The forest felt it before they moved.

  Jacob’s boots sank into damp loam, the ground soft with rot and old sap. Roots lay just beneath the surface—thick, ancient things—pulsing faintly as ley currents stirred. The Sprigroot Fringe didn’t sleep. It watched. It listened. And now, it tensed.

  Mana shimmered through the undergrowth, threading through soil, bark, and leaf like invisible veins.

  “Yeah,” Jacob muttered, voice low. “There it is.”

  The first Hollow-Stag tore free of the treeline—five meters of bark-armored muscle, antlers scraping branches as it charged. Another followed, equally immense. Then three more. Behind them, Shard Serpents slid through the brush, scales clicking softly as they coiled and uncoiled, patient and lethal, ten meters long from tip to tail.

  Jacob rolled his shoulders, lifted EarthRend. The runes along its haft glowed low, steady, echoing the pulse beneath the soil. He breathed in—sap, damp leaves, ozone—and felt the terrain like a living map under his feet. Each Stag, each serpent left a signature in the ley, vibrating through his grip.

  “Front holds center,” he called, voice calm but firm. “Flanks, corral them. Rear, cover everyone. Strategy over bravado. Class C—observe first. Don’t touch unless you have the angle.”

  The Guild flowed into position. Not crisp ranks. Not drilled lines. Just experience—men and women who’d survived long enough to know where not to stand.

  The Stags charged.

  Hooves slammed into the earth. Soil buckled. Leaves vaulted skyward. Roots twitched, brushing against ankles, measuring confidence. The Fringe was alive.

  “By the branches of Aeterra,” Lyssa muttered, ducking a swinging limb. “That’s a lot of stomping hooves.”

  “Twisting roots—almost had the angle,” another growled, skidding back as a Stag’s antlers carved a furrow through the dirt.

  Jacob flicked EarthRend. Roots surged like spears. One Stag slammed into the air, bark cracking. Another twisted helplessly. The third hit its arc perfectly inside a frost kill zone. Dust and leaf litter spiraled skyward, striking Jacob’s forearms with icy fragments.

  “Ha!” Garrick barked, spear flashing once. “I’ll take that—just my passive. One shot.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” came a dry reply. “Tell us when it didn't cost you much.”

  Ice spread across the left corridor in a widening sheet. Hooves skidded. A Shard Serpent froze mid-lunge, scales cracking as a spear detonated inside its skull. On the right, fire mages spun controlled tornadoes, heat warping air, leaves and bark igniting and vanishing. Jacob felt the heat pulse against his skin, a warning of unchecked proximity.

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  He pivoted, eyes tracking trajectories, mana flow, and core fatigue. Each monster movement, each ley pulse, registered. Predict, adjust, nudge, contain.

  “Yea,” he called sharply. “Watch timing. Not force. Timing.”

  A rogue Hollow-Stag broke formation, angling toward the rear. A Class C moved to intercept—Master rank, solid core, good instincts—but stepped in instead of aside.

  Everyone saw it.

  Impact hit like a battering ram.

  The adventurer was thrown back, shoulder-first into a tree, leaves raining down. He stayed upright—barely—but the mana recoil rippled visibly through his core.

  “Ashes be damned,” Jacob snapped, already moving. “That wasn’t brave.”

  A healer was there instantly, mana potion pressed to the adventurer’s lips. Green light flared, stabilizing his stressed core.

  The adventurer coughed, jaw clenched. “Misread the timing.”

  “Yeah,” Jacob said flatly. “You did.” He straightened, voice carrying. “Yea had space to dodge and chose to eat it. Your core’s good, but it’s not infinite. Overreach, and yea feel it.”

  He swept his gaze across Class C.

  “Track your reserves. Low means mana potion—not pride. We’ve got healers in the back for a reason. Nobody loses life or limb today. Understood?”

  A few nods. No excuses.

  “Good.”

  The fight surged again.

  Roots tore free in violent arcs. One Stag flipped, twisting mid-air into a frost kill zone. Another slammed into a fire tornado, claws and antlers smoldering. Shard Serpents lunged, intercepted by coordinated spear and spell strikes. Dust, ice, and ember spiraled across the clearing, pricking Jacob’s skin with each shockwave.

  A frost mage cursed, downing a potion mid-cast.

  “Sap it all,” he growled. “That spike almost fried me.”

  “Then don’t spike again,” someone shot back. “We’re not done.”

  Laughter cut through the strain—brief, breathless—but it steadied them.

  A Hollow-Stag staggered into a shield and collapsed in a spray of splintered bark. The ley hummed louder now. The forest reacted to sustained pressure, roots flexing, leaves quivering.

  Behind the line, Bram stood silent. Immense. Patient. Watching. Not judgment. Expectation. Waiting for his moment.

  The final Stag screamed as it fell, core pulsing weakly before dimming. Shard Serpents recoiled, then went still.

  For a moment, only breathing. Steam rose from scorched ground. Frost mist drifted through broken branches. Roots settled with soft groans, as if the Fringe exhaled.

  “…By the roots,” a Class C murmured, staring at the wreckage. “That one was bigger than last cycle.”

  “Aww,” another said quietly, awe slipping through fatigue. “That core’ll fetch something nice.”

  Jacob planted EarthRend, scanning the field. Potions circulated, cores stabilized. No one was bleeding out.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Grab what’s worth the weight. And don’t die getting it.”

  Lyssa wiped soot from her hands, eyes gleaming. “Aww… look at all that shine. If we’re quick, we can snag the good bits before the next idiots show up.”

  “Careful,” Garrick said, already moving. “Forest’s not done yet.”

  Jacob felt it too. A subtle tremor through the ley, insistent but quiet. Leaves shivered along a far ridge, echoing like a warning. Somewhere deeper, soil groaned, counting its patience.

  He squared his shoulders, eyes narrowing.

  “Yea,” he said quietly. “Enjoy the breathing room. The next wave will test every weak joint, every exhausted core. And it won’t be polite.”

  EarthRend hummed in his grip, pulse syncing with the ground. Jacob’s eyes swept the line one last time. Every spell, every swing, every core spent or stable—it was a living map.

  The forest waited. So did he.