Morning came, and like every day recently, I checked my status. It had become second nature, a way to gauge my progress and keep track of any changes. Today, however, I was greeted by prompts I had ignored during the chaos of the slaver attack.

  New grand magic skill learned:

  [Life-force Vampire]

  You have begun mastery of manipulating life-force. +10% efficiency of using life force. Life force can be consumed to increase lifespan. Life force can be given to other life forms to increase their lifespan.

  New grand sorcery learned:

  [Life-force Healing]

  Most learn to use light and water magic to heal. You learned to use life itself to heal all wounds and regenerate limbs. +10% efficiency with life-force when healing.

  “Well, that’s going to be a secret,” I muttered. The implications of these skills were staggering. The ability to extend lifespans or heal grievous injuries could upend everything. The healing alone would make me invaluable, but immortality? That could destabilize entire civilizations. No, this was something I couldn’t afford to let anyone know—not yet, anyway.

  For now, I stuck to borrowing life force from plants. They recovered quickly, and the forest had an abundance of flora that could replenish itself. I had no intention of overusing this magic; harming the forest to heal others seemed like trading one tragedy for another.

  Stepping out of my tent, I glanced at the dwelling across from mine. I no longer shared a tent with my parents—an inevitable step toward independence. My neighbors, a warm and caring lesbian couple, had adopted the green elf girl we’d rescued from the slavers. The child, now named Izy, was understandably wary of men after her ordeal. Watching her and her new sister, Una, playing together in the grass brought a rare smile to my face. Maybe, just maybe, this family could help Izy heal.

  Emma caught me watching and lightly smacked the back of my head. “Quit staring,” she teased.

  “What? It’s like every guy’s fantasy,” I joked, only half-serious.

  Her response was immediate and unrelenting. “Hey, my boobs are over here,” she quipped, pointing at her chest. My shocked eyebrow raise made her laugh, and I couldn’t help but join in.

  Recently, I’d begun to notice just how much our personalities had shifted in these new lives. Emma—once shy and reserved as Lucille—was now confident and bold. Her determination to claim what she wanted had been shaped by the trials she endured to reach me. I, on the other hand, was more outgoing than in my past life. Having a loving family, especially a mother, had drawn me out of my shell. Hopefully, it was for the better.

  The growing population of our village brought logistical challenges. We could no longer rely on the forest for sanitation. Pops and I took on the project of building a fireproof outhouse—an unconventional design that required magic to maintain. Each day, I used fire magic to burn the waste and wind magic to clear the ash and odor. “When did I become a janitor?” I grumbled.

  Another pressing need was fortification. Pops and I began constructing a wall around the village. I used earth magic to create the foundation, while Pops reinforced it with stone and steel brackets. It wasn’t a castle, but it was a start. Once completed, the wall would allow our guards to patrol efficiently, protecting everyone within.

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  Today was also a special day, one I’d been dreading. Grillo—“Pops” to me—had long ago asked my parents for permission to adopt me as his godson. The idea of becoming part of a dwarven family was both an honor and a heavy responsibility. As the first elf to ever receive this distinction, it was no small matter.

  The ceremony was traditional and deeply meaningful. A rune-like tattoo would be carved onto my chest, a mark that identified me as kin to the dwarves. Pops had waited a decade for this day, and his excitement was palpable. I couldn’t disappoint him, even if the process was... daunting.

  The ceremony began with me walking down an aisle between rows of spectators. In each hand, I carried my axes, “Slaver’s Bane.” They weren’t the weapons I had used to kill slavers, but the name had stuck, a symbol of what they represented.

  At the end of the aisle stood my father and Pops. Between them, a table held a knife and a bowl of ink. Two stone blocks marked the ceremonial site. When I reached the blocks, I drove an ax into each, embedding them deep into the stone. Then, I knelt before Pops, baring my chest.

  Pops asked a series of formal questions, each answered by either me or my father. With each answer, the gravity of the moment grew heavier. Finally, Pops dipped the knife into the ink and began carving the rune into my skin.

  The pain was excruciating, a burning, scraping agony that tested every ounce of my willpower. I clenched my fists, determined not to cry out. Emma, watching from the crowd, turned away, unable to bear seeing me in pain.

  When the ordeal was over, the rune—a symbol resembling “}{”—shone silver against my skin. It wasn’t just a mark; it was magic. Pops believed it was purely symbolic, but I could sense its power, even if its true purpose had been forgotten. A new trait appeared in my status:

  Trait Gained: [Dwarf Kin]

  You are now recognized as kin by the dwarves.

  The ceremony concluded with Pops declaring, “Arise now, Juren Agnar Knollen.” The name “Agnar” was a dwarven addition, signifying my new identity as a member of their people. The title was more than symbolic—it was official, even recognized by the system.

  With the wall nearing completion, the next step was building proper dwellings. The tents were insufficient against the harsh mountain winters. My plan was to construct basic earth-sheltered homes, using materials that wouldn’t harm the environment or upset the elves’ reverence for nature.

  Willow, a fast-growing and resilient plant, became the solution for flooring. Though tedious to weave, it was a sustainable resource the elves could accept. For windows, we crafted panels from molded resin mixed with sand, creating durable but translucent coverings.

  The process was slow and labor-intensive, but it was necessary. As I toiled, another thought consumed me: we needed strength. Not just for our village but for the countless green elves enslaved across the world. Breaking the curse had unintended consequences, creating a race of children vulnerable to exploitation. I couldn’t undo what I’d done, but I could fix it.

  That night, as I sat in my tent, staring into the polished steel that served as my mirror, the weight of my actions pressed down on me. Tears welled up as I whispered, “Was it worth it? Did I do the right thing?”

  Emma slipped in behind me, wrapping her arms around my chest and resting her head on my shoulder. Her presence, as always, was grounding.

  “You did what you thought was right,” she said softly. “And now, you’re taking responsibility for it.”

  I turned to look at her, seeing the strength in her eyes. “I created them, Emma. Every one of those children. Their suffering is on me.”

  She smiled gently, her voice steady. “Spoken like a true father.”

  Her words brought a bittersweet warmth. I thought of an old saying my father used to tell me in my past life: “Behind every great man is an even greater woman.” Emma wasn’t just my strength—she was my hope. Together, we would make things right. Someday, there would be no more slaves. Not here. Not anywhere.