Calamity Awakens

Harold stacked coins into neat piles, each one catching the glow of the forge fire as though it wanted to matter. Ten silver per settler. Three for every child. He said nothing while he worked—just let the rhythm of metal on wood speak for him.

"I'll save this as pay for the work done and they'll continue to do. Payment for work and loyalty."

The clink of coins was more than sound—it was ownership, weight, promise.

Harold stepped up to the stone, its surface already humming as though it had been waiting for him. The air thickened, and then the panel bloomed into existence—lines of light folding into a shape only he could see.

Names. Numbers. Tiers. Dozens of faces and lives spread out before him like cards on a gambler's table. Too many.

He exhaled slowly and began to filter.

First cut—war-leaders. Minimum Tier 3. He wanted commanders, not braggarts, and the panel obeyed, half the names vanishing into nothingness. He refined further—no conquerors seeking kingdoms already standing, no opportunists sniffing at easy glory. He needed someone who could take nothing and shape it into something. A man or woman who could bleed beside raw recruits and still teach them how to stand. The panel hesitated, narrowed.One after another they stood before him—hard-eyed veterans, armored men and women whose resumes were written in scars. Harold listened.

"I commanded fifty through the marshes of Thal," one boasted.
"I shattered three clans," another declared.

But they wanted armies already drilled, walls already raised, glory ripe for plucking. They spoke of conquest, not creation. Harold dismissed them with a short shake of his head.

"You're not what I need," he said. "I don't need kings of the aftermath. I need someone who can bleed with nothing, build with nothing, and still believe."

None of them answered that call so he moved onto his next recruitment. A merchant.

A slender man stepped forward, shoulders square despite his modest presence. Sethan Marric. Tier 2. Dao of Coin. Hedge Merchant His clothing bore no polish, just patches where seams had been worn and remade.

"Most overlook me," Sethan admitted. His voice wasn't grand, but sharp. "Small family, small shop. But I know what it takes to make silver out of ash. Trade thrives where others falter. You're building a settlement in the shadow of death itself? I'll stake everything here."

His eyes glittered, and Harold saw the hunger—not greed alone, but ambition. A man who would gamble on the impossible if the return was freedom.

"You'll get your chance," Harold said, recruiting him.

"Next I need someone to train these people." Harold said. He filtered it and raised the tier to tier 4. Looking for someone well versed in melee. In making raw recruits into hardened fighters. Someone who had experience delving a dungeon.

Then came a man unlike the rest—broad-shouldered, with a posture more patient than proud. Daran Holt. Tier 4. Dao of Sharpness. Blademaster Class His voice carried weight, his Dao carried through just his voice.

"I shape fighters," Daran said. "Body, blade, discipline and I don't abandon mine."

At his side were four children, half-grown, eyes shadowed with loss. Harold frowned.

"They were orphans of my recruits," Daran explained. "I kept them alive. If I train yours, they stay with me. That's the price."

"I have 30 recruits mostly tier 1, that need to be trained on how to fight and not just fight but fight together. To look out for one another. The place I have is raw and untamed. Almost no resources and what there is to fight to above their tier. They need to be able to fight it.

Daran didn't flinch, didn't posture. Just listened, steady as stone. He breathed, "Challenge is good for us all, as long as you give me time I can make them into what you need."

Harold studied him. Expensive. The most costly choice yet. But steadiness like this was worth more than coin.

"You'll have your place," Harold said at last.

Lastly, I will need some farmers.

Three men stepped forward together in the staging room, shoulders broad from toil, hands rough and scarred far earlier than their years should allow. They didn't posture. They didn't boast.

"Joran," said the eldest. "These are my brothers—Calric and Brennar. We made barley and bitterroot grow on a plateau of stone. Winters that killed livestock, we survived. Give us soil, even poor soil, and we'll make it yield."

Their Dao whispered faintly through the air—Dao of Soil, steady and rooted.

Harold tilted his head. "And herbs? Healing roots, blacksmith's additives?"

Calric nodded once. "We know their place. We've grown them before."

"And brewing?" Harold pressed.

For the first time that night, the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

"Aye," Joran said. "Bitterroot beer that'll make the frost taste warm. Won't be tasteful but it'll work."

Harold almost chuckled. Almost. Instead, he gave them a curt nod. "You're hired."

Harold let the panel fade, the glow of names and faces dissolving into the void as he stepped back from the portal. The echoes of choice still lingered in his mind—the merchant with fire in his eyes, the blademaster steady as a stone pillar, the brothers who could make barren soil yield. Each of them his now. Each of them a gamble on a future that didn't yet exist.

He exhaled, grounding himself, and reached out through Oathsense. Threads of loyalty tugged faintly against his will, and one stood brighter than the rest—Lira. She could sort the new arrivals, turn raw numbers into order.

But then Harold froze. His hand hovered in the air as if stopping himself mid-motion.

Why her? Why again? He had a habit of leaning too heavily on those around him. Always turning soldiers into organizers, healers into leaders. He was building something meant to last—something more than his shadow.

The thought bit at him. Why not find someone made for this? A true manager. Someone who could keep records, assign tasks, track supplies, shape the chaos into something that could grow beyond him.

He let his hand fall. His eyes flicked back to the portal, its silver seam still shimmering faintly as it closed. The choice weighed there in his chest. Soldiers, craftsmen, merchants—they were only the foundation. What he needed now was someone who could weave them together into a settlement worth the name.

"Someone with that much trust and authority here would need to carry my Brand" Harold mused to himself. I have two left. One must go to the future commander I'm thinking about for the soldiers but that third could go to my manager. Something to think about for the future.

"Someone with that much trust and authority here would need to carry my Brand," Harold murmured, half to himself. The weight of it pressed against him. Brands weren't just tools. They were bonds. Chains in both directions.

He flexed his hand, feeling the faint pulse of the two unclaimed Brands. One was already spoken for—the commander he would eventually need to shape these fighters into a proper force. That left a single mark.

The second could go to a manager. Someone who wouldn't just tally grain or issue tools, but weave the whole settlement together—food, labor, defense, trade. Authority meant nothing if it couldn't be trusted, and nothing was more binding than his own Brand.

He couldn't keep holding everything together with raw will. His valley deserved better. Something to think about for the future.

He let the thought rest, for now.

The recruits spilled out of the portal behind Harold, their eyes lifting at once to the hidden valley. Snow powdered the ridges above, the frozen peaks catching the evening light. The longhouse stood tall now, logs set firm, smoke curling from its peak. The beginnings of a forge rose from stone, and houses took shape like promises waiting to be fulfilled.

The merchant—narrow-faced, clothes patched but his eyes sharp—took a long breath, as though the cold itself was coin to be banked. A calculating smile tugged at his lips. "Empty land, hungry people, and no one else in sight," he murmured. "Opportunity."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The three farmer brothers crouched, running thick fingers through the soil where the frost had bitten deep. Joran rubbed the dirt between his palms, nodding as if to himself. "Frozen, but alive," he said. "Give it our hands and it will grow."

Nearby, Daran Holt stood with his four wards. The children shifted nervously at first, but when Brenn's two sons darted out from the half-built house to peek at them, curiosity overtook grief. The valley's laughter—thin and cautious though it was—bridged the distance between them.

Harold watched the scene, his arms folded across his chest. For the first time since stepping through, he allowed himself a small breath of relief. This valley was no longer just vision. It was taking root.

Harold closed out the panel with a thought and turned back to the gathered recruits. His Oathsense reached for Lira, pulling her presence toward him like a quiet tug of thread.

"Lira," he called. She approached, already reading the intent on his face. "These new arrivals need places to start. I want you to assign them where they'll be of the most use—farmers to the soil, the merchant to trade prep, the rest spread where they can strengthen what we're building. Use your judgment."

Her expression was steady, but her nod carried weight.

Harold, meanwhile, turned to Daran Holt. The man's posture hadn't shifted—grounded, unshaken, as if he'd been waiting for Harold's decision all along.

"You come with me," Harold said. "I have thirty recruits—half-starved, half-broken, but alive. I took them during Calamity. For now, I've got them building their own barracks. Until that's finished, the mornings are yours. Training. Break them in, forge them together. They need to learn to fight as one or they won't survive what's outside this valley."

Daran's sharp eyes flickered with approval, the kind of recognition one professional gave another.

They are yours to manage, I have my wolves watching them for any wrong doing. The barracks will be yours to manage as you see fit. I see you as their platoon sergeant if that term carries over here.

"When the barracks are complete," Harold continued, lowering his voice so only the blademaster heard, "the plateau will need a wall. Strong, high, and thick. Kelan will lead that project, and he will have the recruits as his labor force with the same schedule. Until then—discipline and survival. Can you handle that?"

Daran's reply was simple, but edged with steel.
"That, I can."

The scar along his cheek tugged as he let a smile crease his face. But it didn't last. His eyes narrowed, his voice settling like a blade into the air.

"You will join us in the morning."

It wasn't a question. The Dao of Sharpness resonated faintly in his tone, a pressure Harold could feel along his skin like the edge of a whetted sword. Daran's gaze cut straight through him, steady and unyielding, testing not just obedience but commitment.

For a heartbeat Harold bristled—he was no man's subordinate. But then he recognized it. Not arrogance. Expectation.

I exhaled through my nose, holding Daran's stare. The weight of his Dao pressed against me, sharp as a knife's edge.

"I will…" My jaw tightened, then eased. "We'll have to go over some problems with that in the morning, but I will join. I need to learn how to use this axe I've been carrying around."

For a flicker of a moment, the tension shifted. Admitting need was not weakness—it was acknowledging the tools he had yet to master. The axe felt heavy at his side, a symbol as much as a weapon. If Daran could teach men to fight, perhaps he could teach Harold to wield more than just authority.

Daran inclined his head, satisfied. The blade-sharp pressure of his presence eased, though it didn't vanish.
"Good. Then we'll start with you." His scarred smile stretched even further.

Harold's stomach tightened. He'd seen smiles like that before—on sergeants who broke men down until they were unrecognizable, on trainers who believed pain was the only true teacher. Those memories carried the stink of sweat and blood, of endless cycles where the line between survival and collapse blurred.

For a heartbeat, he almost revoked his recruitment until he got over his sudden fear and Harold hurried to pass the man off onto his victims.

The smell of resin and sap clung to the clearing where the recruits worked. Half were bent to the earth, hacking at roots and leveling the ground for the barracks' foundation. The other half followed Brenn and the brothers—Toren and Torvik—swinging crude axes into pine trunks, the steady thud of wood on wood echoing across the valley.

They wore what they had been captured in: patched leathers, tattered cloaks, frayed tunics that offered little against the bite of mountain wind. Fires burned low in a few scattered pits, just enough to warm hands stiff from labor. Smoke curled upward, carrying the acrid scent of green wood that hadn't been given the chance to dry.

Some of the recruits worked with quiet focus, eyes lowered, shoulders hunched as if expecting punishment for slowing. Others glanced often at the horizon, haunted, as though waiting for the snow to swallow them whole.

Harold brought Daran forward, and for a moment, the recruits paused. Tools hung half-raised, breath steaming in the air. They watched the scarred man at Harold's side, and though no words had yet been spoken, they felt the weight of him—the way his presence cut like a whetted edge across the clearing.

"These are yours," Harold said quietly, just for Daran's ears. "Raw. Frayed. But they'll be soldiers, if you can make them into more than what they were."

Daran's gaze swept over them, unflinching. The scar at his jaw tugged faintly as his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

Harold let the silence stretch as the recruits returned to their work—axes striking, shovels biting into earth, shoulders bent against the cold. Then he turned to Daran.

"There will be a meeting at dawn," Harold said. "Be there and I'll explain my problems."

Daran gave a single, sharp nod. Nothing more. The scarred man didn't need words—his presence alone was a blade already being pressed against the recruits' raw edges.

Harold lingered for just a breath longer, watching the scarred trainer and the recruits circling in his gravity. He had handed them off, and in doing so, he knew he had set something in motion that couldn't be undone.

He exhaled and stepped back, retreating from the weight of it. The crackle of the fires followed him as he turned toward the heart of the valley, leaving Daran and the half-clothed recruits to their work.

Harold found Hal near the edge of the fires, the great wolf's pale coat faintly glowing in the night light of the valley. The bond between them pulsed steady through Oathsense, familiar and grounding.

"Come on," Harold murmured, running a hand across Hal's ruff. "We've seen the heart of the place. Time to see its bones."

Before they left, Harold swung by the cookfire. Maela had set a pot to simmer, her hands busy even as exhaustion clung to her shoulders. She pressed a bowl into Harold's hands before he could ask.

"You'll eat if you mean to walk the valley," she said firmly.

Harold gave her a tired nod, "you're a saint Maela" wolfing down the thick stew in a few quick bites. It wasn't much, but the warmth sat heavy in his stomach.

Then he turned, axe at his side, Hal padding silently at his heels. Together they moved toward the slope where the plateau descended into the wider valley. The air grew sharper as the wind funneled up the rocks, carrying scents of pine, stone, and faint traces of beasts.

Harold paused at the edge, scanning the dark treeline below. "Let's move," he said, more to himself than Hal.

The wolf gave a low rumble, and together they began their descent into the valley's depths.

The valley in the late afternoon was different than in pure daylight. The mountains prevented them from getting the full day of sun. Shadows stretched long, and every rustle in the underbrush pressed against Harold's ears like a warning. Hal padded ahead, nose low to the ground, ears twitching at faint sounds only he could hear.

Harold followed carefully, his eyes sweeping the slopes and treeline. He was looking for sign—scratches gouged into bark, the deep impressions of clawed paws, the stink of carrion. The frost bear hadn't shown itself yet, but he knew better than to trust silence. Silence was where death liked to wait.

They moved past a stream, its waters edged with frost even now. Beyond it, the valley spread wide, hidden by the natural walls of mountain and stone. From here, Harold could see the faint glow of fires on the plateau, a fragile sign of life in a place meant for none. Moving over the snow far easier than when he originally came to this planet but still not easy.

He stopped.

His hand rested on the haft of his axe, but his thoughts went elsewhere. He felt inside himself and the Qi he hadn't learned to use yet. Didn't understand what it really meant yet. It sat inside him desiring to be used, to move, to inspire.

Freedom.

That was the word he had wrapped himself in since the beginning. Freedom to choose, to shape his path, to fight without chains. But what had he done? He had captured prisoners, stripped them of choice, and marched them here. Now they would build walls, houses, and barracks. A refuge, yes—but one sealed behind mountains and hidden from the world.

Was that freedom? Or was it a prettier kind of prison?

His oathbound words came back to him: freedom wasn't lawlessness. It wasn't license to do whatever one wanted. It was the chance to shape a life within bounds that made living possible. Yet the bounds he offered here were sharp. Stay. Work. Obey. Survive. What was the difference between freedom and chaos?

The irony dug at him. He had claimed to hate cages, but here he was—hammering one together with stone and willpower.

Hal gave a soft growl, breaking the spiral of thought. The wolf had found tracks—fresh, too small for the bear and not large enough for the goat, Harold crouched to study them, but his mind wasn't on the marks. He let out a breath, slow and quiet.

Maybe freedom wasn't about the walls. Maybe it was about what was chosen inside them. If this place became a cage, then he would have failed. If it became a crucible, a chance for broken people to shape themselves new—then maybe it was still true to the Dao he sought.

"Let's keep moving," Harold said, voice low.

Hal flicked an ear, then padded on. The valley stretched before them, full of dangers and contradictions. And Harold, axe in hand, walked into it—carrying both.

Harold and Hal ranged farther down from the plateau, slipping into the folds of the valley that none of the settlers had touched yet. The shadows pressed heavy, but the wolf's ears and nose did what no torch or lantern could.

Here and there, they found signs of life: a scatter of rabbit tracks in the ash-dusted soil, a herd of elk cutting their trails along the frozen stream, even the claw marks of a fox den dug shallow into a bank. Prey animals.It was enough to breathe easier. The valley held food.

They wove through clusters of birch and pine, circling toward the far wall of the valley. That was when the earth changed. Hal stiffened, nose to the ground, hackles lifting faintly. Not danger—just difference.

Harold followed his gaze. The slope ahead was too neat, too regular. A spill of stone shaped like a fall, except the mouth of it gaped black at the base of the cliff.

A cave. No—more than that. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones, the way the System whispered without words. The dungeon entrance.

He crouched in the snow-thick grass, studying the dark maw. The air that leaked out carried a stale chill, not of wind but of the deep earth.

So this was the heart of the valley. A place of risk and of growth.

Harold set his hand on the haft of his axe, not to draw it, but as a reminder. If the valley was going to thrive, this place would one day matter.

He turned to Hal. The wolf's pale eyes caught the starlight, unblinking. "We'll mark it," Harold said quietly. "I think we will need to build a small fort here to guard and prevent anything from escaping."

They moved back toward the plateau, leaving the cave behind them. The valley was wide and raw, still wild, still theirs to explore. And the freedom to do so did more to lift the heavy thoughts that Harold was dealing with. "Maybe I should talk to Lira," Harold admitted to himself. As they moved back.