Chapter 119: Chapter 119—Choices in the North

The journey to Vester was brutal.

Six hours at forced march through territories where Crawlers hunted and the Never-Ending Night pressed close. Soul-force lamps created bubbles of relative safety, but between outposts lay vast stretches of darkness where anything could lurk.

Goba led from the front, his massive bulk somehow keeping pace despite his size. The Engine talent and Tank core provided endurance that belied his appearance—stored energy burning steadily, maintaining his physical capability.

They encountered Crawlers twice during the march.

The first attack was minor—a small pack of wolf-variant Crawlers that charged from the darkness with typical mindless aggression.

Goba killed them all before his soldiers could fully engage.

His Electric Hand technique lit up the night, electricity arcing between Crawlers, cooking them from inside as their nervous systems overloaded. The smell of burned flesh and ozone filled the air.

“Keep moving!” Goba ordered, not even breathing hard. “We’re on schedule!”

The second encounter was more serious—a semi monarch-class bear variant, massive and intelligent, coordinating its attack with unusual tactical sense.

Goba engaged it personally while his soldiers provided ranged support.

The bear was powerful—a semi-Adept-level threat on its own, its enhanced strength and durability making it dangerous even to experienced combatants.

But Goba’s combination of talents made him uniquely suited for exactly this kind of fight.

He activated his Engine fully, burning through stored reserves to enhance his strength and speed. His Electric Hand techniques crackled across the bear’s hide, disrupting its enhanced musculature. His Tank core regulated the power flow, preventing burnout while maximizing output.

The fight lasted three minutes.

When it ended, the bear like crawler lay dead, its body smoking from electrical burns, its skull crushed by Goba’s bare hands.

“Acceptable,” Goba assessed, checking his reserve levels. Still had plenty. The march and combat had barely dented his accumulated power. “Two hours to Vester. Pick up the pace!”

They marched through predawn darkness, following soul-force beacon trails that marked the route between outposts.

And as they drew closer to Vester, Goba could sense it—the spiritual residue of massive combat, the lingering soul-force signatures that marked Adept-level techniques deployed in anger.

Three Adepts fighting, he assessed. Plus whatever they were fighting against. This really is catastrophic.

“Ready yourselves!” he called to his soldiers. “We’re entering the combat zone! Weapons ready, formations tight!”

The response force tightened up, professional training overriding exhaustion.

And Adept Goba—fat, lazy, hedonistic by reputation—led them toward Vester’s burning chaos with the kind of grim determination that reminded everyone why he held Adept rank.

This is gonna be a bumpy ride, he thought, his Tank core humming with accumulated power, his Engine talent ready to burn through every reserve if necessary.

But that’s fine. That’s what I’m here for.

To be the overwhelming force that tips the balance.

To be the engine that grinds through whatever opposition remains.

To eat, to fuck, to fight, and to survive.

In that order.

Usually.

The Never-Ending Night pressed close.

Vester’s lights appeared on the horizon—dimmer than they should be, flickering uncertainly, signs of infrastructure damage and ongoing crisis.

And Adept Goba marched toward it with thirty soldiers and enough stored power to level buildings.

Ready to do whatever the job required.

Because that’s what Adepts did.

They showed up when called.

They brought overwhelming force.

And they survived to enjoy the privileges afterward.

Assuming there was an “afterward.”

But that was problem for future Goba.

Present Goba just had to reach Vester alive.

The rest would sort itself out.

It always did.

Usually.

Mostly.

We’ll see, Goba thought, and continued marching toward dawn and chaos and whatever fresh hell awaited in the burning outpost ahead.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

——

The emergency dispatches spread across the northern territories like ripples from a stone thrown into still water.

Vester was burning. There were three Adepts on-site. It was a multi pronged assault. Casualties were mounting and a request for immediate reinforcements from all neighboring outposts.

The responses—or lack thereof—spoke volumes about the Republic’s true state.

—–

Outpost Ferrin, commanded by Adept Lysara:

“We’ve got our own situation,” Lysara said flatly, reviewing the dispatch with tired eyes. “Crawler surge hit our eastern perimeter two hours ago. We have my own shit to deal with, why would we want to pick up theirs. We’re barely holding defensive positions with our current forces.”

Her Lieutenant looked hopeful. “If we sent even a small—”

“No.” Lysara’s voice carried finality. “Vester has three Adepts. Three. If they can’t handle their crisis with that much power, sending our forces would just mean losing soldiers in someone else’s disaster. We will maintain our own defenses. Vester survives or doesn’t on its own capability.”

The dispatch was filed as “unable to assist due to active engagement.”

Translation: Not our problem.

—–

Outpost Kaldris, commanded by Adept Torven:

Torven didn’t even finish reading the dispatch before dismissing it.

“Vester’s politics finally caught up with them,” he said, tossing the document aside. “Crownhold and Kadesh have been positioning for northern dominance for years. Let them handle the consequences of their maneuvering.”

“Sir, the dispatch mentions civilian casualties—”

“Every outpost has civilian casualties. That’s the nature of fighting the Shroud.” Torven returned to his meal—actual quality food, not rations, the privilege of Adept rank. “Vester’s problems are Vester’s problems. We’re not abandoning our defensive obligations to bail out Vaelith Crownhold’s political schemes.”

No response was sent. The dispatch was simply ignored.

Translation: Fuck Vester and its House games.

—–

Outpost Meridian, commanded by Adept Helena:

Helena actually wanted to help. Had served with Atheon years ago, respected his capabilities, understood that three Adepts requesting backup meant genuine catastrophe.

But her second-in-command laid out the mathematics with brutal clarity.

“We’re a three days’ march from Vester, ma’am. Even with a forced pace, we will arrive long after the crisis resolves one way or another. And our garrison forces are already stretched—the western sectors need a constant patrol against the Shroud-corrupted forest zones.”

“People are dying,” Helena argued.

“People are always dying. The question is whether we can actually help, or whether we just get our own soldiers killed rushing into situation we don’t understand.” The second-in-command’s pragmatism was infuriating because it was correct. “By the time we arrive, Vester will have either stabilized or fallen. Our presence won’t change that outcome.”

Helena stared at the dispatch for long minutes, wanting to reject the cold mathematics, wanting to believe that Adept solidarity meant something.

Then she filed the response: “Unable to provide timely assistance due to distance and current defensive obligations.”

Translation: Sorry, but we’d arrive too late to matter.

—–

Outpost Sanctuary, commanded by Adept Marcus:

Marcus was simply lazy.

He’d held his posting for twelve years through careful management of political relationships and strategic avoidance of anything requiring actual effort. Sanctuary was relatively safe—defended by natural terrain features and well-established defenses that required minimal active command.

“Vester’s asking for help?” he said, not even bothering to sit up from his comfortable chair. “How unfortunate. Send a standard response about our inability to spare forces during current… what should we say?”

“Equipment maintenance, sir?” his aide suggested.

“Perfect. Equipment maintenance and defensive rotation schedules prevent immediate deployment. Very sorry. Best wishes. That sort of thing.” Marcus waved dismissively. “And bring me more wine. This crisis is exhausting just reading about it.”

No forces were sent. No actual assistance provided.

Translation: I simply don’t care enough.

—–

Only Kiliman’s Adept Goba actually answered the call—and even that was motivated more by curiosity and opportunity than genuine altruism.

The northern territories’ Adepts had learned hard lessons about overextending during someone else’s crisis. About political complications that came from interfering in House games. About the cost of playing hero when survival required calculated selfishness.

So Vester burned.

And most of the north simply… watched.

Waiting to see what remained when the ashes settled.

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