He told me to stop slouching without looking at me."
"That's how you know he likes you," Sarah said.
That got a laugh: a quiet one, but real.
Theo looked at Sarah. "You think it'll be quiet."
"I think," she said carefully, "that if it isn't, we'll hear it coming."
Jace frowned. "You're not lying to make us feel better, right?"
Sarah shook her head. "No. I'm bad at that."
Mira nodded. "Yeah. You are."
You know what I miss… Chipotle."
Jace just groaned, "You and every other person."
After a bit, Jace muttered, "When we get back, I'm eating something that doesn't taste like smoke."
Theo smiled. "I'm sleeping somewhere without roots, even that horrible pad we have back home."
Mira sighed. "I'm stealing a blanket."
Sarah leaned back against her pack, letting the fire warm her hands. "I'm just glad we're not alone out here."
No one argued. Mira leaned in close, "Can you convince your brother to give us extra food at meal time? I always wanted to get skinnier, but not this skinny!"
Sarah muffled her laughter and leaned into her too, whispering into her ear. "I think Jace will like you no matter what."
Mira leaned back, shocked for an instant, then they both giggled, forgetting they were in another world for a precious moment.
Harold volunteered for the hauling crew because no one would argue with him.
Also, because if he was going to break something, it might as well be his pride.
The trees near the treeline were monsters. Not quite redwoods, but close enough to make the comparison uncomfortable. Thick trunks with dense grain. When they came down, they didn't fall so much as settle into the earth as they belonged there. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and fresh resin, a sharp note that seemed to linger in the nose, making the sheer size of these trees feel even more imposing.
The station was set up a short distance back. Bark-stripping frames. Not enough wedges. Crude levers. Some crude stone hammers. The kind of setup that worked only because enough people were willing to suffer through it, and they did. Part of his work every day was to make a hefty dose of a regenerative potion to heal people at this workplace. Yet, the evidence of yesterday's efforts were stark—fresh bandages on exhausted workers and dwindling stacks of potion ingredients, a chilling reminder of the human toll and the urgent race against resource shortages.
Harold stood in front of one of the felled trunks, staring at it.
Right, he thought. No point pretending.
He surged mana before he even bent down.
Not a trickle. A real push.
The mana answered easily. That wasn't the problem. He had more of it now than he'd ever had before, from personal perks and the settlement ones, and he already had some very high-tier ones. They stacked quietly, feeding him a deep reservoir that responded the moment he reached for it. However, like any reservoir, it had limits—an unseen gauge within him that, once depleted, required time and rest to replenish. The danger wasn't in running out of mana completely, but in overextending himself beyond what his body could handle.
The problem was control; even with that perk, it was difficult. He lifted the log, and the mana wanted to move. He needed to still it and sink it.
The log came up grudgingly, muscles screaming under the load. He held it there, mana reinforcing his frame, and immediately felt it start to slip. The mana didn't want to listen to him, it wasn't something you could command without a will of iron.
The mana wanted to move. It always wanted to move.
Potion work had trained him to let it. To guide it through motion. To heat and circulate. Even when reinforcing an ingredient, the flow never stopped. Smooth, even, and constant.
This was different.
Soldiers didn't circulate mana. They sank it. They drove it into muscle and bone and held it there through will. Just stubborn pressure. It was more an exercise in will than it was in control. There was no elegance in it.
Harold took a step and nearly dropped the log as the mana surged out of place.
"Easy," one of his escorts said, already close.
Hale's idea. Two bodyguards. Even inside the settlement. They were both better at this than he was. It was endlessly infuriating.
"I am being easy," Harold said through clenched teeth. "The mana is not cooperating."
The second guard snorted. "You're letting it slosh. Don't let it."
"That's not a technical term."
"It is if it gets the point across," he said pointedly.
Harold stopped, let the mana drain out, and carefully let the log slam down before he crushed his foot. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind as it hit the ground with a thud. In that brief moment, a sense of vulnerability crept in, a whisper of unease about revealing weakness in front of the others. The thought of letting others see him falter gnawed at him for just a second.
He straightened slowly, rubbing his shoulder. "This is very different than making potions."
The first guard raised an eyebrow at the other. "I thought these Lords types were infallible."
"We are," Harold gritted out. "Keep it up, and I'll make sure you have the worst watch tonight."
"Well," the guard said, "I'll still be better than you at mana reinforcement."
Harold sighed and bent again. "You suck."
This time, he surged the mana, then immediately tried to narrow it. His body couldn't handle how much mana he could put into it yet. He pictured it settling into his legs first and anchoring him, then his back. Then he lifted.
The log lifted. Barely, but it stayed.
The second guard said with a nod, "Better." Then, he leaned in closer and added, "When you lift, become the anchor."
"That is deeply unhelpful," Harold muttered.
He took a step. The mana wobbled. He corrected, teeth clenched, refusing to let it slide.
Another step.
By the time he reached the stripping station, his vision had narrowed, and sweat dripped down his back. His lungs burned with each breath, a fiery reminder of his body's limits. Trembling calves threatened to buckle under the strain, each step a battle against his own fatigue. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing down on him, reducing the world around him to blurred edges and the pounding rhythm of his heartbeat.
He lowered the log into place and staggered back, breathing hard.
His hands were shaking from exhaustion.
"That," he said, pointing at the log, "is profoundly irritating."
The first guard smiled faintly. "You'll get it."
"I better," Harold replied. "These trees aren't getting any smaller."
He wiped his hands on his trousers and looked back toward the treeline.
Last time, he never learned this school of mana control. There had been no point. The system hadn't allowed him to sink mana into his body the way soldiers could. Gravesend hadn't let him.
This time was different.
The most powerful Lords from the last cycle had eventually taken the field themselves. Not as symbols. As weapons. They turned battles that should have been losses into narrow victories. Lords were the only real counter to other Lords, and most of the non-human ones learned this far earlier than humanity ever did.
That gap had mattered.
How do you kill someone who can move like the wind and cut through anything? Then do it again and again and again.
Harold turned back to the next log and tried to center himself. Mana work had always calmed him. It was one of the few things he'd taken real pride in. That it wasn't coming naturally now irritated him more than the weight ever could.
He reached for the mana again—
A hand pressed flat against his chest.
"Stop," the bodyguard said.
Harold blinked. "What?"
The man didn't move his hand. His voice stayed even.
"Why do you fight?" he asked. "What motivates you. What makes you get up and keep going?"
Harold stared at him, caught completely off guard. A flicker of panic crept in. "What kind of question is that?" he said. "Why are you asking me this now?"
The soldier stepped back.
Then, in one smooth motion, he turned, drew his sword, and struck. The sword shone and sang as it cut through the air with a whistle Harold hadn't heard before. A sharp crack resonated through the clearing as the blade bit into the log, sending a shiver up Harold's spine. The scent of fresh-split sap filled the air, and the vibration of the strike seemed to echo in Harold's ribs, amplifying the power and precision of the cut.
Steel flashed. The blade cut cleanly through the log Harold had been struggling with, splitting it with a crack that echoed through the clearing. The top half slid free and hit the ground with a heavy thud.
The soldier stood there a moment, breathing hard, sword lowered.
"I fight to protect my family," he said. "They're why I'm still standing. They're having a rough time here. No comforts. No certainty. Back home, I was normal. Nothing special, here, I'm a bodyguard for a half-baked Lord still learning what everyone has to learn to even finish basic training."
He glanced at Harold. "I don't control my mana well either. Not like you do with potions. But I can use it for a few strikes when it counts."
He sheathed the blade.
"Our instructors drilled this into us," he continued. Mana answers will. Not calm. Not technique. Will. You let what drives you fill the space, and you take ownership of it."
He tapped his chest once.
"It might feel like it has a mind of its own. But it's still yours."
The soldier met Harold's eyes.
"So I'll ask again," he said. "What kind of man are you?"
Silence stretched.
"Do you give up?" the soldier finished. "Or do you fight?"
Harold looked down at the split log.
Then he inhaled slowly and let the mana rise again.
This time, he didn't try to quiet it.
He let the rush fill his ears. Let the noise of it drown out everything else. He let it flow through his body and didn't stop it, didn't shape it, didn't guide it.
For a moment, he was back in his chamber.
Hanging from the ceiling.
Manacles cut into his wrists, his blood dripping steadily onto the stone floor below. His body was a map of wounds, old and new, some still open, others swollen and purple. His face was ruined with scars and bruising, one eye nearly swollen shut. Breathing hurt. Seeing hurt. Existing hurt.
Before him stood his tormenter.
The man smiled as he always did and asked the same question, calm and almost bored. His tunic had blood dried onto it, and he knew it was his.
"Are you ready to go back to work?"
The mana faltered.
It felt his fear. His pain. The exhaustion that went deeper than bone. The helpless, screaming thought that kept repeating itself.
Why won't it stop?
I didn't do anything wrong.
Please. Just let it stop.
The cutter lifted a pair of pliers and waved them slowly in front of Harold's face, savoring the moment. He asked again.
"Are you ready to go back to work?"
And Harold remembered.
Not the pain.
The choice he made at that moment.
His will hardened.
Steel, forged in years of madness, in survival measured one breath at a time. Compared to that, this moment was nothing. He smiled then, a broken thing, pain twisting his face into something almost joyful.
The mana slammed into him.
And this time, it stayed.
He forced it deeper. Into the muscle. Into bone. Deeper still, into the cells he knew made up his body. He treated himself like an ingredient, the way he always had. Reinforce and stabilize, then..Enhance.
He partitioned his mind with practiced ease, shunting the memories aside, locking the madness away behind walls he had built long ago. Another part of him took over, maintaining the flow as he would during a brew.
Blood ran freely from his nose now. His eyes burned, bloodshot and unfocused.
He bent. Lifted the log and moved.
Each step was deliberate. Heavy. The world narrowed to weight and balance and keeping the mana still. He reached the station, rolled the log off his shoulder, and let it crash to the ground beside the others.
The sound echoed.
The soldiers nearby stared at him, stunned.
"My lord…" one of them said carefully. "Are you alright?"
Harold released the mana.
It retreated all at once. From muscle. From bone. From everywhere.
The world tilted as the overload of mana took its toll. Blood spilled from his mouth, his nose burning under the strain of too much mana, the internal pressure building to an unbearable degree. He braced himself on his knees, recognizing that until he released the excess energy, the dizziness would continue. Slowly, using steady breaths, he fought to regain control and ease the spinning sensation.
Slowly, he straightened.
Harold took a moment, his eyes lingering on the log he had just moved. With a resolute gesture, he wiped the blood from his nose onto the surface of the log, marking it as a testament to his struggle and triumph. "I know what kind of man I am," Harold said quietly. He looked at the soldier who had stopped him earlier.
"Thank you, but you're on night watch and my bodyguard forever now."
Morning hadn't fully settled when Harold stepped out of the hall. The sun was coming over the mountains in the distance, casting a warm glow on the surroundings. It really was quite a beautiful place here. On Earth, nature was shoved into controlled areas. Here... it just was. The air was cleaner, carrying the subtle scent of damp earth after the night's cooling embrace, and the sound of distant birdsong added a layer of serenity. The water was crystal clear, and the forest was flourishing with old growth. The opportunity was endless.
The village was already awake. Frantic work had already begun, and not quietly either. It had found a middle rhythm. Boots moved along packed dirt paths. Smoke rose in thin, steady columns. Work crews formed without being shouted into place. Someone laughed near the kitchens. Someone else swore when a wheelbarrow caught on a stone. Farmers out in the distance were already going through the fields and creating new ones.
Hale fell into step beside him as they started toward the barracks.
They passed between half-built structures and stacked lumber, through a space that was quickly becoming a hub of activity rather than a mere clearing. Traffic now flowed naturally around the work zones: no signs, no shouted orders; just habit taking shape as people settled into their roles. A simple comfort, like a beer at the end of a long day, would be a well-earned reward.
"That's new," Harold said, nodding ahead.
The palisade rose in front of them, still raw and unfinished but unmistakable. Thick timber logs set deep into the earth, sharpened tops uneven but imposing. A broad, deep ditch ran along the outside, freshly dug, with the soil piled into a low berm. Harold remembered it was Margaret's idea to build it, spurred by concerns that they'd have the means to defend themselves should raiders or something worse approach. The wall was not just a physical barrier; it was a testament to their preparedness and the worries that haunted their nights.
"Soldiers needed the exercise, it's good practice learning mana control," Hale said. "And it buys us time if something big comes knocking."
Harold studied it as they approached the gate. The wall enclosed a lot more space than he'd expected.
"You could shelter most of the village in there," he said.
Hale nodded. "That's the idea. And it'll house four times as many soldiers as we've got now. Gives us room to grow without having to rework everything. Underground tunnels and a basement actually connect the buildings."
"You did good work here, Hale," Harold said.
They passed through the opening.
Inside, the watchtower dominated the space. Stone at the base, timber rising above it, built tight against the palisade so its upper platforms could see out over the wall. It wasn't elegant, but it was solid. Harold could see a couple of soldiers at the top. They didn't have any ranged weapons, so they were more for show.
Harold slowed, taking it in. This was his first time inside the perimeter.
Almost one hundred and fifty soldiers now. Armed and drilling. They actively patrolled the area. Right now, the only outpost they had was the mine Lira ran, and two squads were stationed there for a week at a time.
A week ago, his options were narrow because of the numbers, but now he could start implementing some of the plans he had.
As they walked, Harold glanced sideways at Hale. "You and Margaret seem… comfortable."
Hale didn't miss a step. "We work together."
"That wasn't the question," Harold said mildly. "I didn't know you knew each other back on Earth."
Hale exhaled through his nose. "We crossed paths. That's all." There was a silence, a pause where more could have been said, but wasn't.
Harold raised an eyebrow, sensing the subtle dodge. "Drills today are squad-based," Hale continued, shifting topics with practiced ease. "Shield transitions first and formation maneuver. After that, controlled duels."
Harold nodded, letting the deflection pass, but the curiosity lingered.
They reached the central yard just as Hale's Optio noticed them.
"ATTEN-TION!"
The call snapped across the space. Boots thudded into place. Lines straightened. Shields thudded into the ground. The movement was crisp and disciplined.
Harold stopped just inside the yard.
Nine figures stood off to one side, clearly separate from the main body. Older and more weathered. Their posture was different, but they saluted the same as every other soldier in the yard.
"Former army vets, I served with all of them," Hale said quietly. "They switched over from crafter roles. Decided they wanted to train again; they spent most of their time on Earth learning Roman tactics and design. I couldn't make this work without them; none of us is getting the mana exercises yet, though. It's an endless source of ribbing from the rank and file. We spend a lot of the evening talking to some of the better ones here about the theory of it."
Harold recognized one immediately. Beth's uncle. Older than most here, gray just beginning to creep into his hair. He met Harold's eyes and gave a slight, respectful nod. They all got younger when they came over. Now they all looked to be back in their prime.
"They're teaching Roman-style doctrine," Hale continued. "Formation fighting. Discipline under pressure. It's slower to learn, but I fully believe it will be imperative we learn these methods to fight the foes you have told me about."
Harold nodded, then turned to Hale. "They know they can't respawn right."
"Yes," Hale said. "We're aware. That's why they call it the service."
That settled heavily in Harold's chest.
He stepped forward.
"At ease," he said.
The soldiers relaxed, but only slightly. He could see some of the faces wondering what was going on.
Hale turned to face them. "Today's drills will include paired engagements," he announced. "Controlled force. Just cause we got those fancy healing potions doesn't mean we go all out."
A few eyes flicked toward Harold.
Hale didn't acknowledge it. "The Lord will be participating."
That earned murmurs. Not loud but curious.
Harold felt it, the weight of expectation. As he gripped the practice shield he picked up on the way over, his fingers tightened around the edge, a telltale sign of his mixed confidence before sparring. He knew he needed to do this, though he felt uncertain, so he exhaled.
The soldiers relaxed, but only slightly. Harold could see it in their faces, the quiet recalibration when a routine changed.
Hale turned to face them and stepped away from the command group.
Beth's uncle was already watching him approach, amusement written plainly across his face. The man was broad through the shoulders, posture relaxed but alert, the look of someone who'd spent years fighting.
"So," he said, glancing at the slate marking squad assignments, "should I be calling you Optio now?"
That got a bark of laughter from the man.
"Optio, or Squad Leader, if you're feeling polite. Garrick, if you want me to like you," he said.
"Harold," he replied. "And Beth warned me you'd enjoy this too much."
Garrick's grin softened just a fraction. "She's too smart for her own good, thought she was crazy when she called."
Two familiar faces stepped into line beside Harold. His escorts from yesterday. Both are already armored, practice swords already in hand.
"You two as well?" Harold asked.
One of them smirked. "Figured we'd make sure you didn't get embarrassed again."
"Much appreciated," Harold said dryly.
Garrick clapped his hands once. "We'll start with Armatura, then move to Agmen. We keep trying to use the Latin names. Improves our mystique," he said while smiling.
The line shifted immediately.
Armatura wasn't sparring. It was repetition. Shields came up, and blades were angled. Their feet were set. They drilled strikes, blocks, shield presses, over and over. Not fast or flashy. Every movement is precise. Every mistake corrected.
Harold struggled to match the rhythm. His sword lagged a half-beat behind. His shield came up a hair too high. Garrick noticed everything.
"Too wide," Garrick said, tapping Harold's shield rim with a stick. "You're not dueling, you're protecting the man beside you and striking in a way that doesn't disrupt the formation. The strongest blow you can make between shields."
A soldier to Harold's left muttered, "Told you this wasn't the fun part."
Harold snorted and adjusted.
After several hours, Garrick raised his voice again.
"Alright, pack on, and form up."
Groans rippled through the formation.
They broke into column, packs on, shields slung. Agmen was marching. Long, sustained movement in formation. Loaded to bear and maintaining the pace. The kind of drill meant to teach bodies to move together when exhausted.
They stepped off.
At first, Harold managed. Then the weight set in. The armor and the shield. The sword bounced against his hip while his breath shortened.
Instinct flared and mana surged. His legs lightened, and his stride smoothed. The pressure eased a little, allowing him to breathe easier. Contrary to the relief it brought, tapping mana carelessly was not without its costs. Overusing it led to physical fatigue and a backlash, and it carried a social stigma in their community. What if it was needed in a fight and someone had tapped themselves out before then?
Then something cracked smartly against the side of his helmet. "Don't," Garrick said, walking alongside him now, voice sharp. "No mana."
Harold winced. "I wasn't—"
"You were," Garrick said. "And you'll stop."
The two bodyguards glanced at him but said nothing. They kept pace without reinforcement—sweat on their brows. Teeth clenched.
"You lean on that," Garrick continued, "you'll never build the frame and muscle underneath it. Mana's a tool, not a crutch."
Harold cut the flow. Immediately, everything hurt. His steps grew heavier. His breathing was ragged. His shoulders screamed. The column pressed on.
Someone behind him murmured, "Keep up, Lord."
Another added, "Try not to die."
Harold managed a breathless laugh and ground through it. It was even more frustrating because they were repeating the same path around the village.
When Garrick finally called the halt, Harold bent forward slightly, hands on his knees.
"Congratulations," Garrick said cheerfully. "You didn't fall out."
Harold looked up. "Low bar."
"It's a start," he said, eyeing him.
Garrick clapped him on the shoulder. "You're joining us for morning PT. No mana. Same rules as everyone else."
"I'm a Lord," Harold said weakly.
Garrick grinned widely. "Then lead from the front."
The soldiers chuckled, and one slapped him on the back.
Harold straightened, wiped sweat from his eyes, and took his place back in line.
By nightfall, Harold ached in places he'd forgotten he had.
Dinner was simple but filling. Stew again, thicker this time, with chunks of meat that hadn't been there a week ago. He ate slower than usual, muscles protesting every movement, listening to the low murmur of the hall. " I would kill for a beer right now," Harold murmured to himself.
He was halfway through when Margaret appeared beside him, slate tucked under one arm, expression carefully neutral.
"Come with me," she said.
Harold looked up. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not," she replied. "Mostly."
She waited until he stood before turning and leading him through the side door and around the back of the hall. The air was cooler there, firelight spilling out through gaps in the timber.
They stopped beside a small lean-to that hadn't been there that morning.
Inside, steam curled lazily into the night.
Harold stared.
It was a tub. Crude, but real. Before Harold fully realized what he was seeing, the delicate sheen of moonlight caught on the metal hoops, hinting at the surprise awaiting him. Thick staves were bound with these metal hoops, forming a tub wide enough for an adult to sit in without folding themselves in half. A small fire pit sat beneath it, stones stacked to distribute heat.
He blinked. "Is that—"
"A bath," Margaret said. "Don't ask too many questions."
He stepped closer, incredulous. "How?"
"The kitchen crew," she said. "They bribed a couple of the craftsmen with extra rations. Someone had the idea. Someone else had the tools."
"And you allowed this," Harold said, eyebrow raised.
Margaret's mouth twitched. "I told them we'd overlook it."
She paused, then added, "As long as we get access sometimes."
Harold laughed, low and surprised. His words carried a hint of playful authority, a taste of the leadership style he was slowly growing into. "So this is corruption," he said, voice lightly teasing yet with an underlying firmness.
Margaret corrected him, "This is morale," and added, "And hygiene." As she handed him a bar of soap, Harold considered the contrast between moments of relief and the relentless duties that occupied their days. Earlier, he had joked about wanting a beer, a simple pleasure now mirrored in the unexpected gift of a hot bath. He looked at the tub again, letting its warm promise linger in his mind.
"I assume there's a schedule," he said.
"There will be," she replied. "After you go first."
He glanced at her. "That's not subtle."
She shrugged. "You trained with the soldiers all day. People noticed, and you do not smell good. And we all smell bad, and we still notice you."
Harold exhaled slowly, the tension draining out of him just looking at the water. Garrick's words echoed in his mind: mana's a tool, not a crutch. He realized that just as he needed physical strength to stand among the soldiers, he needed the mental fortitude to handle the duties of leadership without over-relying on shortcuts. This was more than just about building muscle; it was about laying a foundation for everything he aimed to achieve.
"Alright," he said. "I'll allow this criminal enterprise."
Margaret smiled, satisfied, and walked away.
The smell of damp timber mingled with the faint sounds of distant hammering, setting the precarious atmosphere of the settlement. Someone was getting work in early this morning. The morning meeting had barely settled when Margaret cleared her throat.
She didn't interrupt often, but when she did, it meant something had already gone wrong.
"There's a forum post," Margaret began, her voice carrying a deliberate weight as if each word was handpicked and polished. She set her slate flat on the table, a gesture that mirrored the seriousness of her tone. "It's from one of our own."
Harold looked up. "Define ours." Margaret replied in her measured cadence, "The name is registered from this settlement, though I don't recognize it." She paused for emphasis. "Posted last night and it's spreading."
Harold pulled up the forum and went to the trending threads.
It was earnest, proud, and far too detailed. As he read through the post, Harold's stomach tightened, a visceral reaction to the subtle risk it posed. Real housing is going up. Soldiers are drilling daily. Food supply is stable. Healing potions are available. A Lord who actually listens and makes sure we are taken care of. NO CHAOS.
It ended with an invitation.
If you can make it here, come.
It was as if the truth were a coin precariously balanced on its edge, reflecting both sides of reality. It was enough truth to be dangerous, and it didn't exaggerate or lie.
Around the table, people leaned in. Beth's mouth tightened. Hale's expression went flat in a way that Harold hadn't seen before.
"That paints a target," Hale said quietly.
"It paints a beacon," Margaret replied. "Other Lords are already commenting. Some are impressed and asking for advice. Some are skeptical. A few are outright hostile. It had to be one of the people who came after our original group made that oath. The oath wouldn't allow this post."
Caldwell adjusted his papers. "Trade inquiries have tripled overnight. I was gonna bring it up today, but I didn't know why."
Harold didn't speak immediately. "They named me," he said finally.
Margaret nodded. "Indirectly. 'The Lord here is brewing and selling healing potions.' Enough detail that anyone paying attention can connect dots to the only potions available on the market."
Silence followed.
From a morale standpoint, the post was a godsend. From a security standpoint, it wasn't enjoyable. The other Lords were only a couple of weeks' march away. They wouldn't be ready for a campaign for a while, but eventually they would, and their eyes would be on him.
"Other Lords will see this," Hale said. "Some people will see our success and hate us; others will be looking to see if they can steal from us."
Harold exhaled slowly, then leaned forward, thinking it through.
"We need to increase our trade," he said.
Several heads turned.
"More potions, I'll work on increasing output, but we need to get more ingredients."
Caldwell blinked. "That will pull even more attention."
"Yes," Harold said. "And more tools. More metal. More food. Everything we're short on, and to be honest. Most of the Lords looking at this and commenting have no way to impact us. The distance is impossible to overcome, and I know exactly where the other Lords in this valley are."
He looked around the table. "We're surviving on hunting and foraging. That won't scale. We need infrastructure faster than our surroundings will give it to us."
Margaret studied him. "You're choosing acceleration over concealment."
Harold nodded. "Concealment failed the moment that post went up. So I'll use it."
Hale frowned. "And the migrants?"
"We'll need them," Harold said. "Skilled ones especially. But not yet in bulk. If they can make it here, we will take them. We expand food production first. Secure water. Then we absorb. When we advance to a town and can start making outlying villages, we will need the people."
Caldwell nodded slowly. "That's workable, one of the Lords has found a source of gold and silver and is outright buying every potion we can put up. "Let's see how much he really has," he said, smiling.
Harold looked at him, "Sometime today, I want to go over what we have earned so far. We need the gold and silver to start a real economy, but I don't want to discount our other needs."
Margaret hesitated. "There's something else."
Harold looked at her.
"One of the replies," she said. "It stood out."
She turned the slate and tapped a single line.
Either this Lord is very lucky, or very prepared, or he was prepared when we got here.
The room went quiet.
Harold stared at the words longer than necessary.
"Who said it?" he asked.
Margaret shook her head. "It has a name, but there it isn't one I recognize. No settlement tag and no other history."
Harold leaned back slightly.
"Try to find them," he said. The no settlement tag means they aren't associated with a settlement. It's hard to live out there without the support of one. I need to know how close they are."
Margaret nodded once. "Already started, and I've got someone running down who started the post."
Harold's fingers tapped the table.
"Alright," he said. "If they want visibility, we'll control the narrative. We understand there are dangers ahead, yet we will choose progress."
Beth raised an eyebrow. "You want to respond?"
"Yes," Harold said. "I'll make a post."
Margaret's lips pressed together. "That's a choice."
He looked around the table. "We don't deny success. Let's frame it and advertise."
A few minutes later, the slate was passed back to Margaret. The content of his post for her to proofread before he opened the forum to post it.
FROM: HAROLD'S LANDING
We are recruiting skilled labor Builders. Smiths. Glassworkers. Cooks. Organizers. Farmers. Administrators. If your current Lord doesn't value your work, we will. We'll pay. We'll protect. We'll build. Come prepared to work, and we will build a future together. No one left hungry, no voice left unheard. Together, we create a legacy.
Below the post was a crude map and a mark where Harolds Landing was.
Beth exhaled. "That's going to cause a stir; people are still struggling just to survive, and we are trying to get more people."
"Yes," Harold said. "But it filters for the right kind of people, and we do need people."
Caldwell grimaced. "And the wrong kind, this will help with our trading, but we need more goods to trade."
Hale folded his arms. "Then we'll know who's paying attention."
Harold nodded. "I'm also hoping to establish us as a frontrunner and leader of humanity. Eventually, we will have to work with everyone, and establishing a solid reputation early will only help us.
The meeting continued, but the tone had shifted again.
Harold let them gather their things to leave before saying. "Hale. Margaret. Mark," he said. "Stay, please."
The door closed. The room felt smaller immediately.
Harold rested his hands on the table, fingers spread, then looked up at the three of them.
"I want to start building a new arm, "he said quietly.
Mark frowned. "Soldiers?"
"Some," Harold said. "Adventurers, too, I want mixed squads."
Margaret's eyes sharpened. "Scouts."
"Scouts, spies, saboteurs, all of the above," Harold replied.
Hale pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "Go on."
"I need people who can move far from the settlement and survive without support," Harold said. "Days. Weeks. Sometimes longer. People who can observe, map, confirm, disrupt, or kill if needed, and come back alive."
He paused. "We can call them Rangers or something. I'll worry about it later, but I need a way to extend my reach."
Mark let out a slow breath. "That's… ambitious."
"It has to be," Harold said. "We're announcing ourselves now. That means information becomes a weapon. I need an arm that gathers it before it gets used against us. And can act on my behalf."
Harold said. "Soldiers bring discipline and coordination, they provide striking power, and Adventurers bring adaptability and survival instincts. I want people who can function without orders and still act in alignment with our goals."
Mark considered that. "You want people who can make judgment calls."
"They will need to, yes. Disciplined Initiative is the name of the game." Harold said.
Silence settled amongst the group.
Margaret spoke first. "Selection will be delicate."
"That's why you're involved," Harold said. "I need you to vet them."
She nodded once, "I can help with that."
Hale added, "I can identify soldiers who can think on their own and show promise with their mana skills."
Mark leaned forward slightly. "And adventurers who are willing to work without respawn protection."
Harold nodded. "Exactly."
He straightened. "This group won't be public. No titles or announcements. They train quietly, deploy quietly, and come back quietly. We can eventually build them an outpost in the deep forest next to the mountains. I don't want you to start training them yet; earmark people for it for now."
Hale broke the silence. "When do you want this operational?"
Harold met his eyes. "We need to become a town before this can really start, but I will need them before our first year ends."
The three of them exchanged looks.
Then Margaret nodded. "I'll start."
"So will I," Hale said.
Mark gave a short, sharp smile. "Guess I've got work to do."
They turned to leave, but Harold gathered his slate a little too slowly, already suspecting what came next. He glanced at Hale.
"Drills again?" Harold asked.
Hale's mouth curved into something that could only be described as malicious satisfaction.
Harold felt it immediately in the knees.
"Of course," Hale said. "You don't get to talk about building doctrine and then skip legwork."
Harold sighed. "I trained yesterday."
"You survived yesterday," Hale corrected. "Different thing."
Margaret paused at the door, clearly enjoying this more than she should have. "Try not to bleed on anything important," she said pleasantly.
Mark snorted and slipped out.
Hale clapped a hand on Harold's shoulder and steered him toward the exit. "Come on, my lord. Garrick's already warmed them up."
Harold let himself be guided, muttering, "At some point this crosses into abuse."
Hale laughed. "That point was yesterday."
Outside, the sound of shields and boots rose to meet them.
Harold squared his shoulders, adjusted his grip on the slate, and followed anyway.