Buster’s paws hooked over the river barge’s railing like he was hanging on for dear life. His head drooped over the edge, ears flat, drool trailing down into the brown water below. Every few seconds he gave a pitiful grunt, like even gravity was personally insulting him.

  “You look majestic,” Ethan said dryly, stepping up beside him. “Like a noble guardian, watching over the waves.”

  Buster turned his head just enough to glare with watery eyes. “Waves hate me. River hates me. World hates me.”

  Pixie bounced onto the rail a few feet away, nose twitching in the river spray. “You’re supposed to throw up faster! That’s how you get better. Bam, barf, done.”

  “That’s not how it works,” Buster groaned, his voice strained. “It’s… continuous.”

  “Maybe you swallowed a fish,” Pixie said helpfully. “Maybe it’s swimming around inside you. Do you feel extra wiggly? If you puke it up, I’ll chase it!”

  “Not helping,” Ethan muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged up.

  Moose padded past at his steady patrol pace, barely sparing them a glance. “I warned you. Water travel is unnatural. The ground should not move beneath us.”

  “You’re just jealous the river gets to do zoomies and you don’t,” Pixie shot back.

  Amelia hadn’t moved from Ethan’s side. She curled against his leg, shadow-thick eyes half-lidded, entirely unbothered by the rocking deck. Every so often her tail brushed against his boot, a calm counterpoint to Pixie’s chaos.

  Across the deck, Lyra stood near the rail speaking quietly with Commander Renard of the Royal Vanguard. His posture was polite, but there was a trace of curiosity in the way he studied her, head inclined as she answered some question he’d put to her. Ethan caught her name carried on the wind, followed by a word he didn’t recognize.

  The bond twitched sharp against his chest—Lyra’s unease, tightly reined in but impossible to miss. Ethan started to step forward, then paused when he saw Renard go still for half a heartbeat, cane tightening before he smoothed it over. The Commander’s expression shifted to something more careful, more formal. He offered Lyra a bow a shade lower than simple courtesy demanded, cloak crest dipping in the river breeze, then straightened with a measured smile and stepped away, cane tapping lightly against the deck.

  Confusion bled into Ethan’s chest along with Lyra’s distress. She flicked her ears once and sent a calming pulse through the bond. It’s nothing important.

  Ethan exhaled and turned back to Buster.

  He leaned on the railing, Yeti mug in hand, watching Buster’s misery. “Cars, planes, boats… doesn’t matter. You always get sick.”

  Buster let out another miserable groan. “Consistency is important,” he said sarcastically. Then, in a more serious tone, “I can’t even snack right now.” He looked pitiful, his ears drooping and his whole body sagging against the rail like gravity had doubled just for him.

  The bond carried it too—queasy and sour, sloshing in Ethan’s stomach until he grimaced. I feel for you, bud. I’ve got an idea, Ethan sent.

  He wrapped a steadying hand under Buster’s collar and coaxed him away from the railing. The big dog didn’t resist—he just leaned into Ethan’s side with heavy, half-stumbling steps. Mason heard them heading below and immediately lumbered after, boards creaking under his rocky weight as he followed like a silent shadow.

  They made their way down from the open deck, through the narrow stairwell that smelled of pitch and river damp, and toward their quarters below.

  Cabin wasn’t the right word. Quarters wasn’t either. It was more like someone had taken a closet, wedged two bunks into the wall, and called it lodging. Ethan ducked through the low frame, guiding Buster inside, and the air hit immediately—close, still, thick with wood and damp linen.

  Ethan pulled the gem handle from his pack. As he’d done a few times before now, he set it against the cabin wall and pressed his thumb into the groove. The frame shimmered into existence, settling into place with practiced ease. A turn of the handle, a soft click, and the doorway swung open.

  Fresh air and sunlight spilled through, cutting the cabin’s dimness. Beyond the threshold stretched their five acres of private land—grass swaying, a creek glinting along the back edge, the steady sky above.

  Lyra appeared at Ethan’s shoulder almost at once, drawn by the flare of mana through the bond. She didn’t speak—she slipped past him with quiet familiarity, as if crossing the porch of a home she knew by heart.

  Buster didn’t hesitate. He lumbered through and collapsed onto the grass with a groan of relief, the nausea bleeding out of the bond in an instant. “Better. So much better.”

  Moose followed, steady as always, giving the space a brief nod as though checking it was unchanged. Amelia drifted inside and curled into a familiar patch of light near the porch. Pixie trotted through next, tail high, taking a quick lap like an inspector making sure everything stayed exactly where she left it. Mason’s rocky feet thudded across the grass once he crossed the threshold, heavy but sure.

  Ethan stepped in after them, boots pressing into real earth. At the center of their homestead stood a two-story house—timber walls warm in the sun, windows glinting. Some parts were rough and ready—unfinished trim, bare patches where siding still needed sanding—but the bones were solid. It was new, still finding its shape, but already theirs.

  They hadn’t raised it alone. Jorrin lined up the work crews and kept them moving; over the next weeks they raised walls and roof alongside the Pack—Mason hauling stone and holding beams, the Silverthorn kids ferrying nails, and a couple of kobold helpers slipping in to keep things moving. Durgan made sure they never ran short on hardware and tools. Ethan couldn’t help but be impressed at how quickly it all came together—between magic smoothing the work, muscle backed by boosted stats, and the focus of people with a knack for building, the house had gone up faster than an Amish barn raising.

  Ethan went inside the house and made straight for the most important room.

  Fifteen minutes later he emerged from the bathroom still turning the problem over in his mind. The toilet itself was a masterpiece—sturdy seat, reliable flush, water flow that never failed. What gnawed at him were the inhabitants of the septic tank.

  The seller had called them Sewer Slimes—tiny, translucent things that thrived on waste and kept the system spotless. According to the man, they were perfectly happy in there, bred for it even. “They love the work,” he’d sworn. Ethan wasn’t so sure.

  He rubbed at his jaw as he stepped back into the sunlight. Is it ethical to keep baby slimes locked in a septic tank, even if they like it?

  Pixie appeared at his heel like she’d been waiting the whole time. “Did the royal throne treat you well, O King?” she chirped, tail wagging.

  Ethan gave her a flat look. “Don’t start.”

  “I’m hungry,” he said, stretching his shoulders. “I’m gonna go look for food. Anyone want to come with?”

  Everyone perked up at once. Moose rumbled agreement, Amelia unfolded from her patch of light, and Pixie bounced so hard her paws skidded on the grass. “FOOD QUEST!” she yipped.

  Only Buster groaned from where he lay sprawled in the grass of the sanctuary. “Not leaving. Sanctuary forever. Food is betrayal. But promise you’ll bring me something back. I’ve only got eight pounds of jerky left in my snackmergency pack.”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any food besides jerky?”

  Buster huffed. “Yes… but that’s not the point.”

  “Fine,” Ethan said, shaking his head. “I’ll bring you something.”

  He stepped back through the anchor door and into the cramped cabin, then climbed the narrow stairwell up to the main deck. The river breeze slapped his face, carrying the smell of boiled grain and smoked fish. Ethan followed it forward, making his way toward the galley.

  The galley was nothing fancy—just a long, low-ceilinged room with benches bolted to the floor and barrels lashed to the walls. A cauldron of stew swung in its chains at the center, ladles clanging as sailors filled bowls with thick broth and chunks of fish. The air was heavy with salt, onion, and smoke, but it smelled like food, and after weeks of their own cooking, it was a welcome change.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Pixie was the first through the doorway, tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggled. She leapt onto the nearest bench and barked, “Two bowls, extra meat! Heroes eat first!”

  A sailor jerked back, nearly dropping his spoon.

  Moose padded in behind her, ignoring the stares, and joined the line with the calm dignity of someone waiting his turn. Amelia slipped beneath a table, curling in the shadows under a startled guard who quickly pulled his boots back. Mason stayed just outside the entrance, head ducked low under the lintel, the timbers creaking whenever he shifted his weight.

  Lyra entered with Ethan, quiet but composed, her tails brushing together as she moved. She accepted a bowl with a small nod to the cook, her calm presence balancing Pixie’s noise.

  Ethan took in the scene and sighed, moving to grab a bowl before Pixie tried to dive into the cauldron itself. For a moment the room held nothing but the scrape of spoons, the lapping of river water against the hull, and the steady swing of the cauldron’s chains.

  Then the bell clanged from the deck above—sharp, urgent, insistent. Benches scraped, bowls toppled, stew sloshed across the floor as sailors bolted upright.

  Ethan dropped his spoon, already on his feet.

  Moose shouldered past sailors as if they were reeds in his path, Ethan close on his heels. Pixie darted between boots with gleeful yips, Amelia slipped along the wall like smoke, and Mason’s stone bulk made the timbers groan as he forced his way up the stairwell.

  They burst into daylight as the deck tilted under a fresh swell. Sailors crowded the rails, weapons half-drawn, shouting over the roar of the river.

  The water ahead boiled, white froth hammering against the barge’s hull. Something massive moved beneath the surface, shadows sliding just out of sight. Then it rose.

  First came a jagged ridge of shell, water cascading from spikes that jutted like a crown of knives. The dome kept climbing, taller than the barge itself, algae dripping down its armored plates.

  A neck shot out with terrifying speed, long and flexible like a serpent’s, snapping toward the nearest sailor. Its head was turtle-like—curved beak, ridged jaw—but scaled monstrously wrong. It could have bitten a rowboat in half.

  The entire neck recoiled in an instant, snapping back into the shell as though it had never existed.

  The river went still. Then the gap where the neck had vanished erupted again. Tentacles spilled out, thick and corded like iron, lashing across the water’s surface. One slammed the railing, splintering it apart, while another swept the deck and hurled a guard into the river with a scream.

  “Pack—move!” Ethan barked.

  Moose lunged first, paws slamming against the deck as he braced the splintering timbers. His growl rolled low and bitter through the bond. “No ground. Nothing to grip. Riverbed’s too deep.” He pushed anyway, holding the railing steady where a tentacle struck, but his power had nothing to cling to.

  Pixie became a streak of white fur along the rail, darting between the whipping limbs. Sparks snapped across her coat, but she snarled and cut the charge short. Water sloshed ankle-deep across the boards; one misfire and she’d shock herself and half the deck. She stuck to harrying strikes, darting in with sharp bites before retreating out of reach.

  Amelia slid through the chaos like a shadow unmoored, claws leaving thin, stinging cuts along the corded flesh. The wounds wept dark fluid but did nothing to slow the monster’s thrashing. A wild lash nearly caught her, and she vanished into shade before reappearing behind Ethan’s boots.

  Mason hurled himself into the fray in his own way. Each time a tentacle snapped toward a sailor, the little golem flung his rocky body into its path. Blows rang off him like hammer on stone, sending him skidding across the deck, but he staggered back up every time. Sailors scrambled clear, wide-eyed, as he braced himself again and again.

  Lyra’s foxfire flared from her, streaking blue and yellow across the water. The flames struck the Shellback’s exposed head, searing across one eye. The monster bellowed, neck jerking back as the fire clung to its hide in a blaze of sparks. It wasn’t enough to kill—but it was the first strike that made it flinch.

  A tentacle swept low, smashing barrels to splinters. Ethan stepped into its path, sword flashing. The blade bit deep, opening a gash, but the resistance jarred his arms to the bone. It felt like cutting into braided steel cable. The limb recoiled with a wet shudder, blood splattering across the planks, but it wasn’t severed.

  From the next barge over came a shrill whistle. Gwenna stood at the prow, bow in hand, her stance steady even as the deck rocked beneath her. She drew and released in one smooth motion.

  The arrow streaked across the gap and buried itself in the Shellback’s already-burned face as its head shot forward again, beak yawning wide. The shaft sank deep into the scorched flesh around its eye.

  The Shellback shrieked and recoiled, tentacles flailing as the blinded eye poured blood into the river. Its neck jerked back, vanishing into the shell.

  The tentacles only thrashed harder.

  The tentacles whipped, smashing into the deck with bone-rattling cracks. One tore through the railing, sending splinters flying, another lashed across the planks and bowled three sailors over like pins. Mason hurled himself between them and the next strike, his rocky frame slamming into the limb. The impact rang like hammer on iron, but the sailors scrambled clear.

  A fresh surge churned the water, and the Shellback’s neck shot forward again, jaws yawning wide enough to shear a man in half.

  Renard moved.

  The Commander vaulted the railing in a blur of cloak and motion. His cane came with him—until, with a sharp twist, the wood sheath split apart, revealing the gleam of a curved blade hidden within. For a heartbeat his body arced above the river like gravity had lost its claim on him. The sword flashed once in the sun, then carved clean through the monster’s neck.

  The Shellback’s head didn’t just fall. It flipped end over end, jaws snapping in reflex, before it crashed onto the deck with a bone-rattling slam. Planks cracked, seawater and gore spraying across the crew. The massive shell thrashed once in the river, then went still.

  Renard landed squarely atop its shell, blade still humming with the force of the strike.

  Silence gripped the convoy. Even the Pack froze, stunned.

  Ethan’s hands tightened on his sword hilt. His arms still ached from hacking at a single tentacle—cords of muscle that had felt like iron under the edge. The head had been thicker, harder, and yet Renard had taken it in one swing.

  And that leap… it hadn’t looked natural. Skill, magic, something. Ethan didn’t know. But this world didn’t run on natural.

  Renard raised the blade in salute as the crew erupted into cheers.

  Ethan’s chest tightened with a thought that cut sharper than the noise around him:

  We’re not even close.

  Then the pressure hit—low and steady, pressing just behind his eyes like a hum waiting to be acknowledged. He’d locked his settings so panes wouldn’t spam him mid-fight, but he could feel them now, stacked up and waiting.

  He exhaled and opened the queue.

  [Combat Victory!]

  [Defeated Shellback Horror – Level 28]

  [Partial Contribution – Assist]

  [Bonus EXP for fighting higher level creature]

  [LEVEL UP!]

  Ethan pulled up his status screen to see what he’d gained from the fight.

  [Ethan Cross – Level 16]

  [+1 Stat Point Gained]

  [Status – Ethan Cross]

  Class: Arcane Tamer – Variant

  Level: 16

  HP: 213 / 245

  MP: 989 / 1570

  STR: 31

  DEX: 26

  AGI: 32

  CON: 24

  INT: 34

  WIS: 24

  CHA: 15

  LUK: 38

  Stat Points Available: 1

  Trait Points Available: 1

  Pack Bonded:

  Moose (Guardian’s Heart, Level 16)

  Buster (Warhound Vanguard, Level 15)

  Pixie (Trickster Scout, Level 16)

  Amelia (Silent Fang, Level 16)

  Lyra (Fortune’s Hand, Level 31)

  Skills:

  Pack Bond (Passive)

  Mirror Link (Active)

  Mana Sharing (Active)

  Mirror Link Surge (Active)

  Arcane Resonance (Passive)

  Command Surge (Active)

  Translation (Passive)

  Pack Awareness (Passive)

  Sword—Apprentice (Lv. 5)

  Trade Class: Enchanter (Level 10)

  Perks & Traits:

  Mana Sharing, Mirror Link Surge

  Moose gave a low grunt across the bond, steady and satisfied.

  Pixie hopped on the rail, tail a blur. “Ha! Faster than all of you!”

  Buster groaned from the Homestead. “Wait—how did everyone level? I was right here.”

  You’ve got to leave the safety of Homestead and get on the boat if you want credit, Ethan told him through the link. Lying in the yard doesn’t count.

  A long pause, then Buster sighed. “Fine. I’m okay being fifteen.”

  That sent Pixie into another fit of yipping laughter, spinning a tight circle.

  Amelia only curled tighter against the deck, her shadow stretching a little farther than before. She didn’t say anything.

  Mason stayed silent too, rocky fists clenched at his sides. The sailors he’d shielded were watching him with wide, wary eyes.

  Ethan closed the panes. One level. A single step higher.

  And yet the gulf between them and Commander Renard felt wider than the river itself.