The fish smell hits before we even step through the tunnel.
It's not the normal kind of fish smell, either. It's the we-killed-things-and-dragged-them-back-through-narrow-corridors kind. The kind that says, "Something died horribly so we could eat better," and "By the way, this is permanent now."
When we emerge into the cavern, the camp erupts.
Not literally. No fire. No screaming. But it's loud.
Claws thudding on stone. Shouting. Scraping bone against bone to make noise. One kobold throws moss shreds in the air like confetti.
The corpses get dragged in like trophies. Tunnelfangs—long, slick, sharp-jawed, and twice as heavy as they were useful. A few are already being skinned with dull rocks and teeth. Others are being hauled toward the stash mounds.
Someone starts chanting. Another joins.
I blink.
They're chanting my name.
Splitjaw grins at me like it's the best joke in the world. I try to glare at him. I really do. But then a tiny kobold runs up, hands me a necklace made out of stitched-together fish teeth, and runs away again.
And now I'm holding it.
Great.
System pings.
[Settlement Morale: Elevated]
[Status: Cultural Ritual Behavior Forming – Source: Firekeeper Node]
Oh no.
The fire's been rearranged—wider now, pushed outward. Not to make room for heat. To make room for more kobolds. It's not a survival circle anymore. It's a stage.
Which means I've accidentally invented theater.
With kobolds.
I might as well sell tickets
Splitjaw tosses a slab of meat at me, already cooked on a hot rock.
"You look like someone who didn't think winning meant applause," he says.
"I didn't win for them."
"Then they're clapping at the wrong thing."
I stare into the fire and pretend not to hear the system buzzing behind my eyes.
Later, while most of the camp is still full of meat-smoke and laughter, I sneak away toward the work site.
Stonealign is there already, grunting orders at two helpers who are laying down scrap cloth lining in a deep trench. The frame for the basin is up—angled stone and packed mud, reinforced with broken plank pieces and lashed bone. It's ugly. It's perfect.
Bitterstack is sitting beside a pile of split gourds, measuring water rations like she's training to become a god of numbers. The chaos artisan is smearing pitch into a water-diversion channel. It's unclear if he was told to do that or if he just decided waterproofing was an expression of faith.
System pings.
[Node Progression – Water Integration: 76%]
[Structure: Communal Basin – Pending Completion]
[Comfort Thread Established – Settlement Tier: Semi-Urban (Primitive)]
Didn't think I'd see the word "urban" in my life. Definitely didn't think it would be in reference to kobolds and a bucket with ambition.
Chaos-gremlin is singing. Something about waterproof dreams. I don't ask. I don't want to know.
I walk the perimeter. Check the trench depth. Adjust a bend near the runoff line by scraping a little deeper into the wall.
The change is immediate.
System pings again.
[Ability Progressed – Tactical Geometry: Rank 2]
[Bonus Gained: Terrain Reading | Zone Control +10% | Formation Synergy +5%]
[New Trait Seeded – Battlefield Anchor (Passive: Unlocked Soon)]
That last one sticks in my head like a splinter.
Battlefield Anchor.
Sounds like someone planning for more than fish fights.
By nightfall, the basin is done.
It's not fancy. But it holds.
If it leaks, it does it with dignity.
If it collapses, it'll at least do so in layers.
Water moves through cloth and mud into a low-set ring lined in melted pitch and bone tiles. It smells vaguely of moss and smoke.
It's the most functional basin a group of semi-feral lizards has ever wept into, and I'm proud of it.
Kobolds gather to drink. Not all at once. Just naturally. Quietly. Like they're not sure if they're supposed to cheer or pray.
One dips their head and mutters something.
Another copies them.
No one says it's a shrine.
But they all treat it like one.
System pings.
[Public Utility Constructed – Milestone Achieved: Comfort Layer Established]
[Behavior Thread Forming – Ritualization: Minor]
I sit near the edge, legs aching, hands raw from dragging rock.
Across from me, the kid's drawing.
He's using fishbone dipped in soot and water. His lines are smoother now. Measured. He doesn't pause to think—just moves like he already knows what goes where.
Swirls. Crosses. Loops around the edge of the basin. No triangle this time.
Then the marks pulse.
Just once.
Soft white.
A single gust of wind blows across the circle.
No one lit a torch.
No one moved.
System pings.
[New Role Formed – Shaman (Minor)]
[Title Registered: Flame-Binder | Function: Symbolic Conduit]
[Node Link Detected – Cultural Anchoring Accelerated]
I blink.
"He's a what now?"
I stare at the kid.
He looks up, tilts his head, and grins.
I do not like that grin.
That's the grin of someone who knows more than he should.
That's the grin of a cult leader in training.
---
They'd been in the tunnels for two days.
Five scouts. Light kit. No banners. No flame beyond mage-spark. Quiet, careful movement. They were here to confirm one thing.
Whether the Ashen Blade was alive.
Not a name. A designation. The Demon Lord's right hand. Last seen vanishing into the fractured depths after a failed assault on the border citadel. Left half a battalion dead and the mana field scarred for weeks.
They were told he bled out.
But the dungeon said otherwise.
Elric leads. Practical. Scar across one temple. Doesn't waste words. Doesn't waste motion. His blade's strapped low and loose for fast draws. He doesn't trust reports. Just signs.
Behind him, Jorin tries not to trip over his own cloak. He's new. Fast on his feet, slower in his head. Talks too much.
Talia's third. Mage-scribe. Quiet, but her hands glow every few steps. Ether flares. She's tracking pressure. It's how they found the trail.
The fourth and fifth stay back. Shields and steel. If something breaks loose, they're the ones holding it off long enough for a runner to escape.
They find the signs late in the third watch.
Drag marks. Blood—not fresh, but not old enough to fade. Not animal. Not kobold. No slime. Too smooth.
Elric kneels. Touches a streak along the wall.
"Still warm," he says.
Talia breathes in through her nose, sharp.
"Residual presence is high. No instability. It's like... he slept here."
Elric doesn't like that.
Because that means he healed.
Or someone helped him.
They push deeper. The air changes. Less wild. More ordered. The walls don't pulse. They breathe.
Then they hear it.
Running water.
And just past that—light.
Not flame. Glow.
They creep to the edge of a rise. Below: a cavern. Broad. Structured. Not built, but shaped. Old stone cleared, floors smoothed by effort and movement.
And at the center—a basin.
Angular. Lined. Functioning.
With kobolds.
Too many.
Not just surviving. Organizing.
There's a fire circle nearby. Large. Symmetrical. And something scrawled across the stone around it. Symbols. Geometry.
Talia stops walking. Her mouth is open.
"I see structured glyphs. Multiple. Not wild runes. Layered, sequenced."
Jorin whispers, "So he's alive?"
She doesn't answer.
Elric stares harder. He doesn't see the Ashen Blade.
But he sees the shape of what's around.
He gestures them back. Slow. One step at a time.
They leave the cavern in silence.
Back in the dark, Elric speaks.
"Mark the site. And contact the Adventurer Guild."