[19:05:10]

  Barrowspire clung to the mountainside like a rusted tumor, its haphazard structures radiating outward from a gaping maw in the rock. The jackalaopes had clearly mastered the same [Construction] Skill as William, but where he’d stopped at a rudimentary shack, they'd evolved into something far more sophisticated.

  Stone walls bore intricate mortarwork. Log roofs were lashed together with iron-banded joints. One enterprising builder had even crafted a functioning hinge system for their door using what looked like salvaged car parts. Which brought up the question. Were there other humans here?

  The settlement pulsed with activity, smoke belching from a dozen forges where the metallic clang of hammers created a jarring symphony. The whole thing gave quaint knight-in-shining-armor vibes, complete with groups of soldiers training with various weapons in an open-air courtyard.

  "Behold!" Orik bellowed, arms sweeping wide enough to nearly decapitate a passing jackalope. "The crown jewel of the Sinks Canyon Kingdom! Where lesser tribes grovel in dirt, we forge destiny!" His chest swelled beneath bloodstained plate armor. "Welcome, Wind-River."

  Buck's jaw worked soundlessly. Everywhere he looked, armored jackalopes moved with purpose, hauling ore, sharpening blades, and even bartering at makeshift stalls. The scene vibrated with eerie normalcy, as if the blood-soaked initiation and whispering Border didn't exist just kilometers away.

  A child darted past, its tiny antlers capped with protective copper sheaths. It carried a basket of mushrooms almost bigger than itself, completely unbothered by the Revanant and human in its midst.

  What did they call baby jackalopes? Kits? Pups? The absurdity hit Buck like a shovel to the face. This entire civilization was barely eight weeks old. Did the children playing near the forges understand they were essentially the same age as their armor-clad parents?

  How? Buck's fingers dug into his palms. How could they just…live?

  Flint's whisper cut through the daze: "They have accepted the game's rules." The Revanants' nostrils flared. "Or have been broken by them."

  Orik chuckled, pausing as Swarf led Coal toward the smithing quarter. "Your face screams questions, Wind-River. Ask."

  The flood gates burst: "How'd you build all this so fast? How many of you are here? Where did you get all this metal? The Nexus shop? Wait…” Buck's stomach clenched. "Are you the Ruler here? Do you have a [Quest] to conquer the Wind River Kingdom?"

  Oriks' laugh echoed off the stone buildings like a foghorn. "Ah, a native!" He clapped Buck's shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "The Cracked Kingdoms are ancient. We may not remember, but our bones do." His antlers caught the forgelight as they walked. "One's ability to Level is pivotal to the survival of our entire species, and to answer your question, to ignore the non-Combat Skills is to court death."

  The jackalope gestured toward a roaring forge where two craftsman hammered a glowing ingot. "The Root gifted us three blessings: numbers, mines at our doorstep, and the strength to work them." The metal shimmered unnaturally as it folded. "As for our Ruler?" Orik's muzzle twisted in distaste. "We bow to the Root's design. I'm just another blade in its arsenal."

  A pair of jackalopes scampered past, only briefly nodding to Orik as they carried an anvil twice their size without strain.

  Buck's mind reeled at the implications. For him, the Cracked Kingdoms had always been a question of survival. What was he going to eat? Where was he going to sleep? What was going to try to kill him next? But here? These jackalops were a thriving, evolving population. Hells, they were smiling.

  "However," Orik stopped abruptly in the middle of the thoroughfare, "we do have a [Quest] to conquer your Kingdom."

  Buck's hand clenched into a fist. Every muscle tensed. Had he walked into an ambush with a smile and a handshake? The surrounding jackalopes continued their daily routines, utterly indifferent to his impending murder.

  Flint broke the silence with a blade's precision: "Then why haven't you?"

  "An astute question." Orik turned, deliberately presenting his unprotected back. "I will let our Warchief explain."

  Buck exhaled. If this was a trap, at least he'd see the architect of his demise. The ramshackle town spirealed toward a central structure that, compared to months of tents and lean-tos, might as well have been a castle. Two stories of mortared stone rose defiantly, the entrance draped with the pelt of an [Ironfur Bear].

  Orik shoved past the curtain without ceremony. "Warchief! Our final enemy comes willingly!"

  The cavernous hall reeked of iron and charred sage; beneath it, something electric made the hairs on Buck's neck stand upright. Something living.

  Final Enemy? Buck tensed. Behind them, two armored sentries now blocked the exit. Flint shifted into a fighting stance, his eyes flicking back and forth as he assessed threats. Buck could phase through them instantly… but abandoning Flint wasn't an option.

  "Orik," boomed a voice like grinding boulders, "have you come to waste my time once again? Or has that whelp of the Howling Moon finally choked on his own cowardice?"

  Buck's breath caught. The jackalope descending the stairs made Orik look like a child's toy. Eight feet of pure muscle wrapped in blackened steel, her antlers scraping the ceiling beams with each step. Every inch of the compound, Buck realized, had been engineered to accommodate this living siege engine.

  She stared at Buck. Her battle-hardened sneer melted into pure bewilderment. "This is our final trial?"

  "I KNOW!" Orik's honking laugh echoed off the stone walls. "I nearly caved his skull in on sight! But the Root would want him… ripened before harvest."

  The Warchief circled Buck like a butcher inspecting dubious meat. "First, those tree-hugging animals to the south, now…" She waved a clawed gauntlet at him. "What even is it?"

  Orik leaned in conspiratorially, though still spoke loud enough for the entire Kingdom to hear. "Found him during Coal's Trial of Blood. Like the others, he is susceptible to the Fumbleclang's song."

  "HEY!" Buck's shout startled even himself. "You realize I'm standing right fucking here, right?" He jabbed a finger at the Warchief's armored chest. "If you're gonna talk about killing me, at least have the decency to look me in the eye while doing it!"

  A deathly silence fell. The Warchief's eyes widened. Then, impossibly, she smiled.

  "Oh! Has a fire to him!" She waved back her guards with a clank of her gauntlet. "Orik! Bring our guests something that'll put hair on their chests. If they survive it."

  As Orik lumbered off, the massive jackalope extended a clawed hand. "Pike. Warchief of the Forged." Her grip could've crushed granite. "So, do you plan to try killing me now, or after drinks?"

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Buck nearly spilled the steaming brown sludge Orik handed him. "Kill you? I came here to talk about an alliance."

  "Alliance?" Pike's ears perked up. She shot Orik a look that could melt steel. "You want to join us? The Sinks Canyon Kingdom always welcomes strong backs." She leaned forward, her armor creaking. "Bring your Ruler. We'll… negotiate terms."

  Buck glanced at Flint. The Revanant was casually sipping his drink like this was a damn tea party. The guards hadn't even bothered following them inside. Either they didn't see Buck as a threat, or…

  "You mentioned 'animals' to the south," Buck ventured.

  Pike's mug slammed down hard enough to crack the table. "The Howling Moon. The Burrowborn. The River's Wrath." Each name came out like a curse. "They spit on the Root's gifts, worship some phantom they call the Burned Queen." Her claws left grooves in the wood. "We? We kneel only to steel and strength. Ask your silent friend, we offered them the same choice weeks ago."

  "What?" Buck said, turning on Flint. The act caused the jackalope to jump, spilling that brown liquid, soaking his fur.

  A shocked look spread across his face as he brushed a chunk of something that had leapt from the cup. "Master, I know not of what these jackalopes speak. I promise you would know if I'd visited to them."

  Buck almost stood, he was aghast. Had his bodyguard—

  No, he couldn't have. Flint hadn't left his side since his resurrection. It had to be the Flint from before.

  Pike came to the same realization as Buck. "He is a Revanent?"

  "How did you—"

  "Please," Pike gestured to the [Corpse Seeker]. "I'm not such a fool that I cannot recognize the Path of Death." Buck watched as she adjusted herself, holding her shoulders a bit higher. "So you are…?"

  She let the question hang in the air. Patiently watching Buck for his response. Well, there was no hiding it now. "Yes, I am Ruler Blackwood of the Wind River Kingdom."

  She only nodded. A flash of something—maybe respect?—flashed across her face. "Very well, shall we discuss our common enemy then?"

  Buck blinked, finally risking a sniff of his thick drink. "Common enemy?"

  —

  The Forged's struggle mirrored Buck's own, just swap hiding in trees and fighting coyotes for charging forward with steel. The southern tribes emerged from the Root's imaginations fully formed, their belief systems carved like trophies into their very bones.

  Each tribe was born to honor the native beasts who called the Ancestral Valley their home. The Children of the Howling Moon mirroring the coyote's relentless fury. The River's Wrath adopting the heron's fluid precision, and the Burrowborn exhibiting the rat's inexorable persistence.

  At first, the clashes were minor skirmishes over territory, resources, and pride. But when the southerners began pushing north, Warchief Pike had no choice but to meet them head-on. The early battles were brutal, a gruesome stalemate between nature's raw power and the Forged's advancements in [Blacksmithing]. Nature vs. Technology. It might've been poetic if not for the piles of bodies left in the wake.

  Then, everything changed when the southerners reached Level 10.

  With the awakening of their [Class], they unlocked the Pairings, a bond so deep that two jackalopes could fuse their strength into one. In battle, they summoned Totems: grotesque pillars of bone and root that erupted from the earth, drenching warriors in wet earth. Under their influence, the southern fighters became unstoppable, their [Attributes] surging beyond reason, their minds lost to a frenzy that made them ignore even mortal wounds.

  For all their advancements in [Construction] and [Blacksmithing], the Forged were outmatched. Pike's forces retreated again and again, watching as their territory shrank, their resources were plundered, and their morale withered. To survive, they would need to prove their worth to the Root.

  And then, like a spark in the dark, Buck arrived.

  A native. An outsider.

  The wild card they'd been waiting for.

  Pike spoke of the Ancestral Valley like it was hallowed ground, a prize only the strongest could claim. And Buck's Kingdom sat squarely in its crosshairs. Every sideways glance from the jackalopes confirmed what he already knew: his very existence here violated their Root-given doctrines.

  The air in the war room thickened with each passing moment, every word from Pike's muzzle walking the razor's edge between offer and ultimatum. Orik's constant refilling of drinks, which Buck hadn't touched since the first nauseating sip, did little to mask the tension. There were rules to this deadly game, and Buck's presence broke them all.

  "Let me get this straight," Buck said, fingers drumming the scarred table. "You want me to play decoy against an army of blood-crazed jackalopes while you flank them across the river. A suicide run by any other name."

  Pike drained another cup of the foul-smelling brew, her massive paw leaving dents in the metal tankard. "Take your Revanant if it eases your mind. Though we'd prefer him on our lines, nothing shakes the Howling Moon like seeing their own walking corpses fight against them."

  Flint's growl vibrated through the floorboards.

  "Not happening." Buck massaged his temples. "Keep Coal as your poster child if you need a turncoat. But let's cut the camaraderie. What's stopping you from putting an axe in my back the second the southerners are dead?"

  The silence stretched. Pike's claws absently traced the war map carved into the table, a map that conspicuously lacked any marking for the Wind River Kingdom.

  Orik finally spoke, his usual boisterous tone replaced by something colder: "The Root demands one Kingdom survive the Convergence. It never said we couldn't… reshape the definition of survival."

  Pike's muzzle twitched as a new presence filled the doorway. "The Whisper's dead don't go unnoticed, Ruler Blackwood. Nor does his strength." She gestured to the shadowed figure. "He will decide your worth."

  Coal stepped into the firelight, transformed. The left side of his face was a ruin of fresh claw marks, one antler sheared to a jagged stump, permanent trophies from his trial. The once defiant jackalope now stood as Blooded, his new armor gleaming with a fresh notch for his kill. He locked his gaze on Pike, refusing to acknowledge Buck's existence.

  "Warchief." His voice carried the weight of hard-won respect. "I come as summoned."

  Pike's smile shown white in the firelight. "Citizen Coal. Come, receive your commander's blessing."

  Buck's fingers clenched under the table. Every carefully cultivated word, every strategic compliment to Pike, it all came down to this moment. He'd played the grateful ally, swallowing pride to secure their help against the southern tribes. But the weight of what came next pressed down on him: more killing, more blood spilled by his hands.

  Coal finally turned. His remaining eye burned with a cold assessment. In that moment, Buck understood that there would be no grand alliance. Only temporary bargains between predators.

  He exhaled slowly. However this played out, one truth remained.

  He couldn't survive this war alone.

  "You've earned your boon, Blooded," Pike rose like a monolith over the once diminutive jackalope. "Name your desire."

  "Revenge." Coal's voice carried the weight of forged steel.

  Buck's shoulders fell. Flint shifted almost imperceptibly beside him. Was this it? They'd fought their way out of some bad situations, but this would surely take the cake.

  "The Howling Moon cast me aside like some Untested swine.' Coal's claws scraped against his new armor. "I will lead the vanguard. Let my steel be the first to taste their coward's blood."

  Pike's grin widened. "And the Whisper?" She jerked her muzzle toward Buck. "He caused your… disgrace."

  Buck bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper.

  "The fool stumbles blindly through our world." Coal's laugh was a whetstone dragging across bone. "Our true enemy lies south."

  The chamber held its breath.

  "I seek only to show my former kin the meaning of true strength." Coal's declaration rang against the stone walls. The trials had transformed him, though Buck noted the jackalope still couldn't resist a cheap shot.

  Pike's massive paw came down on Coal's shoulder with enough force to stagger him. "Then you shall have your war, little ember." Her glowing eyes locked onto Buck. "And you? Will you stand with the Forged when the horns sound?"

  Buck's answer came unbidden. "Warchief, the southern tribes took someone from me." His fingers found the ring hanging from his throat, Evander's last gift. "I'll be your distraction. But when the killing starts…" He met Pike's stare. "Order your warriors to spare anything that's not beast or jackalope."

  Pike's muzzle wrinkled in confusion. "A dangerous request, Blackwood. Battle fever makes corpses of caution." Her claws tapped the war table. "When I loose the Forged, the river will run red."

  Buck didn't blink. "Then understand this. He's invaluable. Arrogant? Yes. Domineering? Absolutely. Smells like a week dead possum? No argument." His grip tightened on the ring. "But he's my friend. No plan moves forward without his safety guaranteed."

  For the first time, something like respect flickered in Pike's eyes. "Strength," she mused, gaze drifting to some unseen memory. "Strength comes in many forms." She straightened. "A true Warchief does not let any of their tribe suffer. My warriors won't slaughter the defenseless. That's the best oath I can give."

  Buck exhaled through his nose. "Thank y—"

  Pike's sudden rise sent chairs skittering, her antlers scraping stone. "Nine days hence at dawn's light!" The declaration shook dust from the rafters. "Your friend walks free… or the southerners learn how long a jackalope can scream." She leaned forward, claws sinking into wood. "After, we'll settle which Kingdom deserves this valley."

  The unspoken truth hung heavier than her armor. Only one Ruler would leave that conversation breathing.