POV: Narūn
When the war ended,
I was suddenly pulled back into the white room.
The mist was calm, the light soft and even.
No blood, no steel, no screams.
Only silence.
Then she appeared again—
the AI.
Her form shimmered, still undefined,
but her voice was clearer than ever.
"The mission is complete," she said calmly.
"You survived. You achieved your goal."
I remained silent for a moment.
My body still remembered every cut, every blow, every echo of the blade.
But deep inside, there was something else: pride.
"What now?" I asked.
The AI tilted her head slightly.
"What you forged in that battle is more than just a name. It's a symbol."
I looked at my hands.
Covered in blood in the simulation,
now calm, still as stone.
"The Black Company has been born," I whispered.
The AI didn't respond immediately. Then, in a softer voice, she said:
"And it will grow. But not through war alone. You need influence, allies, resources. Your next mission will lay the foundation for all of that."
A new window appeared before me—floating, pulsing with gentle light.
New mission unlocked:
A Place in Vallegrad
Establish a base for your company within the city. Seek contracts, negotiate with factions, and earn your reputation as a leader.
I took a deep breath.
The war was over, yes.
But the real work was just beginning.
And this time, it wasn't about survival—
it was about legacy.
About making Ogodai a name remembered.
---
POV: Narūn
The morning sun was already burning over the streets of Vallegrad as I set out.
My goal was clear:
I needed a base.
A place large enough to house my company.
Not just soldiers, but trainers, blacksmiths, quartermasters—and maybe even diplomats.
Something that could grow.
Just like Ogodai itself.
The streets were busier than ever.
Rumors of the battle still hung in the air, mixed with the scent of spices and sweat.
I moved through the districts, speaking with brokers, merchants, and informants.
Prices were high. Distrust toward mercenaries even higher.
And yet—I found something.
An old warehouse on the edge of the third district.
Stone walls, massive but weathered.
A deserted courtyard—ideal for training.
Access to the harbor and main roads.
Potential.
But it belonged to someone.
A former weapons dealer, who hadn't used it in years.
He was suspicious when I knocked.
But I offered him something more valuable than gold:
A place in history.
"If you give me this place," I said,
"your name will be carved into its walls when the Black Company becomes legend."
He stared at me for a long time. Then laughed.
"You've got guts, Hobgoblin. And a vision. I'll give you a shot."
So it began.
With stone and dust.
With dreams and discipline.
A warehouse became a fortress.
A name became a legend.
Ogodai had found a home.
---
POV: Narūn
The renovations began the very same day.
The walls were cleaned, the roof repaired, the courtyard cleared of weeds.
I hired a dozen workers—dwarves for the masonry, orcs for heavy lifting, humans for logistics.
Khar took over the armory.
I worked closely with the builders to turn the old structure into something resilient.
A large hall became the war room.
A shed in the yard turned into a training arena.
The upper floor was rebuilt to house dormitories, an office, and a small cartography chamber.
It was still raw, unfinished, dusty.
But as I stood on the newly fortified grounds that evening, hammer in hand, I knew:
This was just the beginning.
---
POV: Narūn
The reactions didn't take long to come.
The factions in Vallegrad had heard the whispers, seen the name.
The Naturekeepers eyed us with suspicion.
They feared that another military force might disturb the city's fragile balance.
The Engineers' Brotherhood showed interest.
Dwarves respected discipline, order, and long-term planning—they offered initial support with defense improvements.
The Trade Guild watched us closely. Cautious.
A new player could be good for business—or very bad.
They sent a representative to investigate.
Only the Military Coalition came directly.
An emissary of the city militia—a scarred old captain with a cynical gaze—came by, studied the warehouse, and said only:
"If you keep your promises and stay out of trouble, maybe Vallegrad has a place for you."
I nodded.
That was more than I'd expected.
The Black Company had begun to make its mark.
Not through war. Not yet.
But through presence.
Through strength.
Through vision.
---
POV: Narūn
Three days after the renovations were completed, a knock came at our gate.
A messenger—young, nervous, with a merchant crest on his chest—handed me a sealed letter.
The note was brief, direct, and full of purpose:
> "A caravan to South-Vallegrad requires armed escort. Payment fair. Discretion expected.
If you wish to prove yourselves, come to the market hall this evening.
– H."
I read it twice.
So this was it: our first official contract.
No glory. No war.
Just honest, simple mercenary work.
But I should have known better.
Mercenary work is never simple.
When we arrived at the market hall that evening, the meeting was quiet.
Too quiet.
A few guards, a silent negotiator, a sealed contract.
But something felt wrong.
The route was too remote.
The cargo too valuable.
And the questions they asked sounded more like a test than a task.
I signed it anyway.
Because only real fire proves whether steel is tempered.
What I didn't know then was this:
This job was a trap.
And we walked straight into it.