Returning to the Safe Zone with a fifth Thrall—a broken, metallic humanoid with tattered wings—tipped the scale from wariness to outright fear. The whispers weren't just behind his back anymore. They stopped when he walked past. Parents pulled children inside tents. Members of the [Iron Vanguard] watched him with a new, colder calculation. He was no longer just a weird specialist; he was the man with a personal army of monsters.
His plot in Sector 2 felt like an island in a sea of silent suspicion. Eleanor tried to maintain normalcy, organizing their meager supplies and tending to the minor injuries of neighbors brave enough to approach. Mark had taken to studying Rook with a mechanic's curiosity, sketching its form on scavenged paper, muttering about leverage points and tensile strength.
Lucas spent the evening sitting under their canopy, his mind's eye reviewing his chain. Five silver threads, each leading to a different kind of soul.
1. **Scribbles:** Knowledge, subtlety, area control.
2. **Mem:** Durability, precision, unwavering loyalty.
3. **Volt (Lost):** Technology, electricity, sacrifice. (The empty spot where Volt had been still ached, a ghost in the network.)
4. **Vir:** Corruption, decay, elemental threat.
5. **Rook:** Mobility, perception, broken potential.
He was at capacity. 5/5. The chain was full. The system interface confirmed it with a solid, final-looking lock icon next to his capacity listing. To bind anything new, he would have to release a thrall... or evolve again.
Kai found him there, as the last light died. The information broker didn't bother with pleasantries.
"You've maxed out," Kai stated, sitting on an upturned bucket. "Five. That's a statement. Rourke sees it as a garrison. Finch sees it as a prelude to a coup. Amir is writing a thesis on the psychological profile of a man who collects sorrows."
"What do you see?" Lucas asked, not looking up.
"A completed set," Kai said. "Which means you're either finished building your walls... or you're about to start knocking down everyone else's. The council meeting tomorrow isn't about ration quotas. It's about you. Finch is proposing a 'Thrall Limitation Act.' No individual may maintain more than three bound entities within the dome for 'public safety.'"
Lucas's head snapped up. "They can't do that. They're part of me."
"They can vote on whatever they want," Kai said flatly. "And with public sentiment shifting, they might win. Fear is a powerful motivator. You need to give people a reason to see your monsters as assets, not threats. Before they vote to make you break your toys."
Lucas knew he was right. He had power, but no political capital. He'd spent all his time grinding levels and thralls, not building alliances.
"What do you suggest?"
"A demonstration. Not of destructive power, but of utility. Something that helps *everyone*, visibly. Soon." Kai stood. "Oh, and the northern Safe Zone? We've made stable contact. They call themselves 'The Bastion.' They're sending an envoy. In two days. They're… more advanced. It's a chance for trade. Or a threat. Depending on who represents us."
He melted back into the twilight, leaving Lucas with two looming problems: a potential law against his very existence, and an unknown power about to arrive.
He couldn't fight the council directly. Not yet. But he could play the game.
The next morning, he went to Amir.
"I need your help with a public works project," Lucas said.
The Surgeon raised an eyebrow. "I am a healer, not an engineer."
"You have [Diagnostic Eye]. I have Thralls that can manipulate materials, acid, and lift heavy objects. The western latrine trench is collapsing, and the runoff is contaminating the secondary water collection point. It's a health hazard your Caregivers are constantly dealing with. Let me fix it. Publicly. With them."
Amir considered. "Using the monstrous to serve the mundane. It is… poetic. And strategically clever. Very well. I will approve the labor request and provide oversight."
The project was a masterclass in applied weirdness. Over the next two days, Lucas became a foreman.
**Mem,** with its precise strength, used its needle to carve and shore up new, stable trench walls from compacted earth.
**Scribbles** used its [Minor Corrosion] to carefully etch drainage channels into stone slabs.
**Vir** was kept at a distance, but its secretions, carefully collected by Lucas under Amir's direction, were used to sterilize the contaminated soil.
**Rook,** despite its broken wings, proved invaluable. Its [Keen Altitude] perception allowed it to perch on a broken lamppost and direct the work, spotting weaknesses and misalignments Lucas couldn't see from the ground.
Lucas worked alongside them, hauling fill, getting dirty. He didn't command from on high; he was in the trench. People watched, at first from fear, then from curiosity, then from growing acceptance. They saw Mem patiently holding a support beam. They saw Scribbles fetching tools for exhausted [Laborers]. They saw the horrific acid-orb being used to make the ground safe.
It was slow. It was hard. But it was visible.
On the evening of the second day, as the new, clean, and stable latrine system was completed, a small crowd had gathered. An old [Gardener], whose plot had been saved from runoff, walked up to Lucas. He ignored the Thralls and held out a small, perfect tomato—an impossible luxury.
"For the work," the man grunted, then walked away.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
The council meeting the next morning was tense. Finch opened with his proposed limitation act. He spoke of uncontrolled power, of the risk of a thrall breaking free, of the "unnatural" nature of Lucas's strength.
When he finished, Lucas stood. He didn't argue. He simply reported.
"The western latrine and water contamination issue is resolved. The project was completed two days ahead of schedule with zero injuries, using resources that required no food, no water, and no risk to human scouts. The Caregiver Collective has verified the site is now sterile and sustainable." He looked at Finch. "My 'toys,' as you call them, just solved a public health crisis that was draining medical resources and poisoning our water. Would you like me to limit their utility, or would you like me to deploy them next to clear the blocked drainage culvert on the north side that's causing the flood in Sector 4?"
The room was silent. Amir gave a slight, confirming nod.
Rourke steepled his fingers, hiding a smile. He saw the political victory—a tool he controlled had just publicly outmaneuvered Finch. "The point is made," Rourke said. "The proposed act is tabled. Indefinitely. Now, onto more pressing matters. The envoy from 'The Bastion' arrives at noon. I want a unified front. Overlord-Apparent, your unique perspective may be valuable. You will join the greeting party."
Lucas sat down, the immediate threat averted. He had bought time. But a new player was entering the game. A "more advanced" Safe Zone.
As the meeting adjourned, Kai slipped him a note, written on a scrap of packaging.
*Bastion envoy: [Legate]. Class: Artificer-Lord. Level: Unknown. Obsessed with system-integrated tech. He will see Rook not as a broken thing, but as a puzzle. Be careful.*
Lucas crumpled the note. He looked inward at his full chain, the five threads of silver and will thrumming with potential. He had defended his right to exist.
Now, he had to prepare for someone who might want to take it all apart to see how it worked.