Chapter 9: Flames in the Shadows

Raizen Valefor stood atop the newly finished wooden wall of the Kazehana camp, his razor-sharp gaze slicing through the eastern dead forest where a gray-clad Drakovia spy had just vanished behind skeletal trees, fifty paces out. A cold wind whipped through, stirring ash from Noxvaria into the air, carrying the faint tang of dried blood from the fight two nights back—the clash with the Shadowfang that left charred corpses piled at the camp's edge. Pale moonlight bathed the fresh wooden fortress—three meters high, half a meter thick, built from salvaged Shadowfang cannon timber and local gray drywood, still reeking of burnt sap from test-fired planks. His hand tightened on the broken sword, his eyes flicking to the silver necklace etched with "Kael"—a memento of sleepless nights with Kael Iscariot in Neo Saigon 2050, now a bitter scar deepened by betrayal.

Selene Kazehana climbed up beside him, her steel sword sheathed behind her back, her mismatched eyes—icy blue on the left, blazing red on the right—scouring the dark woods with unrelenting vigilance. Her ash-streaked leather armor clung tight, the thin scar on her throat stark under the faint glow, a wound from a past that never healed. "Drakovia spy," she said, her voice low and cutting, honed like the blade she'd used to hack vines that morning. "Not Shadowfang—the short spear he carried was forged steel, not our chipped stone. If Drakovia's sniffing around, the bone-crowned freak might not be our only problem."

Raizen gave a curt nod, his stare locked on the forest's shadows, where the wind's howl now mingled with a faint, odd clink—like distant metal brushing metal. "I know," he replied, voice cold as the ash beneath him. "Drakovia outclasses the Shadowfang—if they move, this fort's gotta be ready. The catapult needs to be locked in, the market's gotta grow to hold the people and prisoners, and medicine's gotta save enough lives to lock in their trust." He turned to Selene, resolve burning in his eyes. "That roar last night was closer—what'd you find out there?"

Selene's fist clenched, her red eye darkening as she recalled the morning's hunt. "My crew spotted tracks—not animal, not human, three times bigger than normal, claws gouging half an inch into the ash. Near the dry stream, I nabbed some weird stones—black, glossy, heavier than usual, not local," she said, her voice dropping low. "Brought back ten black stones and a bundle of pitch-black dry twigs."

Raizen's brow furrowed, a spark of curiosity mixing with wariness in his stare. "Black stones? Show me," he ordered, descending the wall with Selene to the resource pile near the central tent, where the Thiên Long crew—Ragnar Kiryuu, Seiryu Alvis, Leon Vesper, and Kael Iscariot—worked amid villagers and Shadowfang captives.

1. The Rough Catapult – Test and Tune-Up by Ragnar Kiryuu

Ragnar Kiryuu stood by the crude catapult he'd finished that morning—a three-meter lever arm of gray drywood mounted on a salvaged Shadowfang cannon wheel axle, gray vines wrapped tight around two deep-driven stakes flanking it. The rig stood two meters tall, rough but solid, parked five meters from the camp wall for testing. His eyes gleamed with a techie's thrill as he tugged the vines, feeling their tension ripple through his hands. "Done," he said, voice low and laced with pride. "The Greeks' lithobolos, 4th century BC, slung stones hundreds of meters. This rough cut hit thirty paces yesterday—now I'm tweaking it for fifty."

He pointed to the doubled-up lever arm, lashed with vines—a fix he'd hatched after the single plank cracked in the first test. "Gray drywood, doubled up—light but tougher than solo. Axle's from the cannon wheel, greased with beast fat from Selene's kill yesterday, cuts friction like Roman ballistae," he explained, grabbing a fist-sized, half-kilo round stone from Selene's morning haul. "Ammo's these stream stones—smooth, steady fliers."

Raizen loomed nearby, his sharp eyes dissecting the rig, hand gripping the broken sword as if testing its sturdiness through sheer will. "How'd you stretch the range?" he asked, voice deep.

Ragnar tapped the stakes, a meter from the axle on each side. "Twist boost—Romans amped their catapults with extra torsion, 1st century BC. I added two five-meter vines, coiled around the stakes, tied to both ends of the lever. Crank it down, double the twist, triple the kick—fifty paces, guaranteed," he said, nodding to Jace and five villagers to pull the test. The lever bent, quivering under strain, a faint hiss escaping as the vines tightened around the axle.

"Fire it," Raizen ordered, a flicker of approval in his gaze as Jace's crew hauled—the kid up front, eyes blazing with grit.

Ragnar slotted the stone onto the lever's end, steadying it by hand, then barked, "Loose!" Jace cut the tether, the lever snapping up like a spring, the stone rocketing through the air with a whistling shriek, slamming fifty paces out to splinter a small dead tree with a loud crack. Villagers cheered, some thrusting spears and crossbows high, eyes wide with awe as the stone rolled in the ash. Kaelric Duskwind hobbled closer, muttering, "That's got bite—Shadowfang won't dare come near now."

"What's the catch?" Raizen asked, eyes shifting to Ragnar.

Ragnar frowned, testing the vines' remaining give. "Over-twist snaps 'em—six pullers max. Drywood's weak—ten straight shots, and the lever's toast; needs fresh stock. Crooked stones veer—half-kilo, round ones only," he said, excitement flaring as the crowd roared. "Job: bust enemy lines, scare 'em off before they close in—if Shadowfang show, we hit first."

"Solid," Raizen nodded, glancing at Jace. "Learn this with Ragnar—record it later."

Jace grinned, fierce and eager. "I'll master it—to guard Ebonhold!"

2. Medic Tent and Painkiller – Seiryu Alvis's Breakthrough

Seiryu Alvis stood in the freshly built medic tent—four two-meter Shadowfang cannon planks framing it, old central tent cloth draped and tied tight with Selene's vines. Six villagers lay on dirt beds inside—three wounded from the Shadowfang fight, three clipped by stray catapult stones—bandages soaked in gray ashleaf antiseptic from yesterday easing their groans. Her torn white blouse hung heavy with ash, but her icy stare stayed steady as she checked the antiseptic sack on a rough wooden table.

"This is a Roman valetudinarium, army-style, 1st century BC," she said, voice cold but certain. "Quick setup, quick saves—I've scaled it for ten, but we need new meds. Gray ashleaf antiseptic won't cut it for deep wounds, especially with those Shadowfang grunts joining up."

She plucked a small, dark red fruit from Selene's noon haul—round, thumb-sized, smooth like a poppy. "Bloodroot—akin to Papaver somniferum, Sumerians used it as a painkiller 3400 BC," she explained, slicing it with a stone knife, dark red sap oozing sticky onto her fingers. "Squeeze ten into this clay pot, simmer low for twenty minutes with a liter of filtered water—yields half a liter of numbing juice."

Raizen hovered close, eyes flicking to the six groaning villagers, their pain fading under Seiryu's care. "How's it applied?" he asked, voice low.

Seiryu dabbed a sap drop on a rag, pressing it to her hand, a faint numbness spreading. "Rub it on wounds—kills pain in five minutes, but no more than two spoonfuls per person, or they're out cold. Job: saves 'em during deep cuts or stitching—crucial if Shadowfang hit hard," she said, her sharp gaze landing on Liora, the young mom nearby, her eyes glowing at the tent's promise. "Takes Liora and two others—two days for ten liters, covers twenty patients."

"Any risks?" Raizen asked, a faint approval in his stare as Liora stepped up.

"Swallowing's poison—skin only, keep kids clear. Overcook, and it's useless—low flame, no blaze," Seiryu replied, turning to Liora. "You're learning this—I need your hands."

Liora nodded hard, setting her kid down, eyes fierce. "I'll do it—to save my boy and others," she said, voice trembling but steady, edging toward the pot to watch Seiryu simmer the sap.

Raizen caught Liora's resolve, a rare softness in his gaze as whispers spread among the villagers near the tent: "She's saving people—we don't have to fear anymore."

3. Trade Post and Economic Gambits – Leon Vesper's Expansion

Leon Vesper lounged mid-camp by the trade post finished that noon—four two-meter Shadowfang cannon posts forming a square, three neat zones: ten hide stacks, five steel spears stabbed into the ash, twenty dry root clumps—Ebonhold's staple grub—in vine-woven baskets. He twirled a stick marked "V," his sly grin blazing with a schemer's fire as he eyed the Shadowfang captives and villagers milling around, their wariness turning to curiosity. "Babylon's markets, 3000 BC, birthed economics," he said, voice smooth and cocksure. "But I'm not just swapping—I'm building a web to choke the Shadowfang without Raizen lifting a finger, like Keynes rigged in the 20th century."

He scratched a circle in the ash, slicing it into three with horizontal lines. "Econ trifecta: make, move, take," he explained, jabbing the top slice. "Make—chop wood, hunt, haul stones; move—market dishes it out; take—they grab what they need. Step one: hammer in work's worth." He strode to the goods, hefting a plush hide and a sleek spear, eyes alight at their edge over Ebonhold's rough crafts. "One day's grind—wood, game, rocks—nets a 'V'. Three snag a root clump, five a hide, ten nab a spear. Simple—they'll catch on fast."

Raizen loomed nearby, a shadow of doubt crossing his face at Leon's grin, but he pressed, voice deep: "What's your play? They need more than trades—they need faith."

Leon laughed, voice brimming with glee, eyes glinting like a chess master spotting checkmate. "Supply-demand hustle—David Ricardo, 19th century, nailed it. Start cheap: one 'V' for a root clump—they'll swarm to work, stockpiling quality in three days. Then spike it: three 'Vs'—they'll grind like mad to keep eating, trust in the market triples. Shadowfang crave spears? Ten hides each—force 'em to hunt dry, hooked on our gear. Politics screwed me in Neo Saigon 2050—lost my cash, my name to dumb power plays. Trade's my board—I'll make 'em kneel without a swing."

Raizen eyed him, a rare thaw in his stare at "politics screwed me"—a jab that echoed Leon's fall at Thiên Long, softening the edge of doubt. "Sabotage?" he asked, voice low.

"Rumors—modern econ calls it 'market psychology,'" Leon shot back, smirking with a con man's glee. "I whisper: 'Shadowfang's coming, food's running low'—they freak, work doubles, I scoop cheap goods off their sweat. Then flip it high—triple profit, no blood. Job: leash the people, gut the Shadowfang from inside. Watch out: panic can spark riots—I'm tracking those two traitors eyeing the spears like starving mutts."

"Teach 'em clean," Raizen nodded, tone hard. "Market flops, it's on you."

Leon's grin widened, ambition flaring. "It'll hum before Shadowfang regroup—they'll be begging without you swinging," he said, sauntering to the captives and villagers, handing out "V" marks to workers.

4. Upgraded Repeating Crossbow – Kael Iscariot's Test Run

Kael Iscariot stood near the central ash pit, cradling the crossbow he'd perfected that morning—twin gray drywood planks lashed together, a curved Asvaria scrap for the bow arm, five notches carved to hold stone-tipped bolts. His calm eyes sparkled with a crafter's joy, a ghost of Neo Saigon 2050 nights with Raizen testing rigs. "Repeating crossbow—Warring States China, 5th century BC," he said, voice steady and sure, like chatting with an old friend. "Sun Tzu rained bolts to overwhelm. I've bumped it from three to five for the next brawl."

He tugged the gray vine string, testing its flex, a glance at Raizen hinting at shared pride. "Drywood's light, splits easy—doubling it ups the toughness, like Roman river bridges under Caesar. Asvaria metal outlasts wood—Romans steel-tuned theirs, 1st century BC; I'm riffing off that. Five slots, five bolts—thirty-pace range to keep Shadowfang off Ebonhold."

Raizen stood close, his gaze brushing the "Kael" necklace, recalling their laughs over a first win at Thiên Long. "Risks?" he asked, voice deep but warm.

Kael pulled the vine taut, feeling its kick, knotting it firm. "Overstretch snaps the vine—two pullers max, three's a bust. Wood cracks after twenty shots—needs fresh cuts to last. Job: rapid fire, crowd control from range," he said, handing the bow to Raizen, eyes bright with a silent nudge for more talk that didn't come. "Takes Jace and three others—two days for five units."

"Test it," Raizen ordered, a flicker of approval as Kael—his unshakable friend—stayed steady.

Kael aimed at a dead tree thirty paces out, calling Jace over to pull with him. "Fire!" he said, five bolts streaking through the air—three thudded deep into the trunk, two veered off from a shaky vine, hitting the ash with soft thumps. Nearby villagers whooped, Jace pumping a fist: "It's badass—I wanna learn this!"

"Good," Raizen nodded, eyeing Jace. "Train with Kael—writing's next."

Jace beamed, fierce. "I'll nail it—to blast Shadowfang from afar!"

5. Fort Blueprint – Locked Down

Raizen grabbed a Shadowfang plank, redrawing the ash rectangle—ten meters by eight, encasing the main tent and Leon's market. "Wooden fort—Roman castrum, camp shield since the 1st century BC," he said, voice deep and resonant among the villagers and captives. "Three-meter walls, half-meter thick—Shadowfang cannon wood and gray drywood, posts sunk half a meter, two meters apart, lashed with Selene's vines. East gate—two meters high, one wide, vine hinges for fast swings."

He stepped to Selene's noon haul, hefting a head-sized, five-kilo black stone, glossy like basalt. "Black stone—Roman basalt vibe, road-paving stuff, 2nd century BC," he said, tapping it on the ash, a faint clang ringing out. "Line 'em under the walls—boosts strength, counters sinking ash. Job: fortify Ebonhold, ammo for the catapult."

Kaelric Duskwind edged up, staff in hand, awe creeping into his eyes at the three-meter walls now ringing the camp, black stones neatly stacked below. "Walls like this—Shadowfang can't breach 'em?" he asked, voice rough but less skeptical.

"Not without a fight," Raizen replied, jamming a three-meter plank into the ash to test again. "Heads-up: wood burns—keep barrels handy, stream's a hundred paces off. Ash shifts—sink deeper if it wobbles. Ten more hands—walls locked in two days."

Villagers buzzed, a few stepping closer, eyes alight at the sturdy wall. A grizzled skeptic from days back muttered, "If this holds, I'll chop all damn day." A Shadowfang captive nearby, eyeing the market hides, whispered to his mate, "Work here beats dying out there."

6. Resource Hunt – Black Stone and Charcoal

Selene returned from the northern forest that noon, hauling ten head-sized black stones and a bundle of two-meter, jet-black dry twigs. She stood by the pile, red eye sweeping Raizen as he inspected a stone. "Black stones from the dry stream—twice as heavy as regular, hard as mountain rock, perfect for Ebonhold's base," she said, rolling one to test its shape. "Job: shore up the fort, juice up catapult shots."

She pointed to the black twigs—brittle, heavier than wood, glossy like charcoal. "These black sticks—think Celt charcoal, 5th century BC fuel," she said, snapping one with a sharp crack, revealing a coal-black core. "Burns steady two hours—yields charcoal, amps Ragnar's bombs. Job: long burn, big blaze."

"Risks?" Raizen asked, hefting a twig to test its heft.

"Stones don't shatter easy—grind 'em with others for round ammo. Wet twigs won't light—sun-dry 'em two days first," Selene replied, her wary gaze flicking to the woods. "That roar's closer—from the stream where these came up."

Raizen nodded, a shadow of doubt crossing his face as he eyed the black stone—not just rock, but a hint of Noxvaria's past, maybe tied to Vesper Atrius's prophecy. "Good—hit the stream again, double the stones and twigs. I need ammo for ten catapult shots before Shadowfang roll in," he ordered.

Progress and Plots

By noon, Ebonhold's three-meter walls stood complete, black stones lining the base like crude armor. Ragnar's catapult nailed its test, a round stone smashing a small tree fifty paces out, sparking cheers—villagers waved spears and crossbows, eyes wide. Kaelric muttered to Raizen, "Tall like that, Shadowfang's locked out—you pulled it off." Seiryu's medic tent patched six—three villagers, three captives—Liora mastering ashleaf balm, her eyes shining as her kid quieted. "You saved him," she told Raizen, voice shaky. "I'll do anything to help."

Leon's market hummed—Shadowfang captives traded five hides for "V" marks to work, villagers hauled nearby wood for three root clumps, some clutching "V" sticks, whispering, "Work more, get more—this beats knives." But two traitors from the last fight lingered by the steel spears, sneaky eyes locked on the five gleaming shafts, muttering words Leon caught from afar.

He smirked, sidling to Raizen, voice low. "Those two are drooling over the spears—greed's a thief, like I said. Bigger fish—spotted that Drakovia gray again, closer, forty paces at the edge. Had a rough scope—not Shadowfang junk, Drakovia tech. He's scoping the catapult—they're after something."

Raizen spun, icy stare piercing the woods where the gray figure melted into bare trunks. His brow creased, recalling Selene's words on Drakovia-forged steel—not Shadowfang's crude hacks, but a sign of an empire leagues beyond this tribe. "Drakovia," he growled, fingers digging into the "Kael" necklace. "If they're prowling, Ebonhold's gotta hold before they strike."

A deep roar rumbled from the forest again, closer than last night, shaking the ash harder, like a slow heartbeat from the earth. Villagers flinched, some yelling, all eyes on Raizen for an anchor in the chaos. He stood still, frigid gaze boring into the dark, hand clutching the broken sword like it was resolve itself. "Pick up the pace," he barked, voice hard and ringing across Ebonhold. "The bone-crown's not far—and Drakovia's closing. This fort stands—or we're ash with it."

Selene nodded, red eye flaring like torches, sword hand steady. Ragnar checked the catapult vines, Kael set his crossbow down quietly, eyes calm but trusting as Raizen commanded without pause. Leon grinned, muttering, "Whoever shows, my market's cashing in." Ebonhold froze as the roar neared, bracing for a double storm—and the rise of Raizen's vision just gained two formidable shadows.