It had been a week since the fight in the meadow. Richter had remained with the pair, Mal and Jean, and to his surprise, they were actually good company. He hadn't originally planned to stick around, but they'd spoken to him as if the decision had already been made. Somehow, it had felt easier not to argue.

  Jean, the red-headed caster, was the more vocal of the two, always talking, always sharing. She told Richter about her life before the System, how her original group, led by her manipulative pharmacy supervisor, had turned on her. Since then, he’d gathered more followers and had been relentlessly hunting her down, sending wave after wave in pursuit.

  She even shared that she’d experienced a strange event, something she described as a glitch, that granted her Phoenix-related abilities and explained the red flames she wielded. She also spoke openly about the god who had blessed her, linking her powers to a divine source beyond the System’s typical structure.

  Her openness encouraged Richter to share in turn. Both Jean and Mal listened quietly, without judgment, even when he spoke about Jason. They simply nodded, accepting his past without flinching. Jean's curiosity peaked when he revealed he, too, had received a divine blessing, though her reaction shifted to amused disbelief when he admitted his patron was none other than a murderer god.

  He took a risk when Jean asked what skill his god had granted him, choosing to reveal [Eyes of the Murder]. It was something he hadn't shared with Liam group, but this pair seemed different.

  He also shared what the Bondsmith profession’s description had said. Jean suggested that perhaps the guard they'd fought had undergone something similar to her, a glitch, that granted him a legacy profession rather than just a skill.

  Mal had been quiet around him in the beginning, offering little more than nods and grunts. But over time, back in the cliffside cave they’d come to call home, he began to open up, revealing that his group had abandoned him early on, leaving him to survive alone.

  Richter realized this might be why he felt a connection to them. All three had been forged in solitude, shaped by hardship during those brutal early days. While others, like Liam’s group, had banded together quickly and avoided the worst of it, they hadn't faced the dark alone.

  The trio didn’t linger long at the cave, only taking time to gather their essentials. Mal seemed reluctant to leave his makeshift forge behind, casting one last look at the soot-stained stones. It was oddly sentimental, considering he carried a necklace that could summon a mobile forge of even higher quality.

  It had taken only half a day to reach Lakeside from the cave, but as Richter stepped into the widened canyon path that now served as the gateway, he couldn’t help but be impressed. The transformation was striking. The once-rough perimeter wall was now fully reinforced, sections of sturdy stone woven seamlessly with timber. The tents were gone, replaced by permanent stone-and-wood buildings with plumes of smoke curling from their chimneys. To the east, orderly rows of greenhouses glinted under the sun, and beyond them, a proper dock extended into the water, where an impressively crafted ship was just beginning to set sail, its green sails catching the wind like wings.

  "Welcome to Lakeside," Richter said with the casual confidence of a local, despite the fact he’d only visited once, and only briefly.

  Jean and Mal stared down in stunned silence at the town. After more than five weeks of isolation, the bustle of Lakeside, stone buildings, curling chimney smoke, voices carrying on the breeze, must have felt surreal. Like stumbling into a memory of the world they’d lost, only sharper, stranger, and undeniably alive.

  "I'm surprised you two never stumbled across this place, you weren’t that far away," Richter said as they followed the more permanent path, which now wound through acres of cultivated fields stretching toward the heart of Lakeside.

  "Hard to go sightseeing when you're being hunted by a bunch of murderous inmates," Jean muttered between bites of a carrot-like vegetable she’d swiped from the field’s edge. A nearby worker shot her a glare. She met it with a cheeky wave, earning only a tired shake of his head in return.

  Beyond the gates, a crowd greeted them, dozens of people lined the streets, forming long queues that snaked toward a small wooden building marked with a large sign: Housing Office. The once-empty roads now buzzed with voices, footsteps, and the hum of organized chaos.

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  Richter had one destination in mind: the leatherworker’s shop. He could only hope they were still around, and still holding onto the palehide leather he’d commissioned. He’d told them he’d be back in a day or two. That had been over four weeks ago.

  Richter left Mal and Jean at the now-expanded shop owned by Jin, the same sharp-eyed merchant he’d first dealt with weeks ago. Before slipping away, he gave them a quiet warning: Jin was clever, always smiling, and absolutely not to be underestimated.

  The group had agreed to regroup near the central well in about an hour.

  The leatherworker’s shop, like Jin’s, had undergone a dramatic transformation, from a makeshift wooden frame with canvas walls to a sturdy stone structure. A tall wall now enclosed a bustling courtyard, where barrels of pungent, rancid-smelling chemicals sat beside racks of stretched and drying hides, swaying gently in the breeze.

  The front window was lined with wooden mannequins displaying finely made leather armor, each piece more impressive than the last. At the center stood a rare chest piece, elegantly tooled and gleaming with care, clearly the shop’s masterwork.

  Inside the shop, rows of armor pieces filled the shelves, neatly organized, gloves and bracers lined one wall, boots were stacked toward the back, and another wall showcased bags, belts, and satchels in tidy rows.

  A bell rang as he stepped inside, drawing the attention of a woman Richter vaguely remembered, the leatherworker’s wife. She’d clearly taken over the shopfront in his stead, moving with the confidence of someone long accustomed to running things.

  "Welcome..." she began, not yet looking up. When her gaze finally lifted, it caught on Richter’s scar and lingered. He still wasn’t used to that pause, the flicker of recognition, or discomfort. "Oh. It’s you. We figured you might’ve died. I’m guessing you're here for your leather?"

  Without ceremony, she opened a chest beneath the counter and retrieved a neatly folded bundle of well-treated, supple leather. Despite the time, it retained its pale, almost ghostly whiteness, a testament to its quality and care.

  Richter nodded, accepting the leather with a quiet murmur of appreciation. As he glanced around the shop’s shelves, his eyes caught on a series of upgraded satchels, sleek, reinforced, and humming faintly with enchantment.

  The pouch he'd received at the start of the tutorial had served its purpose, but it was cramped and disorganized, barely large enough for potions and a few odds and ends. With over two thousand credits burning a hole in his pocket from the 'Guarded Spoils' event, now seemed like the perfect time to invest in something more... convenient.

  The bags ranged in quality from common to rare, but one near the bottom shelf caught his eye, a satchel made from smooth black leather, its edges stitched with fine white thread. It was compact, with a long strap meant to sit across the shoulder, and carried the understated elegance of something designed to last a lifetime.

  "Only 1,800 credits, an absolute steal," the woman said smoothly, making her way over with practiced ease. "Crafted from a rare variant deer, the leather's both extra durable and naturally enchanted. Holds double the capacity of any standard bag in here, and resists tearing, water..." The pitch continued for a while, Richter zoning out as he inspected the bag.

  "Fifteen hundred," Richter said bluntly. He had the credits, sure, but walking away without at least trying to haggle felt like losing on principle.

  The woman raised a brow, clearly unimpressed, but not entirely opposed. "Seventeen-fifty. I’d lose money going any lower. That stitching alone cost me a favor with a threadweaver."

  Before Richter could respond, a burst of shouting erupted from the street outside, excited, overlapping voices rising like a wave. No clash of metal, no alarm, just the urgent tones of people reacting to something unexpected. The woman’s eyes flicked toward the door, her voice tightening.

  "Sixteen-fifty. Final offer. Take it or leave it." Richter countered.

  "Deal," Richter reached for the pouch, feeling the ownership shifting to him.

  He handed over the credits, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and slipped the palehide leather inside. The interior flared briefly with silver light, and the bundle vanished with a gentle pull, sucked cleanly into the magically expanded space. Neat. Clean. Efficient.

  As he stepped out onto the street, the noise had grown louder. Someone was shouting, their voice sharp with anger.

  As Richter stepped out of the courtyard, the source of the shouting became clear, a one-armed woman storming through the market with righteous fury in her stride. Sarah.

  "Where is he? Anyone seen a man with a scarred face?" she barked, her voice cutting through the street like a blade. The surrounding shopkeepers shrank back from her, flinching at the raw heat in her expression.

  Before Richter could announce himself, her eyes locked onto him. Water surged into the shape of an arm, lashing out toward him. Instinctively, Richter summoned a red shield to block the strike. What the hell was she doing?

  Just as Richter opened his mouth to speak, cold steel kissed the skin of his throat, a blade drawn silently from behind. The voice that followed was low, familiar, and brimming with restrained anger. "No running now," Jon growled in his ear, each word deliberate. "You're going to pay."

  What the hell had changed? The last time Richter had seen them, they'd been smiling, grateful. Now Sarah looked ready to kill him, and Jon wasn’t far behind. Something was very wrong, and he had no idea what.