[HP +100]

  [MP+100]

  [Power level+100]

  [Clive Weston]

  HP:325

  MP:245

  Power Level: 240

  Clive stared at the notification in front of him. This was the largest stat increase he had ever had. He should have been overjoyed. Yet, even in the aftermath of their victory, the only thing he felt was a sense of melancholy.

  That was Jill, wasn't it? Was he mistaken?

  The question echoed in his mind, drowning out the sounds of relief and triumph around him. His [Artist's Eyes], trained to capture every nuance of form and color, had never failed him before. But could he trust his ears?

  Her voice replayed in his ear. He'd heard the slight way she'd elongate her vowels when she was trying to sound formal. The particular emphasis she'd place on certain consonants—habits from growing up in the Midwest that years in Los Angeles had never quite erased.

  It had to be her.

  Around him, the guards were celebrating. Jerome came over, his rubber armor still smoking from Sayid’s shock. "We did it, Clive! They’re gone now. We won!" He clapped Clive on the shoulder, but his hand might as well have been touching stone for all the response it got.

  Clive broke out of his daze, blinking rapidly as if waking from a dream. "Yeah," he managed, his voice hollow. "We did."

  Jerome's celebratory expression faltered. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  I might have, Clive thought but didn't say. Instead, he bent to retrieve his fallen sword, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the hilt.

  "The Moon Mother," Clive said. "Has she... has she appeared before? During other battles?"

  “The white lady?” Jerome shook his head. "Nope, never. Not in all my years of service. There are rumors amongst the guards, during sentry duty late at night. They say that a lady in white watches them from the shadows." He shuddered. "But that’s just the stuff of folklore, stories we tell ourselves for entertainment."

  Joshua approached, his staff still glowing with embers of divine fire. "Clive," Joshua said, eyes sweeping over the devastation around them. "That was remarkable work. They will no doubt be back. But for now, we celebrate."

  Clive wanted to protest, he wasn’t in the mood. He looked around him, half the gate was melted slag and the courtyard looked like a war zone. But he saw the need in Joshua's eyes. The guards needed this. The city needed this. After facing down legends and living to tell about it, they needed to remember they were alive.

  "A wise tradition," Clive conceded, though his mind still churned with thoughts of Jill.

  The guards had transformed the least-damaged section of the barracks into an impromptu feast hall within two hours. It was remarkable, really. Tables appeared from storage, somewhat scorched but functional. Someone had raided the officers' wine reserve, and several guards who'd been off-duty arrived with bread, cheese, and a haunch of roasted lamb from a grateful butcher.

  "To Clive Weston!" Jerome raised his cup high, wine sloshing dangerously. "The man who caged the Thunder God!"

  "To the lightning rods!" another guard chimed in, already three cups deep. "Did you see how they channeled the storm? Brilliant!"

  Clive raised his own cup halfheartedly. The wine was better than he expected—rich and full-bodied, with notes of blackberry.

  "You're too quiet for a hero," Jerome rumbled, settling onto a bench that creaked ominously. "In my experience, a man who defeats a legend should be louder about it."

  "Maybe I'm still processing," Clive admitted. "Yesterday, Sayid nearly killed me. Today, I had him beaten. Tomorrow..." He shrugged. "Tomorrow, he'll probably come back stronger."

  "Aye, that's the way of it," Another guard agreed. "We’ll just have to beat them back again and again. Until they learn to give up."

  Before Clive could respond, the doors burst open. A thin, nervous-looking man in spectacles and an ink-stained tunic hurried in, clutching a leather portfolio to his chest.

  "Master Bran," Joshua acknowledged. "Our city planner. Come, join us."

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  Bran's eyes darted around the celebrating guards before fixing on Clive. "Master Weston! Oh, thank the gods you're alright. I've been examining the lightning rod system you installed." His nervousness transformed into enthusiasm. "Remarkable! Simply remarkable piece of engineering... I’ve never seen anything like it."

  "I’m glad you could appreciate them," Clive said, grateful that his work had helped the town.

  "Yes, I must say though, I didn’t entirely understood the design," Bran admitted, adjusting his spectacles. "But the results speak for themselves. By my calculations, your rods absorbed and redirected approximately seventy percent of Sayid's lightning attacks. Without them, the entire merchant district would be ash."

  The nearby guards raised another cheer, and slowly, Clive found himself genuinely smiling for the first time since the battle.

  "Actually," Bran continued, pulling out a map from his portfolio, "that's partly why I'm here. The town has taken significant damage, as you've seen. The council has approved emergency reconstruction funds, but..." He spread the map on the table, revealing a detailed layout of Marblehaven with various sections marked in different colors. "We need better plans. Stronger plans. Plans that account for magical warfare becoming... commonplace."

  Red marked fire damage. Blue showed flood zones from the storm. Brown indicated earthquake damage—still unrepaired from the Titan incident. Green showed areas vulnerable to wind attacks.

  It looked like a disaster planning map.

  "The slums especially," Bran said, pointing to the brown section. "The earthquake from months ago hit them hardest, and we haven't had the resources or knowledge to rebuild properly. The foundations keep shifting. We've tried reinforcement spells, but they're temporary and drain our mages."

  Clive studied the map, his mind shifting from artistic to analytical. Growing up in Los Angeles had taught him about earthquakes. Real earthquakes, not magical ones.

  "I could help," he heard himself saying. "Tomorrow, after I've rested. I know some techniques from... from where I'm from."

  Bran's eyes lit up. "Would you? Oh, that would be invaluable! The council has authorized me to offer compensation—"

  "No payment," Clive interrupted firmly. Artistic purism aside, this felt different. This was about helping people who'd stood by him. And he needed a distraction to keep him from thinking of Jill. "Just... make sure the materials are available, and I'll show your builders what I know."

  The morning sun cast long shadows through Marblehaven's broken streets. Clive walked beside Bran, his sketchbook in hand, making notes as they surveyed the damage in daylight. It was worse than the celebration had let him forget.

  The slums hit him hardest. Collapsed buildings were bad enough, but seeing families still living in the ruins, children playing in unstable rubble, elderly folks sitting outside tents where their homes used to be. That was what made his chest tight.

  "It's been three months," Bran said quietly, shame in his voice. "We keep meaning to fix it, but another crisis always comes first. Another mage attacks, or trade disputes need settling. And the slums... well..."

  "They don't have a voice on the council," Clive finished. It was the same in every world, apparently.

  They stood before a collapsed apartment building, its wooden frame twisted and splintered. Several load-bearing beams had snapped clean through, and the foundation had shifted off its base. In LA, this building would have been condemned, demolished, and rebuilt from scratch. Here, three families still lived in the partially collapsed structure, having shored up one corner with magic and hope.

  "My town," Clive said, "has a lot of earthquakes too.” Clive pulled out his charcoal and began sketching. "We developed building codes—rules for construction that minimize damage during seismic activity."

  His hands moved quickly, surely, drawing foundation designs he'd seen on an earthquake documentary. "See, the problem with rigid structures is they can't move with the earth. They fight against it and break. But if you build in flexibility..."

  "Here," he said, using his [Draw] ability to create a small wooden model. Beneath the model was a steel plate and a layer of rubber, creating a sandwich of strength and flexibility. Small steel bearings were positioned at key points, allowing horizontal movement.

  [Level Up]

  [Architecture Illustration 3]

  [New Creation: Earthquake-resistant housing]

  "This," Clive said, standing and gesturing to his creation, "is a base isolation platform. Smaller than what you'd use for a real building, but the principle is the same."

  Watch." He placed it on a flat board and shook the board violently, simulating an earthquake. The steel foundation jerked left and right, forward and back, in chaotic motion, but the model above barely moved. The flexible layers compressed and stretched. The bearings allowed the upper platform to slide horizontally, but slowly, damply, absorbing the violent motion below.

  "Now watch what happens without isolation," Clive said. He drew another model, identical to the first, but this time placed it directly on the board without an isolation layer. He shook the board, and the model immediately began to shudder violently. Within seconds, cracks appeared in the walls. A support beam splintered. When they stopped, the structure was visibly damaged, leaning at a precarious angle.

  "The first one moved with the earthquake," Clive explained, standing and brushing off his hands. "The second one fought against it. Which one would you rather live in?"

  “This is an amazing design,” Bran said. “But what is this material?” He examined the rubber base.

  Clive paused. Right, rubber didn’t exist in this world. To do this at scale, they would need to use a different material. “Do you have any alchemists who work with elastic compounds?”

  "Several, actually. The leather workers use a treatment that makes hide incredibly flexible but strong."

  "Perfect, we’ll use that then. And steel, Master Garrett could help with that."

  A murmur ran through the crowd that had gathered around them. An elderly woman stepped closer, reaching out to touch the isolated platform. "My grandson," she said softly. "He was killed when our building collapsed. Three months ago." She looked up at Clive, and her eyes were wet. "If we'd had this..."

  Clive's throat tightened. "I'm sorry for your loss. But we can make sure it doesn't happen again. Not to anyone else."

  She nodded, patting his hand. “Thank you.”

  Clive watched them and felt something shift in his chest. Not joy exactly, the melancholy about Jill still hung over him like a fog. But... purpose, maybe.

  “Come now.” Bran gestured to Clive. “We’ll head to the fire-damaged district next.”

  Some men were meant to keep building, one earthquake at a time, until the ground beneath them finally learned to be still.

  —Bran the Builder