Chapter 105 - 104: What Comes After

Chapter 105: Chapter 104: What Comes After Goblin village The wooden hall flickered with firelight. The core members had gathered, Uncle Drake, Celine, Orrin, Old Man Dan, Grokk, Aren, and a few trusted elders among the goblins and kobolds. The scent of pine and smoke clung faintly to the air. Outside, the village was quiet, the sounds of a distant wolf howling breaking the stillness every so often. Lumberling stood near the hearth, his face calm, but his stance tight. He knew what had to be said. "I need to tell you all something." Everyone went quiet. All eyes turned to him. "We were tasked to escort an item for a noble, an Earl named Cedric Ravenshade. But the item wasn’t cargo. It was her... an elf." There was a rustle of discomfort across the room. Celine instinctively pulled her child a little closer. Jen frowned. Lumberling continued, "She wasn’t a person to them. She was a possession. Something they bought, from the black market. When the mission went south, I saw her again, broken, I made a choice. I killed the knight of the Baron. I broke the contract. We silenced the soldiers to cover our tracks... but the Earl may still come looking." The fire crackled, filling the silence. He looked up at the group. "The Duskpire Legion is no more. We’ll lay low for now. We can’t risk exposure." Another long silence followed. Then, Uncle Drake finally leaned back, crossing his arms. "Well... you’ve done worse," he muttered dryly. A few chuckled. He looked directly at Lumberling, his face softening. "You made your decision. We won’t blame you for it. It’s a shame you can’t work openly as a mercenary anymore, but who knows, you might return to that road someday." Grokk grunted from the side. "We all came from chains once. I say you did right." "We believe in you," Celine added gently, rocking her child as she spoke. Lumberling exhaled, nodding once. "Thank you." ..... Later that evening, Celine and Jen’s cabin. The hearth in the small cabin glowed warmly. The scent of herbs and stew lingered in the air. Celine sat on a wooden chair with a small bundle in her arms. Lumberling knocked softly, then stepped inside. Celine smiled at his entrance. "Come. You’ve been running all day." His eyes settled on the baby in her arms. "What’s her name?" "Evelyn," Celine said, beaming. "We named her after my grandmother." "She’s beautiful," he said softly, stepping closer. Jen peeked out from the adjacent room. "She already likes you," she teased. Lumberling smiled faintly, but his gaze drifted toward the small side mat near the hearth, where the elf now lay curled under a blanket, eyes open but distant. "How is she?" "She doesn’t speak much," Jen said, walking over. "But she eats now. A little. Only when we’re near. And sometimes we get a few words." Celine nodded. "She speaks in Sengolio tongue. We can’t understand her, but we’ll ask you when she says something." "I’ll teach you some words," Lumberling offered. "Anything that helps her feel... less alone." They nodded. "She told us her name though," Jen added. "Sylra." "She does this thing..." Jen said, brow furrowing. "She keeps tracing circles with her fingers. Same motion, always clockwise. It’s like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it." "Maybe it’s something she held onto," he murmured. "Something that kept her sane." He crouched beside her, but she didn’t flinch. Just watched him, expression unreadable, eyes still cloudy from too much hurt. He didn’t speak. Just sat there, matching her silence, as if trying to tell her: You’re safe now. Later, Lumberling stood outside, staring at the moonlit sky. He had no answers. No plan yet. Only the weight of his decision, and the quiet conviction to live with it. Whatever came next, they’d face it together. But for now, they were home. And they would protect this fragile peace for as long as it lasted. ..... Velric Estate – Baron’s Audience Hall The hall was thick with tension. Tapestries hung in silence, but the air carried the storm of failure. Baron Velric knelt before the tall, broad-shouldered figure looming over him, Earl Cedric Ravenshade, garbed in black and crimson, his hand gripping the ornate hilt of his ceremonial sword as though itching to draw it. "You fucking imbecile," the Earl spat, voice cold and sharp like steel drawn across glass. "Your only task was to deliver the elf." "I..." Baron Velric swallowed hard, sweat trailing down his temple. "I’m sorry, my Lord. They were one of the most capable mercenary groups in the region, high success rate, disciplined... I didn’t think..." "Clearly." The Earl’s glare flared with disgust. "You hired monsters. Mercenaries I could not control. And now my property is gone." Baron Velric flinched at the word. Property. There was no illusion about what the elf meant to the Earl. The Earl paced once, then halted. "Find them. At all costs. I don’t care what it takes, scour every forest, check every road, bleed every informant." "Yes, my Lord," Velric stammered. "We’ve received... rumors. Someone spotted a masked group heading toward Blackroot Forest." The Earl narrowed his eyes. "Blackroot?" "Yes, my Lord. A dangerous region, untamed, filled with beasts. No sane man ventures there. But the mercenary group... they’re mostly composed of monsters themselves. If they’re hiding, it would be there." The Earl turned toward the distant windows, gazing out toward the mountains that shadowed the Blackroot expanse. His fingers twitched. "So they think they can vanish into the wild..." He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, without turning, he said in a low voice, "If this information is false... I’ll have your head sent back to your wife in a box." Baron Velric trembled, sweat clinging to his collar. Regret gnawed at his gut. He never should’ve hired them. Never should’ve trusted monsters wearing steel and discipline like a mask. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. ’Those bastards... if I ever find them... I’ll gut them myself.’ He fell fully to the floor, "I swear on my blood, it’s true!" ..... Ravenshade Estate – Inner Courtyard The Earl strode into the training courtyard, where soldiers were lined up in sparring drills. One man stood apart, calm, poised, a spear resting across his back. Jason. A true Knight of the First Stage. One of the Earl’s most invested knights, forged through coin, contract, and cruelty. The Earl stopped before him. "Jason." The knight dropped to one knee instantly. "My Lord." "I have a task for you. I want the elf retrieved. Alive. And every single bastard responsible for her disappearance dead." Jason raised his eyes, face unreadable. "You can count on me, my Lord. I will not fail you." The Earl stepped closer. "Bring five hundred elite soldiers. And every knight under my command except Henry." Jason hesitated, frowning slightly. "My Lord, I believe I can succeed alone. With the war’s threat still looming, leaving with that much force..." "I said take them," the Earl snapped. "I’m not risking another mistake. Henry alone is sufficient to guard the estate." Jason bowed lower. "Understood." The Earl’s voice dropped to a low growl. "I don’t care how deep into the forest they run. Burn it if you must. Dig them out like rats. I want that elf back, and I want the head of the one who defied me." Jason rose, expression firm. "As you command." As Jason walked away... The Earl turned back toward the darkening sky, his jaw clenched. ’I will not be made a fool. Not by a mercenary. Not by some no-name commander with a mask.’ Behind his eyes, flames burned. ’You want to play hero, then die like one.’ ..... Goblin Village – Training Grounds Late Morning Dust curled in the air as the four circled him, Skitz, Grokk, Shade, and Aren. Hardened not just by survival, but by war. They carried their strength like weapons: Aren, spear in hand, moved with sharp control and force befitting a Knight Apprentice. Skitz, quick as a blink, darted with ghost-like precision. His dagger danced on the edge of sight, his presence flickering like breath, his strength at the peak of a Quasi-Knight. Grokk, hulking and brutal, swung twin axes with thunderous weight. Every blow landed like a war drum, blunt and final, peak Knight Apprentice might. Shade, silent and coiled, skittered through the shadows. The Abyssal Webcaller towered, his monstrous form exuding eerie grace and Quasi-Knight menace. And they faced one man. Lumberling. He stood alone in the center, spear in hand, bare-chested under the sharp morning sun. Muscles taut, breath steady, eyes calm. This wasn’t training. This was ritual. War, in miniature. Steel against steel. Speed versus instinct. Chaos pressed into clarity. "Same formation?" Aren asked, loosening his shoulders. The butt of his spear carved a lazy arc in the dust. Grokk grunted, cracking his neck. "He hasn’t lost once." "Doesn’t mean we stop trying," Skitz said, flipping his dagger in a blur of light. Shade said nothing. He never did. Lumberling lowered his stance. The spear’s tip kissed dirt. Come. They moved. Grokk struck first, an axe sweeping wide and low, brute strength to pin him. Skitz blurred behind, slipping in like a breath. Aren pressed from the left, spear stabbing in calculated bursts. Shade dissolved, the air growing cold as he vanished into the dark, and reemerged at Lumberling’s blindside, fangs bared. It should have been overwhelming. But this, this was what he lived for. His spear sang. Years of battle forged into instinct. When Grokk’s axe fell, the shaft caught it, turned it, redirected its rage into the ground. A pivot brought him into Skitz’s path, his thrust so sudden the rogue twisted away on reflex. He spun, blade reversed, and jabbed. Aren faltered, eyes wide. Shade leapt from behind, fangs flashing. Clang. Lumberling deflected the strike without looking. The fight blurred. Only motion remained. Spearheart Doctrine. Each breath, a strike. Spearheart Doctrine. Each parry, precise. Spearheart Doctrine. His weapon flowed with rhythm, a silent song, pulsing through him. He moved like water under pressure, fluid, sharp, alive. Grokk roared and lunged again, only to freeze as the spear slipped through his guard and tapped his throat. Shade lunged once more. A sweep grazed his legs, he vanished again. Skitz panted, sweat running down his cheek. "You’re... faster today." Lumberling didn’t blink. "No," he said softly. "Clearer." Aren lunged with desperation, his thrust wild. Lumberling stepped in, caught the shaft, spun him sideways, and tapped his chest with the spear’s butt. Aren stumbled. Silence. Then: Skitz raised a hand. "Four clean hits. Each of us. You win again, my Lord." The four stepped back, breathing hard. Lumberling stood alone in the dust, unshaken. Around him, the ground bore shallow gouges, memories of deflection, of danger narrowly turned aside. A soft chime echoed in his mind. (Spearheart Doctrine has reached Level 8. Power +358) He didn’t smile. But he felt it. He exhaled. Then lowered his spear and looked toward the tree line, where wolves occasionally watched from the shade, among them, Lunira, newly evolved, her dark gray fur catching the light. His gaze drifted toward the village. Toward the small hut where Sylra remained. Later that evening, Lumberling walked with Jen near the wolf den. The pups were playful. Three of the dire wolves had recently given birth, raising their numbers to twenty-eight. Lunira sat silently nearby, eyes always vigilant. "I tried bringing Sylra here," Jen said quietly. "Thought maybe the wolves would help. You know... make her smile." Lumberling nodded, not answering. "She just... sat there. Watched. Said nothing." "She’s healing," he said at last. "But slowly." Jen looked up at him. "Do you think she’ll ever talk again?" Lumberling’s eyes followed the pups tumbling in the grass. "I don’t know." But he hoped so. Even if he didn’t understand why.