Progenitor's Burden

Chapter 2.70: Hubris and a Wolf


Rachel blinked against the sunlight, her vision adjusting as the teleportation haze faded. They were standing in a field, the grass around them waist-high in places, dotted with wildflowers and gently waving in the breeze. The sky above was a brilliant blue, streaked with faint, trailing clouds that looked painted onto a canvas. It would have been idyllic, peaceful even, if her body weren't screaming in protest from exhaustion.

The words "Welcome to Wolf's Run" still echoed in her mind, though she had no idea where that actually was. The name sounded sturdy and a little wild, fitting, perhaps, considering what they'd been through.

Her eyes scanned the clearing, heart racing as she searched for familiar faces. Relief hit her like a breath of clean air when she spotted Paul just to her right, standing exactly where he'd been during teleportation. He looked just as disheveled and worn as she felt, armor battered, clothes torn, hair matted with dust and dried blood, but alive. She followed his gaze outward and quickly found the others. Nathan was already stretching his arms, Diana leaned into Felicity with her eyes still closed, and Charles crouched beside Evelyn, steadying her with a hand on her back. George, bow slung over his shoulder, was turning slowly in place, taking it all in with a measured, tired expression.

They were all still here. All still together.

At the head of the group stood a man whose size could only be described as giant. He wasn't just tall, he was built like someone who'd been carved from a tree trunk and wrapped in muscle and discipline. His voice boomed as he welcomed the arrivals to the town, laying out expectations with a clarity that brooked no misunderstanding. Rachel had expected something a bit more ceremonial, some official from the System maybe, or a message, but instead they were being greeted by what looked like the town's commander.

Despite the difference, she had to admit he was fair. No theatrics, no posturing. Just rules and structure. That, she could live with.

It didn't take long before they stood in line with the other arrivals, most looked younger, wearier, and nowhere near as coordinated as her crew. When it was their turn, they each gave their name and level, with Rachel going first and the others quickly following. A ripple went through the attendants when they added that they hadn't yet selected a class. It wasn't hostile, just… surprised. Curious.

Rachel caught snippets of whispered conversation from behind the registration table.

"Highest levels yet…"

"No class yet? What kind of dungeon run would do that?"

"They survived the tower? No way…"

Rachel couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. Her clothes were singed, her arms still bruised, and her legs felt like wet rope, but hearing they were the highest-level team present sent a spark of pride through her chest. They'd earned that distinction. Every scar and sleepless night was proof.

When it came time to discuss housing, she made their request. "We'd like to stay together as a group," she told the young woman seated at the desk. "Two of us are married, one pair's dating, and we've got a set of siblings. If there's any way, "

The woman smiled and cut her off gently. "That's not a problem. We've already set aside co-ed barracks for arrangements like this. Once your oath is completed, you'll be assigned to one of them."

Rachel nodded, appreciative. At the very least, they wouldn't have to fight bureaucracy after everything else.

They followed the line toward the town's gate, which loomed ahead like a fortress wall. Massive beams of dark wood lashed with thick iron bands formed the perimeter, and high above them patrolled figures that made Rachel stop in her tracks.

Elves.

They were not some fantasy cosplay knockoffs, either. These were the real deal. Tall, lithe, with angular faces, watchful eyes, and bows slung over their shoulders, they glinted in the sunlight. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, burnished leather and metal shaped with flowing designs that reminded her of forest canopies and starlight.

For a moment, the girl who had grown up devouring Tolkien and old fantasy novels threatened to bubble up. She caught herself before she could gape, schooling her expression as she continued forward.

The oath process was straightforward. A formal recitation of loyalty to the settlement, a promise not to violate its rules or endanger its people. Rachel found it entirely reasonable. After all, they were strangers here. It only made sense to swear an oath before being given access to someone's home.

What she hadn't expected, what immediately soured the moment, was the sight of him.

Larry.

And not just Larry. His whole smug little entourage. Somehow, against all odds, they'd made it here too. Rachel felt her shoulders tighten as her gaze fixed on the man she'd hoped never to see again. He was leaning against one of the outer posts of the courtyard, smirking like he owned the place.

She didn't even need to say a word. She nudged Nathan with her elbow and tilted her chin slightly toward Larry.

Nathan followed her line of sight, then let out a soft snort. "Figures."

One by one, the rest of the group took notice as the tension spread through their ranks. There were no outbursts, curses, just a shared look, a silent understanding.

Rachel spoke quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone, keep your eyes on him."

A chorus of nods followed. Not one of them needed convincing.

They stepped through the gates of Wolf's Run together. And as they passed beneath the archway, Rachel allowed herself to look around and take it in.

The town was beautiful.

Not in the ornamental, artificial sense, but in how it was crafted by hand and in the hardships that made it feel alive. Timber buildings were scattered along the stone-paved streets. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Shouts and laughter echoed from somewhere deeper within. The wind carried the scent of pine, hearth fire, and fresh-baked bread. It felt lived in and safe.

Rachel exhaled slowly, the weight of the tower beginning, just beginning, to lift from her shoulders.

Beastkin passed them by on the road, some feline, others lupine or avian. She barely spared them a glance. Once, that might've startled her. Now, after all they'd seen, all that mattered was how people treated one another.

And by the look of this place, it seemed like they'd landed somewhere that gave a damn.

Rachel swept her gaze across the open path leading toward the town's residential district, brushing a loose strand of hair from her temple with a tired hand. Dirt, dried blood, and sweat clung to her like an unwelcome second skin. She adjusted her scabbard and turned to her team, her voice low and just a touch strained.

"Ok, so let's check out our residence and get cleaned up," she said, attempting a smile that barely lifted the weariness from her eyes. "Then we'll explore the town a little. Doesn't look like there's much here yet, but it'd be good to see what's already up and running."

Nathan groaned dramatically, stretching his arms overhead as he took a slow step forward. "Sounds good to me. I do not smell good. Those waterfalls we rinsed off on floor eighty-seven feel like months ago."

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Paul snorted and grimaced. "Don't remind me. Honestly? I think one of the worst parts of that whole damn tower was not being able to shower every day. I'd fight that Minotaur again just for a hot bath."

Rachel shot them both a narrow look, raising a hand as if in warning. "I swear, I will murder the next one who says the word shower and doesn't immediately produce one. That second. Not five minutes later. Not in a hypothetical. Right then."

That drew a chorus of low chuckles and scattered laughter from the group, the sound warm despite their exhaustion. Even Diana cracked a smile as she wiped grit from her cheek with the back of her glove.

Looking around, Rachel noticed something that made her expression falter. Most of the other groups passing through the gates gave them a wide berth, sidestepping slightly or casting subtle, scrunched-nose glances in their direction. Her brows knit together, and she turned to look at her team more carefully. Blood crusted along the edges of the armor. Mud and soot clung to their boots. They didn't just smell like hell, they looked like they'd crawled through it and kept some souvenirs.

She shifted slightly and tilted her head down for a discreet sniff of her own shoulder.

The result was instant regret. She gagged and winced, fanning the air weakly in front of her.

By the time they reached the barracks, their assigned guide was already waiting. A Dragon Kin male, tall and broad with pale bronze scales that shimmered slightly under the afternoon sun, stepped forward with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a long tail that occasionally thumped against the ground in mild impatience.

He greeted them with a calm nod, voice even and practiced. "Alright, everyone, my name is Sorven Kaith. I have been assigned to this barracks as the Resident Advisor in attendance. Please enter and make your way to the back. Pick the first available bed. Feel free to push your beds together if you're part of a group or paired with someone. Space is tight, but we've provided privacy screens for each section." He gave them all a pointed look. "No fighting over placement. That's not optional."

Rachel's gaze swept through the entrance. Inside, the barracks were plain but clean, made of tightly joined timber and stone. Rows of simple bunks lined either side of the structure, each with a modest footlocker and privacy screen made of heavy cloth. Several other residents were already filing in, couples, trios, even what looked like two parents with a teenage boy in tow, all with the same air of fatigue and guarded hope they wore.

Her team hung back, lingering just outside the threshold. The unspoken reason was apparent: no one wanted to force their stench through the center of the room. When the last of the other residents had passed, they filed in last, steps sluggish.

There were just enough beds remaining, four on each side.

As the Sorven stepped to the front again to explain the barracks layout and expectations, he turned and pointed to each end of the room. "Showers are to the left and right of the barracks. Each side has six stalls. Try to stagger your usage and don't hog the water. The System helps with pressure and heat, but the supply isn't infinite."

He had barely finished speaking before Rachel moved.

Without another word, she broke into a brisk jog toward the right side. The rest of the team, sensing blood in the water, followed in a stampede of grunts, clattering gear, and scraping boots.

As she passed the Sorven, Rachel called out over her shoulder, "Sorry! It's been weeks since our last proper shower. We were stuck in a maze."

He blinked, mouth parting in confusion, but then laughed and waved her onward. "Well, in that case, I suggest you run faster."

Inside the showers, none of them bothered with modesty. Still wearing armor and packs, they stepped under the first available water jets and let the heat and pressure soak through everything. Steam rose in thick clouds, wrapping around them in an embrace of blessed relief.

Sorven's voice echoed faintly from the main hall, raised to ensure they could hear him through the walls. He outlined the orientation schedule, warning them to be present at first light the next morning. They had the rest of the day to explore the village, but certain areas, specifically the farmhouse and Town Hall, were off limits unless approached for official business or a quest.

None of them responded. The water was too warm, the soap too real, and the exhaustion too deep.

Using the System to unequip their gear piece by piece, they scrubbed themselves raw, determined to rid every trace of the grime and filth they had carried out of the tower. Soaked clothing and armor clung to the floor, waiting to dry, while the showers ran. Shampoo, conditioner, and soap, miraculously stocked, were passed from hand to hand with reverent care.

They stayed until their fingers pruned.

Finally clean and wrapped in their cleanest clothing, they emerged one by one, hair damp, spirits slightly lifted. Their gear, washed and hung over railings, dried quickly under the enchanted airflow lining the barrack walls.

An hour passed in quiet lounging, each taking their time to check equipment, stretch sore limbs, or just lie still and breathe air that didn't reek of death.

Eventually, armor was buckled back on and blades sheathed. Rachel cinched the last strap across her chest and met the others near the entrance.

"Alright," she said, voice clear and steady for the first time in days. "Let's go see what kind of place we landed in."

The sun hung low over Wolf's Run, casting warm gold light across the settlement as Rachel and her team wandered its paths. The town had a charm that was hard to miss, its simplicity grounded in purpose. Dirt paths were packed smooth beneath dozens of booted feet, and small flags fluttered from poles hammered into earth and stone. Wind stirred the branches of the young trees planted in straight rows between buildings, giving the place a sense of newness and careful intention.

They passed the farmhouse first, a large timber-framed structure that sat at the town's heart like a quiet sentinel. Its porch was wide, its roof steeply pitched to handle snow and rain, and the faint scent of herbs and baking bread drifted from the windows. Rachel slowed her pace just slightly, noting its sturdy craftsmanship. Something was comforting about its presence, even if they had been warned to stay away unless on official business.

The Town Hall rose behind it, a newer construction of stone and dark wood, its walls sharp and clean. Several newcomers lingered near its entry, likely waiting for assignments or updates. Past that were rows of barracks identical to their own, arranged with a rigid symmetry that gave the place a sense of military order. Every window glowed with soft light from within, warm and inviting.

Off to one side stood two half-finished buildings, each surrounded by piles of raw materials and stacks of tools. Curious, they wandered closer and saw the foundations of what would soon be the town's blacksmithing and leatherworking hubs. Rachel could already picture the forge's heat, the rhythmic pounding of hammers against steel, and the hiss of water as red-hot metal was quenched.

A toolshed rested behind the farmhouse, obscured mainly by one of the livestock pens. They noted its location and moved on, veering toward the far side of the town.

The barn was a massive structure, easily twice the size of the farmhouse. Its arched roof and wide doors were flanked by fenced-in pastures, where the low grunts and clucks of animals filtered through the afternoon stillness. Inside, centaur caretakers moved with surprising grace, strong and efficient, brushing horses, feeding pigs, and guiding small flocks of livestock with practiced ease. Rachel watched them for a while, fascinated. It still amazed her how natural it felt now; beastkin, elves, and centaurs were no longer fantasies. They were neighbors.

Diana's voice cut through the calm as the group circled around to the rear of the barn. "Hey. That's not right."

Rachel followed her gaze and felt her gut twist. There, ducking low and slipping behind the barn, was a group of figures moving toward the back entrance of the farmhouse. Their posture wasn't casual. It was furtive, deliberate.

And at their head, just as she feared, was Larry.

Of course, it's him.

Rachel's expression hardened. Her voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Stop right there!"

The words echoed across the open field. Larry snapped his head up, cursed, and broke into a sprint.

"Son of a, " Nathan growled, already surging forward.

They all gave chase, boots pounding the grass, shouts rising around them. Diana darted ahead, weaving between fence posts and barrels. George and Felicity flanked left, bows slung but not drawn yet. Paul and Charles stayed with Evelyn, guiding her quickly and carefully to cover behind the tool shed. Rachel kept her eyes locked on Larry's fleeing form, fury simmering in her chest.

He led them in a frantic sprint along the back fence, dodging low beams and crates, but there weren't many places left to run. The edge of the property loomed ahead, a stone wall that boxed in the rear of the farmhouse, with nowhere beyond to go.

The group cornered them near a sloped root cellar. Larry and four of his lackeys stood with their backs to the wall, panting, eyes darting for escape.

"End of the road," Rachel snapped. "Just what the hell were you trying to do?"

Larry scowled, drawing a short dagger from his belt with one hand and holding the other up as if that would keep them from closing in.

"You don't understand," he spat. "This place, it's just a front. You'll see."

The tension was ready to snap. Diana's fingers hovered over her hidden blades. George's hand curled near his quiver. Nathan cracked his knuckles.

Rachel was about to speak when a booming voice shattered the moment.

"Stop!"

The man from the gate, the exact towering figure who had greeted them earlier, strode forward from behind the barn. His presence alone shifted the air like a storm front. Every head turned.

Larry's expression twisted. His arm cocked back.

"NO, " Rachel shouted.

But too late.

The dagger left his hand in a blur of silver.

And then, as if the very air itself rejected the act, a crushing pressure slammed into all of them.

The world tilted. Breath fled from the lungs. Knees buckled. The ground seemed to rise and press against their backs with the weight of a mountain.

They were all pinned, flattened as if the sky itself had fallen.

Rachel's fingers clawed at the soil. Her eyes burned as she fought the pressure just enough to turn her head and see the man, calm, unmoving, one hand raised. There was no mark on him and the dagger lay at his feet. Just how strong is he?

Larry's face contorted in horror.

Rachel didn't even have the strength to smirk.

Not yet.

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