CHAPTER 71: CHAPTER 70

Weeks turned into months.

Lumberling lived in isolation, not of distance, but of focus. The world moved around him: crops were harvested, goblins trained, seasons shifted. But to him, it was all a blur, a passing haze he no longer paid attention to.

He had turned inward.

No meetings. No speeches. No plans.

Only breath. Discipline. And the war within.

He no longer tracked the days. Time had become a rhythm of breath and heartbeat, of sunlight through leaves and the weight of his spear in hand.

He knew one truth, and it swallowed everything else:

Control.

Control over the chaos in his mind. Over the hunger in his blood. Over the fragments of foreign instincts that whispered in his sleep.

Every moment was a silent vow: Master yourself. Or be mastered.

And beneath that vow, a second fire smoldered, quiet, but relentless:

Grow stronger.

Not just in body. But in will. In identity. In understanding.

The spear was no longer just a weapon. It was a mirror. Every movement revealed who he was, and who he could become.

So he trained. He meditated. He breathed through the memories. He sharpened his mind like a blade, and reforged the pieces of himself not into what he once was...

...but into what he chose to be.

After mastering what he could from the wolves, spiders, and gnolls, Lumberling turned to the Shade Stalker.

He remembered its silence, not just quiet, but absence. A creature that didn’t move through the shadows, but became them. Breathless. Bladeless. Its eyes like polished obsidian, always watching. Never blinking.

That memory became his next teacher.

At night, cloaked in black, Lumberling wandered the perimeter of the village, not to fight, but to disappear.

He studied every shadow cast by torchlight, every flicker of the moon as it filtered through the canopy. He mapped the way branches moved in the wind and memorized how each corner bent darkness.

He learned to walk without sound, to breathe without stirring the grass.

Once, he stood behind a giant spider for ten whole minutes. Its legs twitched. Its fangs clicked.

It never noticed him.

He had become a ghost.

A whisper.

A Shade.

Then came the Bloodthorns.

They weren’t hunters, they were destroyers.

Beasts that didn’t kill cleanly. They mutilated. They fought like berserkers, wild, howling, unrelenting. Their strength wasn’t in speed or finesse, but in the terrifying refusal to fall. They thrived on pain.

So Lumberling trained to meet that edge.

In the dead of night, deep beyond the village, he wrapped cloth around his arms and stripped his upper body bare. Then he sparred alone, with weighted poles and blunt blades, letting bruises bloom along his ribs, his shoulders, his thighs.

He didn’t dodge every strike.

He absorbed them.

Not for punishment.

For understanding.

Each hit informed his posture. Each jolt of pain reminded him of how Bloodthorns moved, charging through blades, turning agony into momentum.

He let instinct take over.

He roared through the pain.

Until the monster surged.

His breath shortened. His grip tightened. That awful hunger stirred again, hot and electric.

But before it could consume him, his hand reached—

The stone.

Smooth. Cool. Constant.

He clutched it.

And remembered.

’This body is mine.’

’This fury is mine.’

’But it does not rule me.’

He sat beneath the tree again that night, breath shivering, legs sore, and meditated. Not to escape the memory, but to anchor it. To understand it.

And when stillness returned, he wrote.

The journal pages grew thicker.

’Today I learned the spider’s rhythm.’

’Today I bled like a gnoll, but stood back up.’

’I felt the monster again... but I pulled it back.’

’The fear is still here. But so am I.’

Each page became a scar in ink. A trail. A marker of control.

Each monster he studied was no longer something to fear, but a note in a larger composition.

A step in the dance.

A new form.

A new art.

Not born from a scroll or a noble lineage.

Not passed down through empire or dojo.

But forged through pain, patience, instinct, and will.

Not of man.

Not of monster.

But of both.

His own.

.....

But not all memories were useful.

Some were wild, chaotic, dark things that clawed at his mind and had no place in the man he was trying to become. They clouded his judgment, dragged at his thoughts like chains, and threatened to twist his instincts into something unrecognizable.

So he found a way to deal with them.

He externalized them.

In training, he let himself go, unleashed the storm. He gave those memories form, became the monster they wanted him to be. He fought until his arms trembled, until his legs gave out, until he collapsed in the dirt, soaked in sweat and fury.

And when the rampage ended, when the breath slowed and the shaking subsided...

The emotions were still there.

But quieter.

Not gone.

Just... no longer in control.

.....

One Night.

The world was still.

Too still.

Lumberling opened his eyes, and the stars were gone. No village. No sky. Only a boundless void stretched out in every direction, a pale, colorless space where light didn’t shine, but hovered like a memory of brightness. The ground beneath his feet was smooth, cold, like polished obsidian. His body felt weightless, yet his chest was heavy, as if something unseen sat upon it.

He knew this place.

He had been here before.

The dream.

But tonight, something had changed.

There was movement in the distance. A shape, shifting, crawling. A shadow that didn’t belong.

Lumberling took a step forward.

The shadow moved.

Then, it growled.

The sound was wrong. It wasn’t the howl of a beast, it was deeper, rougher. Like a broken voice clawing its way out of a throat long unused. A voice that once belonged to something human... but forgot how to be.

From the mist, it emerged.

A beast made of memory.

Its body twisted with contradictions, limbs shaped like wolf haunches, bristled with spider hairs, wrapped in the ethereal tendrils of a shade stalker. A spear jutted from its back. Human eyes stared from a cracked gnoll skull. Its hands... were his.

But what made Lumberling stop cold

—was its face.

It wore his face.

Not the one he had now.

The one from before. The old him. The man who died before this world.

And it smiled.

"You let me in," the creature rasped, its voice a chorus of all he had devoured. "You took every kill, every instinct. You fed on rage. On fear. You used me."

Lumberling stepped back, his grip tightening on his spear.

"You’re not me," he said, steady but firm.

The beast chuckled, its smile warping.

"You keep saying that," it hissed, "but I’ve lived in you since the first essence. Since the first death. I bled with you. I killed with you. You used my teeth to tear, my memories to grow, and now you want to pretend I don’t exist?"

It lunged.

Lumberling raised his spear just in time. The clash shook the void. The beast struck again, claws slashing, fangs gnashing, its attacks wild, chaotic, like all the monsters he had fought rolled into one.

He blocked. Dodged. Countered. But every strike he landed passed through mist.

And every hit he took

—dug into him like guilt.

"Remember the bandit who begged for mercy?"

A claw swept past his guard.

"Remember all those you have devoured without thinking?"

A fang grazed his shoulder.

"Remember the fear in their eyes when you killed them all?"

The voices echoed with every step.

Lumberling stumbled, his breath ragged, his spear shaking. It wasn’t his body that was losing.

It was his mind.

’I’m breaking,’ he thought. ’Not here. Not like this.’

Then, he heard it.

His breath.

Even in the dream, it came steady. Measured. Familiar.

’Inhale.’

’Exhale.’

The beast raised its claw, laughing, "You’re a monster. A devourer. A curse that should never have lived."

Lumberling didn’t strike.

He didn’t run.

He opened his arms.

"I know what I am," he said.

The beast froze mid-lunge.

"I know what I’ve done. I know what I carry. The blood, the memories, the hunger. I’ve tried to reject it. I’ve tried to drown it out. But you’re not the enemy."

He took a step forward.

"I am you."

The beast’s body flickered, unsure, wavering like flame.

"And you are me," Lumberling continued. "I take responsibility for everything I’ve become. I won’t run from it anymore. I won’t fear the monster. I’ll learn from it. Master it. Rise with it."

The beast’s eyes softened.

And in a blink, it rushed toward him, not in rage, but as if pulled by something unseen.

They collided.

And became one.

Power surged through him, not violent, but sure. Like water filling a hollow vessel.

No voices screamed.

No instincts clawed.

Just stillness.

Lumberling stood in the center of the dream, alone again. But no longer empty.

Then the world turned black.

....

He awoke with a breath, not a gasp, but a calm inhale. The sky above was quiet. His hands rested on his lap. And in his heart, there was clarity.

The storm had passed.

The silence was whole.

And within him, something new had bloomed.

A step had been taken.

A gate had opened.

(Beginner Sprint has reached Level 1)

(Beginner Bowmanship has reached Level 1)

(Beginner Concealment has reached Level 4)

(Beginner Pikeman’s Art has reached Level 6)

(You have stepped into the Knight Apprentice Stage)