Later that same evening, when their muscles demanded rest, and their lungs bargained with their brains for relief from the steady laughter of their silly debate, the first prospective workers came to their door.

  "Are you the folks offering work?" a man said who approached and removed his hat to hold against his chest. A humble man, Zan thought.

  "Yes. We are in search of manual laborers. We are adherents to a recently revived Martial Order. This large plateau? A structure from our Order's previous formation is underneath the rock. We have good reason to believe this could be ancient technology capable of helping us beat back the invasion," he explained.

  "Is that true?" the man said, his wonder genuine.

  "I wouldn't lie about this. Not as a person, a martial adherent, or as a Blank Denomination Initiate. We've already had to go to desperate lengths to get an old script translated. It was written in the Old Tongue script, you see. Not an easy feat. If there wasn't hope underneath this ground, we wouldn't be here. We would be at the front, fighting," he replied.

  "All the better, then, young sir. What are the wages you be offering?"

  He looked at Jiehong letting him take this question. "We offer two copper per day of labor," they said.

  "That's not bad. Not too good, either..." the man said, then turned to discuss with the other villagers.

  Using that time to adjust strategy himself, Zan turned to his teammates and said, "We can't lose these people. Can we up the pay?"

  Jiehong took a quick look in his satchel. His fingers rustled around in his coin pouches. "Yeah. We can. Let's try three."

  He approached the man and cleared his throat and said, "Sir? We've discussed your comments. We can go as high as three per day, per person."

  Suddenly, the man's face changed completely. "Oh, per person?!" he exclaimed. "I thought you meant per the whole group!"

  Sharing a laugh in the misunderstanding, he told them, "How about we help each other and split the difference? Twenty-coppers for the entire group to split?"

  Again, discussing the proposal with the group, the man turned back to them and spoke, "Put 'err, there, bossman."

  The man's name was Big Chest. He remembered far too late for him to save face. But he had encountered the man already. He was the man who ordered them to work the fields on their first day of service. He was among the community leadership and lead trainer for the men and women of the region who sought to better themselves physically.

  Once Zan and Big Chest figured the details and payment arrangements, the work began right away despite the sun's deepening hour. He did not know the lifestyle of Guygale's populace. Yet he surmised enough: if a haughty day's labor can be done before trading in one master for another boss, then these folk were of his own spit and slick.

  "I am taking a short rest," Zan said, enjoying, even reveling in the fact, he, as someone in a position of power, could tell others to continue to work while he rested. He sat on the edge of their encampment. Still hardly anything more than a tent. A dedicated firepit now graced their presence.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Seeing the sun set, however, he realized the hour was drawing unjustifiably late.

  "Actually, everyone," he shouted. "It's getting late. Should everyone be getting back?"

  "We can work longer," a voice called out.

  Not for long, however. An hour later everyone at the camp departed and returned to their homes. It was time for sleep.

  With Whiskey on first guard duty -- only a half-watch to ensure she could get some shut eye before the labors resumed -- he and Jiehong settled down inside the tent. Through both their proximity and echo-beetles, the trio remained in constant contact despite whatever distance or natural effect attempted to dampen their comradery.

  "How does everyone feel about these villagers?" Zan said as he made himself cozy in the tent next to his brother.

  "They seem normal to me," Whiskey said, the echo-beetle carrying her voice. After she answered, she began to hum some tune, although why she did so, whether it was for entertainment of timing, he did not know.

  Jiehong grunted his opinion. Then said, "Yeah. Seem fine. I'm surprised how well we're doing on money. These people work for nothing."

  "So, you think we should pay them more?" he asked.

  "No. I'm just saying... ugh, this is one of those moments, bud."

  "Moments?" he questioned. "Oh! Moments. How normal people talk. You imply one thing but say another for social convention. Or to be polite?"

  "Bingo. This is a plus in our favor. Them working hard for mere copper pieces. Not even refined chunks, either! They're working for unprocessed ore. I just have this on me. It wasn't even part of the payout from the Colonel," Jiehong said.

  "I want to talk about this more... but I can barely keep my eyes open. Goodnight, bro," he said, before his consciousness faded out like a firefly during a storm.

  He took third watch. Which meant he received the most hours of consecutive sleep. Of course, this was at the cost of then needing to stay up for his watch and then the whole day's labor. He wasn't too thrilled about that. Yet what could he do?

  "Ready for another hard day's work?" Jie asked him.

  "I am," he replied, wiping the tired from his brow.

  Whiskey had woken up a short while ago and went to clean herself in a private glade. Now, she returned. "Looks like I finished at just the right time," she said, pointing out the workers from town coming up over the tree's horizon, work tools in hand, and ready to shatter the earth like an army determined to claim victory.

  Snapping into leadership mode, he ordered his teammates about and directed where everyone -- Order or laborer -- should go. "I want us to focus on one area today," he announced to the group. "Then we can systematically sweep our way through the structure. Right! Any questions? No? Excellent, then."

  The focus of the day was work. Hard, manual labor from which there was no escape. Even as the foreman of this labor gang, he worked his tail to the bone. By trade, however, he could not work the entire time. He had to sometimes stop his work and help one group with a particularly troublesome clod or resolve a minor disagreement among workers. None of these issues were hard to resolve -- with a magified power-smash from his fist, no matter how powerful the dirt clod or rock, it would break. As for the worker disputes -- money talked. A brief warning about 'keeping the peace... or else' never failed to render peace.

  Returning back to his position after one such peace enforcement side-mission, an idea belatedly came to him: "Wait," he told himself. "The Slipstream has been out all day. I can take brief rests. Let's use exclusively magic!"

  Channeling magic into his pickaxe, he swung the tip. The tip impacted the rock and spent a chunk into the sky -- thank goodness he swung at an angle!

  He repeated the process several more times. "Guys, remember! The Slipstream!" he told his teammates. They radioed back laughs and grunts, each of them having told him they felt silly for not thinking of it sooner. "That's why you're the leader, bud," Jiehong told him. He continued his labor while infusing his pickaxe with magic. Each swing then had a larger sum of magic than the last. It wasn't longer than an hour of this labor when he depleted his magic.

  Yet his last swing returned to him a surprise upset; ding-crrrck!

  Once his final magified swing hit the sediment, the axe broke.