Calamity Awakens

"Lets move" I said. "Before more of them decide to come find out what happened here."

The fire in the cave burned hotter than usual, resin-heavy smoke curling toward the ceiling. Rysa had her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back in a messy knot, eyes sharp as she waved us closer.

"Sit. Now." No one argued. She started with Kelan, fingers prodding at his shoulder until he winced. "You're lucky this didn't shear clean through the joint.

She looked at me, you have a skill that heals? Don't use it unless you need to. It's not real healing. Hold still Kelan." She pressed a salve into the wound—smelling of crushed pine and something metallic—before binding it tight with a strip of boiled cloth.

When she turned to me, her gaze narrowed. "You're pale. Mana burn?"

"Bottomed out," I admitted.

She muttered something about reckless idiots as she handed me a small clay cup. The brew was bitter, biting at the tongue, but warmth spread down my throat almost instantly. "Not much, but it'll start your reserves crawling back. Try not to collapse before dawn."

Hal trotted over for his own inspection. His pack watched the prisoners. Rysa ran a hand through his thick ruff, checking for cuts. "Nothing serious. Just needs food." She tossed him a thick strip of dried meat from her pouch.

When she was satisfied, she gestured to a pile of wrapped bundles near the fire. "Your resupply. Food, bandages, a few of the fire-mix vials. Very volatile, don't drop them unless you mean it."

We all settled down to get some rest, the prisoners being watched by the resting wolves. Overall we had captured 8 of them. All tier 2 and a mix of combat classes. I had talked to a couple of them on the way back to get their story. Most of the people involved had stories similar to Auren. I guess this area didn't have a ton of opportunities so people joined or were forced to join. Then once they were involved they either followed orders or were killed.

We set out under a bruised dawn, the kind that stained the sky in smears of rust and smoke. The Ashen Steppes stretched out ahead—endless plains of gray dust, cracked earth, and wind-carved ridges that whispered with every gust. Each step kicked up faint plumes of ash that clung to boots and armor alike, coating everything in the same dull shade.

The prisoners marched in the middle of our formation, unrestrained but unarmed. Their mood happy even though they were technically our prisoners. In the distance, the low sun caught on jagged black rock outcroppings, turning them into a line of serrated teeth marking the edge of enemy ground.

Wind carried the dry tang of burnt earth, mingled with the faint copper of blood from the night before. I could feel the weight of what we were about to do pressing down as tangibly as the grit in my teeth.

By the time the fortress came into view, the air had turned sharp and hot, heat shimmering in the distance despite the early hour. Its walls rose out of the Steppes like a dark scar—slagstone bastions blackened by old fire, their surface still warped and pitted from past sieges.

Figures shifted along the battlements, their outlines stark against the sky. We stopped just outside bow range, the prisoners confirmed they had one else left on the walls that could do the things with a bow that Auren could. They had spotted us and were scrambling around getting more men up on the walls.

I stepped forward, Kelan beside me with the burlap sack. He handed it over without a word, and I felt the weight of it—the heft of finality. I pulled free the armored leader's head, the ash clinging to his hair and pooling in the slack folds of his face.

Without ceremony, I hurled it high. The arc took it just in front of the wall landing with a wet thud carried back to us. Then I walked forward.

"Your strongest is dead," I called, my voice cutting through the dry wind. "You've got an hour to decide whether you want to join him, or surrender now."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the hiss of the wind and the restless shuffle of the prisoners. Then a single, low growl rolled from Hal's chest, echoed by this pack, rumbling across the Steppes like distant thunder.

The gates cracked open with the sound of stone grinding on stone, just wide enough for a man to step through. He wore layered lamellar, polished to a dull bronze, and carried himself like someone used to giving orders and being obeyed.

Auren came over to me quickly. "That man was one of the lieutenants. This won't be a good interaction. He is responsible for keeping the men in line and following orders. He is used to being listened to."

He didn't stop until he was a dozen paces away, chin lifted, eyes scanning me like I was some inconvenience he'd rather deal with quickly.

"You'll release our men," he said, voice smooth but dripping with the kind of haughtiness that came from never once being told 'no.' "You'll return the supplies you stole, and you'll walk away from this fortress before my commander arrives. Do this, and perhaps—"

"Hal."

The wolf padded forward at my call, his paws silent against the ashen earth. The man's voice faltered for half a heartbeat, his hand twitching toward his sword. That was all the time he got.

Hal lunged.

One moment the man was standing there, indignation still curling his lip—the next, he was yanked off his feet, dragged across the grit in a spray of ash. His scream cut short as Hal's jaws locked, the wet crunch of bone carrying farther than his words ever had.

I stepped closer, meeting the eyes of the men still visible on the wall.

"You've got five minutes," I said, voice even, sharp enough to cut through the wind. "Decide if you're walking out of here alive. If not, I send my people in to drag you out—and they won't be nice about it."

Hal dropped what was left of the man at my feet. The wind pulled at the ash, and the silence from the wall told me they understood.

The body at my feet still steamed in the cool air, a spreading pool of dark in the ashen dust. I didn't turn when the laughter started—low at first, then building.

A few of the prisoners sat in a loose knot behind me, their hands still unbound but their posture easy. One—a wiry man with a busted nose that had never healed straight—grinned like he'd just watched the best joke of his life. Another shook his head in quiet satisfaction.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar like a lightning bolt across his cheek, stood. The chains on his wrists clinked as he crossed the space without hesitation. He looked down at the corpse, spat once—hard—and muttered something I didn't catch, but the venom in it was unmistakable.

The contrast between them and the men huddled behind the gates couldn't have been sharper. Out here—some of my prisoners were laughing. In there—their comrades watched, silent, from the walls.

The minutes stretched. I counted them in my head.

Five came and went.

No answer and no surrender.

Somewhere inside, shouting erupted. Then steel rang on steel. A fight had broken out—loud, messy, desperate. Shadows on the wall shifted, then vanished entirely. No one manned the battlements now.

"Time's up," I said.

I moved in, closing the distance to the fortress until the rough-cut stone of the wall loomed above me. I could feel the drain coming before I even started—the weight of what I was about to do settling into my bones.

One hand on the nearest shoulder—Auren first. Mana surged, reality bent, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone from my side, appearing atop the wall with his bow already coming up.

Kelan next—same rush of power, same gut-deep pull as I ripped the space between apart and dropped him where he needed to be. Again and again, until every one of my fighters was inside. By the last jump, my vision was swimming, the mana draw almost bottoming me out so hard my hands shook.

From the shouts and cries inside, the tide turned fast. There were probably around 70-80 people left from the original 200 strong force. But their losses, desertion and infighting had reduced that number.

On the inside Auren's arrows found their marks. Kelan's earthshaping split lines of defense and pickaxe crushed any resistance. I could hear him shouting at people to surrender. Hal let out a freezing howl drowning out the fight within. Within minutes, the gates groaned open from the inside.

I walked through, stepping over the fallen. By the time we reached the central yard, the survivors were on their knees bloody and disarmed.

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I scanned my people for injuries—none. Hal lounged near the gate, his bulk flanked by the ashen wolves, their eyes sweeping the line of beaten prisoners. Pride radiated from him in steady waves, the kind of smug satisfaction only a predator could have after a successful hunt. His wolves paced down the rows, snapping or growling whenever one of the prisoners twitched the wrong way.

Auren still held position on the wall, bow loose but ready, eyes tracking the horizon. Kelan stood at the head of the captured, stone armor chipped in places but otherwise unbroken. If they'd managed to land blows on him at all, it hadn't been enough to matter.

After the fighting, about fifty remained. Enough to be a problem if I let them.

Then the system message blinked into my vision.

Finally.

I met Kelan's gaze and smiled. "Time's up. Secure every scrap of loot. Anything we can strip from this place comes with us. Gather it here, and I'll show you how we're getting it back."

Reaching through the Oathsense, I focused on Rysa. First time trying it with a lower-tier Brand, and the resistance hit me like trying to push a boulder uphill. I doubled down, forcing my will forward until something in the connection gave with a sharp mental pop.

Rysa. It's Harold.

The link sharpened, her presence suddenly there on the other side.

You've got four minutes to gather what you need from the cave, I told her. Then I'm bringing you here, and you won't be going back.

Now the hard part

"Gerold! I know you can hear me!" My voice carried across the gully, firm enough to leave no question it was an order, not a request. "Get down here—please."

The moment passed in unanswered silence. The air in front of me rippled, light bending in on itself until it split apart into a clean, vertical seam of silver. From it, Gerold stepped as if emerging from a long, calm corridor, his posture perfect, his dark coat uncreased despite the ash drifting lazily through the air. Silent lightning still danced faintly across his shoulders before fading away entirely.

His eyes swept over the battered fort and the men I'd broken—fifty survivors, stripped of weapons, guarded by wolves and armed allies. His gaze took in every detail without a flicker of surprise, but there was a pause, just long enough to feel like judgment.

When he spoke, his voice was as precise and measured as ever.
"This is highly irregular, Harold. You have no reason to call me here. What is it you need?"

He didn't ask why I'd taken the place, why the ground was still dark with blood, or why half my people looked like they'd been through a storm of steel. He kept his hands clasped loosely behind his back, every inch the composed envoy, as if we were negotiating over a trade ledger instead of standing in the aftermath of a slaughter.

"I want a way to bring this group and any supplies i take with me back my new settlement."

I didn't bother with pleasantries.
"I need to get all of this—" I gestured at the prisoners, the stacked gear, the crates, the scavenged weapons, "—back to my settlement. Every man and every scrap is value I can't replace. They're labor, guards, builders, future hunters… and if I have to leave any of it behind, it's a waste I can't afford."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You want to recall more than yourself. Much more. That is… outside the normal parameters."

"I'm aware. But I'm not leaving behind trained killers I can turn into loyal fighters, or food and tools I can use to keep my people alive. I want them all back in my valley. I want them working for me by the next cycle."

"You're asking for a tactical recall that works on others, and at scale. That is not a minor adjustment—it is a fundamental rewrite of your power."

"I don't care what it's called," I said flatly. "It's what I need."

Gerold clasped his hands behind his back, studying me in that measured way of his. "You've never been shy about pushing boundaries. But you are not the one who sets them."

The words hit harder than I liked. It had been a long time since I'd had someone over me, deciding what I could and couldn't do. Commanders. Superiors. And now a god's envoy, telling me where my leash ended. I could already feel the old resentment coiling in my gut.

But then my mind flicked to the valley. The snow on the ridges at dawn. The forge's smoke curling into the cold air. The sound of kids laughing and pelting each other with snowballs while Hal kept watch. Nights by the fire with the frost wolf pressed against my side, safe and warm.
There was beauty there—worth. That valley wasn't just a place to hole up between fights. It was something I could build into more than I'd ever had before. If that meant tolerating a leash a little longer… maybe it was worth it.

Gerold broke the silence. "I will not grant you that power now. But here is my offer: I will ensure your loot and prisoners return to your settlement this time. In exchange, you will develop your Tactical Recall—advance it by twenty-five levels—so that the capacity to move others can be bound into you permanently."

"That's it?" I asked, suspicious.

"That's half," he said, a faint smile curling his lips. "The other half is that I will place a hand upon your Divine Path. You are a Divine Class holder, Harold, though you may not fully understand it yet. Such classes have sponsors. Yours is Verordeal."

The name thrummed in my bones.

"Your class exists to build and develop others—exactly what a Calamity was always meant to do. But Divine Classes have… conditions. You will face tests from your sponsor. Difficult, dangerous, defining. I will alter one of those tests. Not to ease it, but to suit my own priorities. You will take it when Verordeal decides, and you will remember that I had my hand in it."

I thought about arguing. Then I thought about the crates. The prisoners. The valley. Finally, I gave him a short nod. "Deal but on one condition. Do not move these prisoners for me, grant me the option to do as a modifier and I will do it myself. Then reduce how much influence you have in my test by a proportional amount."

The air around us shimmered, and I realized nothing outside had moved since he arrived. Time had been frozen. Gerold stepped toward the silver seam that had split the air.

"Deal." "Do not call me like this again, Harold," he warned. "My time here is spent in lives elsewhere. Remember that."

The seam closed, and sound rushed back—wolves pacing, prisoners shifting, the clatter of gear being moved. All of it mine now.

The seam closed. Sound and movement slammed back into place—wolves pacing, prisoners shifting nervously, the clatter of scavenged gear being stacked higher. All of it was mine now.

I turned and called out, "Auren. First group of prisoners—bring them forward."

Auren hopped down from the wall, bow slung, his expression unreadable. The prisoners shuffled closer, chains rattling. Some wouldn't meet my eyes. Others glared, defiant.

"Point them out," I told him. "The worst of them. The ones who wouldn't hesitate to stab us in the dark, burn our homes, or slit a child's throat for a coin."

Auren's gaze swept the line, sharp and deliberate. He tapped the end of his bow to one man's chest—a thick-necked brute whose knuckles were scarred from old fights. Then another—lean, twitchy, eyes darting like a rat's. One by one, he named them, voice flat.

Rysa joined in, adding names. Her picks were quieter men, but their eyes were colder. These weren't survivors. They were predators.

By the time they were done, I had a dozen standing apart from the rest. Most of them tier 2 but a couple tier 1's in the mix.

"You're not coming back with me," I told them, voice even. "You're not worth the food, the work, or the risk. But you will serve a purpose before you die."

One man spat at my feet. Another cursed. Most just stared—too tired or too proud to beg.

Hal padded up beside me, tail low, eyes locked on them. Through the Brand, I sent a single, sharp intent. Hunt.

The wolves moved like smoke and iron. The prisoners didn't have time to scream before the ash-dusted earth was painted in reds and greys. I stood still, watching the arcs of motion, feeling the faint pull of strength with every kill.

Kelan had already turned away, jaw tight, his armor catching the dull light. He didn't need to speak—I could feel the edge of his disapproval through the Brand. That conversation would come later.

A notification flared into view.

I ignored everything else, searching for the one I'd bargained for. It was there, exactly as I'd asked. I selected it without hesitation.

Breathing out slowly, I turned to Auren and Kelan.
"Finish gathering the supplies. Hal—send a couple of your wolves out. I want to know if anyone's hiding here, especially the original inhabitants. I'd be surprised if this incompetent lot managed to kill them all. Kelan, see if you can find any hidden rooms with your Dao. We're running out of time before the pull back hits—move fast."

The air stank of blood and iron. Wolves padded through the fort, their breath steaming in the cool air, but the sounds were muted—muffled by the weight in my own head.

The fight was over. The loot was ours. The prisoners—what remained of them—were lined up under Kelan's watch. By every practical measure, this had been a success.

So why did it feel like the taste of ash in my mouth?

I went over it in my head, piece by piece. The ambush. The armored man. The call to Gerold. The executions. None of it had been impulsive. Every step had been deliberate, measured for effect. And yet, I could already feel the shape of the consequences forming in the space between my ribs.

There was a reason they'd called me the Butcher before. Not because I raged. Not because I killed without thought. But because when the decision came, I cut clean and deep. The blade doesn't flinch. That's what makes people afraid. That's what earns the name.

A Stoic might say to measure actions by necessity, not comfort. To act without fear or hope—only in accordance with what is required. I told myself that was what I had done here. That it was necessary. And maybe it was. But necessity has a way of carving pieces out of you until you're left wondering how much is left.

Still… there was beauty worth defending. A quiet, snow-draped valley. Evenings with Hal's steady breathing beside me. Children laughing, their voices carrying over the not even half built forge's glow. The smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread. That was why I was here. That was why I'd bleed, and why I'd make others bleed. A retreat to return to—one place in all the worlds I would not let fall.

Boots scuffed against stone. I looked up to see Kelan and Hal returning. Kelan's armor was scuffed but unbroken, his expression unreadable. Hal trotted at his side, his pack fanning out to flank the prisoners.
"Everything's gathered," Kelan said.

I nodded once. "Good."

I stepped into the open space at the center of the fort and called the portal into being. The air shimmered, folded, and tore—revealing the mouth of the cave where the hidden valley began. This was the gift of my new modifier: a single destination, always the same. Home.

"Let's move," I said, voice carrying over the clatter of gear and the shuffle of bound feet. "Everything and everyone goes through."

The portal's edges rippled in the dying light, a doorway back to the only thing that mattered.