Revenge

They set out at sunrise, the horizon glowing with soft hues of orange and pink. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of the plains. The caravan moved steadily, thirty people in total—fifteen guards and fifteen travelers. The travelers were a mix of twelve-year-olds like Charlie, brimming with quiet anticipation, and adults of varying ages who had yet to visit a pillar.

Charlie jogged near the center of the group, surrounded by other children. There were no loud jokes or games; even at their age, they understood the seriousness of the journey. Outside the walls of New Dakota, danger lurked everywhere, and no one—child or adult—was exempt from its reach.

The cultivators, experienced fighters trusted by Charlie's father, flanked the caravan in a well-practiced formation. Their job wasn't just to ensure the safety of the travelers; it was to protect the very foundation of New Dakota's future. The children at the center of the group represented more than just individuals—they were the settlement's hope for survival and strength in the years to come.

Charlie's father had always called these trips "the backbone of New Dakota." For him, the pillar wasn't just a tool; it was the means to ensure that the settlement could endure in a world ruled by strength.

The group moved at a steady jog, their pace set to accommodate even the uncultivated among them. Only those physically fit were allowed to come—there was no room for weakness outside the safety of the settlement walls. Life in New Dakota demanded strength, even from those who had yet to begin cultivating.

The landscape around them was a familiar yet amplified version of the world Charlie had grown up in. The open plains stretched out endlessly, their tall grasses swaying in the wind. But there was something more to them now—a vibrancy that seemed almost unnatural. The blades of grass shimmered faintly in the sunlight, their roots drawing mana from the soil. Scattered trees dotted the horizon, their bark dark and rich, their leaves an impossibly deep green that hinted at the energy coursing through them.

It would have been beautiful if it weren't so dangerous.

The guards moved with quiet vigilance, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. Every shadow, every rustle of wind, was scrutinized. Mana-infused beasts roamed these lands, and while they were rare this close to New Dakota, they weren't unheard of. The guards weren't just there to fight—they were there to ensure that any potential threat was dealt with before it reached the children.

The caravan passed through rolling hills and rocky outcrops as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Occasionally, they would cross a stream or small river, the water clearer than any Charlie had seen within the settlement walls. But even the water wasn't entirely safe—some streams were home to beasts that had adapted to ambush anything foolish enough to drink without caution.

By late afternoon, the group reached a natural clearing sheltered by two ridges. The guards quickly fanned out, securing the perimeter and ensuring the area was safe before allowing the travelers to settle in. Fires were lit in shallow pits to keep the light and smoke contained, and tents were pitched in neat rows at the center of the camp.

Charlie stayed close to the other children, his eyes darting to the horizon now and then. He ate quietly, the meal filling but plain.

Across the camp, a man sat near the edge of the firelight, his gaze flickering toward Charlie. His name was Vaughn.

Vaughn looked to be in his late twenties, his frame lean and wiry but hardened from years of training. His sharp features were partially illuminated by the flickering flames, highlighting the intensity in his dark eyes. His hair was tied back, and a spear rested casually across his lap, its polished shaft and sharp blade showing signs of meticulous care.

Vaughn sat with his bowl of food untouched, his thoughts drifting back to Jebadiah.

Jebadiah had been more than a councilman to Vaughn. When Vaughn was just nine years old—long before Infusion Day—his father had passed away, leaving him in a household full of strong women. His mother, two sisters, and several aunts had done everything to raise him well, but Vaughn had lacked a male figure in his life.

Jebadiah had filled that role.

For as long as Vaughn could remember, Jebadiah had been there. The man wasn't flashy or loud, but his quiet strength had left an impression on Vaughn. Over time, Jebadiah had become like a second father to him, offering guidance, teaching him skills, and shaping his perspective on life. Vaughn had idolized him, believing in Jebadiah's ability to lead with both wisdom and fairness.

When tensions in New Dakota rose, Vaughn had watched Jebadiah try to stand against Charlie's father. Vaughn had believed in him. He had believed Jebadiah would prevail, that justice and reason would win the day.

But it hadn't.

Instead, Vaughn had stood in the crowd, helpless, as Jebadiah knelt in the dirt and was executed in front of everyone. The memory was as vivid now as the day it happened: the blade falling, the thud of Jebadiah's body collapsing, the murmurs of the crowd fading into stunned silence.

Jebadiah's family had chosen to submit to the new leadership of New Dakota, but Vaughn had not. He had kept his hatred close, nurturing it, letting it shape him. Every hour of training, every injury endured, had been for one purpose: to make sure Jebadiah's death wasn't forgotten.

And as Vaughn looked at Charlie, sitting there quietly, his father's shadow looming large over him, Vaughn made a choice in his heart.

The man who killed would experience the same loss Vaughn had felt—by Vaughn's own hand.

The flames flickered against Vaughn's face as he stared into the fire, his jaw tightening. Across the camp, Charlie ate quietly, unaware of the storm that simmered in Vaughn's heart.