The six days after Garron Haldis withdrew did not feel like days at all.
They felt like a blade pressed slowly against Ridgebrook's throat—each sunrise cutting a little deeper, each night pressing harder. Time stretched unnaturally, distorted by fear and exhaustion, until waiting itself became a kind of torment.
But the village endured.
It had to.
The first two days vanished into frantic labor. Men dragged logs to reinforce the southern barricade. Women stitched crude armor from anything they could salvage—old belts, animal hide, torn blankets. Orin limped from post to post, sling tight around her shoulder, barking orders like a wounded general who refused to yield.
"Shift the spikes inward!"
"Tighten those ropes!"
"If that collapses, I swear I'll bury you in it!"
Injured or not, she drove them mercilessly.
Vlad spent most of that time resting—flat on the dirt near the granary, or sitting motionless in the shade. His Rank 2 breakthrough had drained him to the bone. Sometimes his hands shook. Other times he sat perfectly still, like a blade cooling after the forge.
On the third day, he stood again.
Barely.
He resumed training the militia, slow and methodical. Every movement cost him, but every strike carried undeniable weight. The villagers watched him like a living omen—terrified, grateful, and utterly focused.
"Move with purpose," he told them, voice thin but steady. "Hesitation is death. Awareness is survival."
No one questioned him.
The fourth day brought change in the forest.
Scouts returned pale and shaken.
"They're moving again," one said. "More men. More beasts. New camps closer to the creek."
"And the captain?" I asked.
"Recovering. Faster than expected."
My grip tightened.
Vlad's jaw flexed. "Rank 2 bodies heal quickly."
Of course they did.
The fifth day belonged to fear.
Enemy drums beat through the night—sometimes slow and heavy, sometimes erratic and manic, as if testing our nerves. Beasts howled closer than before. Villagers slept in shifts, waking at every sound. Mothers clutched children. Men sharpened blades until their hands trembled.
Lira worked without rest, treating wounds and calming the frightened. She stayed near me almost constantly. When exhaustion finally cracked her composure, she leaned against my shoulder without speaking.
I didn't pull away.
Once, under torchlight, she whispered, "I keep dreaming of you leading us away from here. Somewhere safe."
"That's a nice dream," I said.
"It doesn't feel like one," she replied softly. "It feels like hope."
Her hand found mine.
She didn't let go.
Orin noticed and rolled her eyes, muttering something about "idiots" and "terrible timing," but she didn't interrupt.
The sixth day brought blood.
Just before dusk, a beast charged the western barricade—huge, tusked, reeking of rot and rage. Rank 1 at least, maybe stronger. It slammed into the wall hard enough to make the logs shudder.
Villagers screamed. Spears rattled.
"Positions!" Orin shouted, sprinting despite her injury.
The creature struck again. A weakened post cracked.
I grabbed a spear and moved in, heart pounding. The Ledger flared violently.
[BEAST CLASS: RANK 1]
[DANGER: MODERATE–HIGH]
The beast lunged through the gap.
My breath caught—then slowed.
That strange rhythm returned.
The world sharpened. Qi stirred at the edge of my awareness, waiting.
I thrust.
At the last instant, my alignment faltered.
The beast twisted, its tusk slamming into my forearm and hurling me backward.
"LIAM!" Lira screamed.
Orin stepped in front of the beast with her good arm, slashing across its snout. "BACK OFF, SHITHEAD!"
It roared and turned on her—
Then Vlad arrived.
Slower than usual, but still lethal.
His blade sank cleanly into the creature's neck. The beast collapsed without another sound.
The village erupted in frantic relief.
Vlad swayed.
I caught him before he fell.
He gripped my collar to steady himself. "The next attack will not be one beast," he said hoarsely. "It will be an army."
My stomach twisted.
The Ledger confirmed it.
[MAJOR ASSAULT: IMMINENT]
That night, the village gathered in the longhouse for one final council.
Orin spread a rough map across the table. "If they split into three groups, we won't hold. We focus north and west—those are their heaviest numbers."
"If they bring fire again," Lira added quietly, "we'll need water lines ready."
"And fallback points," Vlad rasped. "When the first line breaks—and it will—you regroup without panic."
His calm scared them more than shouting ever could.
I studied the map, hands trembling, breath unsteady.
Then the Ledger flickered.
[NEXT SUMMON AVAILABLE IN: 1 DAY]
A jolt ran through me.
Hope.
Not victory—but real hope.
"Something wrong?" Orin asked sharply.
"Just thinking," I lied.
Again.
After the council dispersed, I sat outside beneath the stars. The night was unnaturally silent—no wind, no insects, nothing.
Lira joined me, pulling her cloak tight. "The village trusts you," she said.
"They shouldn't."
"I do."
She sat closer. Our shoulders touched. She took my hand again, and this time I laced my fingers with hers without hesitation.
Her warmth steadied me.
"Liam… are we going to die tomorrow?"
The question hit harder than any blade.
"No," I said. "Not tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
A vow tangled with a lie.
The drums began again.
Slow. Heavy. Final.
Every villager froze.
Then a horn sounded—deep, long, absolute.
The Ledger chimed.
[ASSAULT PHASE 1: BEGINS SOON]
[SUMMON AVAILABLE: TOMORROW]
My breath caught.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
The enemy.
The battle.
The village.
And me.
Lira squeezed my hand as the drums thundered like a god's heartbeat.
The storm had arrived.