Samson and the wolves were more than enough to keep the former red orc prisoners in check, I was abundantly confident in that. Even the weakest wolf still had five levels on the strongest former prisoner, with no doubt several titles to boot.

Just to be safe though I asked Samson to keep them well away from civilians to build their homes. For a moment, I wondered how well they would fare with only combat classes.

Eh, it would be fine. People built skyscrapers before mana even existed, it wasn't a requirement that things must be built with magic.

I was still on the fence about how we were going to fund their reclassification. According to Ellison, it was upwards of 100,000 UBC's depending on the level of your current class. But that was a problem I wasn't interested in thinking about now, like so many other things I forced it to the back of my mind and focused on the task at hand.

It was time to complete my special objective. We needed to grow our reach and we needed to do it peacefully.

This time around, we were going to do it right.

***

Harold knew this day was coming. It would take a fool not to see it, all it took was a glance at the territory rankings to know his life and the life of his faction, was on borrowed time.

What he didn't understand though, was how Faction Layton Mischief jumped an entire one thousand points without claiming a single territory. No matter how he reasoned, it made no sense. Even if one of the other neighboring factions attacked and were defeated they wouldn't provide enough experience points for such a giant leap.

No, it had to be an increase in population, that was the only answer. Only none of the border factions were absorbed either. Was there some kind of nomadic group that found their way through several hostile territories to seek asylum? But that begged the question, why? If they had a score of one thousand that would place them soundly in the top 5 of this region, why not claim their own territory?

Harold was still grappling with what the numbers might mean when Faction LM made its first move at expansion.

It happened in a blink.

A territory in your region is being challenged.

Harold quickly opened his map, in order to watch the numbers. The territory being challenged, the section just northeast of Layton Mischief, blinked from blue to red.

1,978, a strong score for this region.

His hands gripped the edges of the screen. By simply watching the numbers Harold would be able to learn a lot. For instance, if the faction rankings dropped at close to the same rate it might suggest that each faction was roughly the same average level and power.

In a perfect world this is the scenario he hoped to see. He reasoned that, if the numbers trickled down slowly on both sides, then neither faction was likely to have a powerhouse.

He leaned closely to the interface watching the numbers on the screen.

1,978, 1960, 1942, 1895… The numbers of the faction being challenged plummeted. Panic erupted in his chest and he glanced towards Faction LM.

They might as well have been etched in stone.

His eyes darted back to the defending territory.

1,257, 1,145…..

His heart dropped into his stomach. In minutes the flashing blue red stopped and the territory color changed to gold, the assigned color of Faction Layton Mischief.

A complete victory.

He checked the number again.

Not a single point was lost from Faction Layton Mischief and neither was there a point gained. So not only had they not lost a single person—but completely wiping out a faction hadn't earned any of the fighters a single evolution. That could really only mean one thing.

Everyone involved in that fight had to already be evolved.

Upon witnessing the complete decimation of a faction that on paper would've destroyed his own was enough to convince him.

It was time to flee. He wasted no time, the call was raised and people moved in a frenzy to gather what they could. Packing belongings wasn't an issue. Dimensional storages made things easy enough, the challenge was deciding where they would retreat to. Leaving their defenses was bad enough, let alone plunging into the unknown of an already occupied territory, but what choice did they have?

A small group of his friends and colleagues argued around a small table on what the next best course of actions should be. No one wanted to leave. They argued they might still have time, maybe faction Layton Mischief would target one of the other neighboring factions, or maybe they wouldn't attack at all.

But Harold knew it was wishful thinking. Before the day was even out, hundreds of glowing red dots materialized at the borders of his territory. This was a feature he'd purchased, costing him a small fortune. It was meant to give him an advantage over invaders and keep his people that much safer.

Now? All it did was fill his heart with dread.

Harold threw open the door to his cottage, and ran into the dirt streets. "They're here! Get ready, the enemy is here!"

At each stride he passed by small homes that his people built. Simple log structures with patchwork branch roofs. He knew it wasn't much, not yet, but each home represented a family or a friend. Together, they'd fought and bled to survive in the dungeon, fending off waves of mana spawn just at a shot for something greater.

Frightened faces turned towards him as he ran.

If only their dungeon had been placed just a few territories farther south things might've gone differently. They could've had more time to prepare, brought in more kinsmen to build defenses, they just needed more time!

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But time was out, and so the two hundred and thirty five fighters gathered together and made their ways to the outer defenses, while their thirty five builders all sought shelter in the main hall.

By the time the enemy arrived, people were still scrambling to get into position. The wooden palisade walls surrounding the town used to bring Harold such comfort before an attack, they were even in the process of reinforcing the walls with heavy stones on the interior to add greater durability when the dungeons opened. It was these very defenses that gave them the advantage over the other challengers in the territory.

Now though? The walls seemed like child's play. With a heavy breath, he drew his sturdy wooden longbow from his spatial storage.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and Harold smiled bitterly at his longtime friend.

"I'm sorry Geoff."

Geoff chuckled. "What are you sorry for? We made it farther than either of us even dreamed. I thought for sure you'd at least die in the dungeon."

Harold's eyes began to burn so he grunted and focused his attention on the tree line. He knew how his friend really felt. Geoff wanted to bring his family into this new world, he wanted to hold his daughter again. But if Harold brought it up his friend would simply tell him that they knew the risks.

Not like he had the time to dwell on it though.

A juggernaut emerged from the trees.

Resplendent silver blue armor gleamed in the sunlight, a menacing heavy warhammer rested against his shoulder, the top nearly touching the antlers that were either ornamental on his helmet or part of the creature.

As is if that wasn't enough, he was flanked by several hundred professional soldiers with heavy chest plates and spears.

Harold gave an appraising glance at Geoff. Blue skin and bald he was tall for an Azulite—several hands taller than his own six feet. He didn't wear armor though. None of them did. The best they'd been able to pull together was rough leather fashioned from pelts taken from anomalies.

And they weren't crafted by an artisan either, so at best it might slightly reduce slicing damage, but he doubted it would even accomplish that.

"They even have a healer." Geoff mused. Harold looked back up, and sure enough, a small man stood calmly next to the blue clad juggernaut.

He sniffed.

Well—odds be dammed, he wasn't about to go quietly. Harold wouldn't spend the last of his mortal life as a coward.

He raised his bow, took aim, and charged every ounce of his bracer skill into the most powerful shot he could muster. Might as well start with the healer, he thought as the bow string rolled free and the arrow flew.

The air hissed as his shot zipped two hundred yards in a fraction of second. The skill he used drew from both his strength and his agility. He'd focused nearly all of his stats around those two, barring some in sense to give him better sight. At level 27 he'd created a truly formidable opening attack.

It didn't matter. The shot didn't even come close.

The arrow deflected wildly, ricocheting high into the sky disappearing into a fluffy white cloud. Not one of the invaders so much as flinched at the incoming attack.

"If you have a skill, let them have it!" Harold screamed, and his faction obeyed.

Arrows and skills alike peppered the invisible barrier skirting off and either ricocheting away or rebounding into the ground casting up dust and earth in great waves.

He raised a hand and one by one the attacks receded.

Harold squinted, trying to make out the result of their attacks. A heavy cloud of dust obscured everything beyond it.

Was it possible they'd actually caused some damage?

The dust parted, twisting and curling as two figures emerged. They walked casually, as if simply enjoying the pre-autumn weather.

One, the giant in blue armor, and the other? The healer.

Harold raised his bow, and reached for an arrow. To his faction's credit, they waited and watched for him to indicate their next move.

He'd seen enough. They'd unleashed everything they had and it wasn't even enough to give them pause. Watching the two cross the killing field, they might as well have been strolling home from a night on the town.

They weren't even carrying their weapons. He tilted his head.

Why weren't they carrying their weapons? Come to think of it, why were they just walking towards their camp at all? Shouldn't they be charging in to crush them?

By all accounts they should be able to with ease.

This was not playing out how he imagined it.

"What are they doing?" Geoff whispered.

Harold wasn't sure, but what he did know was that this faction was fresh off the decimation of another faction just today.

Had they used the same strange antics then?

For some reason, his eyes kept dropping from the large creature he assumed was the faction leader, onto the small healer. And the more he did the more he lost his will to fight. He lowered his bow, and the two invaders stopped.

The healer scanned the ramparts, before his gaze settled on Harold. He felt his pulse spike.

The boy shouted.

"My name is Layton Shepard, and I'm here to negotiate! Peacefully!"

***

All in all I was fairly pleased by how everything played out.

My goal was to try and recreate a scenario similar to meeting the Guildians, hit'em with a little razzle dazzle. I figured we'd send Durkil out first as a bit of an appetizer, followed by the elves, and then the main course would be a dome of protection doing its thing.

Walking through the cloud of dust at the end really was just the chef's kiss at the end. It really was starting to make sense to me why there was the old Hollywood trope of walking away from explosions.

By the time we reached the ramparts it was painted all over the blue faces of the grown up smurf looking people that our theatrics were successful.

But which one was the faction leader? I scanned the rickety wall, examining each of the blue humanoids in turn.

It really was uncanny how human they looked. Outside of the blue skin they might as well be human, with maybe slightly more pointed noses and longer, more oval heads. Most of them were draped in patchworks of animal hides.

After a second of looking them over, my crosshairs landed on one blue man in particular.

There wasn't really much different about him then all the rest, aside from the fact that he was standing with his arm half raised as if not sure what his next command should be. It seemed like a good place to start.

"My name is Layton Shepard, and I'm here to negotiate! Peacefully!"

The blue man on the wall shifted uneasily, eyes darting back and forth between Durkil and myself. It didn't bother me that I was becoming increasingly less intimidating compared to others in my faction. Really, I was fine with it.

But damn, did it happen a lot. Who could blame them though? Sometimes even I couldn't help but just gawk at Durkil's sheer awesomeness when he wasn't looking.

"I'm the faction leader of Layton Mischief and this is my friend Durkil. We don't want to fight. Is it possible to speak with the leader here?"

The blue man let his hand drop. "I'm Harold. I'm the leader of this faction. What is it you want to say?"

This is the point where I probably should've brought along Ellison but he was busy in a planning meeting with Enora and Jared, so it was up to my subtle and refined salesmanship to save the day.

With a grin, I shouted to the man atop the wall.

"I would like you to surrender and join our faction."

It was almost imperceptible, but I was pretty sure I heard a groan escape Durkil's helmet. That's not really fair, I thought. I was pretty sure I was speaking in whatever language these blue people used.

Did he really just assume my pitch was groan worthy? Rude.

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