The morning after a massive feast in a dungeon village? Exactly as bad as you think.
Groans echoed across Ashring. Kobolds draped over moss barrels. Goblins passed out half-inside, half-outside tents. A moss golem wandered in confused circles, dragging a piece of roasted beetle at twice its size.
It looked like soone dropped a battlefield and forgot to clean up.
I sat on the central steps, cradling a mug of mushroom tea like my life depended on it. Splitjaw trudged past, eyes bloodshot but otherwise completely functional, because of course he was.
"Report?" I croaked.
"Alive," he said. "Mostly."
Good enough.
[Incoming Raid: 17 Days Remaining.]
System pinged, cheerful as ever. I wanted to pour my tea on it. Instead, I took a long, painful sip and dragged myself upright. Fun ti's over. Ti to get serious.
First stop: the square.
Bitterstack was already there, barking nas and orders with a volu that could peel moss off the walls.
"Shield units — left side! Skirmishers — line up! Golem drivers — where the void is your handler badge?!"
Kobolds snapped into action — or tried to. Half still had visible hangovers. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
"War squads," I muttered to myself. Real ones. With real chains of command.
Splitjaw dropped a fresh roster in front of . Four main squads, plus reserves:
- Ironjaw Squad (Shieldbearers)
- Ashfang Squad (Skirmishers)
- Mossmarch Squad (Golem handlers)
- Kindlebranch Squad (dics and support)
Leaders assigned. I recognized the nas — all older recruits, the ones who fought through the early days. Hoarder. Embergleam. Biterstack. Even a few goblin volunteers got stuffed into logistics teams.
I stood on a pile of barrels and banged a tal rod against the side to get everyone's attention.
"Listen up!" I shouted. "This isn't training for fun. This isn't drills because I like yelling. We are seventeen days out from being stomped by professional human adventurers who think we're loot bags with legs."
A few nervous laughs. Good. They were still listening.
"You want to live? You want to keep your hos, your friends, your food, your weird pet moss frogs?" I swept the rod around. "Then we work. We train. We fight smarter. We make sure when the humans co, they regret ever setting foot in this place."
More serious now. Good.
We got to work. Squad drills started imdiately.
Ashfang Squad — my new skirmishers — ran trap courses, practicing ambushes and rapid retreats. Mossmarch Squad unleashed the moss golems in mock battles. It was... chaotic. Golems didn't exactly take subtle orders well. At one point, a golem mistook a training dummy for a snack and started gnawing it like a dog on a bone. Stonealign calmly took notes.
"Minor control issues," he said without blinking. Sure. Minor.
anwhile, Ironjaw Squad practiced shield formations. Watching a bunch of two-ter-tall kobolds trying to link shields in tight ranks would've been funny if the stakes weren't so high. Actually, it was still kind of funny. Especially when a goblin coach — sohow roped into help — kept screaming "TIGHTER FORMATION!" until it sounded more like a threat than advice.
By midafternoon, Ashring didn't look hungover anymore. It looked ready. Or getting there, at least. Maybe not polished. Maybe not professional. But alive. Fierce. Ours.
Splitjaw ca to stand beside , arms folded.
"Not bad," he said.
Coming from him, that was basically a standing ovation.
System ping hit again:
[Minor Dungeon Monster Activity Increased.]
[Warning: Early Skirmishes Probable.]
I exhaled slowly, claws tapping against the weapon resting at my hip. Right. No breaks. No rcy. We weren't just building a village anymore. We were building a future. One wall. One spear. One stubborn heartbeat at a ti.
Construction started before sunset. Because apparently sleep is optional when survival is on the line.
Stonealign sketched out the next stage of walls in the dirt with his tail, muttering calculations and arguing with moss golems who didn't understand the concept of load-bearing beams.
Chaos Artisan was tweaking one of his golems nearby, replacing the arms with boulder-hurling devices made from spring-loaded vines and warped bone.
"You sure that's safe?" I asked.
He blinked at like I'd asked if rocks could swim.
"Define safe," he said.
Great. I moved on before sothing exploded.
Embergleam and Bitterstack set up the training ring with dummy targets. Splitjaw barked formations and fallback drills until everyone knew them in their sleep.
I took my relic to a far corner — away from the golems, the goblins, and the combustibles — and started experinting. The first swing of the weapon cut through a training post like it was paper. The second ignited the target on contact. The third lted half the ground when I lost control.
"Maybe hold back a bit," Splitjaw called, not looking up.
I glared at the scorched crater. "It's new, okay?!"
The relic glowed smugly. I was not imagining that.
By nightfall, Ashring looked like a war camp. A weird, mismatched, slightly lopsided war camp — but a war camp. Trenches dug. Traps rigged. Patrols set. Even the goblins fell into rhythm, helping patch barricades and reinforcing watchposts with sticky mosscrete paste.
MC-level power or not, it was all of us or none. And for the first ti, I let myself believe we had a shot.
I was about to head back to my tent when the system pinged again. Louder. Urgent.
[Alert: Minor Dungeon Monster Wave Incoming (ETA: 2 Days)]
[Threat Level: Moderate ]
[Intent: Resource Conflict]
[Lead Entity Detected: Gorak the Maw-King]
My claws stopped mid-step.
"...What."
Behind , Splitjaw stiffened.
"Again?" he said, voice low.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. Because at that exact mont — as if the dungeon wanted to underline the ssage — a roar echoed from the depths of the eastern tunnel. Louder than before. Closer. The kind that made the air vibrate and small rocks tumble from the ceiling.
Around , everything froze. Drills stopped. Tools dropped. Even the moss golems turned their heads.
Then, quietly, soone near the fire muttered the words I'd been hoping not to hear again.
"Gorak's back."
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