I helped tend to the wounded, my tendrils surprisingly adept at binding injuries. My constructs had taught me precision if nothing else. After the last bandage was secured, we discussed our next steps.

We need to divide our forces, I announced to the gathered survivors. The Voiceless will escort our prisoners back to the enclave for judgment.

Arctur nodded, leaning on his spear. "Vardiel and I will continue with you to the border of the Kingdom of Resilience."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the crowd. A weathered man with a freshly bandaged arm stepped forward.

"Just the two of you?" he questioned, eyes darting between us. "There are nearly a hundred of us, and the Hellzone is crawling with monsters."

Several others voiced similar concerns. Their fear was understandable; these people had been betrayed repeatedly, their trust violated at every turn.

I'm currently level seventy-seven, I stated simply.

The change was immediate. Eyes widened, postures straightened, and the tension visibly drained from their collective shoulders. In this world governed by the System, such numbers represented more than mere status; they were a concrete measure of power.

"Seventy-seven?" someone whispered reverently.

"And I'm level thirty-six," Arctur added, though his contribution seemed almost an afterthought following my revelation.

The weathered man nodded slowly. "We'll follow your lead."

With arrangements finalized, we parted ways with the Voiceless. Their crimson forms moved westward across the obsidian landscape, prisoners shuffling between them in a somber procession. Our caravan turned northeast, toward the border of the Kingdom of Resilience.

Most of these people had been taken from villages near that border, snatched from their homes by Morrg's raiders. The irony wasn't lost on me; they were returning home via the very path their captors had originally traveled.

"Two weeks," Arctur estimated as we set out, "assuming no major monster encounters."

I watched the horizon through my war frame tendrils' sensors, calculating variables. We'll make it, I replied, certainty in my mental voice.

The black sands stretched before us, endless and unforgiving. Yet for the first time since their captivity began, these humans walked toward hope rather than despair.

The trek through the Central Hellzone stretched before us like an endless sea of obsidian. Days blended together as we navigated the shifting black sands, our caravan of survivors moving with growing confidence despite their recent ordeal.

Another pack approaching from the west, I communicated to Arctur, the information relayed through my scout spider positioned half a mile away. Its sensory matrix detected the telltale vibrations of Sand Dogs moving beneath the surface, their primitive hunting patterns predictable to my analytical systems.

"How many?" Arctur asked, gripping his red spear.

Seven. Level thirty-five. They'll break surface in approximately forty-three seconds.

I directed the caravan eastward, away from the hunting pack's trajectory. This had become our routine, a constant dance of detection and avoidance rather than confrontation. Though I could have dispatched such creatures with minimal effort, I did not wish to risk direct confrontation with such a large group around me.

"Another change of course?" asked an older woman, her weathered face questioning but not complaining.

Sand Dogs, I explained. They hunt primarily through vibration. Our footsteps are like dinner bells.

The path we followed bore the subtle markers of generations of monster enclave raiders. Morrg's forces hadn't pioneered these routes, they'd merely inherited them from predecessors who'd spent decades identifying the safest passages through this deadly landscape.

My scout spiders proved invaluable, their eight-legged forms scuttling across the terrain in three-mile perimeters around our group. Their sensors detected thermal variations beneath the sand's surface, identifying the heat signatures of Burrowing Razorclaws and the electrical discharges of Volt Crabs before they could organize ambushes.

Stolen novel; please report.

"We're fortunate," Arctur observed on our fifth night, as we established camp in the lee of a massive obsidian formation. "A group this size should have attracted every predator within ten miles."

We're not fortunate, I corrected. We're prepared.

I'd learned that large groups moving through the Hellzone were prime targets; the monsters seemed almost programmed to attack concentrations of life. Yet through vigilance and the knowledge embedded in these old raiding paths, we maintained our steady progress northeast.

On the seventh day, a massive Sand Fish erupted from the sand despite our precautions. Its segmented body towered fifteen feet above us, acid dripping from serrated mandibles. Before panic could spread through the caravan, my tendrils lashed out with precision, severing its head in a single coordinated strike.

Continue moving, I instructed as the creature's body collapsed into the sand. Its death will attract scavengers.

The humans watched with a mixture of fear and awe as we left the corpse behind. I noted their expressions had changed since our journey began, the initial terror giving way to something resembling trust.

"You make this look easy," one of the younger men commented as he fell into step beside me.

I considered this assessment. Nothing about survival is easy, I replied. But with sufficient information and preparation, even the deadliest environments become navigable.

The black sands stretched endlessly before us, but for the first time, I sensed our destination was more than just a theoretical endpoint.

Arctur's initial estimation proved optimistic. Two weeks stretched into three, then nearly twenty four days of careful navigation through the Central Hellzone's treacherous landscape. The black sands seemed endless, each day blending into the next as we maintained our vigilant escort of the hundred-some survivors.

Another ridge to cross, I communicated to Arctur on the twenty-fifth day. Scout spider detects different terrain beyond.

"Different how?" he asked, his scales dulled by the constant exposure to volcanic ash and obsidian dust.

Green.

The word spread through the caravan like wildfire. After three weeks of black sand and red skies, the promise of vegetation signaled our approach to the Kingdom of Resilience's borders. I observed the subtle changes in the humans' postures. Their shoulders straightened, their steps quickened; all of their voices rose with renewed hope.

We crested the final obsidian ridge on the twenty-sixth day. The transition was stark: black sand giving way to scrubland, then patches of grass that grew increasingly lush. The red-tinged sky of the Hellzone faded to a clear blue that seemed to lift the spirits of our caravan instantly.

"Look at that," whispered a middle-aged man with a scraggy beard, tears streaming down his face. "Never thought I'd see proper sky again."

We traveled two more days through increasingly verdant terrain. The humans moved with growing confidence, recognizing landmarks and vegetation native to their homeland. My scout spiders detected fewer threats with each passing mile, the monsters of the Hellzone giving way to natural wildlife that scattered at our approach rather than attacking.

On the morning of the twenty-ninth day, we reached a well-paved roadway cutting through the countryside. It had smooth stone fitted together with precision that spoke of regular maintenance.

"The king's highway," explained a woman who had introduced herself as Elyse. "The town of Markbeth is less than a week's walk north from here." She pointed to where the road disappeared over a distant hill. "Trade caravans and royal messengers use this route. The king's guards patrol it regularly."

I assessed our position, calculating variables. Will you be safe continuing without us?

The question sparked immediate discussion among the survivors. Some glanced nervously at the open road, while others looked relieved at the prospect of returning to civilization.

"We'll be fine," Elyse assured me. "Royal patrols pass through twice daily. Bandits don't dare approach the highway."

I nodded, understanding the unspoken concern. My mechanical form and Arctur's reptilian appearance would draw unwanted attention from kingdom authorities. Then this is where we must part ways.

The survivors gathered around us, their expressions a complex mixture of emotions. Many stepped forward to express gratitude, clasping my mechanical hand or touching my frame with unexpected gentleness.

"You saved us," a young man said simply. "We won't forget."

I inclined my head, careful to keep up a non-threatening smile that concealed my sharp, jagged teeth. Safe journey to you all.

Not everyone approached. I observed several survivors standing apart, their postures rigid, eyes distant or burning with barely contained anger. Their resentment was understandable; freedom did not erase the trauma of captivity, nor could my intervention undo years of suffering.

We watched as the caravan organized itself and began moving north along the highway, their figures growing smaller against the horizon. The sight stirred something within me that I identified as hope; hope that they would find peace, reunite with loved ones, rebuild shattered lives.

When the last of them disappeared from view, Arctur broke the silence. "They won't keep their word, you know."

I turned my face towards him. About the enclave?

"Yes." His clawed hand tightened around his spear. "They'll tell the kingdom everything."

I expect they will.

Arctur's head snapped toward me, yellow eyes widening. "And that doesn't concern you?"

Whatever comes will be consequences the enclave must face, I replied, already calculating our return route through the Hellzone. They kidnapped these people from their homes, killed their loved ones, enslaved them for years.

I turned fully toward him, my tendrils shifting restlessly. Do you truly believe such crimes should go unpunished?

Arctur fell silent, his reptilian features unreadable as we began our journey back toward the black sands. The silence stretched between us for a long time, broken only by the mechanical sounds of my war frame and the soft impact of his clawed feet against the ground.

"No," he finally said, voice barely audible. "The enclave deserves punishment for what it's done." His yellow eyes met my eye-less mask. "But I won't stand by and watch my home be destroyed."

Nor will I, I assured him, which seemed to surprise him. Despite its darker aspects, the enclave contains good people worth protecting. I won't remain idle if it faces destruction.

Another stretch of silence followed, this one less tense than before. When Arctur finally spoke again, his words were simple but carried unexpected weight.

"Thank you."

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