Underneath a vast canopy a day's travel away from an unmarked memorial, a small collection of former logs now crackled merrily as coals. They shed sparks that danced and weaved through the air, and as a fresh reveller was added to the pile, the sparks shot forth in celebration. A collection of stones stacked around the bed of heat formed a small platform, atop which sat a small, iron pot. A man sat on a log beside the pot, using a crudely carved wooden spoon to stir the mixture within.
From behind him, a hooded figure approached, and the cook heard the complaint before it was actually voiced. In the weight of the approaching steps, in the gait, and in the huff Nimbus sent his way.
“It goes in the pot.” George stated with no room for discussion.
“But it’s gross.” Ezekiel whined. “It looks like two cantaloupes were bumping uglies right when they got hit by an ACME anvil.”
Kyla snorted, then schooled her features as she approached with another batch of the brown mushrooms they’d been gathering for the past little while. Every so often, they would find another type of fungus or flower and bring it back, where a small pile sat waiting to be analysed by the Alchemy tool.. “If the Cook says it goes in the pot, it goes in the pot. He’s here to feed us. You’re here to find some paths. I’m here to silence dissenters.”
“I mean, I think I’m supposed to make the path?” Ezekiel guessed.
“Objection is irrelevant and overruled. Into the pot it goes.” George commanded, and Ezekiel dropped the oddly shaped fungus into the Cook’s outstretched hand with a sigh. Then he blinked, as in the split second between George dropping it into the bubbling brew and it vanishing below the murky liquid, the misshapen ingredient shifted into an almost picture-perfect toadstool.
“Alright, so now you’ve got some stat boosting ingredients, some general restoration ingredients, and some mundane stuff to tie it together. Can I ask why we’re not waiting for the person with the alchemy skill to do this?” Ezekiel asked, hesitantly. He’d found it hard to keep confidence in this situation, where it seemed like both of his companions were better than him at the Class he was trying to get.
George scowled, though the fierce expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ezekiel, we aren’t making a potion. I’m making mushroom soup.”
Kyla smiled. “I thought so. I used to love mushroom soup. Really warms you up on a cold day. I didn’t realise you brought milk or anything though.”
George looked over at her slowly. “You’re thinking of of mushroom soup. This is just gonna be mushroom soup. I’d normally add some chicken stock and some flour for flavour and texture. Butter. Fresh sage. But out here, we’ve got mushrooms, so I’m cooking mushrooms.”
“But-”
“Let him Cook, Ezekiel.” Kyla chided.
“That being said, if either of you want to make the case for livestock farming to Mitchell when we get back, that’d be great. Or, hey, if you get your second class, maybe you can find me some wild giant chickens or something. Food and levelling, all in one. At least flour should be coming soon.” George explained, trailing off into muttered complaints. “Cream of mushroom soup… oh sure, let me just whip up something that took society hundreds of years. That’s what, three, four different types of farms needed? Cows, chickens, wheat, herbs, mushrooms…”
“Then why did you add the potion ingredients?” Ezekiel asked, snapping George out of his muttering.
George blinked, then shrugged. “Maybe I can make food that gives buffs. I hardly see a Cook class being able to cook mundane food. That’s kind of a waste of a class, so I’m gonna make it work.” Another log got thrown on the fire. “Eventually. For now though, I love cremini mushrooms, so I wasn’t gonna leave them out of my soup.”
“You’re just eating potential potion ingredients because they’re tasty?”
Kyla rolled her eyes. “The identifier only said that they were ‘beneficial for Constitution and Vitality’. Do you know how many things we’ve found? We’re out here to catalogue, not collect. So my vote is with George’s plan.”
“Can’t vote,” George sang with a chuckle, “I’m gonna tell the Patriarch you’re dissenters trying to implement democracy. Be happy with your place, comrade.”
Kyla snorted. “Oh no, I was caught giving an opinion. Straight to the gulag with me.”
The Cook rubbed his chin in mock thought. “Now an idea. Why we have a gulag? I’ll have to talk with Mitchell when we get back about implementing an even lower class. What would we call them, though?”
They bantered well into the evening as George cooked, a sense of camaraderie having slowly formed between the trio. Even when the sun went down and a pair of Carnivorous Squirrels
George pointed at each of the carcasses, cast his new Minor Cooking spell in its Skin
Kyla and Ezekiel exchanged a glance, then called out in chorus: “Into the pot!”
George nodded. “It goes into the pot.”
Mitchell, Miriam, Sarah, and John all stood near the river as they looked at the recently repaired building. Inside, the newest member of the town - a Shipwright named Ollie - was setting things up to his liking. However nothing could possibly have stopped the sound of the brand new waterwheel paddling away in the river's current, and the grinding of the mill wheel intermittently starting and stopping.
It had taken a couple of days, but they had eventually expanded to four farms and finally repaired the old mill for which the town was named. The farms were growing a mix of wheat, strawberries (for selling), corn, and lemons. The lemon trees had yet to bear fruit, but they were growing at an astonishing pace. Selling new crops had allowed them to get around the sinking prices of the tomatoes, and over time as they had stopped selling the red fruit the price had risen back to previous levels.
With four farms built, the town had unlocked the option to create a Granary, though Dalton had advised against building it now. Later level granaries were actual, proper cold storage rather than just a place off the ground, and they would be cheaper to buy at that level than to upgrade from a first level building. It was around level 5 that the buildings started to receive minor enchantments rather than mundane improvements, which was what he said to wait for.
However, he’d upgraded most of the other buildings to their limits. Most of the upgrades so far had just required sufficient lumber. It didn’t even need to be processed, so John went into the forest and chopped down trees with single blows, dragging them back to wherever they planned to upgrade. When there were enough trees piled up next to the building, Mitchell accepted the upgrade prompt he got when he used his Intuit skill on it. It was very, very disconcerting to watch a house gain in . The logs became straighter and smoother, the door sat more straight on its hinges, windows went from shutters to a thin film of something, the thatched roof was replaced by wooden shingles, and the house itself raised a few feet off the ground, revealing a cobbled stone foundation and the implication of a cellar.
A quartet of frightened Outer members ran out, saw the majority of the Core group standing in front of their house, and made themselves scarce before Sarah could reassure them.
“Yep. From 4 to 6 occupation.” Mitchell confirmed. “Let’s get the houses to level 3 to match the clan house.”
A day of hauling trees had seen them do exactly that, and within a day, their available capacity had grown up to 200 people able to fit inside the walls, 10 to each house. Learning from the first time, John sent Jack to politely request relocation from the occupants of the houses. John had tried in the second one, but it still ended up with residents panicking about not knowing how to treat the Core. Yet another thing to address.
As Mitchell awaited the next delivery of trees, he explored his other upgrade options. The now-named Water Mill, Large
The town level was increased when it got enough experience. The town got experience every day based on the buildings inside the town. Then it was balanced against the immigration settings, and the result was added to the total. That wouldn’t start applying until the next upgrade though.
Dalton had expressly stated that upgrading the town to the next level, as the reward they had received from the siege, was a suicidal effort. The problems the System sent at a town were directly scaling to level. He recommended that all of the Core Group be at racial level 30 minimum before that upgrade. His precise words were: “Illustrious and wonderful Patriarch, are you out of your bleeding mind?” Mitchell had enjoyed the frankness he’d finally gotten out of Dalton, and had taken to trying to get it out of the Advisor on a more permanent basis.
The Dungeon Gate received the same treatment. They still had their discount from the siege as well, but Dalton said that until they cleared or decommissioned the Dungeon, they would just be creating an exit for the creatures to escape from. Once level 30, he suggested they build the Gate, then immediately go clear the Dungeon they wanted to link to it.
So Mitchell spent his time and effort upgrading what he could. Which was only the farms, but they now completed a stage every 16 hours instead of 24, so they were getting four days worth of food every three days. He’d worried about having enough Farmers, but a few of the unskilled immigrants had taken to creating a night shift of sorts. They were slowly getting better, and would eventually receive their own Farmer class. Mitchell was curious about how they would ever level high enough without a combat class, and was promptly informed that NPC’s had only one class, and that class levelled in direct accordance to the prosperity of the Settlement.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“That doesn’t really make any sense, though.” Mitchell had asked Dalton late at night. “How does Aleks have two classes then? He was a Legionnaire first, and now he’s an artist.”
Dalton shrugged. “Sometimes if there’s someone in the pool that fits your parameters, you end up with a bit more robust of an NPC. I’m quite literally forbidden from giving advice outside of your Tier, so I’ll have to leave it there. Just do a quick check on your immigrants to see who’s an NPC and who isn’t. You’re probably safe to start dividing the experience between immigration and the town again, by the way. Your food issue is mostly solved, and that fishing boat should be done tomorrow, so you need a Fisherman or two to crew it.”
Mitchell had seen the blatant changing of subject and accepted it. Dalton had been more than useful, and so he wanted to remain at least amiable if not friendly. He did however add it to the list of questions he had immediately after they reached E rank. He had a brief thought doubting if they would even make it there, but it was quickly quelled by the overwhelming part of his mind that said simply:
On the morning the exploration trio were due to arrive back, John and a pair of his Legionnaires pulled the newly-constructed south gate open. It was a beautiful, clear morning, the air crisp but not cold to the point of causing frost. Birds sang their songs in nearby trees, and the river’s flow added a burbling undertone to the symphony of the tranquil dawn.
Rather than the expected group, however, a quartet of humans dressed in loose cloth and on horseback stood on the path, three visibly armed and armoured while the fourth was dressed in finer robes and appeared to be waving a white-ish flag. The horses stood stock-still, almost unnatural in their lack of movement.
“The Khanclave sends their regards!” The flag-wielder shouted in a halting accent. A bolt of fire shot out from the end of the flag, burning the scrap cloth and revealing the stick to be a staff. The flames hit the wall with a searing wave of heat and caught despite the dew-soaked wood. The quartet turned and galloped away, their horses eerily silent, as Old Mill Town scrambled to form their first fire brigade in the smoky dawn light.
“Jesus Christ on a hockey stick, that’s a lot of guys.”
“My count’s over 100 mounted alone.” Kyla agreed.
“Can we go? We aren’t nearly hidden enough.” Ezekiel pleaded. This was supposed to be a trip for him to get a second class. They’d expected to follow the deer trail to something he could feasibly use to start on his desired Pathfinder class, not run across what appeared to be a military encampment complete with cavalry. He didn’t have the stats for anything close to what they were doing right now, and he couldn’t quell the feeling that his heart was going to beat out of his chest.
His companions shared a considering glance. “No. We need as much information as we can. If we’d left already, we’d never have seen how many men they had.”
“And women.” George added on to Kyla’s point. “Looks like a feminist version of the Mongols? Seeing a lot of male servants. Yurts. Just watched a guy cop a feel and lose a hand. Pretty savage.” He said as if describing the flavour of a dish he’d just made.
“It’s not like it’s only women.” Kyla countered. “I see some men on horseback down there.”
The trio had heard the sounds of the large camp long before coming across it. The trees had slowly become less dense until they broke entirely to reveal rolling fields interspersed with small clusters of maple and birch. The river shone between them and a sprawling camp, which was the only reason George hadn’t immediately issued a retreat - from what he could see, the river was too deep and fast at this stretch for horses to make a crossing. Even so, the trio lay low in a patch of tall grass atop a small hill, just peeking out from the slowly waving stalks.
“Okay, I get why we didn’t leave before. Why aren’t we leaving ”
George paused for a moment while he considered. They’d been here in the grass for almost twenty minutes now, observing the camp. There were somewhere over 50 tents arranged in a circular pattern like a wheel, with groups of riders patrolling the outside and a starburst of dirt paths like spokes allowing travel to the central, larger tent. To one side, a ramshackle wooden structure acted as stables, and on the other, a small collection of tents housed a few craftsmen - the ring of a hammer on an anvil giving away the purpose of the heavier canvas on the larger frames.
There were no gates or walls to speak of.
“There.” Kyla whispered, pointing. “Coming out of the middle tents, on the left. See the guy with the robe?”
“They all have robes.” Ezekiel deadpanned, but George’s eyes had caught on almost instantly. He didn’t look much different, but his robe fell just the little bit further, his headdress tied in a slightly more ornate fashion, but most importantly was the pair of heavily armoured women that followed him.
“Leader?” He asked, even as he idly fired off an Identify, which was when it all went to hell.
First was the completely new notification which George baulked at then quickly dismissed:
Your Identify has been countered!
You have been Identified!
The woman at the alleged leader's left side pointed with her spear- - and a quartet of riders streamed through the camp's paths and broke for their location. Other, scattered riders raced to catch up until it was well over 10 people riding at them, all shouting and waving. Behind them, other people were hastily throwing on armour and mounting nearby horses. The speed at which they had mobilised was ridiculous.
“Time to go.” George said, clicking his tongue. Nimbus darted out of the grasses and hopped up onto the Ranger’s shoulder. Kyla and Ezekiel scrambled to their feet as well and the trio took off towards the forest, feet pounding against hard dirt and legs pumping and crashing through the grass. The rumbling of hoofbeats was faint behind them and a quiet approaching whistling was the only warning George got. Still in his mind told him to dodge, to
He tackled Ezekiel and Kyla to the ground, Nimbus hissing as he was launched off of George’s shoulder. It was almost too late as a cloud of arrows struck down all around them, stifled cries of pain the only response to the saturation attack. With a quick glance, he realised that he’d actually managed to evade all of the projectiles, though Kyla wasn’t nearly as lucky. A black shafted and feathered arrow jutted painfully from her shoulder, and as the Warrior tried to push herself to her feet, she let out a cry of pain and her left arm collapsed. Ezekiel was quick to tug her to her feet. “Get up, ”
Kyla hissed through her teeth and manoeuvred herself to her feet with one arm. George’s mind moved no faster than usual, but somehow everything just seemed so clear. In an instant, he took in the situation.
Thirty seconds of flat out sprinting gets them to the trees, 45 if he waited for the other two.
20 seconds until the horses reached the banks of the river.
The drawn bows of horseback archers.
The treeline ahead, so close but too far to make it without dodging more volleys.
The waving grass, surprisingly dry given the downpour a week ago.
Kyla’s arm injured - not hindering running speed, hopefully.
Ezekiel’s slowly growing panic.
His own sense of survival.
“Follow my lead exactly.” George said coldly, rolling to his feet. “Nimbus, scout ahead, make sure there’s nothing waiting for us in the trees. You two, if I say down, you fall. If I say up, you get up. If I say to turn around and hold the line so I escape, you do it. Understand?”
“The
“Got it.” Kyla said through gritted teeth and a glare at Ezekiel. “What’s the move?”
George did his absolute best to keep his intuition from showing on his face. “We run like hell and hope that it takes them too long to cross that river.” Without waiting for a response, he began running. The rustling of grass behind him signalled that they were following, and he began counting in his head. After about seven seconds, he shouted his first instruction. “About face, full sprint!”
Ezekiel was the only one to hesitate, and as the Ranger and the Warrior turned to sprint their pursuers, they found themselves running underneath a larger cloud of arrows than the first, by almost half. Ezekiel could only thank luck that he was struck as he was, a scarlet gash opening across his cheek as he yelped in terror.
“Now, go!” George yelled, unslinging his bow and returning fire, though the distance was almost at the maximum of what his bow could manage. He loosed three arrows in quick succession at the closest horse, the first aimed dead on at a high arc and the other two to either side at a lower arc. If he’d judged it right, they should impact one after the other, hopefully anticipating a strafe or dodge. Without waiting to see the results, George turned to follow his companions and gauge how much longer he could stay, finding them halfway to the tree line. Good, he should be able to-
His entire plan changed in an instant as he watched the leading rider get hit by his first arrow, the shaft landing heavily into his torso and knocking him free to fall to the ground. He may have overestimated the battle-sense of the average foe.
His companions didn’t even move out of the way, trampling the fallen rider in their fevered charge. As they grew closer, George began to make out the faint, undulating echoes and screams of battle cries, and he watched as the riders whipped their horses into a frenzy. The first to reach the river stopped and began firing arrows, and while they were still airborne George had returned fire. The second didn’t even hesitate, her horse riding over the churning waters of the river like a particularly bumpy trail before emerging into the grass on the other side and continuing her pursuit. The fourth, seventh, eighth, and ninth riders followed, and with his position not nearly as safe as it once was, George was forced to flee.
He cursed. Horses weren’t supposed to be able to walk on fucking
As he ran back towards the forest, dodging the sporadic but more frequent arrow volleys, George began to come up with a new plan. It was hardly the ideal way forward, but it was more likely than all of them getting out unscathed. As he’d been doing the past couple of days, he followed Ezekiel’s path as much as possible, only diverging when the arrow-fire made it impossible to continue on his line without injury.
The horses thundering hooves just became audible when he finally breached the trees and immediately bounded up a nearby trunk to come face to shocked face with Ezekiel. He wasted no time. “I never said to stop, Z! Keep going, and mark the path back to Old Mill Town. Get Kyla back, tell the Core.”
Ezekiel spoke up before he could think, the words surprising even himself. “What about you? We aren’t going to leave you behind.”
George scoffed, even though Ezekiel could see through the mask. He wasn’t nearly so good with his poker face as some of the others. George was terrified, and he could see the conflict flick across his face. “Can’t. We wouldn’t make it. We’ll hang back, harass them, set traps, make sure they can’t catch up to you, but that will only work if you go. ”
Then George pushed him out of the tree. The fall was only 12 or so feet, which would be nothing to him, but without Ezekiel having a secondary class, his overall stats were much lower and his breath was knocked out of him. “Kyla, I know you’re here! Get him out of here!”
She stepped out from behind a tree down on the forest floor. “We’ll be back with help.”
George growled. That would defeat the entire purpose! “No! Go, prepare! We’ll make our own way back. Trust me.”
Kyla grabbed Ezekiel's hand with her good arm and hauled him to his feet. “I’ll hold you to that, George. Come back ”
George’s throat caught, his Instinct more than high enough to catch the undertones. She genuinely cared and wanted him to make it back safe - maybe he had overlooked something? He swallowed and nodded down at her. “You may not know this, but there isn’t a single person that could keep up with me in the branchways. Now please, ”
She looked once more at the man with the tangled beard and matted, sweaty hair. She looked further up in the tree, seeing twin green orbs with narrowed slits peeking out of the shadow of a shadow of a bough. She looked once more through the trunks at the approaching cavalry, half now unstringing bows and drawing swords - proper, steel swords with wicked curves.
She looked, and she saw, and she left in silence. They vanished into the trees within ten seconds, and George finally stopped trying to keep his face calm.
He turned to watch the approaching riders, even as the beginnings of a float-bridge were being constructed back at the camp. 7 riders, each with bow and sword, each atop a large, muscular warhorse. Tens more milled around the start of the bridge, and running figures in the camp gathered up to join the pursuit party.
“Alright buddy. Let’s make them pay for every inch.”
Nimbus growled his approval, and George drew his bow.
