Valebris was still asleep when Fleck returned to the city. Shadows stretched through the alleys under the cold dawn, and the gray sky promised another sunless day. The eastern gates hung open, guarded only by two drowsy men who didn't even look up as he passed—dusty, bloodstained, and soaked in sweat.
He crossed the quiet streets to the inn where he rented a small room on the top floor of a crumbling building whose floorboards groaned with every step. He tossed his pack in a corner, pulled the unstable crystal from his leather strap, and placed it on a chipped stone table. The blue glow pulsed like a heartbeat in pain—beautiful, and dangerous. Worth enough to survive a few more weeks.
But that wasn't what troubled him.
The memory of the tunnels still burned behind his eyes. The clean swing of Drakar's axe splitting a creature's skull. Rogar's timing as he turned his shield into a wall against exploding mana. The way they trusted him—without a single word, without knowing who he was.
Fleck stared at the core in silence.
Then stood up. And left.
Finding them wasn't difficult.
All he had to do was follow the metallic clangs echoing from the training yard in the industrial sector. The space was open—cracked stone tiles, straw dummies, pierced targets, and the ever-watchful eyes of older veterans who judged everything with silent stares. The air reeked of worn leather, burnt iron, and dried sweat.
Drakar was there, swinging his axe with fury against a chained wooden trunk. Each strike made it tremble. Rogar stood nearby, calmly adjusting the straps of a helmet.
Fleck approached without a word.
Drakar stopped mid-swing.
— "Look who crawled back. The rat."
Fleck crossed his arms.
— "And you're still stuck with the same cracked-rock face."
Drakar smirked faintly—the closest thing to a greeting he seemed capable of.
Rogar stood up, wiping his hands.
— "What brings you here?"
Fleck tossed a leather pouch containing a glowing core onto a nearby stone.
— "Turns out fighting beside people who don't die easily can be… interesting."
Drakar scoffed.
— "Is that a compliment?"
— "That's all you're getting."
Rogar watched him for a moment before replying:
— "More fissures opened near Turhenn Forest. Small, unstable. Creatures come out at night. The Agency hasn't labeled it a threat yet, but villagers nearby offered coin."
— "Unofficial?" Fleck asked.
— "Extraofficial," Rogar confirmed. "But real."
Drakar spun his axe over his shoulder.
— "And it'll have real fights."
Fleck nodded slowly. Their eyes met—one, two, three.
No oath was sworn.
But it was enough.
The village of Maren sat three hours away by foot. A cluster of crooked houses surrounded by shallow swamps and low, twisted trees. The overcast sky made the world seem colorless—like even the earth was sick.
An old man in a patched cloak greeted them.
— "Five oxen are gone. A boy too. No screams. But the tracks… they're not human."
Rogar listened without interrupting. Drakar sharpened his axe. Fleck circled the main house, studying the mud.
— "It moves at night. Always from one direction. Patterned approach, changing angles. It's hiding somewhere nearby," Fleck said, pointing at deep claw marks. "Dense woods. There's likely a fracture."
— "Suggesting a trap?" Rogar asked.
— "I suggest baiting. Then surrounding."
Drakar grinned, tapping the axe.
— "And killing."
That night, the forest was dense. Branches curled like fingers locking overhead. Their trap was set: a trail of ox blood leading to a concealed clearing, where Rogar waited with his shield. Fleck crouched above on a fallen trunk. Drakar lay in wait behind mossy rocks on the opposite side.
Time passed.
Then came the sound.
First, a hiss. Then the scratch of claws against stone. Something emerged from the darkness—small at first, then larger. Three pairs of glowing red eyes. Exposed fangs. Skin like cracked obsidian threaded with pulsing mana veins. It moved like a blind predator, guided by scent.
It reached the clearing.
And stopped.
Rogar lunged. His shield smashed the creature's snout. It staggered, shrieking. Drakar burst from the flank and slashed one leg—not to kill, but to unbalance.
Fleck dropped from above, blade aimed between the beast's top eyes.
The strike cracked its carapace. It screamed, releasing a shockwave of unstable mana. But none of them backed off. They surrounded. And crushed.
It was brutal.
Three shimmering cores sat on a stone.
Fleck stared at his bloody hands. The blade trembled—but not with fear.
He breathed deep. His heart was steady.
A notification flickered in his mind:
+92 XP
XP: 432 / 500
You are close to Level 5
Coordinated combat detected
Group affinity improved
He looked at the others.
Rogar wiped off his shield.
Drakar sat silently, sharpening his axe.
— "That worked," Fleck said. "Better than it should've."
Drakar muttered:
— "Nobody died. That's something."
Rogar looked up.
— "What if we make this more than just a one-time thing?"
Fleck raised an eyebrow.
— "What are you suggesting?"
— "A clan," Rogar said. "Three founders. Three blades. One instinct."
Drakar looked at his brother. Then at Fleck.
— "As long as I don't have to wear some fancy uniform."
— "As long as no one tries to give me orders," Fleck added.
Silence.
Then: laughter.
Their first. Rough. Real.
The night no longer felt so dark.