Commander Vorlag’s clipped words hung in the stale air of the Provisioners’ barracks, a ghost of encouragement that held little substance. News of Thane’s unexpected kill—the Blightlord Kaelen, a formidable creature that had stalked the jagged peaks of the Northern March—had indeed rippled through their ranks. Yet, most attributed it to a blind stroke of fortune, a momentary lapse in the Blight’s relentless grip. For the ordinary Provisioner, true military distinction remained an elusive myth, a prize won only by the cruelest caprice of fate or the most desperate, suicidal gamble. Thane, standing amidst the desultory murmurs of his comrades, felt only a familiar weariness. Their interpretations were irrelevant. Fortune, to them, was a random occurrence; to him, it was a quiet, internal process, a grim harvest. He knew the true source of his 'luck' was a unique, burdensome gift, one he exploited with cold pragmatism. “Enough,” Vorlag barked, cutting through the growing chatter. His voice, raspy from years of bellowing commands over the din of battle, echoed off the worn stone walls. “Citadel Command has issued orders. Our entire Provisioners’ Brigade, a full contingent of ten thousand souls, is to escort the primary supply train to Skol Reach. Mobilization is immediate. Prepare your gear. Move out!” A collective, resigned grunt rose from the ranks. Thane, though outwardly still, felt the shift in the barracks’ energy. The air grew thick with the hurried scraping of boots, the clatter of hastily secured packs, the low, anxious mumble of men preparing for another death-haunted journey across the Shattered Realm. Skol Reach. A blighted name, conjuring images of ruined fortifications and the stench of decay. Another harvest for the Blight, and for him, perhaps, a few more precious fragments. As Vorlag turned, his heavy boots clomping out of the barracks, Captain Jorik, Thane’s immediate superior, approached. Jorik’s face, usually creased with the burdens of leadership, bore a faint, uncharacteristic smile. “Thane,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Congratulations. A title, and a promotion to Centurion. Not bad for a Provisioner.” Thane offered a dismissive shrug, the motion barely perceptible. “Just a fortunate turn, Captain.” He didn’t elaborate. Explanations were tedious, and the truth, dangerous. The ‘fortune’ was the Blightlord’s lingering essence, a potent draught of raw vitality absorbed through the simple, chilling act of touching the cooling corpse. That was the secret currency of his existence. Jorik’s smile faded, replaced by the customary lines of concern and command. “Enough of that, lad. Modesty has its place, but not when rank demands responsibility.” His gaze sharpened, meeting Thane’s impassive stare. “You’re no longer just a lance-bearer. A Skirmisher-Lead commands five men. A Squad-Lead, ten. As Centurion, you’ll oversee fifty. You report directly to me. Understand?” Thane gave a curt nod, a practiced, perfunctory gesture of acknowledgement. The hierarchy meant little to him beyond its utility. More men meant more opportunities, more potential resources—both living and, inevitably, dead. His mind, ever pragmatic, was already calculating the implications for his own survival, for the subtle enhancements this new position might afford. Then, a peculiar sensation rippled through him, not a voice, but a distinct *knowing*. It was like the faint chime of arcane energy, a subtle shift in the very fabric of his being, as if the intricate, underlying systems of Veridia itself were acknowledging his altered status. He registered a sequence of internal impressions, clear and precise, as though an invisible ledger were being updated within his mind: * *Designated: Sentinel of the Line, bound to the Confluence of Will.* * *Conferred: Skirmisher-Lead. Arcane Recompense: One Primary Cache of Blight-Bound Supplies.* * *Conferred: Squad-Lead. Arcane Recompense: One Primary Cache of Blight-Bound Supplies.* * *Conferred: Centurion. Arcane Recompense: One Primary Cache of Blight-Bound Supplies.* * *Conferred: Minor Nobility [Vigilant]. Arcane Recompense: One Primary Cache of Blight-Bound Supplies.* A flicker of genuine, albeit quiet, surprise stirred within Thane. Arcane recompense for a mere promotion? This was unexpected. A slight, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of his lips, a rare deviation from his usual somber expression. These caches, whatever they held, would be useful. Without hesitation, he focused his will, accepting the influx of information and material. The mental images of the caches dissolved, replaced by a detailed list of their contents, imprinted directly into his consciousness: * *Received: 5,000 Scrivings (Veridian Currency).* * *Received: Ten Sustenance Glyphs (Low-Tier).* * *Received: Echo of the Crushing Palm (High-Grade Latent Skill).* * *Received: Five vials of Vitality Salts (Mid-Tier).* Thane’s attention immediately fixated on the third entry. *Latent Skill*. The words resonated deep within him, confirming a nascent suspicion, a silent hope. His ability, he knew, allowed him to absorb fragments of *skills* from the recently deceased, not just raw vitality. But this was different. This wasn't a direct absorption from a corpse; this was a *reward*, a curated blueprint of inherent power granted by the system itself. His eyes, though still distant, held an intensity that belied his calm exterior. True skills, transferable, learnable, *tangible*–they truly existed. This was more than fortune; this was a path. A surge of cold, focused anticipation welled within him. A new tool, a new edge in the ceaseless fight for survival. He mentally affirmed the integration. The concept of the Echo of the Crushing Palm flooded his mind, not as abstract data, but as a visceral understanding. A sudden, potent warmth bloomed in his chest, then spread through his limbs, settling deep within his bones and muscles. He felt the precise tension, the explosive release, the intricate coordination required to unleash such power. It was like a new limb, fully formed and instinctual. *Echo of the Crushing Palm: Converge the entirety of one’s accumulated vigor and latent strength into a single point, manifesting a concussive force several times greater than one’s inherent power, at significant physical cost.* A grim satisfaction settled over Thane. The technique, brutal and efficient, was a potent augmentation. It wouldn’t just increase his raw physical strength; it would provide a decisive trump card, a sudden burst of power to escape a crushing blow or deliver a final, devastating one. It was another layer of defense against the encroaching death, another tool to prolong his existence in a world that devoured lives. *** Far above, where the tainted winds of the lower city struggled to reach, Veridia’s Citadel District pulsed with a different kind of life. Gilded carriages, drawn by massive, placid beasts, glided along the central thoroughfares, while the robed and privileged moved with practiced haste on the raised, manicured walkways. It was a place of imposing, ancient architecture, where the faint hum of arcane wards offered a veneer of safety. But even here, in the heart of the Shattered Realm, the omnipresent truth of the Blight was a cold whisper on the wind, a distant wail from the quarantined sectors, a pall hanging over every grand pronouncement. At the zenith of the district, the Obsidian Spire pierced the bruised sky, its dark, polished stone reflecting the perpetual twilight. Within its Grand Conclave, Archon Valerius presided. He sat upon a throne carved from what appeared to be solidified shadow, his ceremonial robes the color of dried blood, his crown a spiky, metallic circlet. His power was absolute, a heavy, weary mantle he bore with grim resignation, his gaze sweeping over the vast, echoing hall. Arrayed on either side stood the pillars of Veridian society: the Arch-Strategos Kael, his lean frame radiating a quiet intensity, at the fore of the advisors; and High Commander Varen, a grizzled veteran whose face was a roadmap of past battles, leading the military officers. Behind Kael, the elegant but watchful figure of Scion Elara, Valerius’s heir, held a tablet of records, her eyes sharp and assessing. “Those with petitions, step forward,” intoned a Herald of the Grand Conclave, his voice resonating with trained authority through the vast chamber. “Those without, the Conclave is dismissed.” Tribune Korvin, a military official, stepped forward from the ranks, his uniform crisp despite the general’s inherent weariness. “Your Archon, a victory report has arrived from Grimfell Garrison.” His voice, though formal, carried a note of urgency. Archon Valerius’s eyebrows, thick and dark, lifted slightly. “Minister Korvin, speak quickly.” The reclamation of the Blighted Marches had been a generations-long endeavor, a strategic necessity to prevent Veridia’s slow strangulation. Every message from the front lines carried immense weight. The fall of the corrupted strongholds was pivotal, opening crucial routes for the purging of the Sunderlands. “In this recent engagement,” High Commander Varen interjected, stepping forward, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction, “Grand Strategos Theron personally oversaw the border fortifications. General Lyra led a vanguard of a hundred thousand Shieldbearers, breaching the Blight-fortified outposts and purging nearly ten thousand Blight-touched abominations. They now lay siege to the fortified Skol Reach. Within a few moons, Your Archon, the Sunderlands will begin to yield.” A rare, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction touched Archon Valerius’s lips. It was not a joyous sound, but a heavy, momentous acknowledgement of progress. “For Veridia’s Vigor!” the entire Conclave of civil and military officials intoned, their voices a somber chorus. “The reclamation of the Sunderlands is vital for Veridia’s enduring strength. I will tolerate no missteps,” Valerius declared, his tone hardening. “Maintain a vigilant watch on the progress at Skol Reach and report any developments to me without delay.” “Your servants obey the decree,” Kael, Varen, and Korvin responded in unison. “Your Archon,” Varen added, a faint, dry amusement in his voice, “the Grand Strategos’s victory report also contained a peculiar anecdote.” “Let us hear it,” Valerius replied, his interest piqued by the shift in tone. “Borin’s Scion, Valerius,” Varen reported, a hint of mockery in his voice, “led a formidable Blight-touched host to defend the outer perimeter. After their forces were shattered by our Veridian Shieldbearers, General Lyra searched for the Scion for days to no avail. As it turns out, the Scion did not flee, but instead feigned death among a pile of blighted corpses. He was later discovered by one of our Provisioners, and with no escape, was ultimately dispatched by a common soldier from the Provisioners’ Brigade.” A wry, tired expression flickered across Archon Valerius’s face. “The adage ’a father’s blight-blood runs true’ was often invoked for Corrupted Chieftain Borin and his son, both renowned for their dark prowess. For Borin’s Scion to fall by the lance of a mere Provisioner… a dishonorable end, indeed. He will find little rest in the ether.” “What Your Archon says is most true,” Varen immediately agreed. “Was this Provisioner recognized for his deed?” Valerius asked, his tone inquisitive. “The system of Veridia’s rewards must not differentiate based on a soldier’s unit in this fight against the Blight.” “Please be at ease, Your Archon,” Varen assured him at once. “The Provisioner has already received the acknowledgments he deserves.” “Good. Closely monitor the fighting in the Sunderlands,” Valerius commanded loudly. “As for the Shifting Isles and the Whispering Wastes, instruct Grand Strategos Theron to be on high alert. Should any Blight-spawn stir, he is to act with full authority on the front lines.” *** Outside the shattered fortifications of Skol Reach, the air hung heavy and still, saturated with the acrid stench of spilled vitality and decay, a grim perfume of the Blight. Nearly ten days of relentless, arcane bombardment from the Veridian Army had reduced the stronghold to a smoldering ruin. The entire expanse of Skol Reach was enveloped in the lingering flames of war, its ancient stones scarred by blighted fire. Countless Vigor-drained husks lay twisted within the shattered walls, their souls long departed. Outside, the bodies of many Veridian Shieldbearers, a stark contrast to the enemy, lay scattered amidst the rubble, their sacrifices etched into the ravaged earth. But under the overwhelming military might and the fearless charges of the Veridian forces, Skol Reach ultimately could not withstand the assault and finally fell to General Lyra. With its collapse, the Blight-touched remnants of Borin’s host scattered and fled in all directions, dissolving into the shadowy wastes. Next, it was the Provisioners’ Brigade’s turn to enter, to salvage what could be salvaged, and to clean the blood-drenched field of its grim offerings. Thane arrived with his newly formed Centuria, the pervasive hum of the Blight a dull ache behind his eyes. Even accustomed as he was to the casual savagery of death, a tremor of deep weariness ran through him. This battlefield, far more gruesome than the skirmishes at the Northern March, was a testament to the Blight’s insatiable hunger. Over ten thousand bodies lay strewn outside the city, their essence already fading, and he knew there would be just as many, if not more, inside. Tens of thousands of lives, snuffed out in a single, brutal engagement. Here, in the Shattered Realm, a human life was merely a fleeting flicker, easily extinguished, indistinguishable from the detritus of war. And for Thane, it was a silent, grim harvest, waiting to be reaped.

A Harvest of Scraps