He changed without turning on the light.
Shoes first. He pulled his laces tight, then tighter. The old pair by the door still fit. He tested them with a few steps across the floor, rolling his ankles once, twice. No stiffness or hitch, thankfully, no scars to hide. He briefly thought back to the last run he did and barely remembered it.
He shut his eyes tightly as the memories rushed through him, trying to dispel them. He hadn't learned how to yet.
Figuring it was better to start moving, he tiptoed outside.
Outside, the air bit at his lungs. He shut the door quietly and started jogging before the lock clicked behind him. Waving his arms to warm up and get the blood going, he sped up.
The first mile was always the worst.
His breathing settled into rhythm as the street slid past. Houses. Trees. Cracked sidewalks, he remembered avoiding without thinking. A hydrant leaked slowly at the curb. He ran because motion kept his hands busy and his thoughts from folding in on themselves. He needed exercise, and it was easier to sleep when his body was tired.
It just never worked for long.
The scars were gone. Physically, he was healed. His mind was in perfect condition. Even mentally, the worst of it had faded. The madness was mostly gone.
But some things didn't leave. He still remembered.
By the second mile, the memories crept in anyway.
The beatings. The slow knife work. The pliers that were used on him. Potions were forced down his throat so they could heal him enough to do it again. Each refusal brought him pain and even more pain. When he failed, sometimes they bought him another stretch at the table. Thinking he was doing it on purpose.
They'd taken him because he could craft. Because his work held its efficacy longer when others failed. They told him he was lucky. Told him he was too valuable to risk. He'd believed them, exhausted enough not to question the offer. So he went.
The facility had been clean. Bright, with wall sconces and polished floors. The sound of other crafts echoed through the halls. They gave him tools and space and watched from behind glass.
It was almost normal and infinitely safer than where he had been working before.
Until a coworker asked for a night off.
"Just keep working," they'd said. "This helps everyone. You're doing important work."
The potions he made at first were simple. Healed more than others. Cleansed poison more reliably. Improvements that stacked. They were used immediately. They brought him data and asked for more. He was happy to do it too; they gave him all the materials he needed, and he had gotten perks there he didn't think he would be able to.
He ran past a stop sign, barely seeing it, and didn't slow down. He saw another runner but barely acknowledged the wave he gave him.
When the orders changed, that's when he refused.
They wanted quantity over care. Speed over reliability. They wanted him to skip steps that mattered if they wanted the best quality possible. It went against everything he wanted.
He told them no. He would craft as he wanted. It was an artful science he loved. The care taken to measure out portions and prepare ingredients. How his mana had woven through his body and into the brew. How mixtures could have wildly different results just from mana control. It was exhilarating, but they didn't care.
The first punishment wasn't painful. It just sucked. Less food and sleep, but longer hours. So…he kept refusing.
By the third mile, his legs burned, and he welcomed it. The pain was familiar, and the burn in his chest was a welcome distraction.
The restraints came next. A chair bolted to the floor. Tools were taken away, then returned just out of reach. The questions repeated until they stopped being questions. They wanted his recipes, then, when he refused, they tortured him until he couldn't say no. They made him work in front of other alchemists, hoping they could copy him.
But…no one could copy how he controlled his mana.
They hurt him longer when he tried to stay silent, and he did try, but it was so hard.
He stumbled on a cracked stretch of pavement and corrected without breaking stride, his body moving more smoothly than it had any right to.
Eventually…he broke, and the madness set in.
That was the part people liked to pretend didn't matter or wouldn't happen to them. Everyone broke. It was only a matter of time. Bodies and minds weren't built for that kind of constant pain. Not when relief was so easy.
So… he went back to work.
He crafted with shaking hands and learned how to make them stop shaking. His mana flowed through him with more control than it had any right to. He focused on output and efficiency. On giving them what they wanted fast enough that they wouldn't come back.
The potions improved, but so did the demands.
By the fifth mile, sweat soaked through his shirt. His breathing was harsh now, steady but loud. The road curved toward the busy park. Fewer houses, but more families out enjoying the colder weather. He saw a family walking through the park, laughing and enjoying each other's company.
They had no idea what was coming. When everyone is taken, the system was brutal; families were split unless they were lucky enough to be holding each other. But there was no protection for children. They got sent wherever the system deemed. The dichotomy of the system always confused him.
That was when he figured out the improvement potions.
It wasn't kindness or hope, sheer practicality, and a unique madness that had crept its way in—a way to keep the cutters out of the room.
They wanted stronger soldiers. Faster reactions and more survivability. They didn't care how it happened, only that it worked. Some of the ingredients they brought him were vile. Organs and blood, refined magical materials that hadn't come from monsters. He barely even noticed and welcomed the ingredients.
He stopped thinking like an artisan or even a person and started feeling like a system.
That was how he kept what little sanity he had left.
Concentrated solutions. Temporary effects that he was able to craft into becoming permanent. Something that could be administered quickly, without training or preparation. He used what he knew about the body and limits. About how far you could push before something broke. He thought he was doing well in those moments and working to save humanity and himself.
When they brought him live test subjects, he didn't care. He only cared about not getting the cutters back.
The first vial worked.
Olympic-level strength. Speed that turned seconds into fractions. Reflexes that made veterans look slow.
They were thrilled, and they ordered more.
He made them. Hundreds. Then thousands. Each one another brick in a wall he couldn't see over.
When one enhancement worked too well, and someone died, they didn't blame the vial. They blamed him. It was the result of a new perk he had earned; it increased the potency of his work. He was thankful for it at first…then he cursed it.
They'd given it to the daughter of one of their captains.
The torture was worse that time. The captain was brought in to watch. The next time, he joined.
There was no structure to it. No schedule. Pain when he slept. Pain when he didn't. Pain that lingered just long enough to remind him who decided when it stopped. They probably only stopped because they needed him to continue crafting.
He crumbled more slowly that time; the madness had truly set in. Sometimes he loved the pain, and others he hated it. His own mind couldn't decide.
Eventually, he kept crafting anyway. Anything to keep them from coming back.
The park path dipped and rose. He leaned into the slope, calves screaming, lungs burning. His pace slowed, but didn't stop. Trees blurred past. Other runners existed only as shapes. One family was throwing a football together, and he barely noticed their laughter.
Escape came by accident.
A lazy guard forgot to lock a door. Someone panicked during a shift change. The alarms lagged just long enough. He ran then, too.
It wasn't fast and certainly not clean. He stumbled out of the cell, and for a time, the madness worked in his favor. He didn't care; he just moved. But his body wasn't whole enough for it. He ran anyway, and he didn't look back until the compound was gone. He didn't even remember how he got around the wall and gate.
By the sixth mile, his vision tunneled. He slowed to a jog, then a walk, hands braced on his knees.
The madness hadn't faded with freedom. That was the lie he'd believed.
He'd kept running after the escape. Through streets and markets. Through crowds and alleys. Any direction that wasn't behind him. He knew they were chasing him, and panic drove his legs when thought would have stopped them.
The cart came out of nowhere.
Heavy wooden wheels. Loaded too high. Pulled by something spooked by a noise he never heard. He saw it just long enough to understand, then it was pure blissful silence.
The pain flared once, then it was sharp and complete.
He slowed as he neared home, chest heaving, sweat cooling too quickly now. His legs shook, but they held. The house came into view before his thoughts caught up.
He stopped at the corner and bent forward, hands on his thighs.
Not today. He straightened and headed inside. A plate waited on the counter beside his papers. It was still warm, and a sticky note clung to the edge.
Went to class. Don't forget to eat. You owe me an explanation.
The memories receded as quickly as they'd come. Family sometimes did have a healing effect. Or maybe it was just knowing someone cared.
He picked up the plate. Whatever the cost, he wouldn't be losing her again.
The bank smelled like carpet cleaner and burnt coffee.
He took a number, sat down, and waited. People around him tapped phones, flipped through forms, stared at nothing. Normal impatience. The kind that assumed tomorrow was guaranteed.
He still didn't know a safe way to warn everyone. He had thought about trying to make anonymous posts on the internet. But he was worried he would be tracked down once it all came out. Then be hauled off for leaking government secrets before the first day even started. He couldn't risk the chance.
When his number was called, he stood, adjusted his worn jacket, and followed the clerk down a short hallway. The clerk was a smaller mousy man, the kind that looked perpetually busy but never seemed to catch up on any work.
The office was small. One desk, two chairs. A framed print of a sailboat that had never seen water. The clerk relaxed behind the desk. He seemed like he actually enjoyed his job.
"Name?" the loan officer asked, fingers already moving.
"Harold," he said, watching it appear on the screen.
"And you're looking to open a business," the man continued. "Food service?"
"Yes sir," Harold said. "Mobile."
The loan officer nodded. "Food truck?"
"With beer." Harold mentioned quickly. "Don't forget the beer."
That earned a second look of mild interest.
Harold slid a folder across the desk. A permit he made up the day before. A simple business plan. Projected costs. Conservative numbers that didn't promise miracles.
Most of it was nonsense. Just clean figures that looked reasonable enough to secure the loan. He only needed the money to last the next thirty days.
"And you brought samples?" the man asked, glancing at the cooler beside Harold's chair.
"I figured it wouldn't hurt," Harold said with a small smile.
The loan officer hesitated, then shrugged. "We're technically not supposed to—"
"I know," Harold said. "But they're sealed."
That much was true. The bottles were capped and labeled by hand. No branding yet. He used to think about starting a brewery but he never really had the chance before. He had always liked the imagery of herbs and plants. There were so many things they could do.
He hadn't had time to make the bottles prettier though. He was counting on the taste to do the work for him.
Honestly, it was good beer.
The man opened one, took a cautious sip, then another. His eyebrows lifted despite himself.
"Did you brew this?" He asked while taking another quick sip.
"In my garage," Harold said. He smiled again, it was always easier to like people who could enjoy a good brew.
"It's clean," the man said. "Balanced."
Harold nodded. Brewing had always been easier than talking. It was all ratios and timing. Temperature. Control without conversation. People always liked to change things.
They talked numbers after that. Revenue projections. Foot traffic. Seasonal slowdowns. Harold answered cleanly, without embellishment. He didn't need this to succeed long-term.
He just needed the cash.
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Near the end, the loan officer leaned back. "I'll be honest. This is a little risky. This city isn't exactly known for food trucks. But you've picked decent locations, and you're not promising the moon."
"Nope, I'm looking to build a steady and consistent business model." Harold said.
"You've got collateral," the man continued. "And I like your restraint."
Approval came as a printed page and a handshake. He left him a couple more of the beers and he seemed to appreciate that.
Harold walked out ten minutes later with a loan, a receipt, and the faint sense that he'd just taken the first step.
Outside, he breathed easier. He took his time to look around the busy street. It was hard to imagine it would all come crashing down. At least now he could start moving pieces.
He drove home and went straight to the table, already scrolling through his phone. There was one call he'd been putting off. One that would either help everything fall into place or make things worse.
Josh had always been a skeptic. A big conspiracy guy. Normally that would be a problem. Thankfully, right now, it was an asset.
Last time, Harold had never learned what happened to Josh and Beth. He'd assumed they'd died early, swallowed by the chaos. He had tried to search and ask around. Even made a couple posts on the forums, like the rest of the world when they ended up there. But he never figured it out and the not knowing had stayed with him.
This time, he wouldn't let that happen. He stared at Josh's name and hit dial.
His hand started to shake before the first ring finished.
It rang twice.
"Harold! What's up? It's been a while."
"Hey, Josh," Harold said quickly. "Yeah, it has. Maybe we can fix that. How fast can you and Beth get here? I'll cover the flights. I need you both here as soon as possible."
Silence on the other end.
"How serious is this?" Josh asked.
"Very," Harold said. "I can explain in person. Not over the phone."
He hated leaning into Josh's paranoia, but if it got them here faster, he'd live with it.
There was muffled conversation, then Beth's voice came through. "Harold, can it wait a day or two? I'd hate to miss work."
Harold's chest tightened. Hearing them both made something crack. His voice wavered before he could stop it.
"Please, Beth. The sooner the better. I need you here."
More silence and more hushed voices. He heard a sharp voice but not what they said.
Then Josh came back. "We'll be on a flight in the morning. It'll be good to see you. Prepare some of that beer."
The tension drained out of Harold all at once. Tears followed, heavier now.
"Thank you," he said, voice rough. "We don't have much time."
"We're coming," Josh said. "Just tell me—Sarah's okay, right?"
Harold nodded automatically, then caught himself. "She's fine," he said. "I'll explain everything when you get here. It's going to sound insane. I need you to believe me anyway."
The line went quiet.
Beth's voice came back once more. "We'll be there in the morning Harold. But you owe me an explanation!"
The call ended.
Harold sat there for a moment, phone still in his hand. Josh had been his roommate in university. Both of them engineers. Beth had come later, and somehow fit immediately.
He set the phone down and looked at the table.
The notebooks were still there. Stacked and labeled and waiting on him to continue. He opened the one marked Early Days.
He wrote until his hand cramped.
Dates without years. Names without faces. Events that cascaded because someone made a decision that felt small at the time. He tried to keep it orderly. Lists. Arrows. Cause and effect. But it was too much and it didn't last.
Lines crossed. Notes bled into margins. He wrote faster, then slower, then faster again. His breathing picked up. His chest tightened.
The memories stacked now. Overlapped. Contradicted. He tried to hold them in place and failed.
His hands shook.
"No," he muttered, pressing the pencil down harder. "Stay. Just—stay."
The words blurred. A chair scraped behind him.
Arms wrapped around his shoulders.
He stiffened, then broke.
The pencil hit the floor as he folded forward, breath hitching, the sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. Sarah held him without speaking, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other in his hair.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "I've got you."
He couldn't answer. The crying came in waves. Sharp and humiliating. He tried to control them but he couldn't get a hold of himself.
She didn't let go. She just took the time to hold him and Harold cherished the moment.
When it finally passed, he sagged back in the chair, exhausted.
She pulled away just enough to look at him. "It's time you tell me what's happening."
He nodded, once. "Ok," Then again.
Sarah didn't rush him. That was the first thing he noticed. She had always been more grown than most her age, a consequence of losing both parents early, but it was rare he saw it so clearly.
She sat across from him at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't touched. Her eyes were red, but steady. She was calmly waiting for Harold to explain.
"Start from the beginning," she said. "But don't lie to me." she said while giving him a pointed look. "None of that, I'm just trying to protect you nonsense."
He nodded. "Well I am trying to protect you," He said with a smirk.
Sarah went to pick up her mug to throw with an evil smirk.
"Ok, ok!" he said, smiling, but it quickly stopped.
"There's something coming," he said. "In about 22 days."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're being vague."
He waggled his hand, "I have to be."
"That's not reassuring," she said smartly. The only way a 17-year-old girl, who thought she knew everything, could be.
"I know," Harold said quietly.
He leaned back, stared at the ceiling for a second, then looked at her again. "Tomorrow afternoon, every news outlet is going to run the same story. And I do mean every news outlet. The mainstream ones, the podcasters. The independents. All of them."
"Astronomers confirm an asteroid on a near-Earth trajectory. They won't agree on the size or the risk. None of them will say it's nothing though. They will all argue about where it will impact and the fallout. About the only thing they will agree on is that a lot of people are going to die."
He paused, taking a moment to readjust. This was already going better than he thought it would.
"The asteroid isn't what I'm worried about. I'm telling you this because it's proof that I know what I'm talking about. How could I possibly know about an asteroid headed to earth?"
Sarah's mouth tightened. "You're serious."
"Unfortunatly," he said grimly.
"Why tell me now?" she asked.
"Because it's the first thing you can verify without me being involved," he explained. He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer from it.
She studied his face, searching for cracks. Whatever she expected to find, she didn't.
"And if it doesn't happen?" she asked.
"Then you should stop listening to me," Harold said softly. "You've probably noticed I'm not exactly… healthy."
They sat in silence after that. Harold tried to relax into his seat, but it was hard. Telling Sarah was the first part of an admittedly very shaky plan. If she wouldn't work with him, it would be impossible to do everything else.
The microwave clock ticked over minute by minute. Sarah checked her phone once, then set it face down on the table. It buzzed a few times, but she ignored it.
The afternoon light shifted across the kitchen floor. A car passed outside. Someone laughed down the block. The world stubbornly moved on, caring little about what happened inside his house. "It was very rude of it," Harold thought to himself.
Sarah exhaled through her nose and finally looked at him again. "Okay," she said. "So talk. Because right now this sounds like a very elaborate way to avoid telling me what's actually wrong."
Harold nodded slowly. "Mm…That's fair."
His voice lowered without him meaning to. Not to a whisper. This part just scared him; he had just gotten his sister back. What if he lost her right away?
"After the asteroid warning tomorrow," he said, "things don't get better. People argue about what it means. Some call it a warning. Others say it's nothing. Everyone keeps living like tomorrow still belongs to them. The closer we get to the impact date, the more panic there will be."
Sarah folded her arms. "You're assuming there is an asteroid."
"I am," he said. "But that's not the point yet."
She watched him closely. Serious, but seventeen all the same. There was only so much weight she could carry before it tipped into disbelief.
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"Something else happens," he continued. "Right before the asteroid is supposed to hit. Humanity is taken. All of us, every single one of us. Not kidnapped exactly but moved."
"Moved where?" she asked.
"To another world," he said flatly. "We called it Gravesend. No one agreed on the name at first, and a lot of people died. It got said somewhere on the forums, and the name stuck."
Her brow furrowed. "You're saying aliens?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I never saw faces. But there were roles."
"What?" she questioned. "Rules?"
"Roles," he corrected. "Everyone had to choose one. Adventurer. Crafter. Or Lord. It was framed like a game. But it wasn't. The consequences and stakes are real."
Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Harold, I—"
"I know," he said gently. "I know how this sounds. Just let me finish."
She hesitated, then nodded once. "Alright." She got up from the seat and got her own beer from the garage, and Harold didn't stop her.
"I survived for twenty years," he said. "Not because I was strong. But because I was useful. I was a crafter."
Her jaw tightened. But she contained her questions.
"I was taken ... .enslaved," he went on. "Forced to make things. Weapons. Potions. They had a kind of magic there. Eventually, I was making permanent enhancements. When I refused, they hurt me. When I broke, they made me work."
"You're saying someone tortured you for twenty years and no one stopped it?" she asked.
"Not for twenty…only the last six…I think. It could be more or less, and people did try," he said quietly. "None of them worked."
Silence stretched.
"I escaped eventually," he said. "Someone made a stupid mistake, and I ran."
"And then?" she asked.
"And then I died," he said. "Not in battle and definitely not heroically. I got hit by a cart because I wasn't paying attention."
Sarah let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You're serious."
"Yes," he said with a small smile.
"And after that, you just… woke up here," she said while motioning incredulously around her.
"Yes, a month before it all starts," he said
She stood abruptly, dragging a hand through her hair. "Okay. Okay. I want to believe you, but this is—this is a lot."
"I know," he said, taking a sip.
She stopped at the table and picked up one of the notebooks without asking.
There were columns of numbers, maps of places she didn't recognize. Arrows pointing out different landmarks. Notes written in a hand that shook more the further she flipped.
"This is insane," she said. "You could've planned all this."
"I couldn't have known where to look in space for an asteroid," he said calmly.
She grabbed another notebook. Then another.
"These events," she said more quietly. "These are from Gravesend?"
"Yes. Please don't keep reading."
"And some of these—" She stopped mid-page.
Harold was already standing. "Not that one."
She looked up at him. "Why?"
"That one is a major events that happened, I'm not sure how much changes if you know about them. I can't risk the butterfly effect," he said. "Not until we have leverage."
"That's convenient," she snapped.
"Yes," he said softly. "It is."
She closed the notebook harder than necessary and paced once before setting it back down.
"So what," she said. "You want me to just… believe you?"
"No," he said. "I want you to wait." He said, motioning toward the Tv.
"For what?" she almost screamed.
"For tomorrow afternoon," he said softly, trying to calm her down.
She stared at him. "You're really hanging all of this on that."
"Not all of it," he said. "I'm hoping you'll help me with something that proves it, too. But yes."
"And until then?" she asked.
"Until then," he said, "I need you to take your class tomorrow seriously. Be there more than you think you need to be. Train even when it feels stupid. Tomorrow and the day after and the day after that."
"Why?" she asked firmly.
"I can't tell you yet," he said. "Butterfly effects are real. But you will have to fight…"
She snorted. "You're really using that? What am I fighting?"
"I am," he said. Then whispered to her, "Monsters…of every shape and kind. You picked adventurer last time. You were…good at it. Just impulsive."
"And if I don't?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Then I'll have to adjust," he said. "And I'd rather not."
That made her pause.
She walked back and sat beside him again, closer this time. Not leaning into him. Not pulling away either.
"I don't believe you," she said. "Not completely."
"That's okay," Harold said, really looking at her. Her face was scrunched in thought. Blond hair fell around her face out of her messy bun. Tall for her age. She would grow into it. In Gravesend, people compared her to a Valkyrie for a reason.
"But I believe something is wrong," she continued. "And I believe you believe this. You've been frantic. You pushed me into self-defense classes. Made me train with a sword. I've never seen you like this."
"That's enough for now," he said.
She nodded slowly. "Josh and Beth are coming tomorrow."
"Yes. They'll be here in the morning," he replied.
"You're going to tell them too," she stated.
"Yes. And they won't take it as well as you have, that's why I need your help getting a few items." Harold said.
"And then," she said, "if this asteroid thing doesn't happen—"
Harold cut her off. "I'll keep preparing," he said. "And I won't involve you anymore."
She searched his face. "You promise?"
"Yes," he said. "On one condition."
She waited.
"I need you to hold my hand when we're taken."
She leaned back, exhaling. "Okay."
For now she stayed, and that was all he could ask.
Harold was already awake when the sun began to creep in through the kitchen window, light catching the edge of the counter as he moved between stove and sink. Oil shimmered in the skillet before he cracked the eggs in, the smell following almost immediately. Toast browned in the other pan. Coffee brewed stronger than usual. He had been unable to sleep and was regretting it this morning.
He checked the clock without meaning to, then checked it again.
Sarah wandered in a few minutes later, hair tied back, eyes still heavy with sleep. She stopped short when she saw the table already set and frowned at it like it might be a trick.
"You're up early," she said.
"So are you." he chuckled.
She narrowed her eyes, then sat and ate without comment, pushing food around the plate more out of habit than hunger, and the lack of complaints told him she was still turning yesterday afternoon over in her head. He didn't press her. This early, the silence felt safer than answers.
They finished without much conversation. Harold rinsed the dishes and set them in the rack, listening to the quiet hum of the house, then reached for his jacket.
"Grab your shoes," he said.
Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Why." she asked.
"We need a few things," he said simply.
"For what." she asked mulishly.
He paused, weighing explanation against time. "For something I'm working on. Another piece of proof."
She groaned and tipped her head back. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what." he asked questionably. The smile on his face said he knew what he was doing.
"Being mysterious before eight in the morning." she accused.
He smiled faintly. "You'll survive."
They walked instead of driving, the neighborhood still quiet enough that their footsteps sounded louder than they should have. Dew clung to the grass, and the air carried just enough bite that Sarah shoved her hands into her sleeves as they went.
The corner store came first.
Harold gathered distilled water, salt, honey, a cheap first-aid kit, and a bottle of antiseptic, stacking them carefully on the counter while the cashier rang them up without a second glance. He looked for ginseng out of habit, then shook his head and moved on. He'd have to substitute.
Sarah eyed the collection. "This is either very boring or very concerning."
"Both," he said, chuckling. "Depends on who you ask."
They cut through the park next. Harold knelt near the tree line, brushing aside leaves until he found what he wanted, pulling up dull green plants with narrow stems and dirt still clinging to the roots.
"Those are weeds," Sarah said.
"These," he said happily. "are ingredients."
"You dragged me out here for weeds." she accused. "I could be practicing."
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"Dont forget the water." he added happily.
"And honey," she added.
He didn't respond but he didn't work to hide his smile.
At the creek, he crouched and filled a small jar, screwing it on and taking longer than necessary. His hands shook just enough that he had to steady them against his knee.
Sarah noticed. "You okay?"
"Just tired," he said. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie.
She didn't argue, but she stayed closer on the walk back, matching his pace without comment.
By the time they reached the house, the clock had turned unfriendly.
Sarah dropped her bag on a chair and moved quickly through the kitchen. "I need my permit."
"It's on the counter." he yelled as he walked into the garage to drop the ingredients off.
She grabbed it and slung her backpack over one shoulder. "I still don't know why you needed half of that."
"You don't need to yet." he chuckled. "You'll find out tonight."
She paused, hand on the knob. "You're going to be okay?"
He looked at her for a moment and nodded to her. "I'll be ok, go get Josh and Beth please."
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
"I won't." but his hand shaking betrayed the lie.
She snorted. "That's a lie."
The door shut behind her, and the house settled into silence again.
Harold took a moment to gather himself then walked back into the garage.
The space smelled faintly of oil and old grain. Brewing equipment lined one wall, clean and organized the way he liked it. Stainless steel. Glass. Tubing coiled neatly on hooks. It wasn't impressive, but it was familiar, and familiarity mattered.
If this was going to work, it had to be exact.
He laid the ingredients out on the workbench and rested his hands on the edge, eyes closed.
Something stirred.
Not the surge he remembered from Gravesend. Nothing like that. Just a faint thread of sensation running through his chest and down his arms, so weak he might have dismissed it if he hadn't known what to look for. Luckily it was something he had used for years and was very sensitive to.
It had been there before. Maybe always.
People had brushed against it for centuries without naming it. Monks. Ascetics. Stories of men who healed faster or endured longer than they should have. Different words for the same thing.
On Gravesend, it had been loud and brash before it had been taught to move smoothly.
Here, it whispered.
He opened his eyes and began.
Clean the glass. Prepare the ingredients. Measure the portions. Preheat the hot plate.
His hands remembered even if his body didn't. The motions returned in order, one flowing into the next, and he didn't rush them. The sensation in his body was difficult to sense but he could sense it.
The potion had never been powerful. It needed the perks to be useful. It was barely functional. Just enough to push the body to finish what it had already started. Accelerated natural healing, nothing more.
He didn't know if it would work here. He had to work exactly to make it work.
On Gravesend, anyone could attempt anything. Lords could craft, crafters could lead, but perks made the difference. A crafter without support could never match one who had it, just as a crafter would never rival a true Lord in command.
He adjusted ratios on the fly, mental math ticking along as he substituted what didn't exist here for what did. The same faint energy pulsed in some of the ingredients. It was weak and diluted but it was present.
He felt it resonate as they came together. He had to be precise with his mana control, empowering exactly but it worked.
He stirred slowly, timing each rotation by breath instead of seconds, watching for changes almost too subtle to see. A shift in sheen. A change in resistance. Something not breaking down like it should.
Right at the edge of boiling, he pulled it from the heat and let it settle.
The liquid cleared. Not perfectly but alive enough and he knew it would work.
He poured it into a small glass vial and sealed it just as something flickered at the edge of his vision. A familiar sensation, like a notification he wasn't meant to see.
Then it was gone.The front door opened and voices carried down the hall. Luggage bumped against the wall. Laughter, nervous and loud.
"Harold?" Josh called.
Harold set the vial down and exhaled.
Chapter Six
Witnesses
Josh hugged him like nothing in the world was wrong.
Brutal and unrestrained, the kind of hug that assumed there would always be another one later. Harold froze for half a heartbeat before his arms came up on their own, fingers gripping fabric like he was afraid Josh might disappear if he let go.
The familiar creak of Harold's jacket was a comforting sound, grounding him in the moment, while the crisp, clean aroma of Josh's laundry soap mingled with the emotional weight of the embrace. Relief hit him all at once. It was like seeing Sarah again for the first time all over again.
Heavy enough that his knees nearly buckled. He laughed. It was a broken sound, surprising him with its sudden exit and vulnerability. Then the laugh collapsed into something quieter as his face pressed into Josh's shoulder.
Josh felt it before he saw it. "Hey," he said, the grin softening. "Hey, I'm here."
That was enough.
Beth waited until Josh stepped aside before moving in. She didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around Harold and held him, steady and grounding, like she understood exactly what this cost him. He breathed her in and felt his throat close, the room blurring at the edges.
Twenty years of not knowing.
Twenty years of assuming the worst.
Twenty years of imagining empty endings.
A tear slipped free before he could stop it. Then another.
Beth didn't let go.
"It's okay," she said quietly, not asking him to be strong.
Sarah stood a few steps away, the wooden practice sword tucked awkwardly under her arm, watching him with open concern. She had never seen him like this—the shaking and crying in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He been the rock since their parents had died, and this was new ground for her.
Harold pulled back at last, swiping at his face and laughing under his breath like he was embarrassed by it. "Sorry," he said. "I..."
Beth shook her head once. "Don't."
Josh swallowed, suddenly less loud than he'd been a moment ago. "Man," he said softly. "We really need to sit down."
Harold nodded.
Sarah shifted her grip on the wooden practice sword, suddenly aware she was standing in the middle of something she didn't fully understand.
"I should go," she said, a little too quickly. "I'm already cutting it close."
Harold turned to her at once.
"Hey," he said, softer now. "Pay attention in class. All of it."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat in it. "I always do."
"I mean it," he said, checking his watch without thinking. "Three hours. Be back in three hours. Earlier, if you can."
She hesitated, studying his face. "I'll be back," she said. "I promise."
"I know," Harold said softly.
She stepped in and hugged him, quick but tight, then nodded at Josh and Beth before heading for the door.
"Don't break him while I'm gone," she said, pointing at Josh firmly. "I know how you two get when you get together."
Josh snorted. "No promises."
The door closed behind her, and the house settled again. The silence settled in a little before Harold let out a slow breath and headed for the garage without saying anything. He grabbed three beers from the fridge, the cold biting into his palm, and brought them back inside.
They sat at the table. For a moment, no one spoke.
"Thank you for coming," Harold said finally. "I know it was short notice."
Josh waved a hand. "You say jump, man. You didn't even have to explain."
Beth didn't respond. She was watching him.
Not just his face. His hands. The way his fingers trembled when he set the bottles down. The way his eyes kept moving, cataloging the room without realizing it. Corners. Doorways. Windows. Like part of him was still somewhere else.
He looked more solid and present than when they first arrived. Yet, his fingers drummed softly against the table, eyes flicking from corner to corner as if counting exits. There was a tension in the set of his shoulders that betrayed an alertness beneath his composed exterior.
Beth had seen it before in her father. In the men she'd grown up calling uncles. People who came back from places they didn't talk about. They had a kind of functional brokenness about them until they got around their own people.
"You don't have to thank us," she said quietly. "But you look like you've been through a lot in a very short amount of time."
Harold smiled, small and tired. "That's one way to put it."
Josh took a drink, glancing between them. "Okay," he said. "Now I'm officially worried."
Beth kept her eyes on Harold. "You're safe right now," she said.
He nodded, though it took a second. "I know."
She didn't call him on the hesitation.
Harold wrapped his hands around the bottle, grounding himself in the cold, and looked from Josh to Beth before speaking. His eyes flickered to a packed go-bag leaning against the wall, a sobering reminder of what might be if he was wrong. His fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop, an unconscious rhythm betraying his underlying tension.
"What I'm about to tell you," he said, voice low and steady, "isn't about the asteroid. That's just the first thing I can prove. Something I couldn't have known ahead of time." He paused, tapping a fingernail repeatedly, as if each tap hammered the reality into place.
Josh lifted his eyebrows. "About what?" he asked, leaning forward.
"A large asteroid," Harold said. "Earth trajectory confirmed. Impact window is a few weeks out."
Silence followed, brief and sharp. Josh glanced instinctively at his phone. Beth didn't move, her attention never leaving Harold.
"That's why I told Sarah to be back," Harold continued. "She needs proof, too. And I don't want either of you thinking I staged it after the fact."
Josh exhaled slowly. "Okay. That's… specific. If this isn't about the asteroid, then what is this about?"
Beth didn't interrupt.
Harold nodded once. "That's the million-dollar question."
He took a sip of beer, which he didn't taste and set it down.
Josh leaned back, keeping his own beer close. "Ok, start talking."
Harold did. He told them his story, and he kept it plain.
He told them about being taken. Being abducted by the system and moved. One moment on Earth, the next somewhere else entirely. A world already occupied, already hostile, already structured to absorb newcomers and grind them down. He told them about the Lord's fighting among themselves and other races. The natural races that lived there in hidden fortified cities. The adventurers who fought raging monsters and the massive armies that fought over land, people, and wealth.
"We called it Gravesend," he said with a slight shrug. "Someone posted the name on the forum early on, and it stuck."
Josh frowned. "Another planet?"
"Eh...for all I know, flat earth theory could have been correct," Harold said, chuckling to himself.
"Aliens?" Beth asked.
"We never knew," Harold said. "My best guess was a pantheon of gods. Others had their own theories."
Beth tilted her head slightly. "What happened to you there?"
Harold took a deep breath and started to explain. "Everyone picked a Role that matched what they were best suited for, and you were judged by how well you performed it. Last time I picked a crafter. I figured my knowledge of chemistry would help me."
Josh scoffed. "This sounds like a game."
"No," Harold said. "It was a sorting mechanism."
He described their choices: fight to survive, forge creations, or rule lands. Each path measured success by its results—what they built, who they protected, and the territories they controlled or lost.
"Death wasn't final," he said, "but you only respawned if you were performing the function of your role. Anything else, and you stayed dead. There are some rules to all that, but I'll explain later. It can get kinda complicated."
Beth's jaw tightened in silence, a pause that spoke volumes. She seemed to be processing the implications of Harold's story, her clenched jaw conveying resistance and contemplation.
"So, obedience to this system allows for a respawn," Beth asked.
"Function did," Harold said. "That distinction matters. I'll explain it later. The system responds to perception as much as action."
Josh stared at the table. "And you."
"I crafted," Harold said. "Chemistry gave me an advantage. I was good at it. I spent some time traveling with Sarah and ended up marrying someone I probably shouldn't have. Then we divorced."
He paused.
"The first years were quiet," he continued. "Everyone was securing territory. Then the wars started, and humanity lost badly. The battles were...horrific," he said quietly. "Within fifteen years, humanity was reduced to a handful of fortified regions. The whole world is a large civilization builder for Lords, and the other races were just better at it. More united."
His hands trembled more now.
"That's when I was noticed by one of the few remaining Lords who had a consolidated territory," he said. His voice grew quieter, haunted. "I was gently captured. I thought it was an opportunity at first. I needed materials for my work. But... I was forced to work, then punished when I refused." At the mention of punishment, Harold's hands involuntarily clenched, a phantom ache pulsating in his wrists as if shackled all over again, his entire body flinched as if bracing for a blow. This grim reminder sent a chill through him, a testament to how deeply the memories of that time had been etched into his very being.
Beth's voice was steady. "How long?"
"Four years," Harold said. His voice shook. "I think it could have been more the last few years; they're a blur. I lost track of time."
Josh sucked in a breath. "And then," Beth prompted.
"I escaped," Harold said. "Someone made a mistake with my cell. I saw the opportunity and barely remember taking it. And then I died running. Hit by a cart I never saw. I wasn't thinking clearly by then. I did things to stop them from hurting me. There were moments when I was forced to choose between my values and survival, choices that still haunt me. My mind... It's not what it used to be."
He swallowed.
"Then I woke up here. Twenty years earlier. A month before it all began."
Silence filled the room.
Josh rubbed his face with both hands. "You realize how insane you sound. You didn't make your own drugs again, did you?"
"Yes, I do, and no, I didn't," Harold said, throwing the bottle cap at Josh, then taking a sip of his beer.
Beth studied him for a long moment. "Why you?"
Harold hesitated, then shrugged. "My best guess is that in my few days there, I crafted something Gravesend hadn't seen before. I was lost in the madness then. But I crafted something important enough to give me another chance."
"Why reach out to us now?" Beth asked.
Harold straightened his posture, shoulders squaring with a newfound strength. "Now," he said, his voice lifting with a resolve that Beth and Josh had not seen in him before, "I'm trying to make sure humanity doesn't lose the same way twice."
Beth glanced at the clock.
Two hours and forty-seven minutes.
She looked back at him. "You'd better have some really good proof."
Harold let out a chuckle. "I do. But first, I'm asking you to watch."
Chapter Seven
Confirmation
The front door crashed open, the sound echoing like the splintering of wood in a storm, jagged and unsettling.
Sarah burst inside, breathless and flushed, hair half loose from its tie and clinging to the back of her neck. Sweat darkened the fabric of her shirt, and the wooden practice sword bounced awkwardly against her hip as she kicked the door shut with her heel.
"I ran," she said unnecessarily, already shrugging out of her shoes. "Traffic was awful and..." She stopped, scanning the room. Did I miss it? The thought echoed in her mind, unspoken but pressing, as though the answer might tip some unseen balance.
"No," Harold said. "You're early. Go shower real quick."
She exhaled, relief flashing across her face before she caught herself. "Good." Then, more urgently, "I need two minutes."
She disappeared down the hall at a near sprint, the sound of drawers opening and shutting following her. A moment later, the shower kicked on.
Josh leaned closer to Beth and lowered his voice. "She's like you," he murmured, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "When you decide something needs to be done." He gave a little chuckle, revealing a kind of teasing warmth.
Beth didn't smile, her expression instead turning thoughtful and serious. Her eyes, quiet and focused, flicked over to Josh for a moment before returning to the kitchen. "She's already bracing. You could tell something was wrong just by how she was acting in the car," she replied, her voice steady and calm. Her right hand, however, clenched slightly as if holding onto an invisible thread of worry.
Harold listened without interrupting. He stood, grabbed three more beers from the fridge, and set them on the table. No one commented on the fact that it was already the third round. It felt appropriate; the world was gonna end.
The shower shut off. Footsteps followed faster than necessary.
Sarah came back into the room, towel-dried and hastily changed, hair damp and brushed back, cheeks still flushed. She looked younger, cleaner, softer, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that hadn't been there a few days ago. Her fingers traced absent-mindedly over the nicks in the wooden sword's handle, feeling the grooves and ridges worn into the wood.
She didn't sit. "Has it started?" she asked for some reason, still holding onto the wooden sword.
Harold glanced at the clock. "Any second, you almost missed it."
She perched on the arm of the couch instead, fingers tapping once against the wood before she forced them still. The practice sword rested against her leg, forgotten but present.
The TV flickered. A familiar anchor appeared, expression measured and calm, as it always did before bad news.
"Breaking news," the voice cut through the air.
Josh straightened. Beth folded her arms.
Harold stayed where he was.
"Multiple observatories. Confirm. Near-Earth asteroid. Trajectory. Planet's orbit."
Sarah's breath caught.
"Current projections. Impact. Twenty-eight days."
The room went very quiet. The clink of Harold's bottle hitting the counter resounded through the room.
"Size of the object. Not determined. Estimated above threshold for concern."
Josh whispered, "Jesus."
"Impact location. Uncertain. Wide margin of error."
Beth closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again.
"Officials stress. No immediate panic. International efforts underway."
Sarah turned slowly toward Harold. He met her eyes, feeling a familiar heaviness settle in his chest. "I told you," he said quietly. The words hung in the air, laden with a quiet conviction and a touch of something unresolved. For a heartbeat, he resisted the urge to look away, and his pulse quickened. She nodded once, swallowing hard. "It's different seeing it for myself."
Josh leaned back, running both hands through his hair. "Okay," he said. "Okay. That's real. That's very real."
Beth didn't speak. She was watching Harold again, measuring something that had nothing to do with the broadcast.
On the screen, experts gestured at diagrams and timelines, words like mitigation and probability filling the air.
Harold didn't look at it anymore.
"I know this isn't enough," he said instead. "You're going to need more than predictions and coincidence."
Josh turned toward him. "More than that?" He gestured vaguely at the TV. "You're good, Harold, I remember you making explosives and stuff for the fun of it, but you aren't an astrologist."
Beth placed a hand on Josh, shushing him.
"Yes," Harold said. "Because knowing something bad is coming isn't the same as believing the rest of it."
Beth watched him closely now. "What did you do?"
Harold stood and walked toward the garage without answering.
The door opened and shut softly. The hum of the fridge cut off. Footsteps crossed concrete, then returned.
He came back holding a small glass vial between two fingers and a kitchen knife in the other hand. The blade was clean. As Harold paused, the cold knurling of the knife handle pressed into his sweating palm, its chill a sharp reminder of the gravity of what he was about to do. His heart thudded once, loud and deliberate.
Sarah straightened. "Harold." Her voice heightened.
"I need you to stay calm," he said, and that alone set her on edge.
Josh stood halfway. "Okay, nope. Whatever this is, we can—"
"Stop," Harold said, voice commanding for the first time. "And I won't ask one of you to do it."
Beth's eyes flicked to the vial. Then the knife. "You don't have to prove this to us by hurting yourself."
"Yes," Harold said gently. "I do."
Before anyone could stop him, he dragged the blade across his forearm.
It wasn't deep, but it was real.
Blood welled immediately, dark and fast, spilling down his skin and dripping onto the floor.
Sarah gasped. "Harold!"
Josh swore and moved forward, but Beth caught his arm.
"Wait," she said sharply. "Look."
Harold didn't flinch. He uncorked the vial with his thumb and tilted it, pouring the cloudy liquid directly onto the cut.
The potion soaked in, mingling with the blood.
Nothing happened at first. Then the bleeding slowed.
Just... wrong in a way that made the skin crawl. The wound edges drew together with a faint whispering sound, unnaturally knitting themselves. Color shifted from angry red to something closer to normal. The cut sealed over in front of them, leaving behind faint pink skin where there should have been damage.
The last drop of blood fell.
Then there were no more.
Harold let the empty vial slip from his fingers. It clinked softly against the table, missing the papers and notebooks that were strewn about.
Silence swallowed the room.
Sarah stared at his arm, eyes wide, one hand pressed over her mouth. "That's not possible," she whispered.
Josh's face had gone pale. "People don't do that," he said. "That's not—there's no—"
Beth stepped closer. She didn't touch Harold. She didn't need to.
"How could you have made that? That's not from here," she said quietly.
"No," Harold agreed. "It Isn't" He turned to Josh, who was standing there in shock.
He rolled his sleeve down slowly, carefully, as the movement itself mattered. His hand was steady now. The shaking had stopped.
"I made that this morning," he said. "With things you can buy at a corner store and pull out of a park."
Josh looked at the empty vial again. "You're saying this is just… the beginning."
"Yes," Harold said. "I can still feel the same energies I used to craft on Gravesend, they are just a lot more muted here."
Sarah swallowed hard. "And when it starts?"
Harold met her eyes. "Then things like that won't be rare."
Beth exhaled slowly. "Okay," she said. "Okay. I believe you."
Josh laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, differently now. "I don't know what the hell is happening," he said. "But I believe that."
Harold nodded, the weight finally settling where it belonged.
"Good," he said. "Because now we can prepare."
On the screen, the experts kept talking.
Chapter Eight
Momentum
The street was still half asleep when they ran. Mist clung low to the pavement, curling like ghostly fingers across the asphalt. A distant echo, like metal clanging, sliced through the pre-dawn quiet as if offering a subtle warning. The air carried a sharp, clean bite, laced with the faint scent of earth and rain left behind by the night. It was the kind of chill that crept through layers, settling in bones before the sun committed to rising. Harold set the pace without thinking about it, feet striking in a steady rhythm that felt almost natural now.
Sarah stayed beside him easily, breathing controlled, stride smooth. She shot him a sideways look and smirked.
"Still slow," she said.
He huffed out a laugh. "You were a varsity soccer player."
"Still am," she replied. "Just on break."
Behind them, Josh wheezed loudly. "I hate both of you."
Beth wasn't much better, jaw set, arms pumping with determination more than grace. She refused to slow, refused to complain, even as her breathing turned rough.
Harold glanced back once. "We can—"
"No," Beth said sharply. "Keep going."
So he did.
They finished the loop together, legs burning, sweat cutting through the chill as they jogged up the driveway and finally slowed to a walk. Josh bent over, hands on his knees.
"I am," he gasped, "too old for apocalypses."
Sarah laughed and clapped him on the back. "You'll adapt."
Inside, shoes were kicked off, water was poured, and the house filled with the small, everyday chaos of people who hadn't slept enough but were alive and moving anyway. Josh sprawled onto the couch. Beth leaned against the counter, stretching her calves with slow precision.
Harold felt solid in a way he hadn't for a long time. Memories of past instability flickered briefly through his mind, moments when the ground seemed to shift under his feet, leaving him unsteady and unsure. Now, not calm and not entirely healed, he was just steadier than he'd been alone.
"That's new," he said quietly.
Sarah looked at him. "What is?"
"This part," he said, gesturing vaguely at all of them. "I was kind of a loner before."
Josh raised his bottle. "You were a loner in college, too. I'll trip you on the next run."
They laughed, and for a moment, it almost felt normal.
Harold checked the time and set his bottle down. "Alright. Schedule."
Everyone's attention shifted.
"I'm going to keep working through the notebooks today," he said. "There are details from the early days I'm still missing, and the sooner I get them down, the better. I won't have these notes when we're taken. I need to remember as much as I can."
Beth nodded. "Patterns decay fast."
"Exactly."
He looked at Josh and Beth. "I need both of you studying early construction methods. Non-electric. Hand tools. Load-bearing structures that don't rely on modern supply chains or electricity."
Josh blinked. "You want medieval engineering."
"Pre-industrial," Harold corrected. "But yes. Humanity took too long to get organized last time for progress to spread. The spawned people did most of it on their own, without direction. Most of it was basic."
Beth nodded again, already thinking. "Stone, timber, jointing methods. Water control."
Then she paused..."Wait, what spawned people?"
"And redundancy," Harold added. "If one thing fails, the whole structure can't collapse."
He paused to collect his breath. "When I start the Village, there will be a stone Stele. From that Stele, I get a daily allotment of people to help start the settlement. They come with the tools they need, and each has a variety of jobs. Some of them will be soldiers. Don't bother asking me where they come from. I don't know. No one did. They all have backgrounds and stories and lives, but when you ask them where they're from, they say cities and lands that don't exist."
Josh leaned back and let out a snort, though his laugh wavered slightly. "I didn't get a mechanical engineering degree to die under a bad beam," he joked, but there was a note of concern beneath the humor. "It's good to know there will be help, though."
Beth briefly looked up at his explanation, but then went back to work as if people appearing out of a portal didn't concern her. "And I didn't spend six years studying civil failures just to watch someone repeat them."
Harold glanced between them. "You two always sound like this?"
Josh grinned. "She copies me because she loves me."
"That's why we consult together," Beth added, rolling her eyes. "He tells people how it moves. I tell them how it breaks."
Sarah crossed her arms. "What about me?"
"You keep training," Harold said. "Conditioning, awareness, fundamentals. And you help where you can. I have a couple of errands for you to do today before the looting starts."
She smiled, sharp and satisfied.
"Actually…" Harold said, and the room quieted.
He took a breath. "This evening, we need to talk about expanding the circle."
Josh straightened slightly. "Already?"
"Panic's starting," Harold said. "It's not even four days since the broadcast, and people are already hoarding, already looking for someone to follow." He gestured towards the radio, where a tense report crackled with updates about crowded grocery stores and empty shelves, the distant sound of raised voices crackling like static in the air. "Supplies are vanishing fast. It's starting to feel like the calm before a storm." Beth's expression tightened. "Which means the wrong people will start gathering others."
"Yes," Harold said. "If we're going to bring anyone else in, they need to be solid. Dependable and trustworthy."
He looked at Sarah. "Are there people still going to class? Anyone you think might be worth talking to."
She frowned, thinking. "A few, I'll talk to them."
"And if they're not," Josh asked.
"Then we don't," Harold said.
Silence settled, thoughtful rather than tense.
"After that," Harold continued, "I'll tell you what I already have planned."
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You've been holding out."
"Of course I have."
The day went by in pieces.
Harold lost himself in the notebooks. The air seemed tinged with the smell of old paper and ink, an aroma that called up memories as much as the words he recorded. Pages filled with half-memories and hard certainties, names written without faces, places marked by what went wrong instead of where they were. He worked until his hand cramped, feeling the persistent ache from hours of scribbling his thoughts. The sensation was grounding, anchoring him to the present even as he delved into the past. Then he switched to another book, chasing details before they faded. He spoke some of it aloud as he wrote, testing the sound, discarding anything that didn't feel right.
Across the table, Josh and Beth turned their laptops into workstations. Diagrams replaced news feeds. Timber framing. Dry stone walls. Roman concrete. Gravity-fed water systems. Beth sketched while Josh cross-referenced, arguing quietly about load limits and joint tolerances.
At one point, Josh muttered, "Why did we ever stop doing this?" and Beth answered without looking up, "Because electricity made us lazy."
Sarah came and went between sessions. Training. Stretching. Conditioning drills in the backyard. She practiced with the wooden sword until sweat darkened the grass beneath her feet, then came inside to read, to listen, to ask questions that were sharper every time. Her questions focused on what they would be fighting, but Harold stayed tight-lipped about most of it.
By evening, the house felt different.
Lived in and focused.
Harold called them together as the light faded and the noise outside settled into the restless quiet of a world waiting for news.
"Okay," he said, standing at the head of the table. "This is what happens when we arrive."
They all looked up.
"The only way we arrive together," Harold said, "is by holding hands when we leave. Last time, families were separated. People spawned under different Lords. The first weeks were chaos. People died trying to reunite."
Josh frowned. "That's comforting."
"It's worse if you don't expect it," Harold said. "You'll be given a choice. Three paths. Adventurer. Crafter. Lord."
Beth nodded slowly. "And this choice matters."
"It matters more than anything else you'll do in the first hour," Harold said. "You don't get to undo it."
Sarah looked over..."What are you picking this time?"
"Lord," Harold stated.
The word settled heavily.
Josh tried to speak, failed, then tried again. "Why?"
"Because Lords have the most impact," Harold said. "And it's where most of humanity failed. I won't let that happen again."
He met their eyes. "Most of what I've been remembering are the decisions that broke regions and how to impact those decisions and stop if I can."
Silence followed.
"When I choose Lord," Harold continued, "I'll be tested. A fake settlement will be attacked. Can I defend it? Can I keep people alive? Can I decide under pressure? That score determines the quality of my starting territory."
Beth's eyes sharpened. "And this time you're cheating. You already know it's coming."
"Yes, I already know what the test is and how to beat it," Harold said with a wolfish smile.
Josh exhaled. "So what do we do?"
"I assume you'll both choose Crafter," Harold said. "If you don't want to, that's fine. But I need you to manage work crews early. And I have a way to get you solid early perks."
He spread the map out.
"I've picked a basin valley," he said. "Encased by mountains and ocean. It fell in the thirteenth year last time. It should have been a stronghold for humanity, but it wasn't."
Beth exhaled slowly. "And you plan to—"
"Unite them," Harold said. "Or remove them, either way, I will control the basin."
Josh stared at him. "You don't say that lightly."
"No," Harold agreed. "I say it because hesitation killed more people than war ever did. The Lords here failed."
The room went quiet.
"This isn't about strength," Harold said. "It's about being early and organized. Willing to decide before it's comfortable."
Sarah nodded once. "Then tell us what we need to do."
Harold tapped the map.
"First," he said, "we survive the arrival. To do that…" He looked up at them. "I want you to reach out to your colleagues. The ones who will listen and who don't panic, don't posture, and don't need to be convinced twice."
Josh leaned back, considering. "Engineers," he said. "You need the experts for your expansion."
Beth nodded. "You want us to start recruiting to help build for you."
"Exactly," Harold said. "Construction, logistics, planning. People who understand that early momentum matters more than perfect design. Most of our early buildings will end up being torn down, but we will need a lot of construction as fast as possible."
He folded the map and set it aside. "We need space."
Josh glanced around the house. "This isn't it."
"No," Harold agreed. "But I've been talking to someone."
He hesitated just long enough to make it clear this wasn't a casual connection. "There's a shipping magnate I worked with a few years back. I helped him out of a situation that would've cost him more than money. He owes me."
Beth raised an eyebrow. "Owes-you-how-much."
"Enough," Harold said. "He owns several warehouses on the south side. One of them is empty. I called him earlier. It's reinforced and off the main roads. He and his family will join us there."
Josh exhaled. "That'll do, but you trust him?"
"I'll have to," Harold said. "We move tonight."
Beth hesitated, a hint of unease crossing her face. "Are we really ready for this? What if we're moving too soon?"
Harold met her eyes, his voice steady. "We have to be ready. There's no perfect moment."
Josh glanced at Beth, then nodded. "Harold's right. If we wait, we risk losing the opportunity."
Beth was silent for a moment, then she nodded, determination returning to her expression.
The decision landed without argument.
By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, boxes were stacked, tables cleared, and the kitchen had turned into a staging area. Phones buzzed constantly as names were written down, crossed out, rewritten.
Harold stood at the whiteboard they'd dragged in from the garage and started listing people under one heading.
Construction.
Beth added notes beside the names. Who had field experience. Who could improvise? Who froze when plans broke.
Josh handled calls, voice low and steady, asking questions that sounded casual but weren't.
When can you get here?
Can you listen without arguing?
Some said no.
Some didn't answer.
Enough said, yes.
Beth watched the list grow, then grew quiet. She glanced at Josh, then back to Harold, thoughtful rather than hesitant.
"Are you okay with me gathering my family too?" she asked. "If they're willing."
Harold looked up at her immediately. "Of course," he said, then frowned slightly. "I'm sorry, I should've said that earlier. Gather who you can."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"But they need to understand something," he continued. "When we get there, my word has to be law. Not because I want it to be."
Beth studied him for a long moment.
For just a second, she saw someone else layered over the man she knew. Not cruel. Not reckless. Just… resolved in a way that didn't leave room for debate.
Then she nodded. "I'll make sure they understand."
Josh exhaled quietly, relieved she'd said it first.
By midnight, the list had grown longer than Harold expected.
He stared at it for a long moment, then underlined the heading once.
A quiet pause settled over them, filled with the faint rustling of papers and the distant hum of the night outside. The room, now dimmed to shadows, seemed to hold its breath. The soft click of a key turning, the gentle roar of an engine coming to life, and the headlights slicing through the darkness, illuminating their path into the unknown. The mist curled around them, shrouding the night with a promise of what lay ahead.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's go meet him."