[Chapter 142. Not the Children]

Minutes passed in the quiet darkness of the ruined building. Sarah sat alone on the edge of the bed long after he had left, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The room still carried the faint scent of metal and dust from his armor, grounding and unsettling at the same time. Eventually, she lay down without getting dressed again, staring at the cracked ceiling.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy in the stale air of the room, broken only by her breathing and as she played out the scenario she had expected.

A wild kiss as he pulled her against his body, his arm around her slim waist holding her possessively. She could feel the tension coiling in her body, the rapid, shallow puffs of air against his neck that would betray her fear. "Thirty more minutes, then I have to leave," he would murmur, his lips brush against her hair, the strands catching on his unshaven jaw.

She would give no response, just a soft press of her cheek against his shoulder as her body trembled slightly, a barely perceptible shudder would travel through her entire frame.

When the time came, he would carefully pried her fingers from his tunic, one by one, and slipped out from beside her. His heavy boots would echo in the deep night as he left the building, the sound soon swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

Outside, Searanox mounted his drone and vanished into the night without a backward glance, vanishing into the darkness that had fallen over the ruined city.

The routine remained unchanged—clears, looting, repeats. As he reached the plains once again, his drones harvested ten tons of meat from the beasts of prey, their bodies falling to his precise shots before they could even register his presence. When he returned to the city, the first hints of dawn were already painting the distant horizon with faint streaks of light, a false promise of a new day that brought no relief from their desperate cycle.

He directed the cargo drones to hover near the desk where Samantha and Rayan would soon organize the distribution among the citizens, their work beginning with the first light of day, a grim rhythm that had become the city's heartbeat.

An hour later, he approached the second dungeon portal. Five figures stood waiting in the past-dawn gloom, their silhouettes outlined against the shimmering blue energy of the entrance. This time, they held appropriate gear—shield for the Guardians, staves for the casters, their previous incompetence replaced by a silent acknowledgment of their previous failures. He passed them without a word, motioning for them to follow with a curt gesture, his patience worn thin by the endless repetition.

Inside, he summoned a squadron of drones, their mechanical forms advanced into the dungeon with silent efficiency. The system window appeared even faster than before, the notification of complete clearance blinking into existence almost immediately. They reached level eight just by standing at the entrance for a few minutes, the experience washing over them without a single blow struck, a hollow progression that offered no satisfaction.

When they emerged, Searanox was nowhere to be found. The portal behind them had darkened to a deep blue, a clear signal that it was in its regeneration phase and that no one remained inside.

Searanox leaned against the crumbling hotel wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, listening as Rayan delivered the first useful information he'd heard in days. The meat he brought was more filling than the old supplies. The degree wasn't clear yet, but the effect was undeniable as people moved with more purpose, their gaunt faces less haunted than before. The revelation was immediately overshadowed by Rayan's next words, delivered in a monotone that belied their devastating weight.

"Thirty-two thousand, six hundred twelve residents," Rayan said, his voice steady but strained beneath the surface. "Fourteen thousand, two hundred eighty-seven are children. Eighty percent of adults are too scared to go near the dungeon. About half won't leave their homes except for food rations."

`Scared. Comfortable parasites. Taking food but refusing to contribute.`

Searanox's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly through his nose, the scent of rot and dust doing nothing to calm the rising tide of fury. When he opened them, the world was tinged with red at the edges as he pushed off the wall with a scrape of armor against stone. "Break that down differently," he said finally. "Separate by physical capability, not legal definition."

Rayan paused, brow furrowed deeply as if the question was utterly absurd. "You mean—working capacity?"

"The law no longer exists; it ceased to exist with the arrival of the system, so yes." Searanox said, his voice flat and dead as he took another step forward, the space between them shrinking to a few feet. "Anyone capable of sustained labor should be categorized as such," He held Rayan's gaze, watching the man flinch under his stare. "Ten and above can begin structured contribution. Lighter tasks for younger ones. Education remains necessary, but it must include practical training. Fitness. Discipline. Basic tactics. Skip politics, History and Geography that won't be necessary for immediate survival."

"This isn't about punishment. It's about sustainability. I can provide food. I cannot carry thirty thousand people indefinitely." he stepped closer until his shadow fell over Rayan completely, the man having to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.

“What are you proposing specifically?” Rayan asked carefully.

"Organized labor rotation. Field work scaled by capacity. Training blocks introduced for adolescents who qualify. No one is being thrown into combat. But no one remains idle either."

Rayan sat frozen behind the desk, the stack of citizen registers spread before him, their edges curling from humidity and frantic handling. Across the room, a pen slipped from Samantha's fingers and clattered against the stone floor, the sharp sound echoing in the silence that had fallen after Searanox's declaration. She bent to retrieve it, her movements stiff and unnatural as if her joints had locked in place. "Isn't ten a bit young?" she asked, her voice barely audible, each word trembling as it passed her lips.

"Times have changed." Searanox's voice was low but carried through the room like a whip crack, making them both flinch. "Set reasonable quotas, work in shifts. But finish the fields today. Adjust upward if efficiency increases. We have to scale the field up in the near future."

Silence fell so thick they could hear their own blood pounding in their ears, their breathing shallow and tight in their chests. Completing the fields today, it was a major task. Rayan cleared his throat, the sound scraping like sandpaper in the suffocating quiet. "This is… different..."

"Yes, it is different as what they knew." Searanox placed his gauntlets against the desk the wood groaned under the stress. "But it may be what keeps all of them alive." He stared at them both, his eyes cold and unyielding, letting the weight of his words sink in like stones in deep water.

He didn't wait for a response. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, leaving Rayan and Samantha staring at each other across the desk, their faces reflecting the same thoughts. It made sense, they needed to improve to this new order the system brought with it. It'll be either everyone will contribute, or all for themselves, the moment the supplies he brought stop coming.

`As if I'd run a charity. They think food grows on trees... Well technically it does, but the meat certainly doesn't.`

Searanox walked toward the room Wolfgang and Jürgen had claimed, his heavy boots echoing on the stone hallway. The door hung open, and from the threshold he could see the three young men working under the old hunter's supervision, their backs to him. One stood over a large basin, his arms elbow-deep in dark liquid as he scrubbed raw hides against a rough surface with rhythmic, mechanical movements. The other two moved between the drying racks that lined the walls, their quick, efficient motions suggesting Wolfgang had already taught them the basics during the morning. Sunlight streamed through a grimy window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

"How's the setup?" Searanox asked, stepping into the room. The stench of chemicals and wet fur was immediate, overpowering—a foul combination that made the back of his throat prickle. The space appeared smaller than he remembered, crammed with racks and worktables, every surface utilized. The young men flinched at his voice, their movements faltering for a moment before Wolfgang barked at them to continue.

"Better than expected," Wolfgang said without looking up, his calloused fingers working on a drenched skin. "The bottles in your kit... bottomless. No matter how much we pour, there's always more." He lifted the hide, twisting it to test its suppleness. The liquid dripping from it was darker than water, thicker, smelling sharply of acrid chemicals. "We've already processed fifty hides in just a few hours."

`Another System item. Should have anticipated it.` Searanox scanned the room, noting the growing pile of processed furs stacked neatly in one corner. "That explains the efficiency."

Wolfgang laughed, a dry, rusty sound that seemed to scrape against his throat. "We'll outgrow this room in two days at this rate. We also need tools to work the leather properly." He gestured to a simple knife on the table. "These are for scraping. For actual crafting—armor, bags, straps—we need proper equipment. Awls, punches, stitching tools."

"Take another floor. Or another building if you need it." Searanox gestured vaguely toward the staircase, his gauntlet catching the dim light. "For tools, ask around. Someone here must know something about smithing."

He paused at the door, turning back. "If you need more hides let me know. Just tell me how many."