CHAPTER 65: CHAPTER 64

Two weeks later.

Dust clung to their cloaks as Lumberling and Skitz moved from city to city, the weight of exhaustion hidden beneath their steady steps.

First came Veldran, a neutral city nestled in the crook of three old roads. Smoke curled lazily from its chimneys, and traders from every banner waved their colors in uneasy harmony. Here, they scoured old guild halls and quiet towers where hermits once whispered of arcane skill books, but found nothing. Not a single trace of the mental fortitude skill Lumberling sought.

In the next month, they arrived at Goldmere, its stone streets gleaming under the sunlight that bounced off the tranquil lake that gave it its name. The city bustled with coin and conversation, overflowing with merchant houses and black market whispers. But when they pressed for knowledge of rare skills, particularly ones that touched the mind, they found only scoffs or shrugs. Strange and magical things were hoarded behind noble names and locked doors, and they had neither crest nor coin to pry them open.

For the following month they traveled to Bramwick, a small city surrounded by golden fields and the clatter of mill wheels. There, even the booksellers looked at them with pity.

"No one’s seen a skill like that since the old imperial era," said one white-bearded clerk. "If it exists at all."

Lumberling’s jaw clenched, and he turned away before frustration overtook him.

.....

They didn’t stop. They arrived at Mistrale, the City of Wind and Stone.

Wind howled through the narrow stone alleys of Mistrale, tugging at cloaks and whispering secrets through crumbling arches. Atop the market ridge, where the banners of merchant houses flapped like restless wings, Skitz moved quietly among the crowd.

He had split from Lumberling an hour ago, tasked with chasing whispers, asking smugglers, traders, and peddlers of the strange if they had ever heard of a skill that could strengthen the mind.

He checked back alleys, leaned in on quiet corners, slipped coin to black-market vendors, and even braved a cramped apothecary rumored to deal in ancient knowledge.

But each time the answer was the same, blank stares, confused shrugs, or worse, mocking smirks.

"No such thing," one broker snorted. "Why fix the mind when you can kill with the body?"

Skitz didn’t respond. He simply walked away, jaw clenched.

By dusk, he returned to their meeting point on the high bridge that overlooked the lake of fog below.

Lumberling was already there, arms crossed, eyes distant.

Skitz shook his head silently.

"Nothing?"

"Not even a rumor," Skitz muttered, frustration flickering across his usually calm face. "If the knowledge exists... it’s buried. Deep."

The wind picked up again, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant fire.

Lumberling said nothing.

But he didn’t have to.

The silence between them said enough.

And through it all, the nightmares grew worse.

Every so often, sometimes once a week, other times after three, it returned without warning. The dreams always came back, no, not dreams. Memories. Hunger. Claw. Death. He’d bolt upright, drenched in sweat, clutching the blade beside his bed.

Lumberling was growing desperate.

"If we can’t find a skill," he muttered one night beside a dying campfire, "then we find an artifact. A relic. Anything."

But magic—true magic—was locked behind silver and status. And they had neither.

.....

The sky was a dim sheet of gray, the kind that turned every hill and tree into a silhouette. Wind whispered low through the branches, rustling leaves across the dirt path. Lumberling and Skitz walked in silence, cloaks drawn tight, boots leaving light prints in the mud.

They were into their third city. Still no answers. Still no progress.

That was when the road ahead shifted.

Men stepped from the trees.

Steel glinted. Bows were drawn. A dozen figures emerged, ragged, scarred, hungry. Bandits. Their eyes locked on the travelers with predatory confidence.

"Stop right there," barked a deep voice. A man stepped forward, broad-shouldered, armored, and carrying a longsword with a knight’s insignia poorly scratched off. His aura pulsed faintly.

A Knight Page.

"You’ve got coin," the man said. "That’s all I see. Leave it. Leave your gear. Walk away."

Skitz glanced to the side, face unreadable beneath his hood.

Lumberling said nothing. Just shifted his stance slightly.

The Knight smirked. "Or don’t. I like breaking people. Makes it easier to loot."

"You’re awfully loud for someone surrounded by silence," Skitz murmured.

The Knight frowned. "What—"

One of the bandits stepped forward, reaching for Lumberling’s shoulder.

In the next breath, his head was gone.

It hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling to a stop beside his body.

Lumberling stood still, sword already drawn, its tip dripping a thin line of blood into the dirt.

The other bandits froze, the air tightening like a snare.

"...Shit," one of them muttered.

Then Skitz moved.

Like wind breaking loose from a bottle.

He ducked low, shot forward, and slammed into the Knight Page with both fists. The man’s feet left the ground as he was hurled backward into the road, crashing hard and coughing blood.

"Your leader’s the weakest among you," Skitz said coldly, approaching.

The Knight wheezed, hand trembling as he tried to lift his blade.

"No—no, wait—!" he gasped. "Forgive me—we didn’t know—you’re not—"

Skitz raised his foot to crush the man’s skull.

But then.

"Stop." He heard his Lord’s voice.

Skitz froze.

He turned.

Lumberling stood still... but wrong.

His sword lowered, barely held in his hand. His eyes...

His eyes weren’t calm.

They burned.

A feral glow had returned, red, fractured, drowning in instinct.

His breath came fast and shallow, as if the blood had triggered something primal, something caged.

Skitz saw his Lord clenching his jaw, fingers twitching like claws.

He wasn’t just angry.

He was suppressing something.

Fighting it.

The smell of blood on the air. The dead bandit twitching nearby. The fear radiating from the kneeling Knight, it was stoking the storm.

And Skitz understood.

If he killed again...

If blood spilled once more...

The leash might snap.

Lumberling swallowed hard and forced out the words:

"Let them go."

"But—" Skitz started.

"Let them go."

Skitz stared for a moment longer. Then lowered his foot.

The bandits didn’t wait.

They ran, tripping, shouting, fleeing into the woods like prey who’d brushed too close to the edge of death.

And still Lumberling stood, breathing hard, his hand trembling on the sword hilt. He sheathed it slowly, then turned and walked away.

Not because he was merciful.

But because the monster in him was awake.

And he wasn’t sure if he could put it back to sleep.

As they walked deeper into the trees, Skitz glanced at his Lord in the fading light.

"You held back," he said quietly.

Lumberling didn’t answer. His hand still trembled.

It wasn’t restraint. It was survival.

.....

And as they traveled, they saw the empire was changing.

It had been more than two years since the first sparks of war. Now, the flames were spreading across the empire.

On bulletin boards and city gates, names began to surface. Names that were spoken in awe or fear.

Legate Thorne Valemire, the man of silence and steel. It was said he rarely spoke, but when he did, armies moved. In one campaign, he had trapped and shattered an entire Sengolio battalion by collapsing a valley pass, using his soldiers like precise blades on a chessboard.

Legate Serwin Halford, the pragmatic one. His soldiers respected him not for warmth, but for never wasting a life without reason. Cities under siege survived because he chose strategy over pride, efficiency over tradition.

Legate Varrek Ironbrand, the hammer of order. Scarred from head to toe, Ironbrand had personally led the charge to retake a fortress lost to Sengolio invaders. Survivors whispered that he had executed a third of the garrison himself to root out cowards.

Together, Serwin and Varrek had halted the enemy’s momentum, pinning their advance like a blade pressed against a shield. But the price had been steep.

Then came darker names.

Legate Morven Crownbane. Wherever his banners went, fire followed. He once reclaimed a captured imperial city not by storming it, but by burning it to the ground, defenders and civilians alike. No prisoners. No hesitation.

And finally, Legate Cassivar Mournfield, a ghost of a man tied to ancient wars. His pale armor bore the insignia of an old, disgraced bloodline. But none doubted his ability. When he stepped onto the field, enemies broke like waves on a reef. His spear never missed, and his eyes held the weight of too many eulogies.

Each Legate stood at Knight Four Stage, just beneath the Emperor himself. With their armies and generals, they stemmed the Sengolio tide from advancing further... but the enemy had already spread, like poison seeping through the veins of the Empire.

Cities were in flames.

Villages vanished overnight.

Children trained with weapons, and the sound of war drums became as common as birdsong.

The empire was growing more dangerous by the day. Lumberling and Skitz couldn’t shake the worry that the war might one day reach their village, but for now, they were powerless to stop it. And Lumberling had to focus on the battle within himself first.

But still, Lumberling found nothing.

No skill.

No relic.

No salvation from the memories that clawed at the back of his mind.