The sun rose over a cold dawn morning, and as George shivered he felt a brief pang of envy for his fluffy companion - Nimbus now sat as high as his thigh, becoming quite the large cat indeed. Now when he used trees for scratching posts, his claws left visible furrows in the bark.

  George, as he was wont to do, was perched in a tall tree just behind the treeline, looking over a narrow but deep section of the river. On the other side of the river, the Khanclave’s camp was stirring, robed figures moving between tents and a small group moving with buckets towards the pasture that held over 70 horses. Checking against his prior notes, it seemed they had gained two more mounts overnight, which made it clear that something System-assisted was going on.

  Regardless, George settled in to watch, hoping that today would be another relaxing day for him, but within an hour he was proven wrong - three groups of five Riders each galloped out from the camp. One went north, though without crossing the river they would be unable to get close to Old Milltown or Comfy’s Grove. One group went south, down the stream, and he mentally crossed that group off as well. To the south was unmapped, but George had a feeling that if he went far enough, he would find where the river emptied into a lake. Such explorations were best left to Ezekiel now, assuming that he and Kyla made it back in one piece.

  The last group again made for the water, and with a quick spell from one of the five, the horses galloped across it. It was not something they could do often, George had noted, and not with any large quantity of horse, but it was still something that reduced the effectiveness of their natural defenses. Hell, Old Milltown didn’t even have a wall on the riverside.

  “Seems like we’ve got five today.” George said idly. “We’ll follow and see how many of our traps work. Maybe we’ll get a break.”

  Nimbus purred, the sound now more than audible compared to the faint noises he made when smaller.

  George scoffed. “Well that’s just pessimistic.”

  The Ranger was still unsure if he was just losing his mind, but from time to time, when Nimbus made noises or communicated he could swear he could understand him. Not like, ‘a two second meow means that there’s a fly in my hair’ but more in the terms of general feelings and emotions. When he had purred, just then, George gathered a sense of mocking and exasperation - clearly his cat did not share his estimation of the traps working.

  Which is why the muffled curses through the underbrush were like music to his ears. “Heh, told ya.” George quickly made his way through the branchways, and came across the Yellow Clearing. He had named his trapped points in a very rushed manner but the names had grown on him over time. The yellow clearing was named that because there were a few witch hazel bushes spread around the exterior of the clearing tucked just under the treeline, and their yellow flowers were the predominant colour to be seen here.

  In the middle of the clearing, however, was not the group of Riders trying to get one of their own out of the spiked pit, but an empty, pristine clearing.

  His instincts screamed just a moment too late, and even as George dodged nothing, an arrow shaft materialized into the tree he’d been standing in. He twisted and contorted as he fell down to the next branch, but was still struck with two more arrows. One skimmed across his bicep, splitting skin. The other sunk into his shoulder, though his leather armour had prevented it from sinking deep enough to impact bone.

  “We got him! Ride him down, don’t let him get away!” Was what the lead Rider said, but all George heard was a guttural repetitive sound, and the chase was on. Nimbus, luckily, had better instincts than he, and had dodged just a split second before he had, going upwards and avoiding the worst of the volley. George snapped the arrow in his shoulder out with a hiss, dropping the crude shaft to the forest floor.

  Then he was dodging a moment before he realized that those five were not the full breadth of the trap. Riding out from the south were five more of the Riders, and he could hear more hoof-beats from the north. Cornered, with naught but the east to go, George didn’t bother stringing his bow - this was a well-laid ambush, and he could not assume this was as far as their plan went.

  Though, would running be feeding into their assumptions, or would staying to fight?

  Without pausing too long, he darted back up the tree, now able to dodge the arrow shafts once he was aware of the shooters. In the back of his mind, he marvelled - he was - yet the majority of his brain screamed with adrenaline and instinct.

  He harnessed his thoughts in favour of finding his next move. He needed to go somewhere - it wasn’t impossible to lose the horses through the branchways, but in the same vein it wasn’t impossible that they had a tracker. The Spinebear was still injured from when he last used it, and he was loathe to bring such a large band to its den. Even after his escape the bear had helped him against the Khanclave, so while it was not anything approaching an ally, George respected it all the same.

  He would never even consider bringing them to Comfy, as clear as it was that the spirit would be able to handle them all with ease. There was a certain quality to the nascent Kami that told him to be careful in all of his interactions.

  He followed Nimbus high up into the trees, then broke north. He would lose his pursuers, then head home. It’d been quite some time since he’d slept in a bed, and even longer since he’d had the time to properly cook something. There was only so long that the freshly caught game tasted good. To him, it was getting bland. The time to properly make a stew, or hell even a pouch of salt would have made it all the more bearable, but-

  Another whistling arrow interrupted him from his thoughts of food and he focussed all of his mind on escaping, Nimbus at his heels.

  “Mrrrow.” Nimbus mewed.

  “Oh I see how it is. We gonna start with ‘I told you so’s, are we?”

  The cat leaped past him, flicking its tail against George’s ear playfully. George smiled through the pain of the arrow wound, and put on an extra burst of speed.

  With the levels he’d gained, he was but a shadowy blur shaking the crowns of trees that, unlike the time of his arrival, were beginning to show signs of autumn.

  Old Mill Town, or Ol’ Milltown as the people were starting to call it, was comparatively bustling. The walls still showed the occasional scorch marks, but the rest stood tall and pristine. The chugging of the mill for which the town was named underlay a symphony of calling voices, the thunking of hatchets into trees, and laughing conversation.

  It was a pleasant sensation, only furthered by entering the town. Farms worked outside the east wall, providing substance and trade to the town, while to the west a horde of fishermen pulled net after net of fish from the water. Near the north wall, a tall tower rocked precariously on lumber supports.

  As George approached the Southern Gate, he reckoned he must have looked a mess. He was looking forward to getting some rest. Which was why he was immediately put on guard when a pair of Legionnaires he didn’t recognize made their presence known atop the closed gate.

  “Halt! Identify yoursel-”

  “Shut up, idiot! That’s the Master Hunter!”

  The first Legionnaire, a pale man, seemed to go even paler. “Open the gate! Now, damnit!”

  George shrugged. “If it’s a bother I can just…” With a single step to push himself up to speed, and the subsequent of feet lightly rebounding off wood, George found himself atop the wall with the guards.

  No longer was it a rickety scaffolding, though. This was a proper walkway, held in place securely. He could see inside the small town, and balked at how different it was, compared to when he’d left two weeks ago. His sharp eyes picked out scorch marks, and he quickly pieced together that the declaration of war had come in response to an attack. Convenient for him, though he hoped nobody had been seriously hurt in the fire.

  Then he began to pick out other, more subtle things. The way a couple walked towards the market in the centre of town, with a little girl holding what appeared to be her mothers hand. The way another couple sat on a bench - they had benches now? - gave him a sense that somehow, the people of Old Milltown were starting to relax and acclimate to the life they now lived.

  “You could at least try not to look like a cat at the top of his tree.”

  George whirled around to see Kyla standing atop the wall. He shrugged. “How do you mean?”

  The woman looked into his eyes as if searching for something, then leaned against the wall to look inwards. “When we left, you were in quite a lot of danger. We were. Now you’re back, looking whole and healthy, as if it’s all beneath you. It’s demoralizing.”

  George shrugged again. Then, after a moment, “I’m glad you guys made it home safe.”

  Kyla punched his shoulder. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Mrrow?”

  Kyla looked down, blinking. “Well obviously I’m glad made it back Nimbus, I just had to tell George cause he isn’t the brightest.”

  The Ranger bristled. “I have a healthy INT of 44, thank you very much.”

  The Warrior laughed in response. “Miriam’s getting close to 250, and we aren’t even at level 50 yet. I’m thinking this System has high numbers for its scaling. I can only imagine what some higher tier people have for their stats. A thousand? Ten? What would that even look like?”

  “Scary.” George replied immediately, thinking of his own prowess. “Anyways, do we have anything stocked up I can cook or am I buying from the store?”

  Kyla raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you wouldn’t know. Well, come by the Clan House with me, Mitch wanted to see you when you got back. We’ll get you some food and a bath.”

  George tentatively took a sniff at his armpit, then recoiled - when it was all he could smell it was noticeable, but against the backdrop of the villages admittedly pungent scent, he picked out his own rancid odour all too well. “Let’s start with the bath.”

  As Kyla led the recently returned George down to the boarded off point of the river they were using for bathing, Miriam hummed and moved away from the window into the darkened room on the second floor of the recently built ‘Mage’s Tower’, the one she’d taken over as her study until they could get her a proper, Systemized tower built. It had a nice view of the south gate and the village square, but more importantly it was hers. Heading down, she saw both of her new hires, a pair of single-class immigrants who nevertheless had managed to unlock some degree of magical class.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Miriam still had a hard time with that. Jack had two classes. Aleks did as well. Yet, most of the people coming only had the one, or none even. She didn’t know what separated her and her friends from the rest of them, but it was uncomfortable to interact with the single-classed without feeling privileged. She’d started a journal about it to condense her research in, but all she had right now was a line on the first page reading: “On the topic of single-class and double-class individuals, information is scarce.”

  It was a work in progress, okay?

  Either way, she was growing used to the disparity. Not necessarily enjoying it, but finding herself thinking about the expanded breadth of the differences. For example, her acolytes - Apprentices? Minions? - were both single-classed, but because of that their Race level went up in tandem with their class level, whereas her Race level was an averaged score. It also meant they would be twice as fast to level, possibly even reaching E-Rank before she did. She would just be stronger when she eventually got there.

  Aleisha, a short blonde woman just past her teens, had been the first. She had bright eyes, but was not prone to talking much, which Miriam approved of. It had taken her a day with the Wand to get her class, though it was not Arcane Acolyte, but a Wandslinger. Her talents lay in the creation and usage of wands, and true to form she could draw a wand almost faster than Miriam could blink.

  Her other apprentice was more of a traditional mage, having gained an Aquamancy Acolyte class. It had taken him three days of shooting the wand at the river, but the tanned man’s long blonde hair and toned body fit with his self-professed ‘surfer vibes’ and it hadn’t hardly seemed like work to him. His name was Collard.

  She left the Tower and her acquaintances behind, heading down to the Clan House. Mitchell had taken a spare bedroom for his own and converted it into his office, though typically there was one of either him, Kyla, or Dalton in there, or any combination of the three. It wasn’t much of an office, just a dining table acting as a desk, and one of the benches from the main area had been brought up until he could convince John to make some proper furniture. It was understandably a low priority.

  Currently, it was Dalton and Mitchell inside, poring over a map that was much more filled than when last she’d seen it. She quickly pieced together that some System works were at play, as the map had expanded far to the south where it would appear George had located the Khanclave’s settlement. To the northeast was the path to the Legion’s camp, then further past that was the Burning Building Dungeon - which she’d gotten a great laugh out of explaining to the others - the combination fire ant and carpenter ant dungeon was aptly named.

  Then a newer development, courtesy of the Legion’s scouts: A full days march to the East from the dungeon was the primary Raccan war camp. She’d hoped that the siege would have been it, but the Legionnaires had begun facing scouts in their marches to and from the dungeon. The skirmishers were easy prey to the practiced blades of the Legionnaires, but it still prevented a measure of peace. John had declared the First Century complete, and they’d started on the Second, but John refused to vacate the camp until he had at least enough set up to continue the training. A half-century would be able to hold the fort, so he was training the first half of the Second to do just that before reporting to the town. The estimation was it would only be one more day.

  To the south, a place called Comfy’s Grove had occupied the map, along with another marker twice as far away that just said ‘Spinebear’. Directly across the small winding blue ribbon of a river was a red X that read ‘Khanclave’.

  “About 3 days of journeying if we don’t push them too hard, I reckon.” Dalton was saying when she approached, and from context she quickly pieced together he was talking about the marching speed of the Legion. She made a mental note to consider enchantments that might increase that rate of travel.

  “That’s a long time for us to be defenseless.” Mitchell frowned. “Three there, one for the battle, three back… if we send the Legion down there, we’re looking at a week minimum until they’re back.”

  “That’s not too bad-” Dalton tried.

  Mitchell slammed a hand down on the table. “Our foe has Dalton. The second our men leave, they’ll be beset by an army in the worst possible position. If they linger, the town is lost. If they rush, they’re exhausted for their own fight.”

  “True, so why not split them-”

  Mitchell sighed again. “Because then we will be defeated in detail. As things go now, I don’t see how we can win a war against the Khanclave.”

  “Then don’t?” Miriam suggested, making her presence known. The two men jumped in surprise, but quickly relaxed when they saw it was her.

  “So, what, we just surrender?” Mitchell asked incredulously. “Hope that they’ll accept us into their faction instead of killing us for the experience?”

  Miriam rolled her eyes. “No, just don’t try to win. Keep the town defended, fight off attacks, focus elsewhere. John found a suitable quarry location up near his fort, which would let us upgrade our walls to stone - no number of horses would let them get through that. We also have the dungeon and the Raccans to deal with. Focus on what we can solve.”

  Mitchell hummed in thought. “We would need some way to stop any parties from approaching so we don’t get sabotaged again.”

  “Then have John set up a second camp in the road! There’s no limit on how many he can have, right?”

  “We can’t just keep throwing it all at him.” Mitchell stressed. “The man is training an army. He needs the space to do that. However… Dalton, could you head down to the barracks and see if anyone wants to trade posts? I have a message to send.”

  Dalton straightened and nodded. “Certainly, Patriarch.” The man quickly left the darker room, leaving the two alone. They stared at each other for a moment, Mitchell’s dark blue eyes piercing into her own brown.

  “Sarah won’t be happy you’re moving him again.” Miriam guessed, and a flicker of frustration passed over his features before he took a measured breath.

  “Sarah isn’t happy period.” Mitchell spat out.

  Miriam frowned. “Well that’s not exactly fair of you.”

  Mitchell shrugged. “It’s not a problem that’s mine to deal with.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re the head of the Clan. We’re all your problem to deal with.”

  He let out a ragged laugh. “Really? Is that what’s been circulating? Because if I go out there and make the announcement that the is above even the Core members and shouldn’t be disturbed by that’s exactly what the hundreds of people I’m responsible for would do. Hell, if I made begging illegal, all our citizens are loyal enough to just starve to death. So really, I decide what’s my problem to deal with.”

  “Well that’s a shitty take.” Miriam immediately accused. “Next, you’ll say that since you could just say the Patriarch should have a harem and you’d get one, I should bow and scrape to prevent it?”

  Mitchell’s eyes flew wide in a panic, cutting through his acidic attitude. “No! I would never! I mean yes, I could declare the Patriarch to be entitled to a harem, ”

  “Same reason you’d order them to starve or to not bother you.” Miriam remained calm.

  “But I wouldn’t do- oh you’re clever.”

  Miriam smiled. “I have my moments. Back to the point, though - just send Sarah with him. We have enough trained Legionnaires to cover the town now, so there’s no reason she should stick around.”

  Mitchell hummed, eyes flicking over the map. “There’s a valley here on the map, we could place the base in between the cliffs, hold the entire valley against hostile movements? The distance would be roughly the same as his first fort, so travel within a day would be possible.”

  “If that valley weren’t absolutely terrible, you’d have a good idea there.” A familiar voice cut in, and Mitchell’s head snapped to the room’s entrance, and to his absent friend.

  “George!” He exclaimed, devouring the ground between them with long strides and standing before the Ranger. The Page looked him from top to bottom, noting the damaged furs and dirty clothes. “You’re back.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Anywho, that valley is shit. Like four Spinebear dens, the hills to either side aren’t stable, and you’ll get flooded out during the first big rain. Now, if they wanted to go atop this ridge, there’s maybe 4 or 5 inches of soil before it gets right to rock. Ain’t nobody tunneling under. ‘Sides, we need stone, right?”

  Mitchell nodded, the map detailing itself as per George’s description. This must be Mitchell’s Clan Map. “Alright. When John gets back fro-”

  “I’m back!” The man called cheerily from the doorway. “Quick report: First Century is fully trained and ready for action. Second Century is filling up nicely, give it three more days at current immigration rates and we’ll be set. The First is camped just outside the northern gate, ready to head to the front lines.”

  George chuckled awkwardly. “We don’t have front lines…”

  Mitchell watched in something adjacent to awe - he wasn’t expecting people to return so soon, yet here they were, unchanged and unharmed, picking it all back up like John hadn’t just spent two weeks training an army, or George hadn’t spent the same time living off the land and fighting a horde on his own. Compared to their accomplishments, he’d just clicked a couple of buttons and chatted with some folks. Hell even Miriam was making leaps forward in both enchanting and her spellcraft while Sarah trained more healers to help her.

  The original plan was to have them assigned to the Legion, but Sarah had grown protective of her small group and had decided she was starting her own little organization of healers and adjacent classes, who met at a hastily named House of Healing. She would lend some to the Legion as needed, but she stressed it was more important to have regular care for the resident members of the clan first.

  Everyone was pushing forwards, applying their knowledge and classes to bring them all forward, and the Patriarch allowed a smile to grace his face. If he could go back and change the culture of the town, he would just point at this moment and say “This”. Each member providing what they could. Each uplifting the others. Each having proven their ability and willingness to sacrifice for the Clan, to ensure our safety, security, and prosperity. Each looking to him for overall direction.

  He caught himself on the last part. It wasn’t necessary that it was him in charge, so long as he could still be a part of it all.

  Even as Miriam laughed and smiled, as she took George’s arm to show him his present and looked back with an eye to see if he was coming, Mitchell shook his head, wanting to give his own vow the weight it deserved. He was well aware that a small voice in the back of his head screamed he was being a melodramatic knob. However, it was the first of his Vows, and it resonated with his Tenets, even if he was not aware of what he had done and the true power of his Class. Truly, even Miriam let it go when she could see the faintest shimmer of System-blue deep in Mitchell’s eyes.

  This decision would carry long into the future, and be joined by other, more informed and momentous decisions, but this one Vow was the basis of who Mitchell would become:

  He would not allow their faith - both in himself and in the Clan they were building - to be misplaced.

  Deep in the dense, shadowy forests to the northeast of Old Mill Town, a squad of freshly spawned legionnaires marched briskly along a well-worn trail. Their armor clinked rhythmically with each step, and their boisterous voices carried through the trees as they sang a marching song. The melody, though somewhat rough and off-key, reverberated through the ancient woodland, lending a brief air of life and camaraderie to the otherwise quiet and brooding surroundings. Spirits were high; this was the beginning of their training, and they carried with them the naive confidence of those who had yet to face true battle.

  Above them, concealed within the sprawling canopy of leaves and branches, danger lurked unseen. Eight Raccan Brutes, massive and sinewy creatures with fur mottled to blend seamlessly with the forest’s hues, hung poised like silent predators. Their claws gripped the branches effortlessly, and their breath was a mere whisper against the rustle of the wind. Sharp, intelligent eyes tracked the squad’s every move, and their tense muscles quivered with anticipation.

  Without warning, the Brutes dropped from the branches like shadows given weight and form. Their hulking frames hit the ground with sickening force, crushing some of the legionnaires instantly under their bulk. The remaining soldiers had no chance to react; claws and fangs tore through flesh and armor with horrifying ease. Blood sprayed across the forest floor, staining the moss and dirt, but the attack was so swift and precise that hardly a cry escaped the ambushed men. The trees seemed to hold their breath, muting the violence, as if the forest itself conspired in this deadly act.

  The Brutes worked with unnerving efficiency, dragging the broken bodies into the thick underbrush. There, hidden from prying eyes, the forest’s tranquility was overtaken by the grisly sounds of snapping bones, tearing flesh, and gnashing teeth. The once-lively trail was now eerily silent, save for the macabre feast taking place just out of sight. A few stray pieces of equipment—a helmet, a shattered sword—lay abandoned on the path, silent witnesses to the carnage.

  At the edge of the clearing, a Raccan Shaman emerged from his concealment, his gnarled staff in hand. As he stepped forward, his previously cloaked form shimmered into visibility, revealing a creature adorned with bones and feathers, his eyes glowing faintly with an unnatural light. The Shaman began a low, guttural chant, scattering handfuls of ash from a pouch at his side. The blood-soaked soil seemed to drink in the ashes greedily, and as the ritual took hold, the surrounding flora responded. Leaves unfurled with newfound vitality, roots thickened and burrowed deeper, and even the moss seemed to gleam with a vibrant green hue. The lifeblood of the fallen had not been wasted—it had been absorbed into the forest, feeding it and strengthening its guardians.

  Once the ritual was complete, the Brutes meticulously buried the remains of their victims—the shattered bones, the scraps of flesh they had no use for—ensuring that no trace of the ambush remained. Satisfied, they scampered back up into the trees, their massive forms moving with an unnatural grace. Soon, they were nothing more than silhouettes against the shifting patterns of sunlight filtering through the canopy, their watchful eyes resuming their patient vigil.

  From start to finish, the entire ordeal had taken no more than seven minutes. Eight legionnaires, armed and armored, had been slaughtered without so much as a warning. They had died swiftly, without ever knowing how or why. The forest, now eerily calm once again, swallowed their passing like a stone disappearing into a dark, still lake.