We left the paradise of the Jade River behind, trading soft grass for the cracked, moss-covered stones of the Old Imperial Highway.

  The transition was abrupt. One moment, the air smelled of blooming wildflowers and wet earth; the next, it smelled of sulfur and old ash. The canopy overhead thinned out, the vibrant green leaves turning gray and brittle, as if the land itself was sick.

  “I don't like this,” Faelar grumbled, adjusting the straps of his new weapon. The Toothpick—the massive obsidian pickaxe fashioned from the Kraken’s beak—was strapped to his back, the curved point rising above his head like a shark fin. “The birds have stopped singing. Even the wind sounds nervous.”

  “Atmospheric pressure is dropping,” Elmsworth noted, glancing at a barometer he had rigged from a glass vial and a drop of mercury. “And background magical radiation is rising. It tastes like… ozone. And spoiled milk.”

  I kept my hand near my spear. The "vacation" feeling was gone, replaced by the familiar, cold weight of anticipation.

  We walked for another mile until the road curved around a blackened ridge. There, lying in the center of the path, was a carcass.

  It wasn't a deer or a wolf. It was a heap of black, chitinous plates and dissolving shadow.

  “Lesser Void-Demon,” Liam identified, stepping closer but keeping his daggers drawn. “Scout class.”

  I knelt down to inspect it. The creature hadn't been mauled by a bigger monster. It was riddled with arrows—fletched with gray feathers—and there were scorch marks on its carapace consistent with basic fire spells.

  “This wasn't a fight,” I noted, tracing the angle of the arrow wounds. “It was an execution. Whoever killed this used a pincer movement. Two archers on the ridge, one heavy hitter in the center to bait it.”

  “Smart,” Faelar grunted. “Bandits?”

  “Bandits rob caravans,” I said, standing up. “They don't hunt demons. This was a patrol.”

  I looked up the road. It led toward a deep gorge spanned by an ancient stone bridge.

  “Stay sharp,” I ordered. “We’re entering a combat zone.”

  The bridge was a bottleneck. The stone railing was crumbled in places, revealing a sheer drop into a misty chasm below. On the far side, a barricade of felled trees and spiked logs blocked the path.

  I stopped ten yards from the barricade. My Soldier’s Instinct—that itch at the base of my neck—was screaming.

  “Halt,” I said softly.

  “I see them,” Liam whispered. “Tree line. Left and right. Elevation advantage.”

  “Front too,” Faelar growled.

  Figures rose from behind the log barricade. There were six of them. They looked rough—cloaks stained with mud, armor mismatched and scavenged—but they held their weapons with discipline. Longbows were drawn, the strings pulled taut, arrows aimed directly at my chest.

  A woman stepped up onto the barricade. She wore a battered breastplate painted matte black, and a scar ran from her temple to her jaw. She looked exhausted, but her eyes were sharp as flint.

  “That’s far enough,” she barked. Her voice was raspy, like she had spent too much time shouting orders in smoke.

  “We are travelers,” I called out, keeping my hands visible but near my belt. “We’re just passing through.”

  The woman’s eyes raked over us. She looked at Faelar’s heavy armor, Liam’s daggers, Elmsworth’s glowing wand, and finally, my uniform.

  She sneered.

  “Travelers don't wear uniforms,” she spat. “And I don't recognize your crest. Blue and Silver? Who are you with? The Royal Guard? Or did Malacor conjure up a new regiment of puppets?”

  “I am Commander Kaelen of the Celestial Guard,” I stated formally. “My squad is independent.”

  “Celestial Guard?” The woman laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Never heard of it. Sounds like a mercenary title you made up to impress the peasantry.”

  She raised her hand. The archers on the ridge tensed.

  “Malacor is getting desperate if he’s sending mercenaries,” she yelled. “Tell the Wizard we aren't paying his toll. The only thing we have for him is steel.”

  “We don't know any Wizard,” Faelar shouted, stepping forward. “And we don't know you! Put the bows down before I get angry!”

  “Faelar, stand down,” I hissed.

  “Fire on my mark!” the woman commanded.

  The air grew heavy. I calculated the odds. Twelve archers. Six infantry. We could take them, but we’d take damage.

  Then, the sky tore open.

  It wasn't a figure of speech. Above the center of the bridge, the air ripped apart with a sound like tearing canvas. Purple light spilled out, accompanied by the smell of rotting flowers.

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  “Breach!” Elmsworth screamed. “Dimensional breach! Twelve o’clock high!”

  The archers wavered. The woman on the barricade looked up, her face paling.

  A shape dropped from the tear. It was lanky, tall, and made of shifting shadows. Its arms ended in long, scythe-like blades.

  A Void-Stalker.

  It landed silently in the middle of the bridge, right between my squad and the rebels. It hissed, its head splitting open to reveal a maw of neon-violet light.

  The woman didn't hesitate. She didn't look like a bandit anymore. She looked like a soldier.

  “Contact!” she screamed. “Defensive formation! Switch targets!”

  The archers shifted their aim.

  I drew my spear.

  “Misfits!” I roared. “Engage! Faelar, take the legs! Liam, eyes on the claws! Willow, bind it!”

  The Stalker lunged at the woman on the barricade. It moved faster than a human could track.

  But not faster than an elf.

  Liam blurred. He didn't attack the monster; he threw a dagger at the woman. Clang. The dagger struck her breastplate, knocking her backward just as the Stalker’s scythe slashed the air where her head had been.

  “You’re welcome!” Liam shouted, drawing his second blade.

  “Suppressing fire!” the woman yelled from the ground.

  Arrows rained down on the Stalker. Most bounced off its shadowy hide, but a few found purchase, glowing with simple enchantments. The monster shrieked, turning its attention to the archers.

  It prepared to leap.

  “Oh no you don't!” Faelar bellowed.

  The dwarf charged. He didn't use his shield. He gripped the Toothpick with both hands.

  He swung the Kraken-beak pickaxe like a sledgehammer.

  CRUNCH.

  The obsidian point punched through the Void-Stalker’s leg armor as if it were wet cardboard. The monster howled, its leg buckling.

  “Willow! Now!” I signaled.

  Willow slammed her staff onto the bridge. Vines burst from the cracks in the stone, wrapping around the Stalker’s remaining limbs, pinning it to the ground.

  “Clear the lane!” I shouted, sprinting forward.

  I didn't throw the spear. I drove it.

  I vaulted off Faelar’s shield, launching myself into the air. I drove the tip of my spear down into the Stalker’s exposed neck.

  SHUNK.

  The creature stiffened. It dissolved instantly into a puddle of black sludge and ash.

  Silence fell over the bridge.

  I stood up, breathing hard, wiping ichor from my face.

  The woman—Captain Vane, I assumed from her demeanor—climbed back onto the barricade. She looked at the dissolving demon. She looked at the dent in her armor where Liam’s dagger had hit her. She looked at Faelar, who was prying his pickaxe out of the stone.

  She lowered her sword.

  “Hold fire,” she ordered the archers.

  She jumped down, landing in front of me. Up close, she smelled of sweat and desperation.

  “You kill demons,” she said flatly. “Malacor’s men don't kill demons. They summon them.”

  “As I said,” I replied, sheathing my spear. “We aren't with the Wizard. We’re passing through.”

  Vane looked at Nugget. The chicken had wandered over to the pile of demon ash and was pecking at it curiously.

  “Is that… a chicken?” Vane asked, confused.

  “He’s morale support,” I said. “Mostly.”

  Vane let out a breath, sheathing her sword. “If you aren't with Malacor, then you’re lucky we didn't fill you with arrows. And we’re lucky you showed up when that breach opened.”

  She gestured to the barricade.

  “I’m Captain Vane. Of the… well, just Captain Vane now. You’d better come with us. The sky isn't done bleeding today.”

  They didn't trust us fully—blindfolds were mandatory—but they didn't tie our hands. We were led through a maze of rocky canyons and narrow goat paths for an hour.

  When the blindfolds finally came off, we were standing on a ridge overlooking a hidden valley.

  It wasn't a bandit camp. It was a fortress of last resort.

  Hundreds of tents were clustered around a central ruin. There were training grounds where men and women practiced with rusted swords. There were cooking fires. I saw wounded soldiers in bandages, and children playing with sticks.

  In the center of the camp, a tattered flag flew from a makeshift pole. It bore the sigil of a Golden Lion, but the fabric was stained with soot and blood.

  “The Loyalists,” Liam murmured. “Or what’s left of them.”

  Vane led us down into the camp. The people watched us with wary eyes. They looked tired. Hungry. But they didn't look defeated. They looked stubborn.

  She brought us to a large command tent in the center. Inside, a tactical map was spread across a table made of crates.

  “Ale?” Vane offered, pouring a cup from a pitcher. “It’s watered down, but it’s wet.”

  “Please,” Faelar said, accepting the cup.

  Vane leaned over the map.

  “You asked about the Wizard,” she said. “His name is Malacor. Six months ago, he was the Royal Advisor. Then he found… something. A book. A relic. I don't know.”

  “A connection to the Void,” Elmsworth muttered, looking at the map markings.

  “He corrupted the King,” Vane continued, her voice hard. “Turned him into a puppet. He started opening portals inside the castle. Summoning those things. The Royal Guard who refused to kneel were slaughtered.”

  She pointed to the camp outside.

  “Those of us who escaped were branded ‘Bandits.’ We’ve been fighting a guerilla war ever since. But we’re losing. Every day, the breaches get wider. Every day, Malacor summons something bigger.”

  She looked at me.

  “He’s hoarding magical technology in the Sun-Spire Ruins to the east. Building a gateway. If he finishes it, he won't just control the Kingdom. He’ll flood the world with those monsters.”

  I looked at the map. The Sun-Spire was marked with a red skull.

  “We’re holding the line here,” Vane said quietly. “Trying to keep the demons from spilling out into the villages. But we’re running out of arrows. And we’re running out of soldiers.”

  She looked at my team. At Faelar polishing his pickaxe. At Willow, who was already healing a wounded soldier in the corner. At Liam, who was sharpening his daggers.

  “You fight well,” Vane said. “You aren't an army. But you’re… heavy hitters. I can't pay you. But I can offer you a chance to kill the bastard who ruined the world.”

  I looked at the map. I traced the line from our position to the Sun-Spire.

  I thought about the Manual. Objective: Survive. Avoid unnecessary conflict.

  Then I thought about the demon on the bridge. I thought about the kids playing outside in the dirt. I thought about the Weaver, and the "Bandit King" quest update.

  The Manual was written for a Guard that didn't exist anymore.

  I looked at Vane.

  “We don't need payment,” I said.

  I picked up a charcoal marker and drew a line straight through the red skull on the map.

  “And you don't need a defensive line, Captain,” I said. “You’re fighting a losing war of attrition.”

  Vane crossed her arms. “And what do you suggest?”

  I smiled. It was a grim, tight smile.

  “You need a breach team,” I said. “You keep them busy at the front gate. We’ll go in the back door and break Malacor’s toys.”

  Faelar slammed his empty cup onto the table.

  “Finally,” the dwarf grinned, patting the obsidian pickaxe on his back. “I was hoping you’d say that. I want to see if this Toothpick works on wizards.”

  Vane looked at us. She looked at the chicken, who was currently asleep on the map table. She shook her head, a small, disbelief-filled smile touching her lips.

  “You’re insane,” she said. “All of you.”

  “We prefer ‘Misfits’,” Liam corrected politely.

  “Right,” Vane said, straightening up. “Misfits. Welcome to the Resistance.”