The sun beat down on California City like a hammer, unrelenting and unforgiving—but it wasn’t enough to deter them.

The convoy rolled out in the golden haze of morning: three battered trucks, a pair of dirt bikes, and the dented, half-gutted RV they'd rigged into a mobile command post. A plume of dust trailed behind them, visible for miles. There were no scouts ahead—because this wasn’t a scouting run.

This was war.

John stood at the head of the convoy, boots coated in pale desert grit, radiant glyphs weaving slow, deliberate paths along his arms and shoulders. His voice cut through the heat like a blade.

"We take it one block at a time. Outposts, choke points, then secure the intersections. We sweep, we fortify—we hold. This isn’t about killing. It’s about claiming."

Gussa was at his side, shirtless under the sun, thorn-scars glinting, his aura a steady pulse like a war drum beneath his skin. The tension in the people behind them was thick. The other forty-odd survivors—the unawakened, the scavengers and farmers, mechanics and cooks—all huddled in the backs of the trucks with makeshift weapons and old-world tools. He’d heard their complaints the night before.

“There’s not enough damn space, Gussa. We’re stacked on top of each other like rats.”

“No beds left. No fresh water. We can't keep packing people in there.”

“If we don’t clear this city, we’ll all rot in that firehouse cage.”

This was the only way.

Michelle shouldered her rifle, her aura like flickering black smoke, shadow-stalks wrapping the barrel like eager hounds. Natalya tightened her gloves, the pale light of her Life-Force like glimmering frost beneath her skin. Milo cracked his knuckles, his berserker aura already twitching, smelling blood on the wind.

Martina emerged from the RV, bone-plate armor gleaming, skeletal shapes drifting like hungry ghosts around her shoulders. She nodded to Milo, and they both grinned like wolves.

“Let’s paint the city red,” Milo muttered.

Hailie and Lina rode in the second truck, Hailie tracing floating glyphs that sparked to life midair while Lina sat still, bark-armored skin gleaming, a living spear growing from her forearm.

Jonathan Brown rode in the rear, aura constructs flickering and adjusting to the terrain. Ian and Terriq were beside him—Ian’s hands aglow with soft white light, Terriq forming shimmering defensive barriers with a thought.

They weren’t alone.

Eight of the unawakened survivors came too. People without mana, without powers, without even proper training. People like Deena, a mother of two with a busted leg and a mean aim with a crossbow; Garrett, a former mechanic who’d fashioned crude molotovs out of engine oil and glass bottles; Kimiko, thin and sharp-eyed, her nerves steel-tight.

They knew the risks.

They came anyway.

The first engagement came fast.

At California City Blvd and Neuralia, the infected boiled out of cracked doorways and shattered windows—warped, blistered bodies, limbs like barbed wire, eyes hollow and slick with oily light.

The vanguard hit them head-on.

Gussa and John moved like twin storms—thorns and radiance, flare and impact. John blinked through space, glyph-sigils burning, while Gussa’s strikes came low and vicious, thorns bursting from his knuckles and splitting torsos open.

Michelle stalked the edges, rifle barking in tandem with shadow-flanked strikes. Natalya weaved between the fallen, siphoning sickness and venom, sealing wounds with bursts of green-gold light.

Martina hit like a living siege engine, bone mauls shattering skulls. Milo was pure chaos, berserker aura flickering like wildfire as he bulldozed through hordes, bloodied and laughing.

J. Brown called out sector markers, his constructs rising like shields to block sudden ambushes.

Hailie and Lina locked down the flanks, glyph traps igniting and living vines lashing out.

The eight civilians fought too—crossbows, hammers, old pistols scavenged from burnt-out homes. Deena nailed three in the eye before one overran her. Garrett saved her with a flaming bottle, but caught a bite to the throat. He died gurgling. Kimiko tried to pull him back but was dragged down under a snapping, mutated corpse. Four fell in the first two hours.

By sundown, eight were gone.

They left them where they fell—burned their bodies where they could, marked the fallen with glyphs to keep the corrupted mana from spreading.

But they won ground.

Block by block, the city began to breathe again. Fires were put out. Ward lines drawn. Survivors—more than thirty by nightfall—emerged from basements, from abandoned homes, from collapsed garages.

An old man with a working water pump. A teenager armed with a bow. A young couple carrying their sleeping baby.

Hope.

John stood on the courthouse roof, staring down at it all.

“We’re not survivors anymore,” he said. “We’re settlers. And this? This is New California City.”

Gussa, battered and bloodied, grinned through bruises. “We’ve got a long way to go.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “But tonight—we drink.”

Around a dozen campfires, people gathered. Laughter was hesitant at first, then loud, hungry. Michelle played a scavenged radio. Lina shared fresh water. Natalya patched up both Awakened and civilians alike.

The complaints about the firehouse’s tight space were gone.

Now there was open ground, sky overhead, a city ahead to rebuild.

Tonight belonged to them.

In the distance, across the Mojave flats, something massive moved beneath the earth.

But for now, none of them saw it.

They had claimed the city.

And earned it in blood.