Calamity Awakens

Harold's hands were blistered, his shoulders sore, and his legs ached like he'd walked across three worlds. And yet—as he sat by the fire that night, watching the crackling flames bounce off a dozen new faces—he felt good.

Honest work had a way of grounding a man.

They'd spent the rest of the day cutting trees, hauling logs, and stacking rough-hewn lumber into organized piles. Kelan worked like a man possessed, coordinating the teams with sharp gestures and short commands. The axe-fighter brothers had proven quick learners, turning raw timber into usable beams. The lumberjack, Brenn, had split logs with rhythmic ease while his wife set up a makeshift kitchen and got the fire roaring. Even Lira had joined in where she could, checking for frostbite, bandaging splinters, and keeping the children warm.

The air smelled of sap and woodsmoke, and the dull thump of axes echoed through the valley until the light began to fade.

Now, as stars pricked through the sky above the hidden valley and the fire roared bright against the cold, Harold stood with his hands outstretched toward the flames.

It was time.

He turned to face the gathered recruits—some sitting on bedrolls, others perched on logs or stones, all with tired but curious eyes.

"I know it's been a long day," Harold said, voice carrying through the clearing. "All of you came here knowing the risks. But all of you chose to come and that means something to me."

Hal padded quietly up beside him, sitting like a silent sentinel. The frost wolf's breath curled in the cold air, steam rising from his nose as he watched the crowd.

"I'm Harold," he continued. "I came here to this forgotten and forsaken world by the God Verordeal, Kelan came soon after when I Branded him. And that's something you all deserve to understand."

He took a breath. "I am a Calamity. Not like the ones from legends who only leave destruction in their wake—but I've been marked by Ascension and by Verordeal to test others. Every day, I'm required to complete one of those trials. And those trials can be dangerous, messy, and often brutal. But I don't do them because I want to. I do them because it's the price for the power that reincarnated me here."

A murmur swept through the group, uncertain and low.

"I try to bring back supplies every time. Gear. Coin. Rations. Tools. People If I can. Every mission, I risk it so this place can grow. What you see here? A fire, axes, tents, some coin—it came from those trials. And I'm not stopping. I've got another one tomorrow. And the day after that."

He glanced at the flames again. "But I want to make sure the good outweighs the bad. That for every person I test, ten more find safety here, but make no mistake Intend to make this valley my home, my fortress. I will be hunted, I need somewhere I can retreat to. I will be hunted because of what I am."

The air was silent except for the fire crackling and wind rustling the trees.

"If that makes you uneasy, I understand. But I won't lie about what I am. You all deserve the truth."

Lira watched him carefully but said nothing.

Kelan crossed his arms beside the fire. "You don't have to like it," he added, "I was the first person Harold brought Calamity to, even then he was more fair with me than he had a right to. More importantly to me, he gave me a chance that wasn't available where I was. I intend to follow him." A few nods followed. No one stood up to leave.

Harold let out a breath. "Good. Now—on to something lighter."

He gave a half-smile. "I'm still recruiting. We've got shelter underway, but we're gonna need a tanner soon. If we're lucky, Ferin and his hounds will start bringing back hides and meat, and we'll need someone who can process and preserve all of it."

His eyes swept the group.

"And after that? A merchant. Someone who can manage our supplies, organize trade, and help us figure out what we actually have. There's only so long I can keep tracking this all by memory."

That got a few chuckles.

"We're not just surviving here. We're claiming this place. No lords, no taxes, no masters. Just a community built by people who chose to be here. For now at least…Im sure that will come eventually but for now this is just us surviving together and building something together. An opportunity for us all. Out here is Freedom in its most distilled form."

A long moment passed before Lira finally raised her voice. "If anyone has injuries, come to me after. And if you're one of the new kids planning to start tomorrow by swinging an axe without eating first—I'll personally knock sense into you."

Laughter rippled through the group.

Harold grinned. "Alright then. That's the speech. Welcome to the valley."

The fire popped loudly behind him, casting long shadows against the towering walls of stone.

They still had miles to go. But tonight—under stars and flame and the quiet hush of fresh snow—they had taken the first step.

The fire had burned low by the time the camp began to quiet.

Blankets were shared. Bedrolls were laid close to one another in tight circles around the heat. Children whispered softly before sleep took them, the crackling fire a lullaby in the cold. Hal remained on watch near the treeline, ears twitching at every shifting wind or owl's cry. Even now, no one questioned the frost wolf's presence. He belonged as much as any of them.

Harold lay on his back staring at the stars through the canopy gaps. His muscles throbbed from the day's work, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that told him something real had started. He still had a Calamity to bring tomorrow, and the weight of a village to build. But right now, there was fire, safety, and people who had chosen to be here.

Eventually, sleep claimed him.

The next morning the sharp scent of cooking meat stirred Harold from slumber.

He blinked awake to the low golden light of early dawn filtering through the trees. Smoke drifted from the firepit in thin coils, and something was sizzling on a skillet—not just reheated rations, but real food.

Harold pushed himself upright with a groan and squinted toward the source.

Brenn's wife, Maela, stood over a flat iron pan balanced carefully across two stones. She stirred something thick and fragrant with the handle of a wooden spoon. Slices of dried meat were being pan-fried alongside a bubbling mash of root vegetables and crushed nuts. The smell was rich and earthy, tinged with salt and garlic.

"Morning," she said brightly, not turning. "You're just in time. It's not fancy, but it's hot."

Harold sat up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't realize we had anything left that could taste this good."

She smiled without looking up. "I worked kitchens before I met Brenn. You learn how to stretch rations when soldiers are hungry and pay's late. Found some dried leeks in your loot bag, by the way. You toss them in with boiled roots, and suddenly it's stew."

"Remind me never to doubt hiring a cook again," Harold said, standing and stretching as more of the camp began to stir.

The axe-fighter brothers emerged from under a tarp they'd lashed together. Lira was already up, checking on the youngest children and handing them small wooden cups of hot broth. Kelan approached from the woods with a stack of firewood and dropped it beside the pit with a grunt.

Hal stretched and gave a slow shake, ears flicking as he trotted over to curl beside Harold, eyes alert but calm.

Maela ladled out the stew into battered tin bowls and passed them around. No one needed prompting.

As Harold sat with his bowl warming his hands, he glanced around the growing circle of tired but comforted faces. The food wasn't extravagant, but it was real. It had depth, warmth, and intention behind it—and that meant something.

"Eat up," Maela said. "You've got another day of building ahead of you."

Harold nodded slowly, then turned to Kelan. "Let's eat, then hit the Calamity early. Loot everything we can carry back, grab what levels we can, and keep pushing. Shelter comes first."

Kelan grunted in agreement, taking a long sip from his bowl. "We'll haul till our backs give out. With luck, we finish the frame before nightfall."

"I'll talk to Lira," Harold said, standing and brushing the frost from his trousers. "Let her know the plan. She needs to hold enough mana in reserve so she's ready to heal us when we get back. That fight with Vasha proved we can't roll back into camp broken."

He glanced toward the makeshift work zone where Lira was sorting dried herbs with two of the children nearby.

"Oh—and that dwarf? I know she wants to get a forge going," Harold added, lowering his voice. "But until we've got proper shelter, I want her helping haul and prep lumber. The longhouse goes up first, then we'll carve out space for everything else."

Kelan smirked. "You're getting the hang of this leadership thing."

Harold snorted. "I'm just trying to keep us alive."

With that, he finished the last bite of his stew, exhaled through his nose, and headed off to find Lira.

Harold found Lira crouched near the central fire pit, sorting bundles of dried moss and herb packets onto a length of cloth. The smoke curled low in the crisp morning air, and a few of the children were nearby—quiet, bundled in cloaks, sharing a bowl of leftover stew.

"Morning," Harold said.

Lira glanced up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I saved what I could of our better poultices. And I've already told the older ones to keep an eye on the younger while I work. What's the plan?"

"Calamity run," he said simply. "Kelan and I are heading out early. Shouldn't be gone too long—the space we go to is frozen in time. We're trying to loot as much as we can and push our levels. But we've got to move fast. I want shelter framed out before sunset."

Lira nodded, her expression tightening. "What do you need from me?"

"Keep mana in reserve in case we need healing upon returning, I've lost Hal once and I cant do it again."

"You got it." Lira replied with a firm expression.

"And tell the others—Maela, the lumberjack's crew, and the twins—to stay focused on lumber prep. Kelan wants logs moved and cut for walls. Anything that slows that down can wait. We'll need a dry, sealed space before the next storm rolls in."

"I'll handle it," she said.

He paused. "And the dwarf—Ilga—tell her I know she wants to start forging, but we need hands on construction first. No forge till we have somewhere dry to put it."

Lira gave him a dry look. "That'll go over well."

"I'll deal with her if she pushes. Just keep her pointed at the lumber until we're back."

With that, he gave her a nod, turned on his heel, and strode toward the treeline where Kelan and Hal were already waiting near the glowing glyphs of the Recruitment Stone.

Kelan gave him a nod as he approached. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Harold glanced at the others. "Let's see who the system throws at us today."

He stepped over to the other two then world around them shimmered—and with a flash of light, they were gone.

The light faded, and the familiar stillness of the staging area settled around Harold. The air was neutral, scentless, timeless—like a place outside of life itself.

He didn't linger.

"Let's not waste time," Harold muttered, swiping open the Calamity panel with a practiced motion.

The system flickered, bringing up rows of names, worlds, and filtered options. He narrowed it quickly—Tier 1 targets, combat-oriented, preferably isolated, and with usable gear. They needed loot and levels, not another drawn-out moral dilemma.

A profile snapped into place.

Target: Garron Fel

Planet: Therris

Power: Level 56

Class: Blood Disciple

Dao Path: Blood

Notes: A member of a roaming band of raiders. Gained Dao insight while executing a betrayal on his lieutenant taking his spot.

How about this guy Kelan, get in no talking, kill this guy and leave. If he's a lieutenant then the rest of them can't be strong. I bet we can take what he needs from this group or just kill them all.

Kelan leaned in, scanning the profile.

"Blood Dao. That means he's probably got some kind of leech or regeneration," he muttered. "But if he gained his Dao from betrayal, odds are the others don't trust him. That'd give us an edge."

Harold nodded. "Exactly. This isn't a story mission—this is a smash-and-grab. No drawn-out moral judgment, no complicated recruitment—just break his face, loot the bodies, and bounce."

Kelan rolled a shoulder, his stone-plated arm cracking faintly. "Fast in. Fast out. I like it."

"Hal?" Harold called.

The frost wolf looked up from his perch near the portal arch, eyes alert and ears twitching. He rose smoothly, tail flicking.

Harold confirmed the target.

The world tilted.

They dropped onto a scorched plain in lightning under a blood-red sky. The air smelled of iron and dry smoke, the taste of ash thick in their throats. In the distance, tattered tents flapped in the wind, circling a small camp built around a set of jagged stone outcrops.

Smoke curled from a central firepit. Half a dozen figures lounged around it—resting, sharpening weapons, laughing in low, cruel voices.

And there, sitting atop a crude stone throne with a massive cleaver across his lap,a body at his feet, was Garron Fel.

He was thickly muscled, skin marked with jagged scars and faded tattoos, some glowing faint red. His eyes were dull—until they snapped straight to Harold's group.

"A Calamity," he growled, rising to his feet. The cleaver hissed as it dragged across the stone.

Harold didn't bother with a greeting.

"Now," he said, and surged forward.

The instant Harold locked in the Calamity, the world blurred—and then they were there.

A scorched wasteland outside a raider encampment, tents flapping in the dry wind. Smoke curled from distant fires, and at the center of it all stood Garron Fel—Level 56, Blood Disciple, flanked by half a dozen raiders and bone-studded tents. The blood-slick cleaver on his back dripped with residual Dao energy that he just earned, still faintly pulsing.

He was just starting to turn around noticing the lighting lance down.

"Go," Harold said coldly.

Hal moved first—fast. He burst from concealment like a streak of snow and death, slamming into the nearest raider with a crash. Claws tore through leather. Blood sprayed. The man didn't scream—his throat was already gone.

Kelan roared and followed, activating his Brand as stone erupted along his arms and chest. A raider charged him—Kelan ducked a swing and answered with a piledriver punch to the ribs. The impact cracked like thunder. The raider flew sideways, smashing through a tent post in a tangle of limbs and canvas.

Garron turned. "What the fu—"

Harold struck.

Brandflare.
He activated the skill with a flash of intent. Soul energy surged from both Kelan and Hal, their brands flaring like coals thrown into a forge.

The air pulsed.
The enemy stuttered.

Every raider within sight flinched—silenced.

Garron staggered mid-step, blood magic flickering around his hands and then vanishing into smoke. "What did you—?"

Harold stepped forward—not to strike, but to control.

"I'm the reason you can't use your skills," he said. "Now die."

Garron howled and charged straight for him—but Harold didn't move to meet him. He stepped aside, baiting the swing—

—Kelan was already there.

He caught Garron mid-swing, slamming a stone-armored fist into the raider's elbow. Bone snapped. The cleaver clattered to the dirt. Kelan was a tank sheathed in stone.

Another raider ran toward Harold. Hal intercepted mid-lunge, barreling into the attacker with a deep-throated growl and driving him down. Ice surged from the frost wolf's jaws, freezing blood to bone. Harold could feel Hal's skill Pack Instinct active as they moved in sync with each other

Harold circled behind Garron and shouted, "Kelan, the leg! Take him down!"

Kelan swept low and smashed a heel into Garron's kneecap. The Blood Disciple crumpled with a scream as his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. He tried to crawl away, blood pulling toward him in sluggish strands.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"I know what you're trying," Harold muttered. "Too slow."

Hal bounded past Harold and pounced, landing square on Garron's back. The raider screamed as fangs drove into his shoulder, shaking violently. Kelan knelt beside them and smashed the Blood Disciple's skull with a stone-formed fist.

Twice.

Three times.

Silence.

The battlefield quieted, the last few raiders dead or frozen in partial dismemberment.

Harold stood over the corpse, breathing hard, heart pounding—but his hands were clean. He hadn't struck a single blow.

Notifications pulsed softly at the edge of his vision and he dismissed them.

Kelan looked up, blood and dirt smeared across his face. "Brutal"

Harold nodded. "Efficient."

Hal paced beside them, ears flicking as he sniffed the wind.

"Loot fast," Harold said, already moving toward Garron's tent. "Then we burn the rest."

They didn't linger.

Harold pulled open Garron's tent while Kelan and Hal moved through the camp like a cleanup crew. Inside were crude trophies, a half-melted bedroll, and a reinforced chest tucked beneath a cracked table. Harold dragged it out with a grunt, flipping the latch.

Silver coin gleamed beneath scrap weapons and bundled scrolls. A folded map marked with blood ink lay on top—routes, hideouts, possible raiding targets. He took it all.

"Got a few crates over here with salted meat and gear," Kelan called out, hauling them one by one into the cleared center of camp. "Some usable boots, too."

"Take the boots. Take everything."

By the time they finished, they'd packed two crates and a single iron-bound chest. Harold made a note to sort it later—they didn't have time now.

He activated the return panel.

The air shimmered, light bending around them—and with a soft rush of pressure, the world folded inward.

They landed back in the staging room with a thud of crates and a gust of stale air. The familiar blank expanse greeted them, and the system chimed softly at the edge of Harold's vision.

We can still carry more back, let's do another one and see if we can hit level 50 before going back. Though I have been wondering something about the two of you. Why are you both so much more powerful than anyone else we have fought?"

Kelan gave Harold a long look, then crossed his arms. "You really don't know?"

Harold raised a brow. "I know you were strong when I Branded you—but that strength has only grown. And Hal's not a normal wolf pup anymore. Most of the Tier 1s we've faced would be lucky to land a single hit before getting flattened. I'm not complaining. I'm just… noticing."

Kelan shrugged. "The brand, probably. Or maybe it's the Dao guidance your class gives us. But it's not just that."

Hal let out a low chuff, padding in a slow circle before flopping down beside one of the crates, tail thumping once.

Kelan continued, "Think about it. We've been gaining levels through constant combat. Focused improvement. Very little downtime. Most people don't live like that. They gain a level every few weeks, maybe that if they are a crafter class. Combat classes can gain levels like we do but tier 1's just don't do this. We've lived on the edge for days now, then since the Brand I've gotten more stat points per level and I've connected with my Dao in a way others just don't. My power isn't just deeper but broader than it should be. I talked to Lira about it yesterday. She isn't as connected as I am, then on top of that it's very rare for any tier 1 to gain a Dao. The extra power that comes from that is no joke."

"But that's just numbers," Harold said, frowning. "You fight like someone who's trained for years. And Hal—he's learning tactics. Strategy."

Kelan nodded. "Maybe that's part of the Branding too but well ... .I have trained for years. My father trained me for years on the side when we didn't work in the mine. You said it yourself—your class guides us toward enlightenment. I can feel something when we fight on the edge of my senses…then considering Halvor has two Dao's at tier 1 on top of that monsters are more physically powerful than people. It's no wonder we killed those people."

Harold fell silent, the weight of that settling in his chest. He looked toward the staging screen again, eyes narrowing slightly.

"And if we keep pushing, keep fighting...?"

Kelan's expression didn't change. "Then we'll become monsters to match the ones out there."

Hal didn't move, but his icy blue eyes opened slightly at that. Watching. Listening.

Harold nodded slowly. "Can we fight a tier 2? Maybe if we can find a weak target?"

He turned back toward the screen to look.

The system shimmered to life again—panels unfolding, options blooming like a deck of cards fanned across an invisible table. The familiar categories hovered at the top: he changed the tier limit to tier 2 and the level limit to 110.

The screen flickered, processing the request. The background pulsed with a faint red hue—warning, maybe. A silent note that he was pushing higher than before.

A new list appeared and it didn't take long for Harold to find his target. Another summoner like his first target.

Target: Kessh the Bone-Marked

World: Gorran Fenlands

Level: 109

Class: Bonecaller (Tier 2)

Dao Path: Death, Swarm

Background: Once a tribal seer, Kessh earned a Dao revelation of Swarm for connecting the exoskeleton of insects to his Dao of Death.

Harold nodded, eyes locked on the screen. "If he's a summoner, the longer we wait, the worse it gets. We take him fast, before he builds momentum."

Kelan's expression tightened. "Bonecaller with Swarm affinity… not just summoning skeletons. He'll have insect constructs. He connected swarm tactics with necromancy, we're dealing with coordinated minions. Think chokepoints. Fire if we can."

"Swamp or caves," Harold echoed. "Caves are easier to bottleneck. Swamp… less so."

Hal's ears perked up as Harold finalized the selection. The frost wolf circled once, then stood at attention. Ready.

Harold inhaled slowly, was about to tap Initiate Calamity then thought of something. We got a bunch of bad alcohol from the last guy didnt we ... .lets make some flamebombs for this guy just in case.

Kelan raised an eyebrow. "Flamebombs?"

Harold was already digging through the crates they'd brought back. "Yeah, that raider lieutenant had barrels of rotgut—tastes like piss and burns like oil. If we soak some cloth, stuff it in glass bottles, we've got a swampfire surprise."

Kelan gave a slow nod. "Improvised alchemy. I like it."

Harold pulled out three of the cloudy bottles, the glass thick and slightly warped. "Not perfect, but they'll shatter on impact. Hal, stay back when these go flying."

He found a torn banner from the battlefield, ripped it into strips, and shoved them into the bottle necks, soaking the cloth with the foul liquor. It stung his nose and made his eyes water, but when he lit a spark off the end of one, it flared bright and fast.

"Yeah," Harold grinned. "This'll light up a swarm just fine."

"We hit the caster with one if we get a chance," Harold said, stuffing the last flamebomb into his pack. "Bonecallers might not be flammable, but bark and chitin sure are."

He turned back to the panel.

Initiate Calamity: Kessh the Bone-Marked

With a flash of red light, the world shifted again.

Halvor's POV – "The Pack Is Everything"

The world cracked open in thunder.

Hal landed low, shoulders rippling, breath fogging in the heavy swamp air. His paws sank into slick, rotting earth.

He lifted his nose—stench everywhere. Decay, insects and Death. But underneath it, faint and steady—his pack.

The air shivered and he bristled, his fur standing on end from the lightning still.

Something was coming.

No sound—then a strike from the sky. Black Lightning. Just power. It smashed the ground ahead and a reptilian shape emerged from the muck.

Hal growled.

The figure was wrapped in bone and bug. The scent of him was old blood and greedy hunger. A predator who killed not for survival—but for command.

That was not pack.

The two-leg raised its arms and the swamp answered.

From trees, water, and earth. Creatures poured out. Moving bones, shell-backed. Moving as one. A swarm. A false pack.

Hal's lips peeled back. That's not how it works. A pack isn't numbers. A pack is trust and Bond. Not collared commands.

Harold gave the signal.

Go.

Hal leapt.

Snow-crusted wind howled in his wake. He hit the first of the false-pack with a frozen roar, teeth sinking deep, frost crackling along bone and shell. The creature screeched—but it didn't fight like it meant it.

It was following orders. Not instinct.

Hal ripped it apart anyway.

Kelan fought beside him—stone crashing like thunder. A shield. A hammer. A Brother. The scent of sweat and mana mixed with fire. Behind them, Harold raised a hand—

And the Brands flared.

Hal felt it.

Like a howl answered in his soul. Power rushed into his blood. Not just strength—but belonging. Harold's intent filled him and he could feel Harold using his bond to track him. Their pulses beat in rhythm. Harold's will guided it. Kelan's grit reinforced it.

For a moment, they moved as one.

The enemy faltered—confused. The swarm lost its mind and for once moved as scared individuals. No more order. Just prey.

Hal charged.

Fire burst as Harold's flamebombs lit the swarm. The swamp screamed. It didn't slow him.

The Bonecaller saw him coming too late.

Hal bounded over fallen roots, launched from a rock—wings of frost behind him. His jaws found the caster's ribs. Bone cracked. The taste was foul—but the impact was pure.

Kelan followed like a falling mountain, driving stone into the swamp, pinning the caster.

The caster tried to speak.

But Harold's Brandflare still rang in the soulspace. Silenced.

A second bomb hit. Then a third.

Fire and frost devoured the false-pack.

Then—

Stillness.

Hal stood over the burned-out battlefield, fur crackling with ice, breath slow and deep. His legs trembled, but his spirit was calm.

Not from killing.

From belonging.

He turned, found Harold through the rising smoke. The man wasn't looking at the loot, or the burned corpses.

He was watching him.

Hal held his gaze. No words, just solidarity of purpose.

This is my pack.

Not because of Brands. Not because of tactics. Because they fought together. They shielded one another. They trusted.

That was the lesson of the Voice in the sky. Not strength. Pack, and unity.

Kelan brushed past, wiping blood from his face. "Let's strip the body. Fire the rest."

Harold nodded, exhaling. "We keep getting better. Faster. We're not just surviving anymore."

Harold POV.

The last of the fire crackled in the swamp behind them, sending oily smoke spiraling into the gray sky. Bones hissed in the ash. Nothing moved. No more skittering. No more screams.

Harold stepped back from the scorched corpse of Kessh the Bone-Marked, eyes scanning the wreckage one final time.

"That's it," Kelan said, adjusting a makeshift crate packed with salvaged reagents, bone-charmed trinkets, and a few wickedly barbed weapons. "We've got everything we can carry."

Hal circled them once, slower now. No threat lingered—he was sure. He gave a low huff and padded toward Harold's side, brushing against his knee.

Harold reached down, fingers threading briefly through his thick, frost-crusted fur. "Good work, Hal."

Then—he tapped the system.

[Return to Staging Room]

The world lurched.

Smoke. Heat. The thick scent of swamp rot—gone in an instant.

They reappeared in the familiar void of the Staging Room, crates thudding softly onto smooth, colorless floor. The sterile silence hit like a breath held too long.

Harold exhaled, straightening.

Kelan dropped his load, stretching his back with a grunt. "We're getting too good at this."

Harold opened his interface. Notifications blinked in the corner of his vision—level ups, a small fortune in magical components and bones. One crate alone held enough to buy three more recruits. Maybe four.

Hal sat beside the largest crate, tail curling around his paws, calm and steady as ever.

"Alright," Harold muttered. "We're back. Let's level, process the loot, and figure out what we need next."

He looked over at Kelan, then Hal, then the crates of salvage from the swamp.

Only then did he notice the full results from the two battles.

His Mana hadn't regenerated since their return—and now that he thought about it, that made sense. The staging room was frozen in time. No time, no regeneration. He couldn't just endlessly grind Calamities back to back here. No abusing the system to reach the heights of power. At least, not without consequences.

The first notification blinked softly—11 levels gained from the fight with the bandits.

They'd been higher level across the board, and even though the battle had been fast and brutal, the XP reflected the danger. A clean, efficient kill rewarded with a sharp climb in power.

Then came the second one.

He opened it—and his eyes widened.

26 levels.

For killing Kessh, the Bonecaller. Level 109. Tier 2. Dual Dao. Summoner.

Harold exhaled slowly. The bonus had to be from crossing a tier gap. The system recognized that.

Still… part of him felt like they'd only barely pulled it off.

To be honest, I'm not sure we could've won without that mass silence, Harold thought.
That skill has completely broken enemy formations—twice now. Brandflare wasn't just good… it was battle-changing.

He glanced toward Kelan, he was quietly sorting the crates they'd recovered. He wasn't sure what came next, but one thing was clear—They were ascending.

He was now level 64 so the others must be around level 70. He'd have to see what they got at level 50 later.

He had 444 points from the levels to allocate not to mention the 50 he still had saved up. The speed he had had saved him at least once today but more importantly had been his perception. His ability to see the timing and flows of the fights he'd been in.

"I'll be putting another 100 points into that"

I'll put around 100 into both wisdom and intelligence then 50 in charisma and 50 into agility. Then looked at his status screen

All of his skills had gained levels except Tactical Recall, though that wasn't surprising. He hadn't needed it in the last two Calamities. Still, nothing earth-shattering—most increases were small bumps in efficiency or duration. Useful, but not exciting.

Then, one last notification blinked at the edge of his vision.

Level 50 milestone reached.
Choose one:
• Skill Modifier
• New Class Skill

He blinked at it.

The same choice he'd gotten at Level 25.

Back then, he'd picked Brandflare, and that had turned into a fight-defining skill. Silence and an area-wide buff at Tier 1? It had been game-changing. He couldn't deny how tempting another skill was—especially with how hard things were starting to hit.

But this time… curiosity tugged at him.

What exactly does a Skill Modifier do?

Kelan had said they were powerful—rare, even. Modifiers could evolve a skill in ways normal leveling never could. Maybe turn a utility into a weapon, or a weapon into a trump card.

Harold's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Brandflare might break battle lines, but what if I could do more with it? Or amplify the Brand system itself?"

He exhaled.

Either way, it was a major decision.

He picked Skill Modifier.

Select a skill to modify.

A list of all his current skills unfurled in front of him. Each one pulsed faintly, awaiting his decision. Brandflare stood at the top, highlighted in soft silver—likely because it was a Class Skill and he reflected likely related to his Soul Affinity. Others were there too: Inspect, Oathsense, Tactical Recall, and a few passive ones gained through leveling like his Snowwalk skill.

His gaze hovered over Brandflare.

"That's the one that changes everything," he muttered.

But then he paused.

Oathsense had quietly grown more useful over time, giving him more and more insight into his allies. A modifier could turn it into something tactical or predictive.

Tactical Recall—underused, but potent. A modifier might make it reactive or even shared with his Branded.

He hesitated, torn between doubling down on his heavy-hitter or enhancing his foundation.

Finally, he selected Brand.

It was the foundation of his power—the tether, the guide, the spark of loyalty and growth in those who followed him. If he could make that do more, everything else would follow.

The system shimmered to life, and a scroll of potential modifiers unfolded before Harold's eyes—each one tempting in its own way. His gaze narrowed as he read:

Brand Modifier Options:

Resonant Flame:

Brands pulse periodically, granting +5% stat boost in combat proximity.

Soulmark:

Brands reveal hidden affinities and potential evolutions to the Branded.

Echo Binding:

Harold may replicate a skill from any Branded ally once per day.

Chain of Will:

Each Branded may place additional Brands upon a willing subjects. Total count for each Branded is Subjects total Brand count.

—each brand is only 90% effective

—Each tier of power for Subject unlocks another tier of descending Brands with the requisite decrease in power of the Brand.

Harold's eyes lingered on the last one. His jaw tightened.

That's… dangerous.

Not to him. To everyone else. Everything would be amazing but the potential...

This wasn't just an upgrade. It was scaling. If Kelan could Brand someone—and that person was bound to Harold through the same system—it meant he could extend his influence without lifting a finger. It meant his reach wasn't limited by how many people he could touch.

It meant he could plant seeds. Build an Army.

It wouldn't be a horde of fanatics.

It would be a web.

Harold leaned back slightly, the faint glow of the modifier menu casting hard shadows across his face.

He selected Chain of Will.

The glow faded. The decision locked in. Harold flexed his fingers, feeling the distant tug of potential stretching beyond what he could see.

This wasn't about saving the world. It was about shaping it into something that couldn't ignore him.

Let them come with swords, shackles, or sermons. He had people now. And soon, he'd have more.

He turned away from the screen and called out calmly, "Kelan—get ready. You might be recruiting someone of your own soon."

Kelan blinked. "You're letting me Brand someone?"

Harold gave him a faint smirk. "My skill modifier lets you both have access to the same number of Brands I have access to. They have decreased effectiveness but it's worth it."

Kelan looked at him, his eyes wide and speechless.

Hal chuffed quietly behind them, ice-blue eyes glowing in the dim light of the staging room.