The Hobgoblins didn't charge.
That was the first thing Mark noticed—and the first thing that bothered him.
They stood in a loose crescent across the open field, five Hobgoblins with a scatter of goblins interspersed between them. Not a shield wall. Not a rabble either. Spacing was deliberate. Lines of fire—throwing arcs, really—were clear. The goblins with javelins were already shifting their footing to avoid bunching.
"They've been together a while," Mark said quietly.
Jethro nodded, eyes unfocused, head tilted slightly as if listening to something beneath the wind. One hand lifted unconsciously, fingers flexing. "They're linked. Not consciously—but they're sharing patterns. When one moves, the others expect it."
Like a unit that's survived long enough to learn, Mark thought.
He raised a fist. The team halted.
Open ground. No cover. The grass barely reached mid-calf. The treeline was too far to retreat to cleanly.
"Emily," Mark said. "Shape the field. Not fire yet."
She inhaled, slow and controlled. Heat shimmered low to the ground ahead of them, uneven, warping depth perception. Not flame—just distortion.
Jethro stepped half a pace forward. "I'll narrow their options."
The air ahead of the Hobgoblins seemed to thicken—not visibly, but in resistance. Goblins shifted, stumbled slightly as if their feet no longer landed where they expected.
The Hobgoblins reacted.
Two shifted left. One barked a guttural command. Goblins mirrored the movement half a second later.
"That delay," Jethro said. "That's where we hit."
A javelin flew.
It wasn't thrown hard. It was thrown well.
Denise barely saw it.
Instinct moved her before thought. She twisted, the shaft scraping her armor instead of punching through her ribs. She stumbled, caught herself—and then another javelin came, low this time.
Too fast.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Breath went shallow. The world narrowed—not into panic, but into urgency.
She lunged forward, spear snapping up to bat the javelin aside.
It should have been late.
It wasn't.
The impact rang up her arms, but her footing held. Perfectly. As if the ground had decided to cooperate.
Her next step was lighter.
A Hobgoblin charged her.
Big. Scarred. Smarter than the others. It feinted high, club sweeping down toward her shoulder.
Jethro's hand snapped shut.
The Hobgoblin's timing slipped—just a fraction. Not enough to stop the blow. Enough to desync it.
Denise moved.
Not away.
Through.
The angle was there before she consciously saw it. Her body threaded past the descending weapon, spear driving forward into the Hobgoblin's thigh joint.
It roared—not in pain, but surprise.
Denise tore the spear free and rolled clear, coming up on one knee ten feet away.
Her breath fogged in front of her face.
Mark saw it.
Not the move—the change.
Denise wasn't flailing anymore. She wasn't reacting.
She was flowing.
"Denise," he barked. "Stay with Ethan!"
She did. Instantly. No hesitation. No confusion.
Ethan was already bleeding—forearm split open by a glancing blade—but he grinned when Denise slid into position beside him, spear snapping out to keep a goblin at bay.
"Nice footwork," he said between breaths.
She didn't answer.
She could feel where she needed to be.
The fight collapsed into controlled chaos.
Jethro moved with it—not physically, but spatially. Goblins found themselves stepping into dead ground, weapons arriving a beat too early or too late. When a Hobgoblin tried to flank, resistance built where it wanted to advance, funneling it back into Mark's blade.
"Left pressure increasing," Jethro called calmly. "Mark, break now."
Mark did—trusting the call without question. His blade caught a Hobgoblin mid-adjustment, armor cracking under the strike.
Emily added fire—not a blast, but a curtain. Heat surged, forcing goblins to retreat into the paths Jethro left open. Ethan exploited it immediately, darting in and out, finishing staggered targets.
"They're adapting," Emily shouted, sweat pouring down her face.
"Slowly," Jethro replied, voice tight now. His hands trembled slightly as he held the field together. "They don't think faster. They remember. And they copy."
A Hobgoblin took a firebolt full in the chest and kept coming, armor charred but intact. It swung wildly—desperation creeping in.
Mark killed it—but not before its club crushed into his side, armor cracking. Pain flared white-hot.
Blood soaked into the grass. Human and goblin alike.
Denise ducked a sweeping strike, vaulted over a fallen body, and drove her spear into a goblin's throat. She wrenched it free and spun, momentum carrying her into position before the next threat arrived.
This was wrong. She shouldn't be able to do this.
But she was.
The last Hobgoblin fought like a veteran—guard tight, strikes measured, retreating only when forced. It adjusted every time someone tested it.
Jethro focused hard, narrowing the world around it. Its steps shortened. Its retreat angles closed.
"Now," he said softly.
Mark forced it high.
Denise slid under its guard, spear punching up through its ribs.
When it fell, the remaining goblins broke—not immediately, but decisively. Discipline unraveled all at once.
The field went quiet except for ragged breathing.
Bodies crumbled to dust.
Loot clattered softly onto blood-soaked grass.
Denise stood there, spear planted, hands shaking.
The wind brushed past her—and for the first time, it answered.
Mark walked up slowly, favoring his side. He didn't smile.
"You felt it," he said.
She nodded. Swallowed. "Yeah."
Jethro looked at her, eyes sharp, analytical—and satisfied.
"Agility," he said. "Not speed. Control. You're arriving where you need to be before the fight knows it."
Denise exhaled, long and unsteady.
She wasn't helpless anymore.
Behind them, unseen, something old and patient took note—not of the victory, but of the change.
The Dungeon did not hurry.
It never had.
________________________________________
They didn't move right away.
Training said secure, check wounds, watch the perimeter. Experience said let the shaking stop first.
The field smelled of scorched grass and blood. Where bodies had been, there was only dust now, settling slowly into the trampled earth. The silence that followed a hard fight always felt heavier than the noise that came before it.
"No movement," Ethan said after a slow scan, wiping sweat and blood from his brow with his uninjured arm.
Jethro closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head. "Nothing pushing back. The field's empty. Whatever awareness they had collapsed when the last Hobgoblin went down."
Mark nodded once. "Collect."
They spread out.
Loot lay where the monsters had fallen—armor plates, crude but well-fitted; heavy clubs; chipped blades; and the javelins, their shafts straight, heads barbed and balanced better than Mark liked.
He picked one up, tested the weight, the balance.
"Take all of these," he said. "Bundle them. We haven't seen thrown weapons used this deliberately before."
Denise moved to comply without comment, still riding the edge of something new and unsettling in her body. The javelin felt right in her hands—long reach, control—but she set it aside with the others, forcing herself to breathe normally.
"No cores," Emily said after a careful check, sounding more tired than disappointed.
Mark wasn't surprised. "Ten percent was always optimistic."
Armor resized as they handled it, settling into shapes that would fit human bodies once claimed. Mark made mental notes—repairs, redistribution, training.
Once the field was stripped, he lifted his head and scanned the treeline again.
"Sector's clear," he said after a moment. "Too quiet for goblins. They were the last of this pocket."
Jethro frowned slightly, feeling the absence where pressure had been. "Nothing organizing out there. If we move carefully, we're alone."
Mark nodded. "Then we don't waste the walk back."
They moved into the trees.
________________________________________
The first deer never knew they were there.
Mark slowed the team as soon as he spotted the sign—fresh tracks, clean breaks in underbrush, droppings still dark. He motioned Denise and Ethan to stay back while he and Jethro eased forward.
Wind was wrong at first. Mark waited. Counted breaths.
Jethro adjusted—not the world this time, just their timing. A subtle pause that let the breeze settle.
The deer stepped into view, broadside, head down.
Mark shifted his grip, rolled his shoulder once, and threw.
The javelin flew straight and true, punching through the chest with a dull, final sound.
The animal dropped without a cry.
The body dissolved moments later.
In its place lay cleanly butchered meat—neatly stacked, red and fresh—resting atop a perfectly intact deer skin. No blood. No mess. Just yield.
Emily stared. "Fifty… maybe sixty pounds," she said quietly.
Mark crouched, confirming the weight with practiced hands. "Consistent," he murmured. "Same rules as monsters. Different source."
They packed the meat and folded the hide carefully.
Denise watched closely, noting how the world provided now—not through effort alone, but through structure. She felt echoes of it in herself, a quiet understanding that hadn't been there before.
They marked the location out of habit, then moved on.
---
The second hunt came an hour later.
This one was harder.
The deer spooked early, bounding away through uneven ground. Mark tracked patiently, reading the land, letting the animal think it had escaped.
Denise felt it then—the pull to move, to angle ahead rather than chase. She glanced at Mark.
He saw it.
Two fingers. Then a pointed sweep.
She went.
Not fast. Just right.
She cut across a shallow dip, came up through scrub, and froze as the deer broke into the open again—straight into her path.
One thrust.
Clean.
The animal fell—and then, just like before, dissolved.
Another pristine stack appeared. Cleanly butchered meat, fifty to sixty pounds by sight alone, resting on an unblemished hide.
Denise stood there for a long moment, spear planted, chest rising and falling. Not triumph. Just certainty.
When the others arrived, Mark gave her a single nod.
"Good work."
They packed the second load as dusk crept closer, packs heavier now with meat, hides, and captured weapons.
As they turned back toward home, the land felt… empty.
Cleared.
For now.
Behind them, far beyond sight or sound, something deep beneath the earth recorded the absence of goblins in that sector.
It adjusted.
Slowly.
________________________________________
They crested the last rise just after midday.
The homestead came into view—and Mark slowed without meaning to.
Another quarter of the perimeter was finished.
Fresh palisade logs stood shoulder to shoulder, their tops sharpened and aligned, the trench before them deepened and squared off. The structure had weight to it now. Permanence. Not just survival, but intent.
"Damn," Ethan breathed. "They didn't waste time."
Carl Henley's voice carried before they reached the gate.
"Careful with that end. It's heavier than it looks."
A trailer sat just inside the perimeter, hitched to one of the old vehicles that still somehow ran. Boxes, crates, and bundled supplies were stacked inside—more than Mark expected.
Carl was unloading it methodically.
Grant Heller was helping.
Reluctantly.
He held a crate like it might bite him, jaw tight, movements stiff. He flinched when it shifted in his grip, then scowled at it as if the box had personally wronged him.
Carl noticed Redwood Team first. He straightened, wiped his hands on his jeans, and smiled.
"Good timing," he said. "I was starting to think you'd found something interesting."
"Clean sector," Mark replied. "Last Hobgoblins."
Carl's eyebrows rose. "Good. Then this was worth it."
Grant glanced over, eyes flicking to the weapons, the blood-stained armor, the meat bundles. His expression twisted—fear, envy, something else underneath.
Carl clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Set that down there. Easy. You've got it."
Grant hesitated, then followed the instruction. The crate thumped into place.
Carl walked over to Mark, lowering his voice as they stepped aside.
"I did a run to the supermarket," Carl said. "Didn't want to wait too long. Place is standing because people are still moving through it. Leave it empty too long and…" He gestured vaguely. "You know how things go now."
Mark nodded. Structures decayed when forgotten. They'd seen it already.
"Got canned goods, dry stock, tools, a few carts we can repurpose," Carl continued. "Nothing magical. Just useful."
His gaze shifted back to Grant, who was now awkwardly stacking lighter boxes, trying not to look incompetent.
"And him?" Mark asked.
Carl sighed—but there was no frustration in it.
"Grant's not… all that bad," Carl said. "Just brittle. Grew up with an old man who broke him down every chance he got. Never learned how to stand without pushing someone else over."
Mark watched Grant fumble a box, curse under his breath, then straighten when Carl calmly corrected his grip.
"He's used that upbringing as an excuse for a long time," Carl went on. "For quitting. For blaming. For being scared."
"Still is," Mark said neutrally.
Carl nodded. "Yeah. But excuses only work when no one calls you on them."
He folded his arms, thoughtful. "I think he never had anyone who stayed firm without being cruel. Someone to show him what responsibility looks like without fear attached."
Grant glanced over again, catching Carl's eye. Carl gave him a small nod. Grant looked away—but kept working.
"I can bring him around," Carl said quietly. "Not fast. Not gentle either. Just… steady. Proper fatherly leadership. The kind that doesn't quit when the kid's difficult."
Mark considered that for a long moment.
"Your call," he said finally. "But if he endangers people—"
"I won't let him," Carl said simply.
That settled it.
Denise passed by with the meat bundles, heading toward the smokers. She paused just long enough to look at the new wall again, something like satisfaction crossing her face.
The homestead was growing.
Holding.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, Mark felt something unfamiliar settle into his chest.
Not relief.
Confidence.
________________________________________
The afternoon settled into work.
Meat was stacked for the smokers. Hides were handed off toward Sarah's domain. Weapons were carried to the growing rack near the central shed. Voices overlapped—measured, purposeful, tired but steady.
Jethro stood near the edge of it all, not helping, not idle.
Watching.
Rachel Moore moved through the space like she was tracing invisible lines.
She never bumped anyone. Never blocked a path. When two people converged on the same task, she redirected one with a quiet word before friction formed. When the smokers began to bottleneck traffic, she shifted the meat stack ten feet to the left without being asked—suddenly the flow opened.
No orders. No authority.
Just… alignment.
Jethro felt it.
A faint pressure behind his eyes. Not active control. Not a pull.
Recognition.
He watched her for another minute, then walked over.
"Rachel," he said.
She startled slightly, then smiled apologetically. "Sorry—was I in the way?"
"No," Jethro said quickly. "You weren't. That's kind of the point."
She frowned, confused. "Okay…?"
He gestured around them. "How did you decide where to put the meat?"
Rachel hesitated. "It was… wrong where it was. People were crossing paths too much."
"How did you know?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Thought. "I didn't know. It just felt crowded. Like it would turn into a problem if no one fixed it."
Jethro nodded slowly.
"Do you get that feeling a lot?" he asked.
Rachel laughed nervously. "Since the supermarket? Constantly. I thought it was just stress."
"Stress doesn't give you timing," Jethro said. "Or spacing."
She stiffened a little. "That sounds ominous."
"Only if you ignore it."
He pointed toward the palisade, where a group was unloading logs awkwardly, tripping over each other's pace.
"Watch them," he said. "Where would you stand if you had to help without lifting anything?"
Rachel followed his gaze. Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in focus, but in assessment.
"There," she said after a moment, pointing to a patch of ground just off their left flank. "If someone stood there and called pace, the others would fall in line. They're not wrong individually. They're just out of sync."
Jethro smiled. Not wide. Certain.
"That's it," he said.
Rachel looked at him sharply. "That's what?"
He lowered his voice. "That thing you're doing? That's not just organizing. It's the same skill I use in a fight."
She stared at him. "I don't fight."
"You don't have to," Jethro said. "Controllers don't win by hitting things. We win by making sure everyone else hits at the right time."
She shook her head. "No. That's—you move things. You stop enemies. I just… notice when stuff's about to go wrong."
"Exactly."
She went quiet.
Jethro hesitated, then decided to trust her.
"Try something," he said. "Don't do anything obvious. Just… imagine you're placing people where they need to be. Not telling them. Placing them."
Rachel swallowed. "I don't think—"
"Just imagine it," he said gently. "No force. No pushing."
She closed her eyes.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then one of the men by the logs stepped sideways without realizing why. Another adjusted his grip. The third matched pace.
The stack went up cleanly.
Rachel's eyes snapped open. "I didn't touch them."
"You didn't need to," Jethro said. His voice was calm, but there was something bright underneath it. "You nudged the pattern. That's low-level control. No power yet. Just awareness bleeding outward."
Her hands trembled slightly. "That's… not normal, is it."
"No," he said. "But it's useful."
She looked around the homestead—the walls, the people, the motion—and for the first time, it didn't feel overwhelming.
It felt readable.
"What happens next?" she asked quietly.
Jethro shrugged. "If you keep using it? Stress will sharpen it. Responsibility will anchor it. One day, something will push back hard enough that the world answers you."
She met his eyes. "Like it did for you?"
"Yes."
Rachel exhaled slowly. "Then… I want to learn how not to mess it up."
Jethro smiled properly this time.
"Good," he said. "Because we're going to need more than one of us."
Across the homestead, Mark watched the two of them talking—noticed how the work around them seemed to smooth out without explanation.
He filed it away.
Another piece falling into place.