Season 1. Chapter 74: Upcoming August [half chapter]

Scene: Riven's Cooking Tent – Early July

The scent of sizzling roots and earthy greens filled the open-air tent, steam rising as Riven stirred a pan of Elorian vegetables with focused ease. The Ashcarrots crackled with smoky aroma, their orange-gold edges crisping perfectly. Vineyam roots released a subtle sweetness, caramelizing slowly. On the side table, a bowl of recently harvested Grumbletumbers sat rumbling faintly—a side effect Riven had learned to ignore.

He tugged at the edge of his wooly blue hat, adjusting it as he flipped the pan once more, cloaked in thought.

Then came footsteps. The flap to the tent parted.

Eryndor Hale, clad in his usual polished minimalism, stepped inside quietly, setting down a woven RabbaCabba basket filled with wrapped supplies—likely more trade goods bought with precious Mysticoins.

Riven didn't look up at first, but when he heard the distinct thunk of the basket being placed, he exhaled a dry chuckle.

> "Bringing tribute to the revolution?" he asked without turning.

Hale raised an eyebrow, lips barely curling.

> "Call it lunch logistics."

The fire crackled beneath the pot as the vegetables simmered. Outside, the summer wind tugged faintly at the corners of the tent canvas. It was July, early in the month. The sky was too hot for comfort, yet tension hung heavier than heat.

Hale stood a few seconds longer, watching Riven stir in silence. Then, he finally asked:

> "Why now? Why this whole… plan? Turning the unwanted into Travelers?"

Riven didn't answer right away. He grabbed a wooden ladle, tasted the broth, nodded, and only then straightened. He stood quietly for a moment—his back to Hale, hands folded behind him, eyes looking somewhere beyond the tent walls.

> "I was inspired," Riven said finally. "By King Elandor of the Golden Vale."

> "The legend?" Hale asked, unconvinced. "That's a myth to most."

> "Maybe," Riven muttered. "But myth or not, he was the Strongest Traveler. An SS+ Rank, crossed from Traveler to Adventurer to Player. Said to have come from another world entirely. The guy challenged whole nations and united hundreds of races... and still had time to raise a kingdom from nothing."

Riven turned then, his dark blue eyes sharp under the brim of his hat.

> "But that was then. That was during the Heroic Eras, the wars, the Age of Banners."

He gestured outward—toward the modern world they lived in now.

> "Now we've got failed scholars, unemployed youth, overworked nobodies, and the homeless thrown away by a system that doesn't even remember their names. We don't need swords forged in prophecy. We need logistics. Strategy. Unity."

Hale narrowed his eyes. "And the government? The Caelus Councils? You're pulling people from everywhere. Isn't that… risky?"

Riven gave a sly half-smile and picked up the steaming bowl of food.

> "Let them care. If they even notice."

He took a bite of Ashcarrot and exhaled.

> "Society doesn't chase the ones who leave. They don't follow up on the invisible. They don't audit the abandoned."

He walked over to Hale and handed him a bowl.

> "So I'll take them. All of them. One by one if I must. And I'll turn their 'nothing' into 'something.' The world cast them out. Let's see what happens when they learn to cast spells."

There was silence for a moment as Hale accepted the food.

Then he nodded. "You're trying to remake the world."

> "No," Riven replied, calm but serious.

"I'm just trying to give people a reason to stay alive."

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This moment becomes one of the foundational scenes of the Camp Arc—highlighting Riven not just as a commander or strategist, but a philosopher of the forgotten, building an army not of heroes... but of society's discarded.

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Scene: Pre-Camp Arc – The Potion Hall, Early July

The soft scraping of a broom echoed against the stone floor.

Garrick Ironhart, the youngest member of the Travelers' core, swept methodically—his usual clumsy energy now weighed down by worry. Around him, rows of potion bottles, vials, and half-filled flasks shimmered in half-light. Some glowed faintly green or gold, others remained dull and incomplete.

He sighed and leaned on the broom, pushing up his sleeves. His iron-threaded tunic was dusted with dried herbs and powdered moss. On the main alchemy table, scribbled notes were scattered beneath empty bottles labeled:

> "Pain Nullifier"

"Mild Fire Resistance"

"Verdant Detoxifier"

> "Still not enough…" Garrick muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

His eyes drifted toward the far corner of the hall—where an arched portal frame stood dormant, its inner space empty and black like the stillness before lightning.

It was the Nethergate. And beyond it? The Netherworld Realm—a dangerous region deep underground, full of heat, spines, ash, and wild plants that refused to grow anywhere else.

> "The others are gonna need better supplies if we're facing land beasts…" he whispered.

Outside, the hot wind of July whispered past the canvas tents. The sun hung in the sky like a watchful eye. And Garrick—usually known as the comic relief of the group—stared at the gateway like a soldier who might just step up when no one else would.

> "No one's volunteered yet... guess I better pack my boots," he said to no one.

With a half-hearted chuckle and a determined breath, Garrick dropped the broom and walked toward the empty portal. The glowing runes flickered at his approach. He reached out, trembling slightly, and activated the glyphs with a tap of his iron ring.

The Netherworld portal shimmered, a crimson haze sparking around the frame like static embers.

> "July's gonna be one hell of a month."

[He grinned nervously.

And then he stepped through.

Into the heat.

Into the unknown.

Into the first sub-arc before the true Camp Arc begins.]

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