The bread was dense, rough, and flat, but Kai and Misk ate it as though it were a feast. No yeast, no rise—just flour, water, and fire. Yet even in its plainness, it was warm, shared, and that made it enough. The goblin children laughed as they tore pieces apart, and for a short moment the air smelled only of smoke and ash-baked bread.
Then a howl cut through the night. Long, guttural, too close.
Misk stiffened and tugged at Kai's sleeve. "We should go, mister Kai. Werewolves are around. Goblins fear werewolves."
Kai nodded once. "Okay, we'll go." He turned to the villagers, calm even though his instincts flared. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The path back to the goblin village bent between crooked trees, shadows stretching long across the dirt. And there, in the heart of the camp, violence awaited.
The werewolf loomed—a monstrous figure taller than two men, its body straining with cords of sinew, each movement heavy with predatory weight. Its fur was thick and coarse like iron wire, glistening black with streaks of blood. Its muzzle snapped open, revealing fangs that jutted like carved ivory, dripping saliva. Its eyes were a cruel red-orange, burning pits locked onto prey.
The beast pounced. The old goblin—wrinkled, scarred, and weathered by years—barely had time to lift his hand before the werewolf's claws tore through him. His body crumpled instantly, his life stolen without even a cry.
The siblings nearby froze. The little sister shrieked, but her older brother leapt in front of her, arms spread, shielding her with his body. The claws swept forward—
—and slammed against a wall that had erupted from the earth. Jagged stone and packed soil rose like a shield, glowing with faint alchemical sigils as Kai stood firm, tattoos burning across his skin. Equivalent Exchange held strong against the beast's fury.
The werewolf reeled back, claws scraping, body convulsing. Its howl broke into a choke, limbs shuddering. The fur began to sink into flesh, muscle collapsing inward until only a trembling man remained, gasping in the dirt.
"Holy shit, Kai?!" Daniel's voice cracked in the night, raw and disbelieving.
Kai didn't answer. He didn't even look at him. His gaze was locked on the elder's broken body. The man had lived twenty-seven years, carved a life out of hardship, and dreamed of what the goblins could become. Now he would never see it. The goblins gathered around, mourning with heavy sobs, their grief pooling like blood at Kai's feet.
Daniel staggered upright, chest heaving. "Look—I'm not sorry, I just wanted to—god damn my fucking burden!" The curse twisted his words, denying him truth. His voice cracked in frustration.
Kai's voice was flat, final. "I forgive you."
The decision was made. Daniel lived among them after that, though suspicion shadowed him. The goblins watched from a distance, whispering. Until the day a bear crashed into the clearing, roaring as it barreled toward Misk. In a heartbeat, fur exploded over Daniel's skin and he tore the beast apart, saving the boy.
Misk's fear melted into awe. "Mr. Wolf, you're our protector! So wise!!" he cheered, bouncing with excitement. The tension cracked, and though wary, the tribe slowly began to see Daniel not as a monster, but as something close to ally.
That night, they sat by the campfire, flames painting the dark with light. Sparks rose like fleeting stars, the smell of charred meat in the air. Daniel tried to speak of his past, but the burden twisted his tongue. Every truth curdled into riddles, metaphors, and half-truths.
A villager leaned forward, voice low. "You've heard of the Crimson Road, yes? It runs through all nations. Sometimes it's dust, sometimes cobblestone, sometimes paved in stone laid by forgotten kings. It links markets, cities, and courts. Mages set their circles by it. Vampires built their academies along its spine. Vorath itself hooks to it—the road feeds the King's nation with trade and tribute. Even Karthos, with all its chains, bends its ledgers to the road."
Kai's mind stirred. A road that bound nations, a path that promised connection and power. If he wanted to build something lasting, if he wanted a nation of his own, it would be on this artery of the world.
Daniel smirked at the flames, voice sharp with riddling weight. "A road is never just a road, Kai. Sometimes it's a vein, and nations are blood cells flowing down it. Sometimes it's a sword, and nations are the ones who bleed. Walk it long enough, and you'll find out whether you're paving it—or being paved over."
Kai didn't rise to the challenge. He let the riddle hang in the air, the goblins listening, Daniel twisting truths into fables, and the Crimson Road stretching unseen through the night. It was waiting for them—waiting to decide if they would shape it, or be shaped by it.
The road bent, and so did they. Past forest and field until the mountain rose before them, its peak capped in snow like a crown, its base dry and firm. It felt less like discovery and more like destiny—as though the land had been waiting.
Kai pressed his hand to the soil, let resonance move through him, and the earth obeyed. Stones locked together, dirt compacted, walls took shape. In minutes, a house stood where there had been none, and smaller huts grew around it like seedlings pushing up from the ground.
The goblins cheered, racing forward to touch the walls. Their wide eyes gleamed in the firelight, wonder outweighing fear.
Daniel didn't cheer. He froze. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if the burden choking him refused to let truth spill free. Instead, he laughed—a jagged, brittle sound.
"Right," he said, tilting his head, eyes narrowing on the glowing marks still burning faint on Kai's arms. "Because that's how people build houses. Snap your fingers, pull a mountain out of bed, tell it to get to work. Totally normal."
Kai wiped sweat from his forehead, ignoring him. "Equivalent Exchange. Something for something."
Daniel's smile was all teeth, his words sliding sideways, never straight. "Balance, huh? Funny thing about scales, Kai. They never stay still. One gust of wind, and everything tips. You keep stacking stones on your side, don't act surprised when the other side drops on your head."
The goblins looked between them, confused, but Kai understood the twist in Daniel's voice. He wasn't mocking. He was warning.
Kai met his stare. "You think it'll break me."
Daniel snorted. "Break you? No, no. You'll outlast the breaking. You're the sort who bleeds into the cracks and calls it mortar. Just don't ask me to believe the wall won't lean."
He turned away, muttering to himself, but his eyes lingered on the house as though it was less a home and more a coffin waiting for its occupant.
At the foot of the mountain, they gathered in what might one day be called the town center, though for now it was nothing more than a patch of hardened earth. The humans were learning to live beside goblins, wary but curious, their eyes following Kai with a mixture of skepticism and awe. They had seen him raise huts from stone and soil as though the mountain itself bent to his will. Now they wondered what else he might create.
Kai pressed his hand to the ground and drew resonance into form. The earth stirred, shifting and reshaping, and soon a cluster of miniature houses rose from the dirt. They were no higher than a man's knee, with pitched roofs and narrow doorframes—homes designed not for goblins or humans, but for kippers. The goblins whispered in astonishment, unable to understand why he would build for a people so small and fragile. The humans exchanged glances, unsettled by his foresight, yet impressed by his resolve.
By the close of the first day, Kai's "nation" was only the barest skeleton. A ring of dirt huts clustered around a couple stone house he had carved for himself and the humans. Shallow tunnels cut into the mountain's flank promised storage and future shelter. And now, a tiny quarter waited for kippers who had yet to arrive. No markets, no walls, no roads yet—only beginnings.
Beyond the huts, a lake sat cradled in the mountain's shadow. Its surface was eerily still, reflecting the snowy peaks with a glasslike sheen. Goblin children dared to skip stones across it, but their play left barely a ripple. The villagers muttered that the lake had always been there, untouched and unchanging, a body of water that no stream fed and no river carried away.
Kai looked at it more than once as the sun dipped low. Something about it pressed against his senses—not threat, but presence. The water didn't merely lie still; it seemed to wait. Alive, aware. Watching.
For now, the nation was simple: huts of dirt and stone, the first shelter for goblins, humans, and someday kippers. Day one was nothing but foundations. But foundations are seeds, and Kai knew that what would rise from them might change the world.