The day was warm and golden as Elmore rowed the small boat out to the center of the dungeon lake, its gentle waves lapping against the hull. Edward sat at the front, casting his line into the water, his face lit up with excitement. Occasionally, they’d hear cheers from people coming out of the dungeon on the lake’s far shore, some proudly displaying jars of glowing bugs or odd mushrooms they’d foraged. Elmore would wave, grinning at the sight of his people thriving, while Edward laughed at the spectacle.
“Dad! Look, someone’s carrying a beetle as big as my head!” Edward pointed, barely able to contain his laughter.
Elmore chuckled, giving his son an amused glance. “Think we should try to catch something even bigger?”
They fished in comfortable silence for a while, the lines occasionally tugging as they reeled in a few fat bass. They laughed at Elmore’s exaggerated tales of fish he’d supposedly caught back in the day, and Edward’s equally tall stories of his fishing feats in the creek by their home. After pulling in their latest catch, Edward turned, his young face suddenly serious.
“Dad, why do people keep coming and trying to fight us?” he asked, looking at Elmore with wide, curious eyes. “I mean… they don’t even know us, but they still want to hurt us. Why?”
Elmore paused, the weight of the question settling on him. He let the gentle rocking of the boat calm him as he thought over his response. Finally, he looked at his son with a mixture of sadness and understanding.
“Well, kiddo… right now, the world’s kinda crazy,” he started, choosing his words carefully. “There are people out there who don’t have enough, and some of them aren’t led by good folks. Their communities aren’t like ours—a big family that looks out for each other. Some places don’t have that kind of safety.”
Elmore set his fishing pole down and gave his son a thoughtful look. “How safe do you feel here? When you go around town, or out to the fields, or over to Mr. Will’s forge?”
Edward tilted his head, considering. “Pretty safe. And so do my friends. We all love it here. Everyone’s nice. We play games and tag, and sometimes we catch frogs and little fish in the creek. We can explore and just have fun without being scared.”
Elmore smiled, reaching out to ruffle Edward’s hair. “That’s because our community works together. We trust each other. But that’s not how it is in a lot of places. In other towns, folks are so scared they can’t even trust their neighbors, and they don’t have that peace or safety.”
Edward frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “Then why doesn’t the guy in charge of them just make everyone get along?”
Elmore sighed, feeling the weight of the world’s complexity. “It’d be nice if that’s how things worked, son. But people are… well, people. They have all kinds of different ideas, fears, and beliefs. Sometimes they think hurting others is the only way to survive. It’s a rough road out there, and sometimes folks make bad choices out of fear or greed.”
Edward listened intently, his young mind turning over his father’s words. Elmore felt a pang, seeing the world’s weight on his son’s shoulders, but he was proud to see Edward trying to understand it. Eventually, they fell into a comfortable silence again, casting their lines back into the water.
As the sun started to dip, casting a golden glow over the lake, they rowed back to shore. Once on land, Elmore grabbed a small wooden sword he’d carved for Edward and handed it over. “Alright, enough talk. How about we get you some practice with this?” he said, giving Edward a playful grin.
Edward’s eyes lit up, and he swung the wooden sword with gusto, imitating moves he’d seen his dad do. Elmore showed him how to hold it properly, guiding his stance. They sparred gently, Elmore showing him a few tricks and laughing at Edward’s exaggerated battle cries.
Out of nowhere, Ditzy bounded over, her massive frame nearly toppling them both. The faithful dog had grown even larger and stronger over time, her thick, muscular build nearly resembling that of a small grizzly. Edward clambered onto her back, gripping her collar as she trotted around in circles. “Look, Dad! I’m a knight!” he called, laughing as Ditzy proudly carried him.
Elmore chuckled, then took a mock menacing stance. “A knight, huh? Well, beware, Sir Edward. There’s a dragon in these parts!” He gave a deep, exaggerated roar, his hands raised like claws as he “chased” after them. Edward shrieked with laughter, spurring Ditzy to “escape” the dragon’s wrath, all the while calling out commands as though she were his noble steed.
After a long day of adventures, they headed home, Ditzy trotting along beside them. Inside, they settled on the couch, the day’s dust and exhaustion still clinging to them as they booted up a video game. Edward, controller in hand, leaned into Elmore’s shoulder, immersed in a world of heroes and villains.
As the game’s lights flickered on their faces, Elmore glanced down at his son, his heart swelling with both pride and a protective love. Today had been more than just a day on the lake or an afternoon of sparring. It had been a chance for Elmore to prepare Edward—not just for the world they lived in but for the world they were building together.
The evening started as simply as any other, with Elmore and Edward sitting side by side in the soft glow of the television screen, an old emulator spinning up PS2 games that Elmore had breezed through in his own childhood. Edward held the controller, his small fingers tapping away with a determined focus, his face lit by the game’s colors as he tackled level after level.
Elmore couldn’t help but smile, memories flooding back as he watched Edward tackle the challenges with almost as much ease as he had as a kid. The more he watched, though, the more a curious unease settled in. Something was… different. He knew these games like the back of his hand, every ending, every hidden level—yet here, as Edward played, it was like they were subtly shifting.
They reached a point where he would have expected the game to end, but instead, a new level appeared, seamlessly woven into the game’s flow. If he hadn’t known better, he wouldn’t have noticed. He kept his suspicions to himself, watching quietly as Edward fought through enemies, tackled obstacles, and laughed with glee when he succeeded. It felt almost surreal to see this new content sprout like hidden tendrils of a game he thought he’d fully uncovered years ago.
Edward beamed, chatting excitedly about his progress, clearly over the moon with the experience. For him, this was just a magical adventure with his dad, not a subtle puzzle hinting at something deeper. As night finally drew close, Elmore noticed his son’s energy beginning to wane. Setting the controller down, Elmore ushered Edward to bed, helping him climb into his blankets.
Before snuggling in, Edward reached for the small wooden cube on his bedside—a little bobble Elmore had crafted for him when he was just a toddler. But now, it glowed faintly in his hands, a gentle, ethereal pulse that cast a soft light over Edward’s face. The boy smiled as he held it, then looked up at his dad, as if to share the moment with him.
Elmore, curious but keeping his tone light, finally asked, “So, what’s the cube do?”
“Oh, it just… glows sometimes, and floats around,” Edward explained with a little shrug. “I always imagined it was my friend.”
Elmore felt a warmth fill his chest, nodding as he pulled the blanket over his son. “That sounds like a pretty good friend. And you know I love you, right?” he said, pressing a gentle kiss on Edward’s forehead.
“Love you too, Dad,” Edward murmured, already drifting into the realm of sleep.
After tucking Edward in, Elmore padded back down the hallway to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway and looking back only to see his son now only holding the cube and no sword to be seen, “well thats interesting” turning back and making his way to the kitchen, where Ash sat with a mug of tea, her gaze drifting out the window into the now tower like buildings growing from the bowl running along the length of the valley. He took a seat beside her, settling in with a sigh as the two of them looked out at their quiet valley, the glow of the town lights casting a warm blanket over the evening. They didn’t need to speak, the comfort of each other’s presence enough as they shared a quiet peace, a reprieve from thoughts of the war looming just days away. A view that he would hold forever when in doubt. The green cloud shaped canopy of the mountain forest is like being in the cupped hands of god himself. Down the center a creek flows through, having been the force that cut the valley in eons past. Being cradled by the start of stone monolith skyscrapers. The visible white light illuminates the drifting fog like a barrier from the stars. And to Elmore's aither Attuned sight the cornucopia of cyan adjacent light moving in ways he can only now see. And on closer examination he sees something in the pattern of the flow. Like normal fluid flow and agitated by life. But some waves disappear and reappear elsewhere. Like it exists in more than three dimensions. “Odd”
Ash looked over “what?”
Focusing himself “ oh edwards cube ate his training sword.” he says with a smile
Ash looks at her husband for a good few seconds. “Well, let's hope it doesn't bite him.”
They share a laugh and end the night as they do.
Morning came, spilling sunlight through their windows, the valley coming to life with the hum of activity as everyone prepared in their own way. Elmore, feeling the weight of the day ahead, rose with purpose. There was work to do, preparations to make, and the protection of his people and his family to keep at the forefront of his mind.
But the quiet moments of the night before, the strange new levels of an old game, and the mysterious glow and hunger of a little wooden cube would linger in his thoughts as he began the day.
The cold, early morning air settled thick around the valley, carrying the faint scent of dew and stone. It clung to the skin like damp wool, dense and silent, fog curling along the roots of the mountains and pouring slow and heavy through every crease in the land like breath through a clenched jaw. The air had the stillness of held breath, that sacred hush that sometimes came before church bells or a funeral procession—except today, the hush meant war.
Elmore stood tall at the top of the gate, a lone figure against the breaking dawn. His broad shoulders squared against the wind, his dark hair and beard braided back beneath the mithril helm, catching the sun’s newborn light like quicksilver. His armor shimmered faintly, whispering with every small movement—metal worked by old hands, His eyes storm-dark were locked on the horizon, where black dots now smeared the ridge like ants spilling over the edge of the world.
The town of BirchHill—once full of laughter, music, and the smoke of cookfires—had been emptied days ago. Its people, children and elders alike, forced to flee down the backside of the mountain and scatter to hidden enclaves. What remained was a husk—wood walls, shuttered windows, and empty porches—all now turned to serve as Charleston’s forward staging ground. The enemy had claimed it without bloodshed. But Elmore knew better than to think they'd leave it that way.
Scouts came and went in bursts—lean men on dirt bikes, girls with fox-eyes and nervous hands, each delivering hurried counts and whispered warnings. Enemy numbers swelled like a flood cresting the rocks. Trucks. Armored transports. Tactical vans. Lines of figures disembarking by the hundreds. And above them, two black helicopters loomed like carrion birds in slow, circling patterns—watching, waiting, hungry.
The quiet of the valley broke piece by piece: the low rumble of engines echoed like thunder caught between stone cliffs. The hiss of radios crackling. The dry clatter of magazines being loaded. Boots on gravel. Steel brushing against steel as weapons were unslung. Voices murmured orders over the distant hum, too far to make out—but the tone was clear. Precision. Readiness. An army settling into the business of violence.
As the sun finally crested the eastern ridge, its pale gold fingers washed over the invading host—and for the first time, Elmore saw the full scope of Charleston’s might.
A hundred thousand men, shoulder to shoulder, formed a dark tide across the far fields. From his height, they looked like a swarm given order—riot shields gleaming like beetle shells, black helmets absorbing the light. Kevlar, tactical gear, and cold expressions. These weren’t militia or backwoods deputies. These were trained national guardsmen, ex-military units, special police forces brought together under one corrupt banner. They moved like a single organism, disciplined and practiced. Their boots struck the ground in time, rifles resting like extensions of their own limbs.
Elmore’s jaw clenched. His people numbered barely over 2 thousand able-bodied fighters.
They carried tactical rifles, pump-action shotguns, stun batons, all slung clean and well-maintained. Their troop carriers formed rows like the jaws of some ancient machine god—grimy, reinforced things with mounted guns and exhaust fumes belching out in stinking clouds. Every inch of their presence declared one thing: superiority. The sheer weight of it threatened to crush the air out of the valley.
Elmore leaned over the stone parapet of the main gate—his hands gripping the edge, the chill seeping through his gloves. Below, his people watched him. Some with clenched fists, some with wide eyes. Others prayed silently, their breath forming ghosts in the morning cold. Each of them bore weapons made by hand or enchanted through the hard-earned miracle of Aither. They stood ready, but they also stood small.
His heart thundered—each beat a drumbeat of memory. The soil beneath him was not just dirt. It was his work. His people’s sweat. The bones of his grandparents. The laughter of Edward echoing through these hills. The scent of Ash’s hair. All of it was here. And all of it was under threat.
The federal machine had finally come to collect.
He straightened, shoulders broadening beneath the weight of his mantle, and let his voice carry like a strike of lightning:
“Send me your representative!”
It rang across the valley like a bell cracked by a storm. The murmuring stopped. The motion below faltered—only for a moment, but enough to feel it.
Then, like a finger snapping in a cathedral, the stillness shattered.
A high-pitched crack split the air—sharp, clean, and personal.
The impact struck the side of Elmore’s helmet with the bone-deep sound of metal on metal. His head jerked violently to the right, the world lurching as the shot ricocheted off the curved mithril surface with a whine like a struck tuning fork. His knees buckled for just a breath of time, vision swimming in hot static. He didn’t fall—but the world around him twisted sideways before snapping back into place.
He staggered, his palm catching the lip of the parapet. His mouth parted slightly, blinking through the haze. A sniper shot. No warning. No attempt at parley.
A dishonorable ambush.
He looked down.
The Guard teams had already begun their advance—streaming forward in tight formations, fanning out behind shields. Muzzle flashes blinked like strobe lights in the morning fog. The rhythmic thunder of gunfire became a rolling storm, reverberating off the valley walls. The sound was deafening. A rain of bullets, relentless and impersonal.
He scanned through it—focusing, eyes sharpening as the Aither inside him surged, snapping his perception into clarity. Amid the marching sea of armor and arrogance, a single figure stood out. Just behind the advancing troops, untouched and unmoving—a man in sleek black tactical armor, arms crossed, expression hidden behind polarized lenses.
Their so-called “representative.”
Not a diplomat. Not even a coward. A symbol of their arrogance.
Elmore’s rage became molten.
The air grew hotter in his lungs. His vision narrowed until it burned like a tunnel of fire.
This wasn’t negotiation. This wasn’t war by code.
This was extermination by decree.
Bullets began peppering the walls now, pinging off the mithril plates embedded in the structure, spitting sparks into the air. His defenders responded in kind. Homemade cannons thudded. Aither-charged rifles sang. Solid mithril slugs hissed through the air and punched through steel like divine judgment, carving through metal and flesh alike.
One explosion rocked a troop carrier—its hood folding backward like an opened tin can, flames licking the edges. Men screamed, fell, vanished. For a brief, breathless moment, Elmore’s heart surged with savage clarity.
These men were Level 1s. The system didn't have to expose them.
His people—though few—had fought monsters. They had grown through blood, grit, and divine inheritance. They were something else entirely now.
Charleston’s front line ruptured.
Elmore could feel the Aither in his veins thrumming, responding to his fury. His nerves lit up like lightning rods, mind and body syncing with the will of the land beneath him. Every breath became a prayer. Every heartbeat a spell.
They would not take this place. Not without drowning in blood.
And then he moved.
He raised his rifle—not from calm discipline but wrath, the kind born of betrayal, the kind that fuels ancient curses and long wars. His finger curled around the trigger.
The scope fell on the man behind the line—the arrogant effigy of bureaucracy, war, and disrespect.
Elmore didn’t aim.
He judged.
And with a single shot—half instinct, half divine fury—the representative simply imploded.
One moment there was a chest, a stance, a breath.
The next—red mist and air.
The wind swept through the valley like a herald, carrying with it the heavy scent of ozone and cordite, the faint reek of oil and stirred earth. Elmore stood at the apex of the gate tower, the dawnlight catching on the sculpted ridges of his mithril armor, casting a subtle glint across the plateau. He looked down upon his people—his men—his brothers and sisters-in-arms—arrayed across the wall and the slopes below like the armored roots of a great mountain, unbending, unbreakable.
The militia stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a solid phalanx of glittering mithril and resolve, their helms etched with sigils and names of loved ones, their bodies braced for what was coming. It was not a parade. It was not a drill. They faced the storm itself.
And at Elmore’s side stood Brent, tall and muscled, one foot propped on a rampart stone, his wolf-eyes gleaming with anticipation. His hands curled around the handle of a gleaming great sword . The weapon throbbed faintly with Aither, alive in the quiet before the clash.
Elmore turned to his people, his voice quiet at first, almost intimate, yet it carried like thunder on the cold morning air, amplified by his presence and the weight of his name.
“These people came to kill us,” he said, the words simple, sharp as a blade, “to take what’s ours.”
A silence followed. A living silence. Like the valley itself leaned in to hear him.
“They think gear and numbers win wars. But they forgot the truth: this land breathes with us. These walls know our hands. This dirt knows our sweat. And we know each other.”
He lifted his chin, eyes burning with defiance.
“They brought their machines. We brought our hearts. And today—they’ll learn what that means.”
The cheers that followed weren’t loud—they were deep. Like the sound of distant drums echoing from mountain caverns. It wasn’t a celebration. It was agreement. Covenant. A final vow before blood would stain the roots of the valley.
Elmore glanced at Brent, who gave a nod, a grim grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Elmore raised his right hand—open, palm up—and then clenched it into a fist.
The signal.
In an instant, the defenders surged into place like a living organism. Arrows were nocked, crossbows cocked, slugs chambered. Those without ranged weapons readied themselves at choke points and descent routes carved through the stone. The clink and rustle of movement became the overture to war.
Below, Charleston’s army moved like a steel tide. Thousands strong, each unit in perfect synchronicity—riot shields forming overlapping walls, snipers sliding into overwatch positions atop troop carriers, command squads barking coordinates into headsets. They moved with a practiced cruelty, their formation tightening as they ascended the final ridges, angling to crush the defenders beneath sheer mass and mechanized might.
They used the land well. Trees. Boulders. Natural breaks in the slope. They laid suppressive fire with machine guns and burst rifles, setting up mobile barricades with chilling precision. The air itself cracked and hissed with every report. Smoke began to drift across the hills like fog summoned by fear.
But the wall held.
Elmore flicked his radio to the primary frequency, his voice a calm, cold anchor in the sea of panic.
“Groups One through Five—hold the wall. You know your positions. Let ‘em get close, then remind ‘em why we don’t break.”
He paused, watching a cluster of Charleston commanders duck behind a transport, radios crackling.
“Team One,” he continued, “cut the head. Directors are in the back. Burn their eyes out—aim for the weak spots.”
A storm of mithril answered him.
From the parapets, crossbow bolts streaked into the sky. Rifles belched controlled bursts, every shot aimed by men and women whose fingers had pulled triggers in defense of children, not coin. Charleston’s bullets struck the walls in flashing sprays, sparking off mithril like hail off stone.
A corporal on the enemy’s side shouted something about magic plating before his face imploded from a precisely aimed slug.
Down below, soldiers staggered back, baffled and reeling. Their bullets did nothing. Their stun batons and tasers had no reach. And worse—the defenders did not retreat. They advanced.
Elmore switched channels again.
“Groups Six through Ten. Time to move. Form the bulwark. Break their damn center.”
And like a gate swinging open from inside the walls, the frontlines surged. Shields up, shoulders down, boots slamming into stone. The mithril bulwark—dozens wide—moved as one, pushing into Charleston’s line like an avalanche with purpose. mithril screamed against steel. Riot shields cracked and flew apart. Baton-wielders were flung into the air like dolls.
Charleston’s troops dug in. Tried to recover. Tried to fall back to form a kill box.
It was too late.
“Groups Eleven and Twelve,” Elmore snarled, pressing the button on his radio so hard it creaked. “Heavy hitters—clean it up.”
And they came.
The heavy squads.
Big men, bigger women, all muscle and vengeance, clad in etched mithril, wielding weapons that looked like blacksmiths had forged them while sobbing with rage. War hammers, great axes, spiked mauls. Each one humming with Aither, resonating with the force of ancestral wrath.
They tore through.
Where the bulwark opened cracks, the heavy teams shattered the rest. Soldiers with training and pedigree were knocked off their feet. One SWAT enforcer raised his shotgun and fired point-blank into a militiawoman’s chest—only to watch the pellets flatten against her armor and see her grin through the smoke before caving in his helmet with a double-headed sledge.
Screams echoed.
Charleston’s formation buckled.
Blood stained the dirt.
And Elmore?
He watched it all unfold like a chessboard erupting into wildfire. Calm. Steady. Eternal.
“Let them come,” he murmured again, more to himself now, voice low and full of fire. “Let them learn.”
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Elmore’s voice came crackling again through the walkie-talkie, clear over the roar of battle, his tone like flint striking steel. “Groups 13 and 14—bring the fire! Make it rain down on them!”
The command was more invocation than instruction, and it was met with immediate and thunderous response. From the top of the valley wall, a symphony of chaos erupted. Fire blossomed from outstretched hands, belching into the sky before curling downward in plumes that licked across the battlefield like a vengeful tide. Lightning lanced from fingertips and wrought-iron rods, white-hot bolts tearing the sky and spearing armored vehicles in sudden, explosive bursts. Cracks in the cliffside widened as they flung massive slabs of stone and shale down with tectonic fury, crushing barricades, breaking lines.
Then came the scream of rotor blades and the guttural coughing of artillery from the distant ridge as Charleston’s own military pushed back. Helicopters swooped in low, their side gunners unleashing volleys of bullets, each tracer round screaming through the smoky air. Mortars whistled down like hell’s punctuation, the ground erupting in plumes of dirt, fire, and splintered bone. Missiles shrieked overhead and slammed into the valley’s defenses, carving trenches of flame through the earth.
But still—Elmore’s people marched.
The explosions tore through ranks, sent limbs flying, blood splashing hot across the stone, but even as bodies fell, they did not stay down. Men and women staggered to their feet, faces streaked with soot and blood, clutching red glass vials pulled from their belts. They poured the shimmering liquid over raw stumps and gaping wounds, hissing as the fluid bubbled like living mercury. Then they took their lost limbs—hands, forearms, full legs—jammed them back into place with a shout and a grimace, and waited.
A few seconds. A minute. And then: the healing sealed. Skin knit. Muscle pulled taut. The glow faded. They rose again.
And they ran back into the fray, hollering and weeping, snarling like animals, like kin defending kin.
Rage of the pack.
Fury given form.
Above them, the wall of magic continued its wrath. Aether-infused foam surged outward from conjurers stationed on the higher parapets, a white sludge that clung to Charleston’s troops, dragging them down into the muck like tar with teeth. A haze of gold-tinted pollen drifted over the battlefield in gentle arcs, beautiful in its laziness—until vines burst from it like snakes from a jar, winding up from the ground and through helmets and sleeves, binding limbs, twisting guns from hands, dragging men to their knees.
Swarms of birds—born from pure conjuration—exploded into the fray, iridescent and rabid. Their wings beat like war drums as they dive-bombed soldiers, pecking eyes, tearing through exposed flesh, disorienting entire platoons with flashes of feathers and noise.
Charleston’s forces flailed. A few among them sparked back, sending out waves of fire or jets of sharp-edged stone, ect.. but their abilities felt shallow, untamed—like toys hurled in desperation. Their flames sputtered out before reaching the walls. Their blasts shattered harmlessly against mithril armor or were deflected mid-air by trained shield bearers who had practiced this exact drill a hundred times over.
Elmore saw it—how his militia moved not as individuals, but as a single, breathing, vengeful thing. The wall had no cracks. Every shout was echoed, every motion mirrored, every blow landed with coordination born not from training alone, but from shared fury.
He turned to his final card, his voice low but crackling with cold certainty.
“Team 15,” he said into the walkie-talkie. “It’s your time. Drive through the gate. Straight at their vehicles. Take them down.”
Then the roar of engines shook the valley like thunder on horseback.
From behind the gate came a column of trucks—old Fords and Chevys, all reinforced with thick slabs of salvaged mithril, every one customized in the valley’s forges and his fathers hands to be equal parts war machine and beast. Each was built with care, with purpose. With love.
And every one of them bore a name carved into their frame—names of the dead. Names of the fallen.
They smashed through the defenses like it was paper.
Wheels chewed mud and blood as they barreled down the slope, picking up speed. The rams hit first, slamming into troop carriers and APCs with bone-snapping force, twisting metal into jagged sculpture. Doors flew open, bodies flew out, engines burst into flame. The sound was unbearable—crunching steel, screaming men, the grinding death rattle of expensive war machines eaten alive by Appalachian rage.
Team 15 rode high in their seats, some with axes ready in hand, others with flame-spitting guns or crystal spiked gauntlets. They leapt from the beds of the trucks like wolves from cliffs, smashing through windows, ripping open cockpits, dragging Charleston’s soldiers from their armored cocoons.
And still the trucks rolled.
A monument to vengeance.
A cavalry of fury.
A funeral procession for an army that should’ve stayed home.
In the midst of the battlefield, Elmore saw Charleston’s formations struggle.
From his vantage point near the shattered gate, Elmore could see the elegant lines of Charleston's army faltering, their disciplined formations beginning to waver like sandbars under a rising tide. What had once been precision—clean rows of armored men, crisp calls echoing across the lines—was now chaos, panicked voices fighting to be heard over the roar of battle and the hum of Aither-charged energy cracking through the air.
Despite their superior numbers and tactical maneuvers, they were collapsing.
The swarm of green uniforms that once boasted numbers thrice Elmore’s force now twisted in on itself, their advantage turned irrelevant under the weight of terrain, morale, and raw fury. Officers shouted commands that went unanswered, their carefully rehearsed battle doctrine crumbling in the face of unpredictable magic and homegrown brutality. Maps and models meant nothing when the ground itself had turned against them.
His men cleaved through their ranks, mithril weapons shredding riot gear, and with each step, Elmore’s forces moved deeper into the lines, disrupting their formations and rendering their tactics useless.
A screaming wall of mountain men surged forward, their blades singing with enchantment and raw craft. Mithril axes and spears, artifacts of a new world, bit through riot armor as if it were wet bark. The sickening crunch of metal giving way to sharpened fury echoed with each collision, and everywhere his warriors moved, the order of Charleston’s lines fractured—pockets of resistance becoming isolated islands in a sea of vengeance. The battlefield became a current, and Elmore’s forces were the flood.
Charleston’s soldiers tried one last attempt, flanking in from the sides with what little reserve forces they had, hoping to catch Elmore’s fighters off-guard.
A desperate call went out among the enemy ranks, and from the tree lines and distant ditches, scattered clusters of reserve troops emerged. Flanking maneuvers, last-minute gambits born of panic rather than plan, swung in from both edges like closing pincers. Their boots thundered across the rocky terrain, faces locked in determined grimaces, hoping—praying—for one last chance to turn the tide.
But the men on the walls reacted swiftly, raising shotguns and taking devastating shots at the approaching flanks.
But Elmore’s wall teams had seen it coming. The watchers—seasoned hunters and farmers —moved in practiced sync. Shotguns lifted as one, a chorus of clicking mithril and chambered shells followed by thunderous eruptions. Slugs tore through the air with brutal precision, turning the approaching flanks into a storm of blood and splintered armor.
Riot shields and armor exploded across the ground as the slugs found their marks, the Charleston forces quickly realizing that even with their numbers, they could not break the relentless defense.
Shields meant to withstand riot batons and normal gun fire were blown backwards, shattering like cheap toys under the impact. Bodies tumbled, limbs flew, and in seconds the flanking charge was no more than a line of broken men crawling through spent casings and wet dirt. The defenders on the wall roared in triumph, smoke rising from their barrels, eyes still locked ahead.
Elmore’s people, invigorated by their resilience, began to press forward, cheers and battle cries echoing through the valley as they repelled each advance with unyielding strength.
The momentum shifted. Like wolves catching the scent of fear, Elmore’s people surged ahead, voices lifted in raw, guttural cries—some laughing like madmen, others howling the names of the fallen. It was not the pride of soldiers—they fought not for medals or command—it was deeper. It was the fury of kin defending kin, of farmers turned fighters, of families that had trained together, bled together, and now stood as a wall of defiance.
For all of Charleston’s strategy and numbers, they could not pierce the spirit of a community that was prepared to protect itself with every fiber.
Charts and satellites hadn’t prepared Charleston’s generals for this—the soul of a place. Every advance they made met the teeth of the valley's people, people who had carved lives from stone and forest, who had loved and lived here longer than memory could hold. The invaders brought tactics, but the defenders carried heart—and there was no armor against a people who refused to kneel.
A scream of thunder ripped across the sky, and then another—lightning, brilliant and hungry, carved a jagged path from the heavens, arcing through the whirling blades of one gunship and leaping to the next like an electric predator. The rotors hissed, metal liquefying as the current coursed through them again and again, lightning snarling down from cloud to machine like a beast chained to wrath. One helicopter spun wildly, engine sputtering as it broke apart midair; the second plummeted in silence, flames trailing like a comet.
Elmore watched from the gate, his chest swelling with pride as he saw his people fight with a unity and strength that no outsider could break.
From the gate, tall and blackened by soot, Elmore stood with one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, the other gripping his radio loosely at his side. His eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the wall of living fighters, the shattered war machines, the smoldering helos, and the unbent spirit of those who called this place home. He felt the pride like a pulse in his ribs—deep, warm, and dangerous.
This wasn’t just a battle—it was a declaration that his valley, his home, was a fortress of family, a place where every person stood ready to protect one another.
The world outside might call it a stronghold, or a militia, or worse—but Elmore knew the truth. This valley was a family. A place bound not by fear or command, but by love and duty and shared memory. What they had built here—what they defended here—was more than land. It was a legacy.
The haze of gunpowder and scorched metal lingered like a second sky above the valley, drifting in smoky tendrils through the morning light. Elmore stood at the edge of the shattered field, boots caked with soot and blood, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes scanned the ruins of war. Victory pulsed through his veins—but behind it, coiled like a snake in tall grass, was something colder. Something watchful. Unease. Even in triumph, he felt the shifting undercurrent of something deeper—an instinct that warned him this was only the surface.
What remained of Charleston’s once-proud battalion lay strewn like broken chess pieces across the valley floor. Their formations, once tight and disciplined, had dissolved into chaos—bodies slumped in craters, helmets rolling gently across stone, rifles abandoned mid-reach. Whatever chain of command they had clung to had long since snapped, leaving behind a landscape of silence broken only by the occasional groan or gasp from the dying.
Each squad moved in pairs, silent and precise, eyes sharp for the faintest twitch. They knew better than to assume death at face value—Aither had taught them that some enemies could fake stillness, regenerate from mortal wounds, or worse, unleash one final curse with their last breath. blades were pressed to necks, pulses checked, throats slit with grim efficiency where necessary. Mercy was a luxury they couldn’t afford—not here, not now.
Across the field, upended APCs lay like forgotten beasts, their wheels still spinning lazily in the dirt. Smoke billowed from broken hatches and shattered engines. One lay half-sunk into a trench, its frame blackened by a lightning strike that had melted its gunner to ash. Elmore had anticipated their advance routes days ago, had bottlenecked their approach with landslides and shaped terrain. Now, their retreat was marked by the wreckage of their own ambition.
Down near the treeline where the smoke thinned, a cluster of figures broke from the cover of a flipped truck. Scrambling like rats fleeing a sinking ship, they moved in a low crouch, desperation clinging to them like sweat. There was no formation, no command—just the wild instinct to survive.
A rumble cracked through the air as the engine of an armored personnel carrier flared to life. Tires screeched over gravel as the bulky vehicle roared away, its hatch slamming shut with a clang. Inside, silhouettes huddled—faces pale, eyes wide. Their brothers-in-arms lay dying or dead behind them, but none looked back.
“Shoulda blasted the damn tires,” muttered one of the wall gunners, his shotgun still warm in his hands. Another spat into the dirt, eyes narrowed, tracking the dust cloud as it shrank in the distance. Elmore said nothing. He saw it in their posture—the stiff set of shoulders, the tightened jaws. That bitter twinge of unfinished business. But he raised a hand, palm flat. Let them go, for now. There were still shadows to interrogate in the daylight.
The line of warriors parted, and from the gap came two of his men, each gripping an arm of a wriggling, half-conscious figure. The man’s dress shoes dragged ruts in the mud, and behind him, a trail of blood followed like punctuation. His suit, once tailored and pristine, was now torn at the shoulder, its collar darkened with sweat and grime. Still, the sheen of Government ambition clung to him like oil on water.
He looked like a misplaced chess piece—something cut from boardrooms and policy meetings, dropped into a world of blood and steel. The way the light struck his silver tie clip, the lingering scent of cologne beneath the sweat—it was almost offensive amidst the scorched earth and burnt ozone. Elmore’s eyes narrowed.
The mans lips quivered as he tried to form words, but the weight of Elmore’s gaze seemed to press them back down his throat. His knees buckled as he was pushed to the dirt, eyes wide and darting—looking not just for mercy, but for escape routes, for weaknesses. A survivor’s mind, twitching with panic.
“Please—please—I’m not military! I—I’m just a liaison! I had no say in the deployment!” The words came fast, slippery with fear, tumbling from his mouth as if he could drown out consequence with sheer volume. “I can get you names, coordinates—hell, I can make this disappear! You don’t understand who I work for!”
Elmore didn’t blink. The man might’ve been crying for his life, but to the chief, he was just another echo of a system that had sent armored men into his valley to kill families.
“Please, you don’t understand!” the man shrieked, his voice rising in pitch until it cracked like brittle glass. “I was just following orders!”
His face was a mask of terror—sweat mixing with tears, snot gathering at the edge of his nose, his body trembling in spasms that weren’t just fear but the collapse of a carefully curated illusion of control. The polished civility of his tailored suit had long since frayed, but it was only now that the man himself unraveled.
Elmore tilted his head slightly, one eyebrow rising in deliberate contrast to his otherwise still and unreadable face. He didn’t bark, didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice came low and level, the kind of quiet that demanded attention.
“How are you involved with the governor?”
The man’s head shook violently, as if the question itself were a physical threat. His glasses, smudged and askew, slid further down his nose, nearly falling. “No! No, I swear! The governor—he left me! I wasn’t even supposed to be here, I was just here to supervise! A formality! Please, I meant no harm!”
A hush had fallen around them, broken only by the crackling of fires in the distance and the soft rustle of ash drifting through the breeze. Elmore studied the man in silence, not out of doubt—but calculation. He had heard enough begging in his lifetime to know when a man feared for his life versus when he feared retribution. This one feared both.
He gave a small nod, as though coming to terms with a plan. “Then you’ll serve as a messenger.”
The man blinked, confused, hope flaring behind his eyes. Elmore turned, stepping away without another word and reaching into the folds of his coat. He withdrew a folded scrap of tough parchment, torn from the map he’d carried in his back pocket, and with a chunk of sharpened charcoal, began writing. His penmanship was hard-edged and precise, letters cut into the page like runes—sharp, declarative. A warning and a promise. The message was simple:
We defended our home. Come again, and we will bury you beneath it.
— Chief Elmore of Lakevail
Once the note was complete, Elmore walked back to the man and pressed it firmly into his shaking hand. The man clutched it like a talisman, his eyes darting around for some sign that he’d be allowed to leave in peace.
Then, without a word, Elmore grabbed him by the collar with one hand. There was no ceremony, no fanfare, no pause for response. The chief simply hauled him up in one clean motion and hurled him over the edge of the fortified wall.
The man’s scream cut through the stillness like a knife, ending in a brutal thud as his body hit the packed earth below. A few startled gasps rose from the nearby watchers, but no one moved to help. His legs twitched as he rolled onto his side, groaning in pain. Elmore stepped to the edge of the wall and cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Start walking!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the ravaged valley. “Don’t stop ‘til you’re back with your people. And don’t come back without answers.”
Below, the man struggled upright, clutching his side. He staggered forward, dragging one leg behind him like it had gone numb, each step a lurch forward on instinct alone. He never looked back. Pride had no room in his gait—only survival.
As Elmore watched the man disappear down the rubble-strewn road, a flicker of violet-yellow light shimmered in the edge of his vision. A ripple across his Aither Nexus. His eye twitched, and the notification unfurled before him in crystalline script, suspended in air like a floating decree:
War won Punishment Issued: Excommunication Projected Winner: Elmore Reward Earned: 1xWarrior Token 1x immortal structure token
A soft ping resonated somewhere in his skull, the token sliding into his internal inventory like a coin dropping into an invisible vault. He closed the notification with a blink and exhaled, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. The battle was over—but the war, he knew, had just taken on a new shape.
Elmore stood at the top of the gate, one hand resting on the cool stone as he looked out over the field of broken machines and bodies. Smoke curled lazily into the sky, mixing with the scent of cordite, wet earth, and blood. The battlefield stretched out below like a scar across the valley, but the silence that followed was not defeat—it was vindication.
The war had been won. But as the Aither notification faded from his vision, a strange jolt of confusion passed through him.
Projected Winner: Elmore
What did that mean?
It rolled over and over in his mind like a loose gear in a finely tuned engine. Why projected?
Then, like puzzle pieces snapping into place, the context dawned on him. Charleston had time. A whole year to prepare. They had likely studied him, modeled simulations, even pulled in advisors from outside regions. And yet, for all their supposed readiness, he hadn’t seen any proper use of Aither abilities. No coordinated strikes, no strategic combinations, no specialized units. Hell—half of them didn’t even seem to know how to activate their own damn interface.
He closed his eyes briefly, and [Aither Memory] flickered.
Images surged forward:
A Charleston soldier fumbling with a standard-issue rifle, the barrel jittering with uncertainty, At the danger they were in.
A lieutenant shouting commands using outdated, non-augmented tactics.
Men barely above level one. No upgrades. No synergy. No preparation for a battlefield where Aither was as crucial as blood.
What they had thrown at him hadn’t been an army. It was a projection of confidence—a bureaucrat’s idea of force. He’d just faced an incompetent enemy. And he had the dungeon.
Elmore’s thoughts flicked to The towering subterranean forests of bioluminescent fungus. The veins of mineralized Aither crystal. The beasts that lurked in its deeps. He understood now, more than ever, that what sat beside his land wasn’t just a defensive asset—it was a crucible. A forge for power.
He needed to get his people in there. Regularly. With intention. Training, equipment, refinement. No more just surviving and thriving—they needed to grow stronger, faster than anyone else.
His eyes moved over the scattered remains of Charleston’s war machines—burnt-out engines, twisted steel, vehicles riddled with bullet holes or slumped sideways in ditches where tires had been blasted out. Amidst it all stood his people.
Frank stood off to the side, his cheeks red as he scratched the back of his head. His helmet had been knocked off in the fray when he tripped on a chunk of broken armor, but other than that—and a bruised ego—he was fine. The rest of the crew looked similarly battle-worn but very much alive.
Not a single one of them had fallen. Not one.
That was the difference. That was his difference.
Elmore straightened up. His boots thudded on the stone parapet as he stepped forward, eyes scanning the valley. His voice boomed out with the power of conviction, heavy and thick like thunder rolling down a mountain hollow.
“Gather round!” he called, his words sharp and clear. “We’ve got work to do. This victory—this moment—isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”
The men looked up, their expressions lighting with attention. Their pride was raw and glowing, tempered with fatigue. Some leaned on axes or spears, others clutched blades stained black-red, their hands tight but steady.
Elmore raised his hand and continued, his voice carrying through the air like a sermon across a still congregation.
“Today, we proved that this valley—our home—isn’t defended by walls of stone or mithril. It’s not these gates that hold back the world. It’s you. Your strength. Your heart. Your refusal to bend.”
He stepped to the edge, staring down at the smoldering remains of Charleston’s arrogance.
“They thought their numbers, their titles, their ranks would make a difference. They thought we were isolated. Unprepared. But they don’t know what we’re sitting on, do they?”
He gestured behind him, toward the far mouth of the valley, where in the distant hills sat a quiet lake.
“They don’t understand what lives beneath our feet. What feeds us. What grows us.”
The men murmured, nodding, some with fists clenching, others resting weary hands on shoulders in solidarity.
Elmore let a beat pass. Then another.
“We’re going to become something they can’t comprehend. I want every squad trained and cycling through the dungeon. I want your iron turned to steel and steel turned to legend. If
you’ve got a skill, I want it tested. If you don’t, I want it forged. We’ve survived long enough—it’s time we ascend.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Charged. The quiet of men realizing that what they’d done wasn’t just win a battle—it was step onto a new path.
Elmore smiled, but it was thin. Serious. A line carved in iron.
“They’ll come again. Different banners, different flags, smarter generals. But when they do, they’ll face warriors. Not just fighters—warriors.”
He raised one fist and shouted, “For LakeVail!”
A chorus rose from the crowd in reply, voices loud and proud:
“For LakeVail!”
He paused, letting the echo of his words settle and sink deep into the marrow of the crowd. The wind whispered through the mountain valley, tugging at cloaks, ruffling beards, whistling between the thick stone walls of the outer fort. Below, a hush fell over the gathered men and women, a reverent quiet, as though the mountains themselves were listening. The crackle of a dying bonfire punctuated the stillness, its light flickering across dirt-smudged cheeks and armor slick with both sweat and triumph. Elmore let the silence hang, his chest rising and falling with deliberate breath, before speaking again.
His voice swelled—not with arrogance, but with an undeniable conviction, the kind that only comes from hard-earned truth. “This victory,” he began, his tone clear and rising like a hymn, “is not just for us standing here in our armor, marked by soot and battle. No, it is for every soul back home—every family that waited with worried eyes, every friend who held their breath for our return, every craftsman who worked tireless days and moonlit nights to forge our armor, our weapons. The blades we carry, the tools we wield, they are not ours alone—they are the hands of our people given shape in mithril and leather.”
He turned slowly, sweeping his arm out toward the east, where beyond the hills lay the heart of Lake Cove—the homes, the fields, the smithies, and the laughter of children echoing through narrow stone tile lanes. “It is for them,” he said, his voice catching slightly, “for every child running through our streets, whose laughter rings out unafraid. Who now knows—without question—that they live in a place where they are safe, where they are seen, where they are loved. Their futures are as solid as the stones we build upon and as bright as the Aitherlight that burns in our hearts.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, soft at first, like the rustling of leaves, but it grew—firm and proud.
Elmore’s tone shifted, softening as he took a step down from the stone ledge he stood upon. He walked among them now, eyes meeting eyes, the rhythm of his boots on packed earth anchoring his words. “In each of you,” he said, quieter now but no less powerful, “I see not just soldiers—not merely those who took up arms when called. I see brothers. I see sisters. I see the blacksmith whose hammer swings with the same rhythm as a heartbeat. I see the farmer whose hands have turned soil for years, now gripping a spear with callused palms. I see mothers who left warm hearths behind and sons who stood their ground when the world turned cruel.”
He stopped beside a man with a sling on one arm and a battered helmet under the other. The man gave a crooked grin, and Elmore returned it with a nod. “And I see what we are when we stand together. When we fight not for conquest, not for gold, but for each other. For our way of life. This battle, this victory—it is ours, yes. But it echoes far beyond this day. It is for the generations that will come, for the ones who will read of this day in books bound with our sweat and our sacrifice.”
He turned again, now walking toward the edge of the outer wall. The valley opened below him, a sweeping cradle of green and stone, the smoke of chimneys in the distance, the glint of sunlight catching on stone roofs and glass-paneled green houses, the rhythmic beat of a hammer still ringing from the great forge near the workshop district.
He gestured broadly, first to the mountains, then to the sloping fields, then finally to the vast cavern entrance beyond eye sight—the dungeon mouth lit by strange flickering torches, where noonday never touched. “Look,” he said, voice rising again, fierce and vivid. “Look at what we’ve built. We are only beginning to scratch the surface of what’s possible. Today, we carry blades of mithril and shields that hum with Aitherlight. Our bones are strengthened toil, our senses sharpened by magic. But tomorrow—” and here he paused, lifting his gaze skyward “—tomorrow, we will not just fight with magic. We will build with it. We will shape Aither into machines of wonder, into schools where every child learns to weave it like thread. Into medicine. Into art. Into architecture so grand it humbles the gods. So when they too grow a nexus they can change the world”
He stepped forward, fire now rising in his chest, his tone full of command. “Together, we rise—not just by might, but by will. By vision. By every forge that glows through the night and every mind daring enough to dream of something new. We are not simply survivors. We are innovators. We are the vanguard of the age to come.”
The murmurs had grown into a low roar—not of chaos, but of unity. The men before him leaned in, jaws set, eyes burning with newfound purpose. They didn’t just hear him—they believed him. And he saw it in their postures, in the way they stood taller, as if some great pressure had been lifted from their shoulders.
So Elmore struck the final chord, firm and steady. “And now I tell you this—not as your chief, but as your kin: every man, every woman, every child must come to know the strength of our land. Not in legend. Not secondhand. They must walk it. Touch it. Test themselves within it. I don’t ask only for soldiers—I ask for a community. For a people that does not fracture when the storm comes. Each of you, and your families, will step into that dungeon. Not for war—but for growth. For strength. For knowledge.”
He drew in a breath, held it, and then let it go slowly, as if emptying himself of any final doubt. “For if each one of us is strong, none of us will be forgotten. If each of us grows—whether through blade or book or bond—then what we build here will never fall. Because we are not just raising walls. We are raising people. We are building not just a town… but a fortress of souls.”
And in the silence that followed, the only sound was the distant wind and the steady, solemn pounding of a hammer in the forge below.
As Elmore’s final words rang out into the crisp air, a great roar erupted from the crowd. It started as a single voice—then another, then dozens—and soon became a rolling thunder of stomping boots, clashing shields, and the primal cry of a people emboldened. His men howled their approval, their weapons raised high, blades kissed by the setting sun, their pride as radiant as the steel they bore. The ground itself seemed to pulse beneath them, the rhythm of a thousand feet stomping in unison echoing through the mountains like the heartbeat of a newly awakened titan.
Elmore, ever one to lead from among rather than above, vaulted down from the high gate with a grace that defied his bulk, landing with a firm thud on the top of one of the newly captured troop carriers. The truck gave a protesting groan beneath his boots. His men swarmed forward, clambering up into the other trucks, their laughter ringing like war bells as they tossed aside broken enemy arms to make space for their own.
These once-hostile vehicles, scarred with bullet holes and smeared with soot, were now trophies—emblems of a hard-won triumph. Their diesel hearts sputtered and growled to life, and the impromptu convoy rumbled down the mountain road like a great iron centipede, carrying not only spoils of war, but the renewed spirit of a people unbroken.
At the base of the valley, a different crowd awaited. Word had traveled fast—faster than it should have, faster than any runner could explain—and the townsfolk had gathered, lining the road in wide-eyed silence. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, women held hands over their mouths, elders wept openly. They watched as the warriors of Lakevail returned, not crawling back bloodied and bruised, but striding tall and wide like in myth. The sun gleamed off mithril and steel, every step shaking the earth, the enemy’s machines following like docile beasts beneath the command of their new masters.
Then came the Swine Lord.
Or what was left of it.
Elmore’s men had lashed the bodies, the broken beast’s towering skeletal remains, its tusks curling up toward the sky, its ribs used as stairs up to the skull where the throne is carved. The bones had become a scaffold for the bodies of the fallen invaders, hung with grim reverence. Some were bound to the ivory-like ribs with rope and chain, others stuffed into the eye sockets, their limbs grotesquely arranged. someman had hung their enemies on the many pints of its tusks, turning it into a horned idol of failure .
The pyre was built there, at the center of this display—timbers soaked in rendered fat and Aitherdesolved oil, kindled with flames that burned blue at the core. The fire caught fast, climbing and crackling, licking up the spines of the dead and illuminating the husk of the monster that had once brought fear into the hearts of many. Now it was just fuel.
The flames danced high into the twilight sky, casting long shadows over the valley floor. Smoke rolled upward in columns, black as sin and thick with the smell of scorched metal and charred flesh. Yet there was no sorrow in the air—only a solemn pride. It was a warning, written in flame and bone: This is what happens when you come for us. All that was left after the mountain of bodies was burned was a giant pile of bleach white bones holding up the skull
And then came the feast.
Without command, without preparation, the celebration erupted like a second fire—this one not of vengeance, but of life. On Elmore’s land, grills flared to life as men tossed freshly caught meat onto iron grates slick with grease and spices. Someone unlocked the brewery’s stores, and out came bottles of home-fermented cider and amber lagers, passed hand-to-hand like communion. Laughter bounced between trees, echoing off rock faces, and music swelled from banjos, fiddles, and a war drum someone beat with a bone for a mallet.
Elmore moved among them, not as a chief above his people, but as a brother beside them. He clapped backs, shared drinks, even stole bites off plates as children giggled and tugged on his leather coat. Some asked him to tell the tale again—how he’d shot through the smoke, how he’d driven that knife deep, how they’d marched home.
But Elmore just smiled, his eyes warm and bright beneath the firelight. “Ask yer daddy,” he’d say, tousling a child’s hair. “He fought like a demon out there. Ask yer mama—she’ll tell ya how proud she is.”
As the night wore on, the party shifted down into the heart of town, where strings of lights were drawn up hastily between homes and shopfronts. Music played on, faster and louder now, feet stomping on stone as townsfolk joined the warriors in their revelry. There was dancing—sloppy and spirited—and games of strength and skill played out with challenges shouted across the crowd.
And always, beneath the celebration, there was something else rising: a murmur, a curiosity, an excitement. Not just for the victory, but for what it had revealed. The captured equipment —a thousand questions filled the air like smoke from the pyre. What could they make with it? What could they become? Could they move past bolt action rifles and old trucks. They now have the remains of two helicopters could they improve upon it. As a community they where now far far smarter and well equipped.
Men spoke of retooling the foundries. Engineers whispered of new forging methods using Aither and heatless welds. Someone brought out a massive minigun and began tinkering with its guts right on the town square, attracting a gaggle of excited teenagers who asked what it was and if they could build one, too.
The war was over. But the future had just begun to stretch open like a valley untouched by road or rail, wild and full of promise. And the people of Lakevail, blood still drying on their boots, were already thinking of how to build.
