Level 120. He'd gained no experience from the monsters in the raid; the C.L.A.S.P. points flowed to the survivors whose levels were low enough. He was too strong.

His eyes had lingered on the profession listings. Tailoring was at 33, Woodworking was at 55, and Enchanting was at 42.

The numbers were climbing, although a tad too slowly. He couldn't do otherwise; he didn't have much time to craft, after all.

He'd practiced whenever there was a moment, carving simple tools and attempting to imbue them with mana.

The results were still crude. Nothing that could compare to the gear from Keth'moran or Morv'axil. But it was a foundation. Self-sufficiency was a different kind of power.

His gaze then fell on his attributes. S.H.I.E.L.D. was at 10.7, F.L.A.I.R. was at 9.5, and F.L.I.P. was at 8.7. They were respectable, but in a world where a single, well-placed attack could end everything, they felt dangerously low.

He'd seen what a high-level fighter like Lena could do. As things were now, he wasn't even sure that his summons could protect him. After all, a stray arrow or a blade from the shadows was enough to kill him.

Then there was A.C.U.M.E.N.: it was at 56.8. A massive pool of mental fortitude and magical potential that translated into 8570 mana.

It was the core of his strength, the engine that drove his armies. It allowed him to think faster, plan more complex strategies, and sustain summoning on a scale that could change the tide of a battle.

But it was a specialized strength. In the chaotic, close-quarters fighting a city war would likely bring, raw mana wouldn't stop a knife in the back.

He let out a slow sigh.

His summons could scour a city, and his spells could break down walls. But strength was not just about offense. It was about endurance, about surviving the unexpected. The War Hounds wouldn't fight fair. They would use traps, hostages, and ambushes.

He needed to be more than a summoner; he needed to be an army.

<The next attribute points I earn won't go into A.C.U.M.E.N. They will go into S.H.I.E.L.D. and F.L.A.I.R., into making my body tougher and my reactions sharper. I can't afford to be a glass cannon, not when my parents' lives are at stake.>

A log in the fire cracked, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked at Lena, who was sharpening a dagger, and at Jake, who had finally fallen asleep. They were his responsibility now, too. His strength had to protect them as well.

The way forward was set already. He was going to complete the raid, get stronger, and then head for Creamont. It was just that he was not going to be a hopeful son, but something no one could stop.

He was going to find his parents, and he was going to make sure nothing threatened them. That quiet resolve settled over him, harder and colder than any fear.

He dismissed the screen.

"I need to get some sleep," Reidar said to Lena.

Lena stood. "I'll take first watch."

"Wake me in four hours," Reidar said.

She nodded. Reidar then lay on the ground, staring at the sky and getting warmed up by the fire.

Stars filled the darkness, more visible now than before the apocalypse. The lack of artificial light had brought them back.

<Mom. Dad. I'm coming.>

He closed his eyes.

…

…

…

Sleep came in fits and starts. His dreams were fragmented. Images of his parents. The War Hounds. Monsters. Blood.

Dawn broke slowly. The sky lightened from black to deep blue to pale gray. Survivors stirred. Fires were rekindled. The camp came to life.

He woke with Lena's hand on his shoulder.

Reidar jolted at the contact. He blinked up at Lena, his eyes heavy-lidded and raw with the thin, restless sleep.

"Didn't I ask you to wake me up in four hours?"

Lena grinned.

"You were sleeping so well that I thought it was going to be a shame to wake you up."

While Reidar appreciated the gesture, it was also clear she had had no sleep at all.

Reidar pushed himself up, joints aching and back screaming in protest. Lena's face looked washed-out in the dawn light, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her hand trembled as she tucked a loose strand of hair back.

"You didn't sleep at all," Reidar said. It wasn't a question.

Lena's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. "Someone had to keep watch. The camp is quiet, but it's not friendly." Her voice was flat, stripped of its usual edge by exhaustion.

He knew the drive for revenge was a cruel fuel. It burned hot but left only ashes. He needed her sharp, not tired.

"Get some rest now," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll handle the morning. The next quest won't wait for you to collapse."

But she didn't. Instead, she looked past him, her gaze sweeping over the waking survivors. The Predator's Echo trait kept her senses sharp, but it was a drain since she knew if someone had bad intentions, and it looked like someone did.

Reidar noticed her looking around far too often.

"What?"

Lena looked at him. "It looks like someone is going to attack us soon."

…

…

…

Survivors gathered in groups, preparing for the next quest. Some looked eager. Others looked exhausted.

The survivors packed tents, extinguished fires, and formed into groups. The raid force was preparing to move to the next quest location.

Helga and Aldric moved through the camp, organizing their respective groups.

Reidar checked his equipment. Seraphine spoke with her fighters, gesturing toward the valley's edge. Her group began organizing, checking weapons and supplies.

Seraphine finished with her group and walked toward Reidar's fire.

"Are you done with your preparations?"

"We are."

"Good," Seraphine said. She paused. "We're heading to the next quest location."

"What did you want to clear first?"

There were four quests they could tackle, after all, so an order to clear them was needed.

"We want to clear the Crimson Briar Patch."

***

The forest floor trembled. It was a pulse so faint that only the most sensitive creatures noticed it. Something deep had changed in the valley.

Deep within the mire nestled inside the valley, where moss-draped trees grew from black water, the Mire-Crawlers, one of the next targets, stirred.

The Alpha emerged from the murky depths. Six legs propelled its body onto the muddy shore. The creature's eyes swept the territory as soon as it got out of the water.

The pack gathered around their leader. Twenty-three Mire-Crawlers of varying sizes pulled themselves from the water.

Smaller Mire-Crawlers stayed near the rear, while the bigger males moved closer to their leader.

The Alpha lifted its head. It tasted the air, searching for familiar scents. Something was off. Something important wasn't there anymore.

The Razorwing Skitterers had ruled these lands since the world ended, their raids into the mire were as brutal as they were relentless.

For months, the Mire-Crawlers battled them, mostly hiding by day and skulking through shadows at night because of the huge numbers of the Razorwing Skitterers, as testified by the myriad scars marring the alpha's body.

But now...

The Alpha's eyes narrowed. It was a new day, but there was no trace of the troubling bugs.

The distinctive clicks and scrapes of their bodies moving was absent. The sky above the mire remained empty of their angular silhouettes.

The Alpha swung its massive head, then the Alpha opened its jaws and released a bellow.

The pack responded with their own calls.

The Alpha turned and strode deeper into the mire, its tail cutting a wide path through the mud. The pack followed.

They pushed into territory they had abandoned months ago. The Alpha remembered this place. Its scar had been earned here.

The pack spread out.

As the day wore on, the Mire-Crawlers claimed more ground. They marked the boundaries of their expanding territory with increasing boldness.

The Alpha led them to the very edge of the mire lands, where solid ground gave way to the true forest.

The Alpha stared up into the branches. Empty. It was all empty. If the creature could grin, it would have done it.

In the end they reached one of the entrances to the tunnels.

…

…

…

The Alpha Mire-Crawler stood before the gaping maw of the tunnel, its great head tilted as it considered the scene.

From the darkness, a handful of Razorwing Skitterers emerged. They moved with haste as they scrambled over the lip of the tunnel and into the open air.

Their carapaces were scratched and dented, some leaking a clear, viscous fluid. One of them had a large chunk of its abdomen missing.

The Alpha's head lowered, nostrils flaring. It recognized the scent of those things, the ones who had claimed the valley, who had driven the pack into the deepest, wettest parts of the mire. The ones they'd fought for so long. The ones they'd been losing to.

They moved without formation, without purpose. And here they were, fleeing.

The Skitterers didn't even seem to see the Mire-Crawlers. They just kept moving, heading towards the mountains, away from the mire and the tunnels.

The Alpha's head snapped around, and he issued a single grunt. Its tail swept low. But the Alpha didn't wait for them. This hunt was personal.

The creature launched forward. Six legs churned through mud and water, propelling its massive frame across the distance in seconds.

The Razorwing Skitterers detected the movement too late.

The Alpha crashed into them. Rock splintered. Razorwing Skitterers fell from the ceilings.

The Alpha's jaws closed around one mid-fall, crushing through chitin with a sound that would have reminded humans of breaking pottery.

It ended them.

The remaining Razorwing Skitterers fled into the canopy, their clicks transforming into panicked shrieks. The Alpha watched them go, making no attempt to pursue. It didn't need to, because it was going inside the tunnels.

The pack arrived moments later, finding their leader standing among the corpses. The Alpha's chest heaved, its gills flaring wide as it processed oxygen through both lungs and water-breathing organs.

The monsters observed their level 92 leader and started devouring the cockroaches.

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