Henri's Lord's hall smelled like sap, smoke, and frustration.
It wasn't a palace. It wasn't even close. But it was the best thing within three weeks of travel—rough-cut timber walls planed smooth by the system, a heavy table and even heavier unwieldy chairs, furs nailed to the walls from successful hunts. Henri had even had one of his actually loyal subjects carve decorative trim along the beams and table. He ran his hand over them but it was uneven.
He hated that it still felt primitive.
Henri stood with both hands braced against the table, staring down at a charcoal map of the basin. Pins marked paths that barely existed anymore. Strings showed patrol routes that usedto mean something.
An aide stood across from him, shifting nervously.
"We… lost them, my Lord."
Henri didn't look up. "Lost them how."
"The refugees scattered after the forest line. Adventurers screened their trail. Our patrols couldn't track them reliably, and the monsters—"
"Enough," Henri snapped. "So they vanished."
"Yes, my Lord."
Henri exhaled through his nose, slow and tight. Three hundred people. Labor. Crafters. Farmers. Bodies that belonged to his domain, running off like frightened livestock.
"Any sign they're heading north?" he asked.
"Only rumor." My Lord. "But when we lost contact with them they were heading north."
Of course. Henri replied.
The aide hesitated. "There's… more."
Henri finally straightened, irritation flickering into something sharper. "Out with it."
"The Landing replied to your forum post."
Henri's jaw tightened in frustration and alittle fear.. "Read it."
The aide swallowed and pulled up the panel, voice steady but careful.
Being a Lord does not grant the right to rule without responsibility.
Authority exists to protect the people under it, not to abuse or execute them.
The Landing will not stand by while civilians are conscripted, starved, or made examples of.
If intervention is required to prevent further harm, we will act.
Silence filled the hall.
Henri laughed once, sharp and humorless.
"Listen to him," he said. "Moralizing. As if he's some philosopher-king instead of a jumped-up warlord with too many toys. I dont know how he got lucky enough that one of his summoned peoples can make potions but it means nothing. "
The aide didn't respond.
Henri waved him off. "Leave me."
The man bowed and hurried out.
Henri turned back to the table and pulled up another forum thread—one buried deep, phrased carefully, visible to all but understood by only a few.
Stability requires respect for boundaries.
Unchecked expansion destabilizes the basin.
A response blinked in moments later.
Agreed. Authority must remain inviolate.
The Landing grows… ambitious.
Henri's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Good," he murmured. "At least someone understands."
He began drafting a new post, this one public. He was careful in his writing. Polished with his political acumen and noble lineage.
Not an accusation—no, a concern.
Fellow Lords,
Recent actions by Harold's Landing raise troubling questions regarding the sanctity of Lordly authority.
If one Lord may intervene in another's domain under the guise of "protection," then no authority is secure.
We must consider whether unchecked interference undermines the very framework that allows us to govern.
He sent it.
Then leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.
No desertions—his soldiers were still loyal. But the adventurers? They weren't taking the bounties. Not the pursuit quests. Not the "recovery" quests.
They were choosing.
And now Harold's Landing was moving troops. Not adventurers but actual soldiers and he didn't know how many.
Henri stared at the map again, fingers twitching. His response had been too fast. Too organized.
He's in the northeast corner of the basin. How the hell is he projecting force that far south?
Was his domain already pressing against the river?
"This isn't how it's supposed to work," he muttered. "I need those people. I need them to get the industries going again. We were finally—finally—getting stable."His fist slammed against the table in frustration.
He reached for a tin on the table, an old habit from Earth he sorely missed, popped it open—and found it empty.
No cigars. No wine. No caviar, no comforts, no civilization.
Just smoke, wood, and mud—and a world that no longer cared who he had been. He would show them.
Henri closed the tin slowly.
"I need a drink," he said to no one. "A real one."
Then, quieter—almost petulant:
"And someone needs to remind that man what authority actually looks like."
The morning air was cool — the kind that promised warmth later, but still clung to the shadows in the corners of the Landing. It was early April in the hills of the basin. The sun hadn't yet cleared the treetops when Harold stepped into the courtyard at the barracks.
It still wasn't a grand place — just an open space inside a rough palisade, the only yard the fort had. All hardened stakes, packed earth, with a couple solid towers manned by brand-new soldiers.
Centurion Carter stood to one side, arms crossed, watching a line of freshly summoned legionaries drill under his eye. They moved like recruits — because they were. But they were improving, and Carter barked sharp corrections with that same calm, gravel-dragging voice he always used.
Harold didn't stop to speak. He crossed to the far side of the yard, where there was space to stretch, to breathe, to focus. He inhaled deeply and began.
He'd started with the potion method. That had been his first mana system — the delicate circulation of mana like liquid through a cauldron, moving evenly through his body. It had comforted him at first. Grounded him. A way to calm himself. But over time, something had shifted.
He still began that way — circulation through his core, then outward through his limbs, careful and smooth — but now he pushed it further.
This wasn't potion-making anymore. Not exactly.
He was making himself the potion.
The soldiers flooded their bodies with mana, empowering themselves by sheer will. Forcing it to obey.
Harold was different. He empowered his body like ingredients — in sequence, with intention.
He let mana sink deeper: into bone, into muscle, into blood.
Legs first — bone to strengthen, then muscle to empower. For speed.
Then shoulders and back — for power.
Then his arms, his hands. His weapon.
He felt the power flood through him. His body wanted to move. To strike.
But this was about control. Learning how to manipulate mana to serve him.
The wooden training sword felt heavier than it should have, but he worked through the forms anyway. His movements were rough and ungraceful. He wasn't a swordsman — not yet. Maybe not ever. But that wasn't the point.
He needed to move. To burn.
To channel the pressure in his chest into something tangible.
He'd found he could use less mana this way. Less brute force, more refinement. The soldier's method of will and dominance had merit — but this was something else. A hybrid of discipline and craft. A system built not just on pushing, but understanding.
It was slower. Smarter. A refined method.
His breath grew heavier as he worked through the second set of forms. Mana rolled beneath his skin like a tide under pressure. His strikes were still sloppy — but they hit harder. His balance steadier. His focus sharper.
This wasn't training for war.
This was sharpening the blade of his will.
He needed that edge. Especially today.
Centurion Parker was still a day out from the refugees. They believed the civilians had taken shelter in the forest — something Hale agreed with. Parker had already skirmished with the centaurs four times. The last two engagements had left men injured.
No deaths yet.
But it was close.
And Hale's gamble looked like it might pay off — if Parker could maintain the pace.
Margaret had briefed Harold the night before. Henri's move. His threats. His appeal to the other lords.
It was a thinly veiled power play — but a dangerous one.
And Harold had to consider his next move carefully.
He couldn't afford the other Lords coming together against him. He'd been counting on defeating them in detail, reducing losses by choosing his fights. That was part of why he'd gone to Dalen's hold first — Dalen had already lost. It was a clean consolidation.
But Henri…
Henri had gotten bold.
And bold men, Harold knew, either secured their ambitions…
Or died trying.
And Harold knew Henri. In his last life, the man had started late — probably due to the Centaurs in his region — but had gained power fast. He'd built ships. Colonized islands. Grown rich from resources no one else could reach. His warships had given him the ability to move troops up rivers and threatened the Basin before the other Lords could react.
Harold exhaled and drove the next strike into the practice post hard enough to make it shudder.
His next move would set the tone for the entire Basin. Should he let Henri's post stand, take the loss of face — something he personally didn't care about, but which would undercut his ability to work with other Lords?
Or… should he move to remove Henri now?
He cycled the mana again, sinking it into his legs, his arms — and launched into the final form, striking the post as hard and fast as he could manage.
He slowed as he reached the end of the form — exhaling hard, mana still cycling through his limbs. His skin itched faintly from the buildup. Sweat clung to the back of his shirt.
Then he saw her.
Margaret stood just beyond the training yard, near the palisade entrance, slate in hand. She wasn't watching the soldiers. She was watching him.
Harold straightened, letting the last of the mana settle. With one more deep breath, he grounded the flow and rolled his shoulders.
Two of his personal guards peeled off from the edge of the courtyard — senior legionaries, both summoned weeks earlier. Each bore a spear slung across their back, and each had the faint shimmer of active mana running through their skin from the drills.
They fell into step behind him as he crossed the yard.
Margaret didn't speak until he'd passed under the palisade gate and joined her just outside the walls, where the morning breeze still carried the chill of spring.
"Didn't want to interrupt your exercise," she said, arching a brow. "Though if I had waited much longer, you might've tried to split that post in half."
Harold grunted. "It deserved it."
Her expression didn't shift, but her voice softened slightly. "We've got an update."
Harold's jaw tightened. "Good or bad?"
"Mostly updates," she replied. "But something's brewing."
He nodded once. "Walk and talk?"
Margaret glanced at the guards. "You're going to want privacy for this."
Harold gave the faintest motion with his fingers, and the two legionaries wordlessly stopped and maintained distance near the gate.
Then he turned back to Margaret and said, "Alright. Let's walk."
And together, they headed deeper into the Landing.
They moved past the edge of the palisade wall, boots crunching faintly on the gravel path that circled the outer buildings. Birds had started calling in the distance — high and sharp, hidden in the trees. The morning was already warming.
Margaret waited until they were clear of earshot before speaking.
"My team's been combing the general forums," she said. "Looking for any threads that mention us directly — or indirectly. There's been more of them lately."
"People are talking," Harold said flatly. "That was always going to happen."
Margaret nodded. "True. But one stood out."
She pulled out her slate and showed it to Harold. Look at this thread. "At first look the title is nothing suspicious. No lords comment on it until later. Started by someone I suspect is an aide to Henri— but what caught my eye is that The Landing is mentioned by name half a dozen times. All of it couched in language about 'overreach,' 'setting dangerous precedent,' and 'undermining basin stability.'"
Harold frowned. "Henri's message already seeded the idea."
"Exactly," Margaret said. "This thread sprang up within hours of it. And the comments? They're vague, like they know people are watching. Mostly nodding along. A few of them speculate that if someone doesn't put us in check, there'll be more 'interventions' soon. It's subtle, but it's coordinated."
She swiped again. "One comment, though, stood out. The user mentions 'sending support to stabilize Lord Henri's position and ensure lawful order is maintained.'"
Harold's steps slowed. "What name?"
Margaret looked up at him.
"Arjun."
Harold's jaw clenched.
The name felt like a crack of thunder behind his eyes. Lord Arjun. Across the river, southeast of Henri's domain — a tactician and one of two Lords in the valley that moved with their armies. He had too many connections and just enough ambition to be dangerous.
"They were allies," Harold said quietly, voice taut. "Last time. Close, by the end of it — their trade routes, their armies, they worked together. But I thought they didn't start working together until much later."
Margaret nodded, watching his face. "Something you did may have changed that."
Harold didn't answer right away. He looked past her, toward the treeline beyond the Landing. The shadows of the hills. The fog lifting slowly under the sun.
"So they're moving earlier this time," he said. "Reacting faster."
"It's not proof," Margaret said softly. "But it's more than smoke."
"No," Harold said. "It's enough."
He exhaled once, sharp. "We've just confirmed that Henri's not alone. And if Arjun moves? Others might follow."
Margaret gave a short nod. "So what's the play?"
Harold didn't answer yet.
But his mind was already moving — faster than his boots, faster than the wind — running possibilities, options, contingencies.
And none of them ended without a fight. "We need to finish our upgrade, they have until tomorrow evening to finish those buildings. We need to upgrade to a town immediately. Then…I need to contact Hale and I need to contact Sarah."