Night had settled over Veridian like a shroud, heavy and impenetrable. The artisan quarter's narrow streets around us felt different after dark.

  The scents of sawdust, molten metal, and fresh clay were replaced by something quieter and almost expectant. Most workshops had grown silent, their doors closed already, their windows shuttered against the darkness. I preferred it this way. Night stripped away the pretense of civilization, revealing the true nature of a place.

  Not everyone in my group loved this lovely weather, though.

  "Why are we wandering around in the shadows instead of smashing cultists? You talk big Thorvyn and then make me walk in alleys," Ragna grumbled beside me, her club resting casually on her shoulder. The barbarian princess never did grasp the concept of subtlety. "We should be training or fighting, not... whatever this is."

  I watched Borric ahead of us, his movements fluid and purposeful despite the darkness. Since accepting his Contract Sovereign class, something fundamental had changed in the man. He was not a coward anymore, at least he didn’t feel like one. That was a man who saw the invisible architecture of obligation that bound the world together.

  "Patience," I said, my voice low. "There are many ways to wage war. Not all of them involve swinging an axe."

  Ragna scoffed, the sound echoing between stone buildings. "That's boring talk from a man who cleaved a dragon's neck in two."

  "Even dragons must be understood before they can be slain," I countered.

  Borric paused at a crossroads, his hand raised to silence us. I'd seen this behavior before, like a hunter catching a scent. His eyes narrowed, focused on something only he could perceive.

  It must be one of the effects of his Favorable Amendment skill. It was the skill that allowed him to find loopholes in existing oaths or magical pacts, even those he didn’t create. So perhaps he could see threads of contracts in the air?

  "There," he whispered, pointing toward a modest workshop at the end of the street. A weathered wooden sign hung above its door saying, "Halden's Woodworks." A single candle flickered in one window, the only light for twenty paces in any direction.

  "What do you see?" I asked.

  Borric turned to Ragna, his face ghostly in the moonlight. His next words confirmed my guess. "Ever since my class awakened, I've been able to perceive... connections. Threads of obligation binding people to each other."

  "Threads?" She squinted at the empty air between buildings. "Like spider webs?"

  "Um, more like veins in a living body," he explained, patience tempering his voice. "Agreements, promises, debts, they form patterns across the city. Most are golden, representing fair exchange. But I've found clusters of black, parasitic filaments originating from workshops like this one, all leading back to a single source."

  I nodded, the philosopher in me appreciating the elegant metaphor. "Ah, so that’s how you managed to find that man yesterday,” I said and watched Ragna tilt her head in confusion since she wasn’t part of it. I explained, “We followed a man, who we now suspect is a 'Harvester' of the Black Concord, they’re internally called Stigma-Bound, whatever that means. Borric used his new abilities to extract information. Once we were done, we even managed to erase his memories."

  "You should have seen it," Borric added, a hint of pride coloring his words as he giggled like a little girl. "Hehe… One [Binding Word], and he couldn't stop confessing. The Concord's methods are far more insidious than we imagined!"

  "No way…! What does insidious mean?" Ragna pressed, and Borric cleared his throat.

  I studied the workshop ahead, its modest fa?ade hiding secrets worth killing for. "They don't need violence or overt threats. They don't use swords; instead, they use misfortune as a weapon. A shipment of wood mysteriously rots. A master craftsman's hands might suddenly be afflicted with tremors. A key client falls deathly ill. Creating false debts, manufacturing 'accidents' to ruin businesses. They manufacture despair, Ragna. Then, they come offering a solution. A pact of fealty. Something like ‘swear your soul to the Grey Sentinel, and your suffering will end,’ yeah.”

  "Their current target is the Halden family, no, they’re supposed to be their main target in Veridian, and they’ve been waiting for a good opportunity for months," Borric continued, nodding toward the darkened building. "The Haldens have produced master carpenters for generations, but more importantly, they’re guardians of something the Concord desperately covets. A hidden grove of Ironwood trees."

  Ragna's brow furrowed. "What's Ironwood?"

  Of course, we’d also asked him in depth about Ironwood since we didn’t know what it meant. "Sacred trees that grow only over powerful ley lines," I explained quietly as we walked. "The wood resists fire, decay, and even magic. Impenetrable to mundane weapons. In the ancient wars, fortresses built with Ironwood withstood sieges for decades. Ships crafted from it couldn't be sunk."

  "The Concord can’t just forcefully take it. They aren’t a prominent force in this city after all, they’re still in hiding. If the Marquis notices, that’ll cause them trouble. Instead, they’ve been systematically destroying the Haldens' business for a couple of months now," Borric said, his merchant's mind understanding the long-term strategy better than mine. "They've poisoned their reputation, sabotaged commissions, all to manufacture crushing debt."

  "They want the old man, Halden, to sign over what appears to be a 'worthless' plot of land," I added. "Few would recognize its true value."

  "So they're using bad luck and rumors instead of swords," Ragna summarized, rolling her shoulders. "Still sounds like bullies to me. Since they’re hiding from that bastard Marquis, why don’t we just report this to him?"

  I smiled despite myself. She had an uncanny ability to reduce complex problems to their essence. "Yup, they’re bullies wearing the mask of law. But no, we shouldn’t report this. This is our fight. We need achievements under our belts, you know? Glory,” I said. “We also need to level up, and more importantly, if the Marquis gets involved the Cult might do something unexpected. But just us three? They’ll underestimate us and that’ll allow us more wiggle room.”

  “Fair.”

  “Even I agree,” Borric said.

  As we approached the workshop, I noticed the door stood slightly ajar. Voices drifted through the gap: a woman's urgent whisper countered by a child's defiant response. The barbarian in me tensed, sensing conflict.

  "Finn, please. It's not safe for you to stay here alone, especially after dark." The woman's voice carried the weight of genuine concern.

  "I am not leaving, old Dara! I have to guard the shop." The boy's voice was small but determined, sounding as stubborn as Ragna somehow.

  I pushed the door wider, revealing the scene within. The workshop smelled of cedar, pine, and generations of careful craft. Tools lined the walls in precise arrangements: planes, chisels, and saws, each with a designated place.

  Half-finished pieces stood in various stages of completion. Such as chairs with intricate carvings, tables with joints so perfect they seemed to have grown rather than been built, and a cradle of impossible smoothness that caught my eye with its simple beauty.

  A middle-aged woman with a weaver's calloused hands crouched beside a boy no older than eight. The child clutched a small, worn chisel like a dagger, his knuckles white around its handle. Both froze at our entrance, the woman immediately positioning herself between the boy and us.

  "Ay, who are you?" she demanded, fear and protectiveness warring in her voice. "What do you want?"

  I studied her briefly. That must be Dara, presumably. Her clothes were simple but well-made, and her bearing that of someone accustomed to hard work and little complaint. Not wealthy, but respected in her trade.

  "We're looking for Master Halden," I said, deliberately keeping my distance. In this body, I knew my size could be intimidating. "We need to speak with him."

  "Grandpa's gone," the boy, Finn, said before Dara could stop him. "The men with the dark scrolls took him away this morning."

  "Finn!" Dara hissed, but the boy stepped around her, brandishing his chisel.

  "Are you with them?" he demanded, voice trembling but eyes fierce. "The men who make Grandpa cry when he reads their papers? I hate you!!"

  I watched him, something stirring in my chest. His stance was that of someone far too young forced to be far too brave. I recognized it from the books I'd read. About history textbooks, war photography, and the philosophy courses where professors showed us images of children in conflict zones clutching makeshift weapons because no one else remained to fight.

  I'd written a paper about it once. Got a B minus. Now I was looking at the real thing. At times like this, I was thankful that I’d served as an Intelligence Analyst and not Infantry, so I was better trained to control my emotions at times like this.

  It was a posture no child should ever need to adopt.

  Ragna reacted first. The barbarian warrior who could shatter stone with her club dropped smoothly into a crouch, her imposing frame somehow becoming gentler. "That's a good grip," she said softly, nodding at the chisel. "A warrior protects his home."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The boy was huffing already, somehow out of breath, but he blinked at her words. He was clearly surprised by her approval rather than dismissal.

  "We're not with them, boy, you can relax," I assured him, dropping my voice to match Ragna's gentleness. "We're Adventurers. Someone important hired us to help you, so we’re here to help."

  That wasn’t totally a lie. If Isolde knew about this, she would want us to help.

  I took out my badge and showed it. “...No way, C-Rank?” Dara looked stunned. C-Rank must be impressive and therefore trustworthy in this country.

  The suspicion behind her eyes finally relaxed. "I've been trying to get him to come home with me for dinner," she explained, frustration evident. "His grandfather was taken two days ago, and he refuses to leave this place. It's not safe for a child alone at night."

  "I have to stay," Finn insisted, chin jutting out defiantly. "They want to take everything. They already took Father." His voice cracked slightly. "I won't let them take our shop too."

  "Your father?" I asked, the pieces beginning to connect.

  The boy's brave facade cracked, just slightly. "He… he went missing three months ago. The men with papers came, and Father said he had to check something in the woods. He never came back." His small shoulders squared with a burden no child should carry. "So Grandpa had to start working again even though he’s so old... Now they took him too."

  I glanced around the workshop, noting the dust gathering in corners, the half-finished projects abandoned mid-creation. Signs of interrupted lives. The cradle particularly caught my eye because it would never rock the child it was intended for.

  "And why are you still here, Finn?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle. "If they took your grandpa, they’re bad men who can take you too. It's dark. You should be home."

  The boy looked at the floor, embarrassment mixing with pride. "I'm... just hungry," he admitted quietly. "I returned back home yesterday but today I… came to see if Grandpa left any coin." His grip on the chisel tightened. "I didn’t find anything. The bad men must have already taken them. So I have to guard the shop. Father made all these things. Grandpa taught him how. It’s my turn. I can’t let them take anything else!" His eyes swept over the workshop with fierce possession. "It's all we have left."

  Something in his desperate loyalty struck me to my core. In his eyes, I saw a reflection of my own past, Thorvyn’s past. The outcast barbarian, defending his honor when he had nothing else but his father’s memories. I knelt down, bringing myself to his level.

  "A legacy like that is worth protecting," I said softly. "But a warrior needs strength to fight." I met his gaze directly. "When was the last time you ate?"

  The boy's stomach answered with an audible growl. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  "I can take him home with me," Dara offered, her earlier suspicion softening. "My husband won't mind..."

  "No!" Finn clutched the chisel tighter. "I need to stay here. They'll come back. I know they will."

  I exchanged a look with Ragna and Borric.

  In their eyes, I saw the same decision forming that had already crystallized in my mind. This wasn't just about an old carpenter or a hidden grove anymore. This was about a boy trying to preserve the last fragments of his family's legacy.

  "Borric," I said, keeping my voice soft. "Go to the tavern across the street. Buy him the largest, warmest meat pie they have. And some milk."

  "I am not going, big man!" Finn clutched his chisel tighter. "I can't leave the shop. What if they come back?"

  I studied the boy, seeing determination hardened by fear. He was too young for such a burden, yet he bore it with the dignity of someone far older. I recognized the look in his eyes, the same stubborn resolve I'd seen in so many eyes. When people cared.

  "That’s okay, you don’t have to leave. Uncle Borric here will bring the food to you," I conceded. "You're right to guard your legacy. Ragna and I will help you search for your grandpa."

  Relief washed over his small face. "Thank you."

  Dara sighed, clearly wanting to take him back home still but seeing the futility of further argument. "Since y’all are strong C-Rank adventurers, I’ll leave him to you. I should get home. My husband will be wondering where I am. Please take care of him." Then she fixed the boy with a stern look that barely masked her concern. "But I'll be back in the morning, Finn. And we're going to have a serious discussion about where you're staying."

  "...Yes, old Dara," he replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

  As Borric left for food and Dara prepared to depart, I guided Ragna toward the doorway, where we could speak privately while still keeping the workshop in sight.

  "We need to find Halden," I said quietly, ensuring Finn couldn't overhear. "If they've taken him to sign papers, there might still be time. Otherwise… it might be the same situation as the boy’s father. You know what it means to go missing for months, right?"

  "Where do we even start?" she asked, scanning the darkened street.

  I closed my eyes, letting the philosopher rise above the barbarian. "Hmm. If you wanted someone to sign away their legacy, where would you take them? Not to a public square. Not to their home, where neighbors might interfere."

  "Somewhere isolated," Ragna concluded. "Somewhere they could apply pressure."

  I nodded. "Somewhere that would remind them exactly what's at stake, I’d say."

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. "The grove itself."

  "The ironwood grove must be within walking distance if an old man and child visit it regularly," I reasoned, my hand instinctively checking my axe.

  I glanced back through the doorway at Finn, who was straightening tools with solemn care. "While Borric is returning with food, you and I should go search for Halden. It’ll take us a bit but Borric can stay with the boy."

  Turning back toward the workshop, my gaze fell on a small, worn map tacked discreetly beside the door. It showed the surrounding countryside, with a single, inconspicuous mark on what appeared to be worthless, rocky terrain.

  "And I think I know where to start," I added, committing the location to memory.

  Dara paused before leaving, lowering her voice. "Thank you lots," she said quietly. "The whole street knows something's wrong with the Haldens, but no one's been brave enough to ask questions. Those men... there's something unnatural about them."

  I nodded. "We'll find Halden."

  ****

  The search proved more difficult than anticipated.

  What seemed clear on the map became bewildering in the darkness. The rocky terrain Halden had marked was a maze of similar outcroppings, and each of them promised a path only to disappoint us. No ironwood trees nor any hidden groves. Definitely no sign of the old carpenter.

  We’d need someone familiar with this area to guide us.

  After an hour of fruitless searching, I felt a growing unease. Time was against us. Ragna and I had a short talk and then we circled back toward the town, hoping Borric might have gleaned some insight from the boy.

  As we crested the final hill before Veridian's walls, Ragna suddenly gripped my arm. "Shit. Thorvyn."

  I followed her gaze and felt my blood run cold. Against the night sky, an unnatural glow pulsed from the artisan quarter. Fire.

  "No," I grumbled, breaking into a run.

  We raced through the streets, the acrid smell growing stronger with every corner we turned. Then we rounded the final bend, and the horror came into full view.

  Halden's Woodworks was an inferno. Flames licked the night sky, devouring decades of craftsmanship. The fire wasn't random. It concentrated around specific areas, the design scrolls and the most intricate pieces. This wasn't mere arson. It was targeted erasure. Even in destruction, the Black Concord was methodical.

  Borric stood in the street, shielding Finn with his body.

  The boy was on his knees, a bloody gash across his cheek, his small hands blistered black. He had tried to fight the fire himself.

  "Finn!" Ragna shouted, rushing toward them.

  “Who’s that? A barbarian?”

  Three robed figures stood at the edge of the firelight. Black Concord Harvesters, their faces shadowed by hoods, their postures conveying neither triumph nor regret, only the detached satisfaction of accountants closing a ledger. One held a scroll in his hand that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the firelight.

  [3rd Ascension]

  [3rd Ascension]

  [4th Ascension]

  They didn’t bother stopping Ragna. She didn’t seem like a threat to their eyes.

  "The guardianship ends tonight," the leader said, his voice as cold and impersonal as carved stone. "The family line is broken. The boy comes with us now."

  "No!" Finn screamed, struggling against Borric's protective grip. "You can't have our trees! Father said never tell anyone! Never!"

  "Ironwood belongs to those who can properly utilize its potential, you little imbelice," the Harvester replied, not a hint of passion coloring his words. "Not to carpenters who waste it on cradles and chairs."

  My eyes locked on the figure. The world around me faded to a distant hum, as if I were underwater. My mind, which usually churned with constant analysis, went utterly still.

  This wasn't theft or destruction. This was the willful unmaking of something beautiful. It wasn't motivated by passion or greed or any recognizable human impulse. It was the cold, mechanical consumption of something vital by something hollow.

  It offended me on a level deeper than anger could reach.

  The lead Harvester, ranked 4th Ascension, extended a hand toward Finn. "Come, boy. Your father and grandfather betrayed their ancestral promise to the great Sentinel and broke their vows. The debt of their faith falls to you. So you belong to the Concord now."

  "He belongs to no one," Borric said, pulling Finn behind him. The merchant's newfound confidence was impressive, the Contract Sovereign perhaps reacted to this situation where bad men were misusing a contract.

  The Harvester’s expression hardened slightly. "You interfere with the will of the great Sentinel. You fools can’t fathom that you are obstructing a sacred Mandate." He raised his hand, dark energy swirling around his fingers like ink in water. "Last warning."

  They dared talk about laws while hiding from the Marquis?

  "Finn, run!" Borric shouted as the blast of concentrated mana shot forward.

  But the boy was frozen in terror, and Borric couldn't move without exposing him.

  Ragna tried to react but she noticed me move. I placed myself directly in the path of the dark energy. The bolt struck me square in the chest.

  It was like water splashing against a wall. Nothing happened. Then the darkness sizzled, curling into steam against my skin. Where it touched, tiny flames erupted, not burning me but emanating from me, as if my rage had found physical form. It was my fire.

  [Storm Call has activated!]

  Lightning and flames flared around me, but my expression remained utterly blank. I bent down and picked up a single, perfectly crafted wooden dowel from the street, miraculously untouched by the flames. I closed my fist around it.

  "So this is the Black Concord?" I asked, my voice devoid of all emotion, cutting through the roar of the fire. "People who bully a child, while claiming their ambitions are out of this world?"

  I opened my hand, revealing the simple, perfect piece of wood.

  "Embarrassing."

  The storm surrounding me intensified, no longer just at the point of impact but spreading across my body like a mantle of electroplasmic fire. My vision sharpened, and the world became defined in absolute moral clarity. The temperature around me rose so sharply that the cobblestones beneath my feet began to smoke.

  The Harvesters took an involuntary step back, their confidence faltering for the first time.

  "What... what the hell is that?" one whispered.

  I kicked the ground and rushed ahead as the flames exploded out of me. The leader panicked, eyes going wide as he prepared a counterattack, but my punch landed faster.

  Broken teeth showered across the cobblestones as the fight began.

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