CHAPTER 72: CHAPTER 71: SPEARHEART DOCTRINE

He exhaled.

And for a moment, just a moment, the world around him changed.

The air grew still, dense with a strange pressure. Then, without warning, a pulse of invisible force rippled out from his chest, gentle, like the wake of a heartbeat against the surface of water.

...but only he seemed to feel it. It was an inward tremor, not an outward quake.

His eyes opened, and they gleamed faintly, not with light, but with focus. A clarity sharp enough to cut steel. His breath didn’t fog in the cool night air, it moved straight, as if the world itself parted to let it through.

A thread of pale energy traced along his collarbone, like a dormant vein briefly lit. It faded after a heartbeat, but the feeling remained.

His body felt lighter.

His mind, steadier.

Knight Apprentice.

It wasn’t just a title.

It was transformation, etched into bone, will, and breath.

He brought up the status screen.

Name: Lumberling

Race: Human

Age: 22 (7 months)

Level: 8

Essence Point: (8,079 / 17,800)

Power: 2,778 (Skills: 1,951 | Level: 827)

Knight Stage: Knight Apprentice

Active Skills

Beginner Sprint Lv1 (84/1000)

Beginner Hammer Shock Lv0 (614/1000)

Beginner Essence Weave Lv0 (83/1000)

(Derived from Essence Devour. Allows the user to bind the essence of a fallen enemy and channel it into another chosen vessel.)

Passive Skills

Essence Devour

Beginner Pikeman’s Art Lv6 (13/1000)

Beginner Concealment Lv4 (22/1000)

Beginner Swordsmanship Lv2 (453/1000)

Beginner Bowmanship Lv1 (29/1000)

Beginner Shieldmanship Lv0 (472/1000)

Beginner Cudgel Fighting Lv0 (588/1000)

Beginner Dual Wielding Axe Lv0 (247/1000)

Resistances

Beginner Poison Resistance Lv0 (183/1000)

Everything had shifted.

Even the skills that had once stagnated, refusing to grow despite his efforts, now pulsed with progress. The wall had cracked. Broken. Experience points flowed again.

Even his Poison Resistance, a skill he had never known how to train, had begun to tick upward. The change wasn’t just numerical, it was fundamental. Something deep inside him had aligned.

Subtle. Natural. As if the pieces of himself, human, monster, instinct, memory, had finally stopped fighting each other.

They had fused.

And what remained was no longer splintered.

Not unlocked. Not discovered. Upgraded.

He didn’t feel like a different person.

He felt like a refined version of the same one, sharper, calmer, whole.

His physique hummed with coiled strength. The memories of the forest bears that once posed a dire threat now felt... almost laughable. He didn’t need to test it, he knew. He could overpower them now, not through tricks or weapons, but sheer physical dominance.

But he didn’t let the realization turn to arrogance.

His eyes settled on a familiar entry:

(Beginner Pikeman’s Art Lv.6)

He frowned slightly.

That name—Pikeman’s Art—felt hollow now. It had once described a soldier’s rigid, textbook technique. A tool of war, passed down through empire and manual. But the skill he wielded now...

It had changed.

It wasn’t just posture and footwork.

It was instinct.

It was rhythm, emotion, awareness.

It had been sharpened by monster memories, tempered by solitude, and transformed in the crucible of will.

’This isn’t Pikeman’s Art anymore...’ he thought, tilting his head.

A name surfaced in his mind, one born not from tradition, but from self.

’Spearheart Doctrine.’

’Yes... that’s better,’ he thought. ’It’s no longer just technique. It’s a reflection of who I’ve become.’

And then, like a whisper etched across his mind, a new prompt echoed:

(Beginner Pikeman’s Art Lv.6 has transformed into Beginner Spearheart Doctrine Lv.6)

Lumberling blinked.

"It changed...?" he murmured, then chuckled under his breath.

"So it really is a reflection of myself after all."

The corners of his lips curled into a quiet smile.

He picked up his spear slowly, letting its weight settle into his palm.

Not a soldier’s tool.

Not a weapon of war.

But a mirror.

And now, a doctrine.

He let the silence linger a moment longer, then turned toward the door.

And with a faint smile, stepped out of the house.

The morning sun touched his face.

Warm. Real. Alive.

For the first time in months, Lumberling truly felt it.

And with it, the world around him came into focus, not as a blur at the edge of meditation, but in sharp, vibrant detail. His thoughts no longer swirled in turmoil. They were clear, grounded. Present.

Only now did he realize how much he’d missed.

"How much time has passed?" he murmured, the question barely above a whisper.

He took a slow step forward, then another. The village stretched before him like a place both foreign and familiar. He had walked these paths a thousand times, but never like this. For so long, his mind had been consumed by the war inside: suppressing instincts, controlling urges, honing himself like a blade. Now that the storm had calmed, the changes stood out in stark relief.

The houses were taller now, built with layered timber and stone bases. Some had balconies. Others had wind chimes made of bone and iron. The air carried the smell of fresh bread and dry hay.

Laughter rang across the village.

Real, unguarded laughter.

The crop fields had expanded beyond the old tree line. Animal pens were larger too, pigs, cows, goats, and even deer wandered fenced enclosures. Chickens squawked as a group of children chased them playfully.

Goblins, kobolds, and younglings paused in their tasks when they saw him.

New faces. Many he didn’t recognize.

Some stopped and bowed low, eyes wide with reverence. Others smiled and waved, tentative but respectful. No one dared approach.

Not yet.

He kept walking.

Past the blacksmith’s forge, now double in size, with smoke rising in steady columns.

Past the central well, where carved stone replaced the old rope and wood frame.

Then he saw the barracks, and the training ground beyond it.

Rows of soldiers moved in unison, their bodies armored in stitched leather, their weapons gleaming with forged iron. Their footfalls thudded in rhythm, coordinated, purposeful. They were marching, not just practicing.

They were preparing.

Then came the boar cavalry.

Massive tusked beasts thundered across the far field, each ridden by a goblin in scaled armor. A dozen of the mounts now bore their own crude plating, scrap iron and leather harnesses forming chest and flank guards. But what caught Lumberling’s eye were nine enormous boars, larger than the rest. Their muscles bulged beneath thick bristled hide, their snouts scarred from past hunts.

"Did they evolve?" he wondered, watching them stomp the earth in perfect formation.

They moved like warhorses now, snorting, disciplined, alert.

Eighty riders, all working together, practicing flanks and charges.

He turned his gaze to the archer line, where a crowd of goblins and kobolds trained with the multi-shot crossbows he had once sketched in a feverish burst of invention. Fifty archers now carried them, loading and firing in tempo while laughing and shouting encouragement at each other.

Beyond them, the hunters, a force of 120 ran agility drills through trees and brush, honing their tracking and flanking techniques.

Nearby, a squad of village guards, forty strong, drilled in formation with tower shields and spears. Beside them, a militia unit, also forty, practiced changing formations in pairs and rotating through spear-and-bow transitions.

Then his eyes settled on something new.

A unit of wolves.

Thirteen of them.

Their coats sleek, eyes sharp. A few kobolds and goblins attempted to ride them, adjusting leather saddles while the beasts trotted in controlled arcs. He watched a young kobold dismount, only to get nudged back upright by the wolf’s snout.

A bonded unit in the making.

He didn’t see the scouts or the elite squads led by Aren. No doubt they were training deeper in the forest, far from view. As always.

As he passed each division, the soldiers turned and acknowledged him.

Some bowed.

Some raised their fists across their chests.

Others smiled and waved.

But not one approached.

Not yet.

They watched him with quiet awe, the kind reserved not for commanders, but for something else.

Something becoming.

And Lumberling, still silent, smiled back.

Then he kept walking.

A familiar voice called out behind him.

"So you finally showed yourself, huh."

Lumberling turned.

Standing a short distance away, wearing a grin full of sharp teeth and smug satisfaction, was Skitz. Behind him, the captains had gathered: Gobo1, Gobo2, Takkar, Vakk, Skarn, Aren, Krivex, Jen, Old Man Dan, and even the towering figure of Grokk.

Someone must’ve seen him walking and sent word. Or maybe... they had been waiting all this time.

He gave them a sheepish nod.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Eight months," Krivex answered plainly.

Lumberling blinked.

’Eight months?’

He studied Krivex for a moment. His aura had shifted, denser, more compressed. If Krivex had once hovered at early Knight Page, he now stood confidently at Peak Knight Page. The same went for the others. Aren’s quiet discipline, Takkar’s stillness, even Skarn’s controlled weight, all pointed to captains who had grown, refined themselves.

All except Vakk, who still emitted the pulse of a mid-stage Knight Page. But even he stood straighter now. Hardened.

"That long?" Lumberling muttered. "Had the nights truly passed that quickly? Meditation blurred the days, but eight months?

"Yeah, Boss," Gobo1 chimed in, puffing his chest with exaggerated seriousness. "Gobo2 thought you’d gone crazy. Said you were always just sittin’ under that tree, muttering, sleeping. He even said he’d smack you in the head to wake you up. But I stopped him!"

"Only ’cause you were scared to do it yourself," Gobo2 grumbled. "Krivex always hits me when I sleep during drills, calls me lazy. But when the Lord naps under a tree for months, suddenly it’s a sacred ritual?"

The other captains let out a collective sigh. A few covered their faces in mild exasperation.

"You two never change," Skarn muttered.

Lumberling just laughed under his breath. The sound felt strange coming out of him after so long, but not unwelcome.

"Well," he said, raising a hand, "I did laze around and left all the work to you guys."

That earned a few grins.

Then Aren stepped forward, his face unreadable.

"My Lord... are you truly alright now?"

The others sobered. Even Gobo1 and Gobo2 fell quiet.

Their expressions were steady, but in their eyes was something deeper: worry. Fear. Relief held in check by caution.

Lumberling tried to joke.

"What, did you all think I’d gone mad?"

No one laughed.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Alright, alright... I get it."

He sighed, knowing full well there was no easy way to explain meditation, integration, or the psychological war he had waged beneath that tree. The words didn’t exist in this world, especially not for monsters.

"Just know that I’m alright now," he said finally. "I broke through the things that were troubling me. I’ve... mastered them. That’s all."

Jen stepped forward, arms crossed.

"Really? You’re telling us the truth this time?"

Her tone was sharper than the others, but not unkind. Just hurt.

Lumberling met her gaze and softened.

"Yes," he said. "I am. I’m sorry for keeping you all in the dark. But I’m alright now."

That was all she needed.

"Brother!" Jen rushed forward and threw her arms around him. Lumberling caught her with ease, one hand gently patting her head.

"I’m sorry for worrying you all," he said, looking over the group. "But I’m proud of what you’ve done. The village is stronger. And so are all of you."

Krivex smirked. "We did work hard. So you better make sure to come see the results yourself."