CHAPTER 87: THAT’S NOT MY JOB ANYMORE, APPARENTLY

We didn’t patch a single roof. We didn’t haul any buckets. We didn’t fix anything except our own pulse rates and the pile of busted, definitely-not-standard-issue gear lying in a heap at the edge of camp.

For the first time since the world went sideways, Ashring’s finest did absolutely nothing productive. Splitjaw sprawled on a crate, feet up, sharpening his favorite blade while threatening to slice Chaos’s fingers off if he tried to "fix the edge." Embergleam lay flat on her back in the grass, eyes closed, quietly muttering flame ratios and meal plans to herself. Quicktongue kept writing notes, then tearing them up, then writing them again. I didn’t have the heart to ask what she was actually keeping.

I sat on the well curb, hands still shaking a little, and watched the sun finally crawl up over the village wall. The whole place smelled like wet ash and too many bad decisions.

I felt this special kind of exhaustion. Your body knows it should relax, but your mind keeps prodding your ribs with invisible sticks, saying "you sure you’re not forgetting something?" Usually, the answer is yes.

This time, I wasn’t sure.

So when the Hero showed up—quiet, boots almost too clean for this much chaos—I wasn’t even surprised. Just nodded at him, because words felt like too much.

He looked at the squad, at the aftermath, at the dust on our faces, and didn’t say anything for a good, long while.

Chaos piped up, waving a half-melted vial, "If you’re here to ask about the lab, we already broke it. Twice. You can mark that off your list."

He almost smiled. Not quite.

He crouched near the ruined slab where our copycat enemies had last been pulped. "The guild is sending more people. Finally figured out this is bigger than one outpost."

Quicktongue snorted. "How many days late is that?"

He didn’t flinch. "Late, but not absent."

That was the nicest thing anyone had said about Guild management lately. I almost applauded.

Embergleam sat up, brushing ash from her hair. "What are they looking for, exactly? Or do we get to write the forms for them too?"

He looked around, scanning the shadows. "They want sites. There’ll be more raids like this, if we don’t get ahead."

Splitjaw flicked a knife up, caught it with one hand. "We’re not volunteers anymore."

He nodded, meeting my eyes. "You don’t have to be. Guild will cover it. Supervise. Even pay, if you submit your claims." The way he said "claims" made me suspect paperwork was involved. And probably a three-week wait for compensation.

Quicktongue groaned, "Great, more forms. I could set the world on fire with all the forms I haven’t filled out."

Chaos perked up, "Do we get hazard pay for the mimic nonsense? Or at least a snack stipend?"

Hero considered it for a moment, then deadpanned, "I’ll put in a request. But no promises."

I liked him more for not lying about it.

The Hero stood, brushing dust from his knees. "You’re officially relieved. Guild will take statements and clean up the rest. I recommend you head back to Ashring."

Splitjaw grinned, "That means we get to leave before they rope us into another side quest."

Chaos immediately started repacking his gear, "I heard that as ’free time.’ I vote we actually use it."

Quicktongue rolled her eyes. "Define ’free.’"

The Hero watched all this with a kind of patient fondness that made me weirdly suspicious. "Just... don’t disappear, okay? The Guild will have questions."

I saluted with the most sarcastic flourish I could muster. "We’ll be around. Ashring’s not moving."

He almost smiled again.

Almost.

He turned, pausing halfway down the broken main street. "Thank you. All of you. No one else would’ve stuck it out this long."

Splitjaw muttered, "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta be the bad idea in the history books."

And then, because he’s Splitjaw, he tossed the Hero an apple pilfered from a villager’s crate.

"Eat something. You look like you just lost a bet."

The Hero caught it, looked baffled, and kept walking.

We watched him go, the silence stretching into something comfortable for the first time in days.

For once, nobody tried to fill it.

I didn’t know what to say.

So I didn’t.

I just sat there, letting it all settle in.

The world would keep spinning.

The Guild would handle the aftermath.

For a brief, shining moment, none of it was my problem.

That felt almost as good as winning.

We didn’t pack up right away. The villagers tried to thank us, which went about as smoothly as a cart stuck in mud.

A few came forward, someone shoved a half-loaf of bread at Embergleam, who blinked twice and mumbled thanks. Splitjaw got two jars of pickled roots and a slap on the back that nearly knocked him over. Quicktongue was handed a hand-woven basket full of something that squirmed. He didn’t open it. Just nodded like this was perfectly normal. Glare got something too, I will hand it to him later.

I got a new scarf. Hand-dyed, rough-spun, and only a little bit burnt around the edges. The old woman who gave it to me didn’t say anything. Just pressed it into my hands, squeezed my wrist, and walked away.

I stood there, scarf in hand, feeling like I’d missed a punchline to a joke I wasn’t supposed to understand.

We sat in a loose circle—villagers, Ashring squad, stragglers, and the odd Guild scout who drifted in like he’d been caught in a storm of weirdness and only now realized he was hungry.

People asked questions, half out of curiosity, half out of awe. Is it true kobolds can breathe fire if they eat enough root bark? Splitjaw assured them he could, but only after his third breakfast.

But the Guild presence kept growing, and with it, the sense that this was no longer our problem to fix.

A pair of senior Guild clerks showed up mid-afternoon, all starched collars and tired eyes. They set up a table right in the middle of the road and started asking questions.

Name, rank, account of the incident.

Quicktongue was first. She answered with the truth, plus three unnecessary side stories and a running commentary on the Guild’s complete lack of management.

Embergleam just said, "We handled it. Nobody died," and sat down again.

Chaos claimed not to remember anything except a lot of yelling and something about a fake with "the wrong number of teeth."

They finally got to me.

I gave them the basics. No lies. No flourishes. Just the facts—raid, mimic fakes, the underground, the weird table, the journal we left untouched. When they asked if I had any recommendations for future defense, I almost said "better compost signs," but thought better of it.

The clerks scribbled everything down. They thanked us with that brittle, official kind of gratitude that always feels like an apology and a warning at the same time.

Then they told us we could go.

Splitjaw led the way, gear packed in one massive bundle across his shoulders. Quicktongue lagged behind, double-checking that we hadn’t left any sketches or tools in the dirt. Embergleam paused to thank the old woman who’d given me the scarf, and Chaos—who had somehow acquired a hat two sizes too small—waved at every child he saw.

We left as a group.

No speeches. No grand farewells.

Just footsteps down a muddy road.

The sun was low when Ashring finally came into view.

I felt the knot in my chest loosen, just a little.

Home.

Splitjaw stomped through the threshold like a victorious war general who’d personally defeated architecture. "ASHRING! You glorious pile of stone-boiled nonsense, we live!"

A kobold guard at the outermost warding circle blinked twice, saluted with the wrong hand, and shouted, "SPLITJAW-RETURN PROTOCOL ALPHA!" before vanishing down the hall.

Chaos limped in backwards, dragging two crates and muttering something about jam and tax evasion, no idea how these two came together.

Quicktongue nearly ran ahead. Embergleam walked slower, savoring each step. Chaos tripped, caught herself, and grinned like he hadn’t just spent these days fighting for his life. We all did.

It was probably familiarity—a reminder that you can always walk home, even if it’s just to see what needs fixing next.

The system pinged, I never noticed but it has been so long.

[Base Settlement Functions Reactivated.]

["Core Guidance" Mode: Passive]

[Leadership Absence Logged – Current Duration: 56 Days, 3 Hours, 52 Minutes]

[Morale Penalty Averted: Delegation Subroutine ACTIVE (Embergleam, Chaos)]

[Personal Inbox (Unread): 82 Messages]

That explained a few things.

Also, I was never opening that inbox. Let the missives rot.

Everybody nodded, once. "We missed you."

The dungeon rumbled, low and warm. Just for a second.

Yeah I missed you too

I stepped forward, finally, and the light behind me dimmed.

Not triumph.

Not peace.

But something else. Something with roots, and floors that remembered your footsteps.

Ashring.

Alive, chaotic, and still standing.

And I was back.