A full month had passed since the intense judgment ritual. Simon and Schalezusk had worked themselves to exhaustion, proving their loyalty not with swords, but with shovels, axes, and blistered hands. They were no longer the mysterious outsiders; they were simply two very large, very capable Orcs.

Their official acceptance came during the festival of the New Moon, celebrated now with actual abundance rather than mere hope. Elder Skrall stood before the fire pit, his ancient voice steady.

"We saw the strength of your arms, but we tested the truth in your hearts," Skrall said, looking over the assembled Orcs. "You have labored for the good of Grayhorn. You have eaten our harvest. You are no longer judged." He gestured to the two brothers. "You are kin. You are home."

Schalezusk let out a long, heavy breath, his massive frame relaxing for the first time in weeks. "Thank you, Elder. We will not dishonor this."

Simon met the eyes of several Orcs who had previously been suspicious. "We came to build, not to take. Now we begin."

Indeed, the village was flourishing. Famine was no longer a shadow over Grayhorn. More significantly, Beastkin merchant caravans were now a regular sight, drawn by the high demand for the sticky heavy black liquid from the Black Lake, used for fire-based siege defenses across the Spinebride region.

The trade brought wealth, but it ignited a furious debate among the devout. The Orcs believed the lake was sacred to Venethra, the Goddess of Fire.

Grish, a traditionalist Orc with a scar across his jaw, pounded the council table, making the small clay vessels rattle. "It is filth! That stuff is mud, not flame! We swim in the lake, asking Venethra's blessing, and then we sell her sacred dirt to the Beastkin for their coin. It is a sin!"

"It's survival, Grish," argued Hegra, one of the newer council members, whose children now had full bellies. "The coin buys us steel. It buys seed. Before Simon's idea, we had nothing but hunger."

Simon stepped forward, placing his hands flat on the table. "We must look at the bigger picture. We need to define ourselves to the region. The Bloodtusk Orcs are thieves. They raid and they starve. They are savages."

He let the word sink in. "We are Grayhorn. We trade. We build. We are becoming a respected faction. This black liquid is the key to legitimacy."

He paused, then addressed Grish directly. "And as for Venethra—you call it filth. The Beastkin call it dirt. We, as followers of the Fire, should view it differently. It is not filth; it is potential. It is Venethra's fuel, sealed until needed. We are doing the dirty work the Beastkin won't do, proving our devotion by handling what others fear to touch. We are spreading our influence while filling our coffers."

Elder Skrall nodded slowly, placing a hand on Grish's shoulder. "The Goddess sees the outcome, not the stain on your hands. If this trade brings strength, then it is blessed. The vote is decided. We will trade."

The Orcs quickly took up the task, shoveling the thick oil and sludge into barrels provided by the grateful merchants. Simon, however, was quickly frustrated by the low quality. The merchants refused to pay high prices for liquid containing excessive mud, gravel, and water.

Behind the barracks, Simon established an experimental station with a massive iron cauldron. Schalezusk, always nearby, was tasked with monitoring the fire.

"Still simmering the mud, brother?" Schalezusk asked one afternoon, his voice tinged with boredom. He poked the fire, making the liquid bubble violently.

Simon frowned, stirring the viscous mixture. "The mud sinks, which is good. Simple gravity separation. But the water… it sticks to the oil, lowering the burn quality."

He adjusted the heat, bringing the cauldron to a furious boil. Steam billowed out. Schalezusk took a step back, shielding his face.

"Careful! It bubbles like a dying dragon's throat! But wait," Schalezusk pointed to the sediment at the bottom. "All the water that makes that steam—where is it going? It leaves the barrel, right?"

Simon stared into the rising steam, his eyes wide with sudden realization. "Yes! It's leaving! The boiling isn't just reducing the viscosity, brother, it's evaporating the water right out of the oil! The low-viscosity steam escapes, leaving behind the heavy oil!"

"So, we let the mud settle out first, then we boil the rest until it smells cleaner," Schalezusk summarized, his simple logic cutting straight to the solution. "A two-step cleaning process: gravity and fire."

Simon slapped his brother's arm in excitement. "Exactly! A simple filter method, but effective. This refined black liquid will fetch a much higher price! We will do a ceremonial prayer to Venethra before we light the boil, asking her to purify the earth's gift."

The filtered and purified oil, now much less sticky and thick, was sold at a massive profit, securing Grayhorn's immediate future.

The village was now a place of bustling commerce. The council used a portion of the profits to fund the construction of a sturdy Traveler's Inn, solidifying their reputation as a reliable trade destination. The local Kobolds had even entered a mutual non-aggression pact, separating Grayhorn further from the savage image of the Bloodtusk.

Down by the shore, Simon and Schalezusk were working with several Orcs, meticulously shaping enormous planks of wood.

"How much farther until this beast is seaworthy, Simon?" Schalezusk grunted, wiping his axe-head. They were building a massive cargo boat.

"We'll finish framing the hull by the week's end," Simon replied, examining a joint. "It needs to be large, brother. Not just a fishing skiff. This boat will carry enough refined oil in a single run to justify the trade risk."

"The risk is still high." Schalezusk cautioned. "Why the rush for such a large investment? The barrels are already working."

Simon stood up, his eyes fixed on the distant, fog-shrouded Black Lake. "The barrels are for sustenance. The boat is for power. Our solution for our lack of defense in case the bloodtusks came to raid the village and Mr.Karl is not running a charity shop, brother. To buy a real arsenal—the boomsticks, the powder, the cannon—we need scale. We need to be able to show up with two tons of high-grade bitumen."

He leaned in, his voice low and intense. "This black lake is not just feeding Grayhorn. It is building our army. It is the fuel that will let us finally unite the Orcs and crush the Bloodtusk once and for all."

--------------------------------------------

A month after the Grand Reopening, the Necro-Mall was no longer just a novelty; it was the gravitational center of commerce for the region. Yet, the customers couldn't help but notice the sudden, visible signs of expansion outside. Large, rough-hewn wooden fences were being rapidly erected, stretching around the entire base of the mountain slope and extending deep into the eastern forest.

Two kobold stood by the entrance, arguing.

"They're building a wall, I tell you! A proper fortress!" insisted Firl, whose ears twitched nervously.

His friend, Barnie, nudged him with his elbow. "That's just fencing, Firl. Look at the them—they're not digging trenches, they're carving out roads. It's for the town they're building. I heard a rumour from a ramaris merchant yesterday."

"A rumour? That's worse than no rumour at all!" Firl scoffed, but his gaze was glued to the pale workers hauling massive wooden beams far to the east. The non-stop, tireless construction was visible from every vantage point.

"It's not just rumour anymore," Barnie countered, pointing to a newly laminated notice board placed prominently beside the front gate. "Look at the announcement."

A small crowd quickly gathered to read the crisp, official document. It explained, in simple, direct language, that the fencing established the permanent Necro Corp Border for future planned town construction and corporate expansion. The final line, however, was the one that drew gasps and murmurs:

The expansion will require a full complement of employees. Necro Corp will begin accepting applications for permanent, full-time positions soon.

The mood in the crowd immediately shifted from concerned speculation to electric excitement.

A stout Ramari farmer named Jarl pushed his way to the front, running his hoof over the word 'permanent.' "Did you hear that? Permanent positions! Not seasonal! Not day labor!"

"And the pay!" cried a Lupen mother, clutching her daughter tighter. "They pay their clerks in the mall five times what we get for honest farming work. And they give free food!"

The allure of working for Necro Corp was powerful. Traditional employment in the Spinebride region was a cruel cycle: low daily rates, inconsistent work, and constant fear of being replaced if performance dipped. Nobles and merchants offered erratic, minimal wages, ensuring their laborers remained dependent.

Necro Corp was different. If you were hired, you were hired for the long term—until old age, injury, or serious breach of conduct forced retirement. And the pay was consistent, delivered every fifteenth day of the month, eliminating the crushing uncertainty of daily survival.

A Foxkin weaver, whose small stall in Stonehorn had gone bankrupt after the Ramari Merchant House squeezed her profits, spoke with fierce determination. "I've been coming here every week, pretending to shop just to be close. We knew they would hire eventually. Now that they've said it, we must be ready."

"But their rules are strict," warned an elderly foxkin "They are the undead. They value efficiency over—over feelings."

"They value efficiency over poverty," Ursa the Ramari shot back, defending the opportunity. "I'll take a strict schedule and a guaranteed salary over the inconsistent hunger Stonehorn offers. At least here, they won't cheat you on the scales. And I heard they are building small, affordable homes for their workers too."

Whispers of the job opportunity spread like wildfire through the mall, causing many customers to abandon their shopping to stand near the information board, as if proximity might earn them a place on the application list.

For Karl, the external perception was more valuable than any immediate tactical advantage.

Establishing a reputation as a neutral, reliable employer of the populace was a critical maneuver. While the political scene—rife with infighting between the nobles and the fractured Alliance—grew more volatile by the day, Necro Corp was positioning itself as the regional economic anchor.

By offering consistent jobs and high wages, Karl aimed to create a situation akin to the neutrality of Switzerland: essential to all warring factions, yet aligned with none. They would serve as the indispensable third-party stabilizing the region's economy, making themselves too valuable to attack, no matter what dark secrets the dungeon held. The fences were not just to keep raiders out; they were to mark the boundaries of a future economic powerhouse.

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