CHAPTER 91: “NOT DEAD” IS MY FAVORITE MEAL

The last monster went down with a thud and a spray of mud, claws twitching in the half-light. I wiped moss blood from my face, blinked grit out of my eyes, and listened for the next wave that—thank the system—never came. Well, that’s one less thing trying to eat me today. Not bad. Would’ve preferred breakfast first, but hey, "not dead" is my favorite meal.

All around the square, kobolds staggered into daylight, battered but upright. The air still tasted of ash and iron, the whole world smelling like a burned garden and old fear.

[Alert: Incursion Repelled — Settlement Status: Guarded but Unstable]

[Notice: Defensive Effectiveness: 83% — Not Bad, Could Improve]

[System Reminder: Damage Reports Required Before Noon]

Wow, a B-minus. Guess I won’t be getting a bonus this month. System, you wanna come down here and do it yourself?

Splitjaw was already barking orders, his voice hoarse but steady. "Check the south fence. Relay, you’re with me. Stonealign, patch the tunnel exit and sweep for stragglers." Cinders and Bitterstack were dragging wounded into the clinic, no drama, just quick work and grumbling. Flick skittered past carrying a broken spear and two loaves of bread. I had to laugh, or maybe that was just my body remembering what it felt like to relax. For the record, kobolds can—and will—loot carbs off a battlefield. It’s a survival trait.

It’d been two days of this—scrambling from alert to alert, fighting monsters that didn’t act like monsters anymore. Not just the usual dumber-than-dirt beasts. These ones waited for cover, used distractions, aimed for food stores and water. Sometimes they left when they could have overrun us, like someone called them back.

Quicktongue hustled up, ledger in one hand, soot on her cheek. "Casualties minimal, supply lines intact—barely. She always sounds like she’s announcing dinner, not disaster. The relay net is holding, but we had signal interference again. Flick says he saw the mossbeasts marking trees before they ran."

I glanced at the ash and scratch marks on the yard posts. Not the usual mess. These had shape, a pattern—not system glyphs, but a kind of warning. Hoarder came limping in from the east, reporting no stragglers, just more of those marks and a set of monster footprints leading away from the farm, not toward it.

Stonealign and Tinker manhandled the ruined golem out of the mud, Tinker wincing with every step. "They’re avoiding the old traps," he muttered. "They even left a decoy by the second storehouse. Who teaches monsters to fake us out?"

Embergleam shook soot from her hands and muttered, "They moved in formation. Like they had a leader—more than one."

The Gen-2s, usually eager for a story, just sat on the steps, quiet for once. Relay offered them a scrap of dried fruit, but nobody took it. Cinders handed out what she called "hero rations"—hard bread and extra syrup, the kind you only get when things are really bad.

[Notice: Morale — Holding, But Frayed]

[Reminder: Mental Health Breaks Recommended]

[System Suggestion: Reinforce Defensive Walls (Again)]

You’d think after fifty upgrades the walls would learn to defend themselves. No such luck.

Splitjaw leaned against a bloodied fencepost, catching his breath. "That’s twice in two days. They’re probing. Someone’s thinking."

"Gorak?" Glare asked, voice strained, clutching his own bandaged arm.

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe something else."

Quicktongue had already started a list, voice clipped and businesslike. "If they’re learning, we can’t assume anything’s safe. I want new patrol schedules, double runners, and someone watching the creek. Relay, did you spot any signals between them?"

Relay nodded, eyes wide. "I think so. They use stones—bang them, in patterns. And there was a call, like a howl, right before they pulled back. Not panic, more like an order."

Stonebite, filthy and grumpy, grunted, "Monsters don’t do orders. Not unless someone tells them how."

The words hung in the air. Embergleam kicked the mud, voice quiet. "Whatever’s out there, it’s not just Gorak. Or if it is, he’s changed."

I bent to pick up a scorched, twisted scrap—a bit of netting tied in a way I’d never seen, as if it had a purpose. The system pinged.

[Alert: Unrecognized Tactic Detected — Analyzing...]

[Analysis Pending: Possible Adaptive Behavior]

For a second, the silence around me felt too big. The sun was climbing now, smoke rising behind the south wall, but Ashring felt smaller, more vulnerable.

Bitterstack stomped over, arms full of bandages, glowering at me and everyone else. "We’re not dead. That means breakfast. Everyone who can stand helps with repairs or rations. If you faint, I’ll feed you myself, and you won’t like how."

It was routine, but not routine enough. As I limped toward the food line, I caught Glare’s eye—both of us battered, both of us understanding. We used to fight monsters. Now we were fighting something smarter.

I swallowed the last of my fear with a mouthful of too-sweet bread, wondering who would adapt faster: us, or whatever was learning to break Ashring.

And in the distance, I thought I heard a low, measured rumble—like something big thinking its next move.

I ate fast, barely tasting the syrup bread. Every movement in the square felt sharper—shovels scraping stone, the slap of patched boots, the creak of a new barricade at the eastern lane. Bitterstack barked names from her ledger, directing squads with her usual briskness, but every order sounded closer to a threat than a plan. That’s how you know morale’s holding. Or everyone’s just scared of Bitterstack.

"Gen-2s on bucket duty, Cinders you’re with me, nobody’s alone unless you want a lecture. Stonebite, if you break another post I’ll make you eat it."

Stonebite just grunted and hammered a brace into the south gate, his back stiff but his hands steady. Tinker helped, his ears flat, muttering about recalibrating the relay net so "next time it actually works before breakfast." I let them have their grumbling; it was easier than talking about the way the monsters had moved—organized, patient, mean in a way that felt practiced.

Embergleam and Hoarder walked the inner perimeter together. I caught a snatch of their conversation as they passed: "Three different marks. Some old, some new." Embergleam’s tail twitched. "They’re changing them on purpose. Telling each other what’s safe, what’s a trap." Hoarder’s answer was just a nod, his eyes on the tree line.

Quicktongue popped up beside me, eyes rimmed with sleepless red. "Letters," she said, shoving a handful of scraps at my chest. "We started a session—’just in case.’ Relay’s writing instructions for whoever takes her runner job. Even Flick is drawing a map, or pretending to." She shrugged. "If this is the last time, I’d rather leave more than ashes."

I shoved the paper into my pocket, unsure if I’d write anything. "Has anyone figured out what’s really different? Besides the obvious?"

Quicktongue’s mouth twisted. "We’re not the only ones getting smarter."

She darted away before I could answer, already calling out to Bitterstack about new evacuation posts.

Cinders caught me before I could disappear, holding out a battered tin cup. "Eat, drink, keep moving. If I find you asleep on your feet again I’m stuffing you in the supply crate."

We stood for a while at the edge of the square, watching the Gen-2s paint messy, hopeful luck marks on the clinic door. Glare showed two of them how to knot a bandage with one hand, turning it into a game until they laughed. Bitterstack checked the medical kit again and again, then slipped extra sweets into the ration bags for the smallest kobolds.

Stonealign finished another pass on the main barricade and reported to Splitjaw, "Eastern approach still quiet. But it’s too quiet. If they wanted to hit us again, now’s the time."

Splitjaw nodded, silent for once, eyes fixed on the horizon.

A system ping flickered at the edge of my vision.

[Status: Defensive Posture — Maintained]

[Notice: Enemy Movement: Inconclusive]

[Morale: Guarded. Recommendation: Encourage Routine]

We made our routines: repairs, patrols, double-checking everything. Quicktongue gathered the core crew for a meal in the main hall—no talk of Gorak, no jokes about the system, just the sound of chewing and the scrape of bowls. Cinders said a few words over the food, nothing fancy: "We’re here. That’s enough."

Afterward, we lingered. Embergleam tuned the lanterns. Flick asked to check the gate one more time. Even Chaos found a moment to polish the golem’s jaw so it would "look less like it wants to bite somebody."

No one said "safe." No one said "tomorrow."

The night pressed close. Some kobolds wrote, others cleaned, a few just sat and waited, trading silent glances. Ashring held together by stubbornness and old promises.

When the tremor hit—deeper, meaner, with a sound under it like a distant song—we were already halfway to the doors. The bowls rattled, a lantern swung, someone cursed.

Outside, the city was still. Inside, every breath waited.

I stood by the window and listened, feeling the ground’s warning all the way up my spine.

It wasn’t over. It was just beginning.