Dawn came slowly.
Like a hesitant visitor, pale gray light pierced through the Blackwood Forest, brushing against the outpost's battered walls.
What it revealed was not renewal—
but ruin.
The ground was soaked dark with blood. Broken weapons, shattered wood, and lifeless bodies lay scattered in silent testimony to the night's brutality. The air was thick with the stench of death.
No one spoke.
One by one, the survivors rose from their brief, restless sleep and began their work.
Cleaning the battlefield.
Colin led without a word.
He dragged corpses out beyond the walls, one after another, piling them into a grim heap. The women followed, forcing themselves to overcome fear and revulsion, carrying torn limbs and bloodied remains with trembling hands.
When it was done—
"Burn it," Colin said.
His voice was dry. Hollow.
Goff stepped forward and threw a torch onto the pile.
Flames roared to life.
Black smoke rose into the sky as the fire consumed flesh and bone alike. The crackling of burning bodies filled the air, accompanied by a nauseating, inescapable stench.
No one turned away.
That smoke—
was their answer.
A silent declaration to Westwind City.
When the enemies were gone—
it was time to bury their own.
Behind the outpost, on a quiet hillside touched by sunlight, two graves were dug.
Sarah.
Ira.
Their bodies were cleaned, wrapped carefully in cloth.
Goff carried Sarah himself. His weathered hands lingered on the linen, gently, as if trying to remember warmth that had already faded.
Linna placed a small white flower—plucked from the forest—beside Ira.
There were no markers.
No speeches.
Colin stood before the graves.
Everyone followed.
He bowed.
Deep.
Then spoke—
"Blood debts must be repaid in blood."
Nothing more.
Nothing needed.
Grief was buried with them.
But survival did not wait.
Blackwood Castle was barely standing.
Repairs began immediately.
Colin and Goff took the heaviest work—tearing apart the ruined gate and rebuilding it from whatever could be salvaged. The others patched walls, reset traps, reinforced weak points.
Even the children worked.
Small hands carving stakes.
Shaping arrows.
Trying, in their own way, to belong.
Lina organized the spoils.
What little there was.
They had not wiped the enemy out completely—so much had been lost in the chaos.
Still, she counted:
Weapons.
Armor.
A handful of bows.
Barely enough arrows.
A small pouch of coins.
And a cheap bottle of medicine taken from the enemy commander.
"Colin," she said softly, bringing them forward.
"Store it," he replied without looking.
She nodded and obeyed.
By dusk, the gate stood again.
Crooked.
Rough.
But standing.
That night, beneath the glow of a campfire, Colin gathered everyone.
The first gathering of Blackwood Castle.
They were exhausted.
Wounded.
Grieving.
But their eyes—
Burned brighter than ever.
"Today," Colin began, his voice steady, "we are standing here… instead of lying in ashes."
His gaze moved across them.
Stopping—
On Linna.
"Linna!"
She startled, stepping forward.
"You broke the enemy's charge with that log," Colin said. "You crushed their courage."
He handed her a short sword—taken from the commander.
"Your trophy."
She froze.
Then accepted it, hands trembling.
Tears filled her eyes—but her back stood straight.
"Uncle Goff," Colin continued, turning.
"Your arrows carried death itself."
Goff said nothing.
But his grip on his bow tightened.
Finally—
Colin looked at Finney.
The outsider.
Still uncertain.
Still watching.
"You earned your place," Colin said.
"I don't care who you were."
"From the moment you fought with us… you became one of us."
He paused.
Then his voice rose.
"From this day forward—"
"There are no more Broken Tooth Tribe."
"No more slaves."
His gaze burned with certainty.
"We have only one identity."
He lifted his hand.
"People of Blackwood Castle!"
For a heartbeat—
Silence.
Then—
"People of Blackwood Castle!"
Finney shouted first.
Others followed.
Voices rising.
Merging.
Echoing into the dark forest.
Fear faded.
Grief softened.
Something new took root.
And in that twilight—
Blackwood Castle was truly born.