Harold pushed the longhouse doors wide and made sure the last of them were inside.

The great hall was full—more bodies than the benches had been meant to hold—but it was warm, alive in a way the dungeon never could be. Fire crackled in the central pit, heat rolling out against the chill, the smoke trailing up into the rafters where it filtered out through the couple chimneys that were up there.

Men slumped against the walls, their wounds bound, eyes half-closed but still breathing. Others sat cross-legged on the packed earth floor, shoulders brushing, speaking low with the comrades beside them. Even the children had been allowed in, tucked close to parents or siblings, their wide eyes slowly softening now that food and fire were near.

Bowls of thick stew made the rounds, ladled out by Meala and the cooks. She moved like she always had—with the grace of someone who never stopped, never faltered, making sure every bowl was full before she touched her own. Her voice carried warmly over the hum, firm but kind, calling names, pressing bread into waiting hands, scolding a boy who tried to steal a second serving before everyone else had their first.

In the corner, Rysa crouched over a steaming pot of herbs. The smell was bitter, sharp, but promising—something that would fight infection, calm the stomach, maybe even knit flesh faster. She muttered to herself, stirring with a carved stick, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Daran was sitting on the bench surrounded by the kids he brought with him while they fussed over him. A more blissful look on his face hadn't been seen.

People were tending wounds with what they had: strips of linen, leather cords, even clean moss soaked in water. Lira moved quietly among them, her presence enough to steady shaking hands even when her power had been spent.

Harold leaned against the doorframe for a moment, letting his eyes sweep over it all—the warmth, the firelight, the sound of spoons against wooden bowls, the quiet murmur of life. It was cramped, it was rough, but it was theirs.

And for tonight, it was enough.

Harold pushed into Rynar's tent.

The merchant was hunched over his ledger, quill scratching furiously, piles of loot organized into neat stacks. Coins glimmered in lanternlight, already divided into small towers.

Without a word, Harold crouched and scooped a heavy handful of silver and copper, letting it clink into his pouch.

Rynar's head snapped up. "Harold! That's not how we—"

"I need a brewer," Harold said flatly, tying the pouch shut. "The men deserve more than thin stew after what they bled for. A brewer will bring stock. It'll lift them."

For a moment, Rynar just stared. Then he barked a short, incredulous laugh. "You don't even know how the portal works, do you?"

Harold's eyes narrowed. "I know enough. You pay, someone comes."

"Not quite." Rynar pushed his ledger aside, warming to his favorite subject. "The portal isn't for goods. It was built for people. Skills, bodies, hands that can work. You can't just throw coin at it and have it spit out barrels of ale."

Harold's frown deepened. "Then why not?"

"Because it was never meant to haul trade stock across worlds," Rynar said, gesturing with his quill. "But—" He leaned forward, voice lowering as if sharing a secret. "—there's a wrinkle. Dwarves. You hire a dwarven brewer, and what does he bring when he steps through? His craft. His tools. And a dwarf worth the name never travels without casks already filled. The stock comes with the man, because the stock is the man."

Harold's brows drew together, then slowly eased. That made sense. Too much sense.

"So I buy the brewer," he said.

Rynar grinned, showing too many teeth. "Exactly. You get the dwarf, you get the brew. But it'll cost. Brewers are proud. They know the value of their barrels."

Harold cinched the pouch shut and rose to his feet. "Then we pay it."

Rynar's grin faded as he rifled through one of the smaller pouches at his side. The clink of coin was muted, duller than it should've been. He drew something out with care, turning it once in the lanternlight.

A single gold piece. One of only a handful they had pulled from the dungeon's corpses.

He held it between thumb and forefinger for a long moment before pressing it into Harold's palm. "Silver and copper will bring you a cook, a woodcutter, maybe another miner. But if you want a dwarven brewer—someone who knows his craft, who won't insult you with water-thinned swill—you'll need this."

The coin was heavy, warmer than it should have been against Harold's skin. He closed his fist around it, feeling its weight in a way that had nothing to do with metal.

"You sure?" Harold asked.

Rynar's mouth twisted, reluctant but firm. "We can tally spears and hides all night, but your morale isn't bought with ledgers. A brewer buys you more than ale. He buys you nights like this—men sitting shoulder to shoulder, drinking, laughing, forgetting for a time that the dark is waiting. That's worth gold and they'll spend that gold with me."

Harold studied him a moment, then gave a short nod. "I'll make it count."

"See that you do," Rynar muttered, already turning back to his ledger as if the surrender of that coin hadn't pained him like pulling teeth.

Harold slipped the gold into his pouch and moved to the portal.

The night was deep and cold when Harold left Rynar's tent, the gold coin heavy at his hip. The longhouse glowed behind him, muffled laughter and the clatter of bowls just audible through its walls. He turned instead toward the small stone ring near the edge of camp, its faint shimmer marking the recruitment portal.

The portal's light pulsed as he approached, and prompts swam before his eyes. Lists, filters, choices. Farmers, guards, hunters… and, after a long moment of narrowing, brewers.

He scrolled past lone journeymen and middling apprentices until a name caught his eye—Brannic and Sella Stonebrew. Brother and sister. Dwarves. Brewer and brewer's hand. The details were simple: experienced, stubborn, come with tools of the trade.

Harold stepped into the shimmer of the portal, the world folding away in a blink.

The staging area resolved around him—stone floor, high vaulted ceiling, and the faint blue glow of the portal's heart humming behind. This place was still, timeless, holding its breath between worlds.

The two dwarves were already waiting.

Brannic Stonebrew was as broad as a keg, beard thick and streaked with gray, his leather apron marked with old burns and ale stains. Beside him stood his sister, Sella, shorter and sharper-eyed, her hair braided back, hands resting on the straps of a satchel heavy with copper tools and herbs. Between them sat a small handcart piled with hoops, staves, and two sealed casks that gave off the faintest smell of malt.

Brannic eyed Harold up and down. "So. You're the one who pulled our names." His voice was rough, like gravel in a barrel.

Harold didn't flinch. "I am. Harold Greyson. I am a Calamity."

The siblings exchanged a glance, something wary but not fearful. Sella spoke next, her voice steady and cool. "You don't fetch a brewer for the work of war. Not unless you want something more than fighting."

"I do," Harold said. He kept his tone even, calm, though the storm in him still pulsed. "We just came back from the dungeon. I lost men. Buried more than I wanted. And I need my people to see that living is still worth it. That we can build something beyond blood and blades. A brewer buys more than ale. You buy nights where men sit shoulder to shoulder and forget the dark."

Brannic's brows rose slightly. "You've a fancy tongue."

Sella folded her arms. "You know the limits of this portal? You'll get us. But it won't haul trade goods through. We bring what we can carry—and what we carry is enough to start, not to last. That'll cost you, and it won't be cheap."

Harold stepped closer, gaze steady. "I know what I'm asking. I don't need goods. I need you. I'll see to it you get the tavern you want, the place you'll call your own. You help me hold my people together, I'll help you build something that lasts."

Silence stretched for a long moment. The two dwarves studied him, as though weighing whether the man before them was worth the casks they guarded.

Finally, Brannic gave a grunt. "Spoken like a man who understands the worth of a barrel. You'll have us. There are stories about beings throwing their lot in early with young Calamities and rising to the top. The god we worship was one of them. Also many stories about people doing that and dying early. Good thing we like adventure." Brannic said laughing and grabbing his cart.

Harold drew the gold coin from his pouch, held it up so the faint blue light glinted off it, and pressed it into Sella's hand. "Then it's settled. You'll come with me. Tonight, we'll drink. Tomorrow, we'll build."

The Stonebrews both nodded, the deal sealed with a silence that felt older than coin.

Harold turned back toward the portal, the glow already tugging him toward the world waiting beyond. For the first time that day, the weight of what he carried felt lighter.

The longhouse was already warm when Harold returned, the Stonebrews following at his heels with their handcart. Conversation dipped as heads turned—bloodied men, bandaged recruits, children peeking from behind parents. The smell of stew clung to the air, thick and heavy.

Then Brannic heaved one of the casks off the cart, slammed it onto the nearest table, and grinned wide.

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"Well then!" his voice boomed, rolling through the rafters. "If the dark tried to eat you today, you'll want to wash it down proper. And nothing washes down death like a Stonebrew's barrel!"

He produced a tap as if from nowhere, drove it home with a mallet, and drew the first frothing mug, which he shoved into Brenn's hands before the man could protest. Laughter rolled from Brannic's belly as he clapped the warrior on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Drink deep, man! If you're standing after this day, you've earned more than water."

The room broke into a cheer, weary but genuine.

Sella, meanwhile, slipped away from her brother's noise with a steady smile. She carried her satchel to the cooks' station, where Meala stood doling out stew. Within moments, the two women were talking like old friends, heads bent together, planning in quick bursts—how to ration grain, where to set aside space for brewing, which herbs paired best with the meat they had left. Sella's presence was calm, grounding, her Dao of Community already weaving threads between people with every word.

Meala laughed once, warm and relieved, and clapped Sella's shoulder. "Finally—someone else who knows how to run more than a kitchen."

Brannic, meanwhile, raised his own mug and declared, "A toast! To the living, for spiting the dead!" His Dao pulsed faintly with every word, the Dao of Alcohol shimmering in the foam of his drink. Those who drank after him felt it—shoulders easing, aches dulling, a fierce warmth stoking in their chests. It was more than ale; it was spirit, distilled into courage.

Even the wounded took cups. Even the children stole sips and laughed when Brannic roared at their grimaces.

Harold stood at the edge of it all, watching as the mood shifted—pain and grief softened into something survivable. His eyes flicked from Brannic, the life of the hall, to Sella and Meala, who were already sketching plans with chalk on the table for where a tavern could stand.

He let himself exhale, slow. The Stonebrews were more than he'd hoped.

For tonight, the longhouse was full of fire and laughter again.

The noise of the longhouse swelled—laughter rolling, mugs clinking, the smell of ale filling the rafters. Harold stayed near the wall, content to watch. He didn't need to be the center of it. Seeing his people alive, even bruised and scarred, was enough.

But then Daran pushed through the crowd, a mug in hand. His shield arm was bound tight across his chest, scars new and raw, but his eyes were steady. He shoved the mug into Harold's grip without asking.

"You did right," Daran said simply. He glanced toward Brannic, who was already standing on a bench, roaring through another toast, his Dao of Alcohol radiating through every word and drink. "Not just clever. Those two carry Daos that make this place stronger."

Lira eased in on Harold's other side, pale but steady, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "He's right. Brannic's Dao of Alcohol—it doesn't just dull pain. It lifts spirits, strengthens bonds. And Sella—her Dao is Community itself. When she speaks, people fall into rhythm. Work becomes more than work—it becomes purpose."

Harold lifted the mug, studying the froth. "I felt something," he admitted. "Like a warmth under my skin. But I couldn't tell what it was."

Before Harold could answer, Kelan shouldered his way through, stone dust still clinging to his patched armor. He leaned his pick against the table and fixed Harold with a pointed look.

"They'll drink tonight," Kelan said. "They'll laugh. But come tomorrow, they'll look to you. You're going to have to say something to everyone. Tonight while the mood is still good."

The words landed heavy, heavier than the mug in Harold's hand.

For the first time that night, the cheer of the longhouse dimmed at its edges, and Harold felt the storm stirring in his chest again.

"Yea I'll go now." Harold said.

Harold stood where the firelight caught his face, voice cutting through the quiet.

"We lost too many today. I won't dress it up. They should be here. And they're not."

He let the silence drag, then stabbed it with steel.

"But we are. We're bloodied. We're bruised. But we're still standing. That's victory enough."

He raised his hand, clenched into a fist.

"So remember this—The world swung, We didn't fall. And recovered our own.

"Every scar we take, every breath we steal from the jaws of death, that's another victory. We don't break. We don't bow. We don't quit."

He let the echoes fade before softening.

"Now… tomorrow will come soon enough. But tonight, you've earned more than grief. Drink. Eat. Laugh if you can. Meditate if you need. Find your own way to breathe again. You've all been through the grinder, and sometimes that's where enlightenment hides—on the other side of the pain."

He gave a faint, tired smile.

"So take the night. Rest. Tomorrow, we rise sharper for it."

Harold drained the last of his mug, set it down, and snagged another from Brannic's fresh pour. Foam spilled down his hand as the dwarf roared and clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him sideways.

"Another round, Calamity!" Brannic bellowed. "The dead don't drink—but we'll drink for them!"

He started with the recruits. The ten of them sat close together on the benches, heads bandaged, arms in slings, bowls of stew balanced on their knees. They were young, too young, but they were alive. Rysa fussed over them, pressing bitter-smelling cups into their hands and scolding anyone who tried to push her away. Harold stayed with them a while, not saying much, just listening as they whispered about home and nervously laughed at each other's bandages. One of them offered him a sip of Rysa's brew; he took it, grimaced at the taste, and the small group chuckled.

The axe brothers were easier. They were shoulder to shoulder as always, mugs nearly empty, voices low but warm. The scarred one caught Harold's eye and made some joke about being the "uglier twin now." The other swatted him, but their laughter rolled together, tired but genuine. Harold lifted his mug with them, and for a moment it was just three men sharing a drink.

Brenn was on the floor with his children crawling over him, Meala standing behind with her arms crossed. She shook her head when Harold came by, but her smile was gentle. Harold crouched long enough to let one of the children tug at his sleeve before Meala swept them back toward the benches with bowls in hand.

Illga had planted herself near the fire with her hammer resting against her knee. She looked like stone herself, quiet and steady. Harold settled beside her for a bit. She didn't speak much, but when someone passed her a mug she lifted it to him before drinking. He returned the gesture, and that was enough.

The miners sat together, their picks leaned in the corner, their mugs going down slow. They weren't men who wasted words, but one passed Harold a heel of bread and another clapped him on the shoulder when he stayed with them a while. They talked about nothing of importance—weather, tools, the wood they'd need to patch roofs in case the winter got worse—and it was easy, familiar.

Daran was surrounded by his children, one tucked against each side. He looked worn thin, but his eyes were softer here, following the way his kids babbled about nothing and clung to his arms. Harold didn't interrupt, only stood with him a few minutes, long enough for Daran to look up and give a small nod of acknowledgment.

Kelan sat nearby, his armor gone, his pick across his knees. He was listening more than speaking, letting others carry the talk. Harold joined him for a while, and though neither said much, Kelan poured him a splash from his mug and they drank together in silence.

Finally, Harold stopped at the hearth. Lira was there, pale, tired, but still steady, with Master Olrick at her side. The boy sat close, staring into the fire, and though glares still cut his way from time to time, Lira kept her hand firm on his arm. When Harold came up, Olrick rose enough to give Harold his place on the bench. Harold didn't ask anything or say anything, just sat beside them while the fire cracked and the hall hummed with warmth.

He stayed until his mug was empty again, until the longhouse felt less like a refuge from the dungeon and more like a home. Then, quietly, he slipped out into the night and walked toward his quarters, the glow of firelight fading behind him.

Only then did he call up the notifications he'd pushed away all evening.

Harold closed the door of his quarters behind him, set the empty mug aside, and sat on the edge of his cot. For a long moment, he just listened to the muffled noise of the longhouse in the distance—laughter, bowls clattering, Brannic's booming voice.

Then he exhaled, steady, and let the system unfold.

You have reached Level 168.

Choose one:

Skill modification

Class skill

The numbers rolled past, one after another, impersonal and sharp as a ledger tally. He felt the weight of it settle in his chest, though the victory it represented felt hollow here, away from the roar of the longhouse.

Choose one:

Skill Modification

Class Skill

The words lingered, pulsing faintly as if demanding an answer. He pushed them aside for now, unwilling to choose with his head still thick from smoke and ale.

Tactical recall has reached level 100

Evolve skill?

Oathsense has reached level 100

Evolve skill?

He dismissed those wanting to wait till the morning.

Tier Requirements Achieved:

Tier Advancement Eligible at level 200

The chime that followed rang deeper than the others, like a bell struck in the marrow of his bones. Another step forward. Another reminder that the path he walked would only grow heavier, and soon.

Then the glow shifted. Colder. Sterner.

[Calamity Protocol Alert.]

[Violation Detected: Invocation of Calamity against an unearned target.]

[Timeline Adjusted.]

Time remaining: 6 days 22 hours 1 minute

Harold closed his eyes against the words. The storm he had called into being lingered in his bones, heavy and sharp, and now he knew the cost of it. Six days. When he should have had almost 12 days left. Less than a week before Vero threw him back into the fire.

He exhaled, long and slow. The laughter from the longhouse still reached him, faint but steady. That was why he'd done it. Not for numbers or systems.

But the system didn't care.

The system prompts flickered again, and Harold sighed through his nose. The numbers waited.

[Unassigned Points Available.]

He pushed them where he always had—into the same stats he'd been feeding since the beginning. Strength. Fortitude. Perception. Willpower. The choices weren't hard anymore.

The surge came with it, as always. Muscles tightening, bones knitting harder, his lungs pulling deeper, richer breaths. The exhaustion in his body eased a fraction, but the weight in his mind only deepened. Numbers could patch flesh and steel, but they couldn't soothe the ache of everything he carried.

Harold leaned back, staring at the dark ceiling. If Hal were here…

The thought bit deep. His hand curled against his thigh, empty. He reached out the way he'd done before, down through the bond of Oathsense.

The Brands answered first—their threads tugging back against his reach. Kelan's was steady, heavy as stone. Lira's was a pale flame, tired but still burning. He could faintly feel Rysa through Kelan's bond but it was more muted. Each pulse brought him a faint warmth, a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone. The Brands comforted him, and each other, threads braided together in the silence.

But beyond them… Harold pressed harder, searching. Past the settled hum of his companions, past the limits he knew. Out into the cold distance where one thread should have been waiting.

Hal.

The bond was faint, frayed by distance. But there—like the echo of a howl across a snowbound valley—he felt it. Not strong. Not near. But alive.

Harold let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the corners of his mouth tugging faintly before the weariness swallowed it.

"Good," he murmured to the empty room. "Stay alive for me."

The hum of the bonds steadied him. Kelan, Lira, Rysa—all near, all alive. And Hal and his pack, faint but still there, still answering in his own distant way. Harold let his eyes drift closed, bone-deep weariness finally settling over him.

The system prompts faded. Blessed silence at last.

And then a new line burned across his vision—different, heavier, carrying a presence that wasn't the system at all.

[Direct Message: Vero.] "Let's talk."

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