Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 77: We Fought Smoke. It Tried to Copy Our Breathing

The thing we fought didn’t leave a corpse. No body. No blood. Just a smudge on the ground where the heat went sideways and a patch of air that no one wanted to breathe anymore.

Which is rude, frankly. If you’re going to try to kill me, at least leave something I can autopsy or loot.

I stood at the edge of the basin. Dust in my fur, ash clinging to everything. My claws ached like I’d spent the last hour gripping something too tightly. I had. My own control. The basin flame didn’t recover.

It just sat there. Barely burning. Giving off the kind of warmth you only noticed because you were colder than usual.

I paced around the edge. Not sure what I was looking for. Not sure I’d recognize it if I saw it.

Relay held up his slate. Blank.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.

Probably both. Nothing like facing unspeakable horror only to discover it didn’t even leave enough vibes behind to sketch.

Cinders crouched at the far edge of the square, watching a cluster of villagers who were trying to relight their cooking pit. Not one of them used the standard spark-crook. They were copying my flame magic from earlier—badly.

It didn’t work.

They tried again.

And again.

I crossed the square before I realized I was moving.

"You don’t need to do that," I said. "Just light it like you used to."

The eldest among them—a heavyset man with smoke scars on his neck—looked up.

"But yours worked."

"Mine worked because I’ve done it about a thousand times in fights that almost killed me. And because I got lucky."

He nodded like I’d just shared a sacred truth.

Relay walked up, looking annoyed.

I dragged a hand down my face.

"Alright," I said. "How bad?"

"Bad" He said.

"Helpful."

He jabbed a thumb back toward the basin. "That thread-thing we hit? It didn’t copy just our movements. It mimicked our tempo. Our choices. If we’d hesitated, it would’ve done something else."

"And?"

"And it got far too close to doing it right."

I looked around. Smoke was still bleeding up from the north quarter. The wind didn’t know where to take it.

"I want a scan of every cooking pit, heat vent, and flame spot in this village. Anything that looks like it’s learning gets doused or smashed."

Cinders nodded and peeled off.

Relay hesitated. "You think this is going to happen again?"

"I think we’re the rehearsal."

He flinched.

A crack rang out behind us. freewёbnoνel.com

We didn’t speak after that.

Didn’t need to.

Because somewhere out there, someone was shaping these things. And they were using our footprints as a stencil.

---

The rest of the expedition team wasn’t here.

Flick had been sent ahead on a wide recon loop and hadn’t checked back yet, which probably meant he was fine and doing something stupid. Glare had peeled off to guard the southern path with a trio of villagers—his idea, naturally, because apparently dramatic poses required witnesses. Tinker was sent back to the half-elf archive compound, still patching golem circuitry. They weren’t idle. Just spread thin.

Ashring didn’t travel in packs anymore.

It sent pieces.

I gave the villagers instructions: keep fires small, rituals informal, and under no circumstances try to "bless" anything with my name attached. They nodded like I was telling them not to breathe underwater.

Which, to be fair, was still slightly more believable than the phrase "it mimicked our tempo."

We didn’t stay long, left the village before anyone started singing.

Because they were going to.

I could see it in the way one of the kids was tapping the edge of a burned pot. In how two elders leaned toward each other like they were workshopping lyrics. If we stuck around, they’d turn our scrambled defense into a sacred chant.

And if I heard someone call me "The Curved Claw" again, I was going to scream.

Fun fact: I don’t have a curved claw. They just made that up because it sounded cool. Or possibly cursed. I can’t tell with artists.

So we walked.

The mercenaries still hadn’t moved from their lean on the village wall, but they watched us leave like they were already filing a report.

No one waved.

No one burned incense.

Probably for the best.

Outside the village, the trail was half-buried. Ash and slush. Broken mosscrete. No clear route.

Didn’t matter.

We weren’t going far.

Just out. Just enough to breathe. Or try to at least.

I slowed once the tree line hit. Dropped to a crouch. Let my claws dig into the half-frozen earth.

Cinders plopped down next to me with a sigh. "We’re losing this."

I didn’t ask what she meant. It could’ve been the village, the myth, the system, or just the battle for her own nerves.

Probably all of it.

She looked younger when he was mad. Not like a soldier. Like a kid who just realized the world didn’t come with a manual.

I wanted to tell her we were doing fine. That this was the job. That some battles aren’t meant to be won, just survived loudly enough that the world notices.

I didn’t say any of that. Mostly because I didn’t believe it yet.

So I ignored her.

"We track the pulse trail," I said.

Relay blinked. "You saw one?"

I nodded. "Sort of. The fire pulled in before the construct dropped. Like a sinkhole made of heat. That didn’t just happen. Something called it."

"You think it came from the mimic base?"

"I think it came from wherever they’re writing this new version of me."

The wind shifted.

Behind us, a smoke line curled into view. Faint. Weird color.

Relay stood first.

"That’s not from the village."

Cinders was already pulling her spoon-sling.

I stood slower. Brushed the ash off my coat.

"That’s our next stop."

And just like that, the breathing room was gone.

Because somewhere nearby, someone had rewritten my story.

And I was going to find the edit. Then burn the publisher.

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