Zion walked through the dirt paths of the new camp in the southern hills.
Six hundred people followed her now, and the sheer number turned the rebel faction into a small moving city.
They pitched heavy canvas tents and built thick wooden palisades to keep the Church patrols away from the perimeter.
The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat filled the air.
Zion looked at a young man carrying a heavy wooden bucket of water from the river.
The blue interface materialized in her vision to provide his basic stats.
[NPC 302: Blacksmith. Level 12. HP: 140/140.]
Then the text glitched. The clean blue letters turned jagged and bled into a bright, chaotic red.
The screen scrambled and generated a second box of text right below the health bar.
[Current thought: He misses his dead brother. He worries about the winter cold and wonders if he will survive the next battle.]
Zion swiped her hand and closed the screen.
