Chapter 8: Fortress in the Ashes

Raizen Valefor stood at the heart of the Kazehana Tribe's camp, his cold, piercing eyes sweeping over the Shadowfang prisoners kneeling at his feet, their steel spears and leather armor scattered around like relics of last night's defeat. The deep, guttural roar from the forest had just faded, leaving behind a heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of dying campfires and the wind whistling through the skeletal trees. The ashen ground beneath him quivered—not from the breeze, but as if Noctavaria Abyss itself were alive, drinking the blood spilled in battle, leaving eerie red streaks that spread and vanished like unsolved riddles. His hand tightened around the broken sword, his gaze flicking to the silver necklace etched with "Kael"—a gift from Kael Iscariot, his once-closest friend who'd shared sleepless nights in Neo Saigon 2050's labs, now a bitter memory stained by betrayal.

Selene Kazehana stood beside him, her steel sword sheathed at her back, her mismatched eyes—icy blue on the left, blazing red on the right—scanning the captives with unyielding vigilance. Her battered leather armor clung to her, caked in ash from last night's fight, the faint scar across her throat stark under the dim moonlight, a testament to her survival. "The bone-crowned guy isn't just their leader," she said, her voice low but sharp as her blade. "If he's a remnant of Solvaria Dominion, the next fight's gonna be brutal. You'll need more than crossbows and bombs, Raizen—you need power to make these people believe and the enemy fear."

Raizen gave a slight nod, his stare fixed on the bowed prisoners, some still trembling as they eyed their comrades' charred remains. "I know," he replied, his voice cold as the ash underfoot. "This place has to stand—not just to survive, but as the bedrock of an empire. Wooden forts to shield us, catapults to strike, medicine to save lives, and trade to hold it all together." He turned to Selene, his resolve unshaken. "Use the Shadowfang cannon wood—start the walls today. Take a hunting crew and scrounge up resources nearby—vines, stones, anything we can use."

Selene's brow creased, her red eye flickering with a mix of doubt and curiosity. "Fortress? Trade?" she asked, her tone low. "These villagers only know hunting and swapping hides—they won't get your grand ideas."

"I'll make them get it," Raizen cut in, firm but not harsh. He stepped toward the Thiên Long crew—Ragnar Kiryuu, Seiryu Alvis, Leon Vesper, and Kael Iscariot—clustered near the twisted metal scraps of the Asvaria machine they'd dragged through time. "Ragnar, build a rough catapult in three days—use the Shadowfang cannon wood. Seiryu, set up a bigger medic tent and crank out more antiseptics—people need to see we can save them. Kael, tweak those crossbows like you said—I need firepower now. Leon, start a market and teach them basic trade—turn this dump into a hub before the Shadowfang hit back."

1. The Rough Catapult – Ragnar Kiryuu's Brainchild

Ragnar Kiryuu crouched beside the pile of wood salvaged from three wrecked Shadowfang cannons, gripping a cracked wooden wheel and a three-meter plank he'd chopped from a gray, dry tree near camp. His eyes sparked with a tech geek's thrill, his short, messy hair dusted with ash from the fight. "Catapult," he said, voice low and tinged with pride, "old-school weapon—the Greeks called it a lithobolos, cooked up by Dionysius of Syracuse, 4th century BC. Pure mechanical juice, no gunpowder, slinging stones hundreds of meters. I'm rigging a rough one—fifty paces'll spook the Shadowfang plenty."

He whittled the plank into a crude lever arm with a stone knife nabbed from the Shadowfang stash, his hands steady. "Needs hard stuff like oak to take the stress, but we've got this brittle gray wood—light and snappy. I'm doubling it up with vines for strength, like Romans bundling beams for river bridges under Caesar." He snagged the busted cannon wheel, half a meter wide, rolling it on the ash to check its balance. "This is the axle—dry pine, spins okay. Romans juiced up their ballistae with axles in the 1st century BC; I'm stealing that trick."

He dug a half-meter hole mid-camp, planting the axle upright, then slotted the lever arm across it, forming a sideways T. "Power's in the tension," he went on, grabbing a four-meter gray vine from Selene's haul yesterday. "Greeks used animal sinew for kick—we've got these vines, tough like ancient Egyptian jute. I wrap it around the axle, tie it to two stakes driven two meters deep, a meter apart, crank it tight like a spring to store the punch."

Raizen stood close, his sharp eyes tracking every move. "What's the catch?" he asked, voice deep.

Ragnar frowned, testing the vine's stretch with a tug. "Vines snap if you overpull—five guys max, no more. This dry wood's weak—test it with small stones first or the axle cracks. Lever's off-balance, stones veer—tweak it tight," he said, a glint of excitement flaring at the thought of the test run. "Takes Jace and five others—three days, tops. Job: smash enemy lines from afar, scare 'em off before they get close."

Raizen nodded, his gaze shifting to the villagers nearby, a few peering curiously as Ragnar carved. "Start today," he ordered. "Jace, you're on Ragnar's crew—learn this; it's our edge."

Jace stepped up, eyes blazing, clutching a crossbow bolt. "I'm in—but you promised to teach me writing too," he said, voice firm with resolve.

"I keep my word," Raizen replied, a rare softness in his tone for the kid. "After this, you'll jot down how to build a catapult."

2. Medic Tent and Antiseptics – Seiryu Alvis's Craft

Seiryu Alvis knelt by a stack of wood scavenged from the Shadowfang cannons, clutching a sack of antiseptics she'd brewed from gray ashleaf—a mint-like plant she'd found near camp. Her torn white blouse was streaked with ash, but her razor-edged stare stayed steady as she eyed the villagers watching from a distance. "A medic tent's step one to saving lives," she said, voice cold but certain. "Romans dubbed it a valetudinarium, army-grade, 1st century BC—fast setup, fast healing. I'm slapping together a rough version so these people see we're not just killers—we keep them breathing."

She grabbed three two-meter planks from the cannon haul, testing their sturdiness with a tap on the ash. "Frame's four posts—two main ones sunk half a meter, three meters apart, two crossbars lashed with vines up top to hold cloth. Old tent fabric—four meters by three—drapes over, tied tight at the corners with vines so it doesn't flap off," she explained, her eyes flicking to Liora, a young mom nearby cradling her kid, his bandaged arm a testament to last night's work. "Does the trick: blocks rain, keeps it clean, patches up ten at once."

She pointed to a small clay pot simmering on a weak fire near the central tent. "Brewing happens here—needs clean water and herbs." She plucked a gray ashleaf sprig from Selene's stash, its dusty leaves snapping under her fingers. "Gray ashleaf—like mint, Mentha, Hippocrates used it for antiseptics in ancient Greece, 5th century BC. Boil a handful with a liter of filtered water—rag-strained—medium heat, thirty minutes, extract the oil. Job: cleans wounds, stops rot—I saved three last night with it."

Raizen lingered nearby, catching Liora's relieved smile as her kid relaxed, soothed by Seiryu's balm. "What's the catch?" he asked, voice low.

Seiryu frowned, snapping the sprig to test its moisture. "Dirty water ruins it—filter it hard to ditch the ash. Overcook past an hour, the oil's gone—keep the flame steady, not roaring. Takes Liora and two others—one day nets ten liters, good for twenty wounds," she said, her cool gaze shifting to the Shadowfang captives. "If they join, I need more hands—war's coming, and it'll bleed plenty."

Raizen nodded, his eyes drifting to the villagers clustering closer, whispering as Liora beamed at her kid. "Get it done," he said, tone firm. "Liora, learn this with Seiryu—show them we save lives."

Liora nodded, eyes shining as she set her kid down and stepped up. "I'll do it—so my boy doesn't hurt anymore," she said, voice quaking but fierce.

3. Trade Post and Basic Economics – Leon Vesper's Blueprint

Leon Vesper planted himself mid-camp, a sharp stick in hand scratching lines into the ash, his sly grin burning with a gambler's zeal as he eyed the Shadowfang loot: ten hide bundles, five steel spears, twenty clumps of dry roots—the tribe's rough rations. His narrow eyes raked over the captives and villagers, a chess master sizing up his board. "A market's the backbone of any economy," he said, voice smooth and brimming with confidence. "Babylonians kicked it off 3000 BC—goods flow, power grows. I'll turn this rathole into a hub—not just to scrape by, but to choke the Hắc Lang without you lifting a finger to fight."

He sketched a big square—five meters a side—smack in the camp's center. "Market goes here—four posts from the Shadowfang cannons, two meters tall, sunk half a meter, no roof to save wood for the fort. Three zones: hides, spears, rations—straight from their stash last night," he said, striding to the pile, hefting a soft, thick hide and a honed steel spear. Better than Kazehana's homemade gear—prime stuff. "Basic econ: supply and demand—Adam Smith nailed it in the 18th century. They want hides or spears? They work for it."

Raizen stood nearby, a flicker of doubt crossing his face at Leon's grin, but he pressed, voice deep: "How do you manage it so they catch on?"

Leon smirked, snagging a splinter from the fire pile, carving a "V" with a stone knife. "Marks—Sumerians tracked debts on clay 3000 BC; we're using wood. One day's work—chopping wood, hunting, hauling rocks—earns a 'V'. Three gets you a ration bundle, five snag a hide, ten nab a spear," he said, tossing the marked wood to Raizen. "Keeps goods moving, builds trust in your rules through trade. But I'm not stopping there—modern econ needs a twist."

"A twist?" Raizen asked, eyes narrowing but letting him roll.

Leon laughed, voice alive with thrill, eyes blazing like he'd struck gold in the ash. "Price games—John Maynard Keynes, 20th century, taught me market control. Start cheap: one 'V' for a ration bundle—they'll swarm to chop wood, hunt, stockpile good stuff. Three days in, jack it to three 'Vs'—they'll hustle like mad to keep eating. Shadowfang want spears? Ten hides a pop—force 'em to hunt themselves dry, hooked on our gear. I hate politics—backstabbing in Neo Saigon 2050 cost me everything. But trade? This is my game, and I'll win without you swinging that sword."

Raizen eyed him, a rare easing in his stare at "hate politics"—a line that nudged his doubt aside, if only a hair. "How do you teach them without chaos?" he asked.

Leon scratched a circle in the ash, splitting it with a line. "Econ 101: make and take," he said, pointing up top. "Make—cut wood, hunt, gather stones; take—swap at the market. I tell 'em: work hard, get more—slack off, starve. They'll value sweat over knives, trust the market. Heads-up: greedy ones'll steal—those two traitors from last night are eyeing the spears like starving dogs. I'm watching."

"Make it happen," Raizen nodded, tone hard. "But don't make me doubt you—if the market flops, it's on you."

Leon's smirk widened, ambition flaring in his eyes. "It'll hum before the Shadowfang regroup—and I'll have them begging without you lifting a hand," he said, sauntering to the captives, doling out marked wood to those willing to work.

4. Upgraded Repeating Crossbow – Kael Iscariot's Creation

Kael Iscariot knelt by a gray dry tree near the ash pit, clutching a two-meter wooden plank and a curved Asvaria scrap—a relic from Neo Saigon 2050 he'd carried through the rift. His calm eyes lit with a maker's passion, echoes of nights sketching with Raizen in Thiên Long's labs. "Repeating crossbow," he said, voice even but solid, "China's Warring States, 5th century BC—Sun Tzu used it to overwhelm foes with rapid fire. I'm bumping it from three bolts to five for the next scrap."

He carved the plank into a curved bow frame, smoothing the ends with a stone knife, then lashed two together with gray vines for durability. "This dry wood's light, prone to splitting—doubling it up mimics Roman bridge bundling, takes more strain," he explained, his low tone warm, like recounting an old memory with Raizen. He fitted the Asvaria metal as the bow arm, testing its flex with a pull. "Asvaria metal outlasts wood—Romans upgraded crossbows with steel, 1st century BC; I'm borrowing that. Five notches on the frame, each holding a bolt—fires all in one draw."

Raizen stood close, his gaze brushing the "Kael" necklace, recalling days when Kael trusted him implicitly—before it all shattered, unnoticed. "What's the catch?" he asked, voice deep.

Kael tugged the vine string, feeling its tension, then knotted it tight to the bow. "Vines shake loose if overstretched—two pullers tops, three's a break. Wood cracks after twenty shots—needs fresh stock to last. Job: rapid fire, overwhelm from range. Takes Jace and three others—three days for five units," he said, eyes brightening as he met Raizen's, hinting at more but settling for a nod when no questions came.

"Do it," Raizen said, tone firm with a trace of warmth for the friend he still counted on. "Jace, after Ragnar, you're with Kael—learn the crossbows; writing comes later."

Jace nodded, eyes fierce, gripping an old bolt. "I want strength like yours—and to record it," he said, voice steady with purpose.

5. Fort Blueprint

Raizen planted himself mid-camp, snagging a plank from the Shadowfang haul, sketching a big rectangle in the ash—ten meters long, eight wide, encircling the main tent and market. "Wooden fort—Romans called it a castrum, built to guard camps, 1st century BC," he said, voice deep and ringing among the gathering villagers. "Walls three meters high, half a meter thick—Shadowfang cannon wood and local gray trees. Posts sunk half a meter, two meters apart, lashed with Selene's vines. East gate—two meters high, one wide, vine hinges for quick swings."

Kaelric Duskwind hobbled up, staff in hand, eyes widening at the sketch. "Walls that tall—Shadowfang can't climb over?" he asked, voice rough.

"Not easy," Raizen replied, jamming a three-meter plank into the ash to test the give. "Heads-up: wood burns—keep water barrels close, stream's dry nearby. Ash sinks—sink posts deeper if it shifts. Job: shield the people, fend off Shadowfang from range. Ten hands—start now."

Villagers murmured, a few edging closer, eyes lighting up at the cannon wood pile. A middle-aged guy—once a skeptic—muttered, "If this keeps us alive, I'll chop all day." Kaelric gave a slow nod, doubt fading as Raizen barked orders.

6. Resource Hunt

Selene led five Kazehana warriors into the northern dead forest, two hundred paces out, her red eye sweeping the bare trunks. She paused at a low bush, gray vines coiling thick around its base, four meters long, tough as jute. "Gray vines—like ancient Egyptian cord, good for nets and ties," she said, slicing one with her sword, testing its give with a hard yank. "Job: bind fort walls, rig catapult cords."

She moved on to a dry stream fifty paces off, grabbing a fist-sized, half-kilo round stone from the bank. "Stream stones—for Ragnar's catapult. Job: smash enemy lines from afar," she said, scanning the bank's similar haul. "Heads-up: wet vines rot—dry 'em first. Off-shape stones veer—pick smooth ones."

Raizen joined as she returned, hands full with a vine bundle and five stones, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Solid—enough to kick off," he said, voice low. "Your crew's back out there—I need double this in two days."

Progress and Plots

By noon, the fort's walls hit two meters, wrapping the main tent and market. Ragnar's catapult test-fired, a round stone soaring thirty paces to shatter a small dead tree with a loud crack, sparking cheers—some villagers thrust spears high in glee. Kaelric eyed Raizen, muttering, "That thing's got bite—Shadowfang'll think twice." Seiryu's medic tent stood finished, Liora mastering wound wraps with ashleaf balm, her eyes glowing as her kid stopped whimpering. "You saved him," she told Seiryu, voice shaky. "I'll do anything to pitch in."

Leon's market buzzed—Shadowfang captives swapped five hides for "V" marks to work, villagers hauled wood from nearby trees for three root clumps to eat. A grizzled man clutched a marked "V" splinter, eyes alive: "Work more, get more—I'm in." But two traitors from the last fight lingered near the steel spears, their sneaky glances locked on the five gleaming shafts, whispering words Leon caught from afar.

He smirked, sidling up to Raizen, voice low. "Those two are drooling over the spears—told you, greed's a thief. Bigger snag—I spotted a gray figure at the forest edge, fifty paces out. Not Shadowfang—gray armor, weird tech, maybe a Drakos Imperium scout."

Raizen whipped around, his icy stare piercing the woods where the gray shape had vanished behind bare trunks. "Drakos Imperium," he growled, recalling Selene's talk of forged steel spears. "If they're sniffing around, this fort's gotta be ready before they strike." He barked, voice hard, "Pick up the pace—walls done in two days, catapult range stretched."

A deep roar rolled from the forest again, closer than last night, trembling the ash beneath them. Villagers flinched, some yelling, all eyes on Raizen. He stood still, his frigid gaze boring into the dark, hand gripping the broken sword. "The bone-crown's coming," he said, voice low and resonant across the camp. "Gear up—this time, I'm not just holding the line. I'm hitting back."