Chapter 2

"Break’s over. Move your ass, grab your weapon, and get back to training." Lumberling grumbled, rising to his feet. He picked up his spear and returned to the training ground, where dozens of other recruits practiced in disorganized clusters. He had no idea how to wield a spear. In his previous life, the closest he had gotten to combat training was a brief stint at a boxing gym in his early twenties. He thrust the spear awkwardly, his movements sluggish and clumsy. No matter how hard he tried, it didn’t feel right. Maybe it was his form, or maybe he was simply doing everything wrong. Either way, it was frustrating. He stopped, lowering the spear, and looked around. The other recruits were just as lost as he was—flailing their weapons with no rhythm, no guidance. The two instructors assigned to train them weren’t even paying attention, instead chatting and laughing under the shade of a nearby awning. Lumberling frowned. ’So we really are cannon fodder.’ Even if he trained to exhaustion every day, he’d make little progress without proper instruction. Training alone without feedback was harder than most people imagined—unless you were some kind of genius. So he quietly slipped away, leaving the chaotic rookie training ground behind. He wandered around the camp, careful not to draw attention. Nearby, he heard the rhythmic clashing of metal and the sharp barks of commands. He followed the sounds and came upon another training area. Here, soldiers moved with purpose. They executed their drills with practiced discipline, their stances firm, their weapons precise. ’Like something straight out of a movie’, he thought. Afraid he might be caught and kicked out, Lumberling quickly ducked behind a tree to observe from a distance. One soldier in particular caught his eye—a spearman moving with uncanny grace. Every thrust of his spear was fluid, like the weapon was an extension of his body. It was mesmerizing, more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen back on Earth. Nearby, instructors were actually teaching. He listened carefully, picking up bits and pieces. ’Even a single proper move is worth learning’, he thought. He adjusted his stance, putting his right foot forward and bending his knees slightly. He held the spear with both hands—right hand at the rear, left near the middle. Then he pushed forward with his back hand, pulling with the front to guide the thrust. Clumsy. Sloppy. But it was a start. He repeated the movement over and over. Hours passed. His arms burned, his shoulders throbbed, and his palms began to blister and bleed. But when he finally managed a straight, powerful thrust, he laughed aloud in joy. "That was fun. I’ve never been this focused in my entire life. This is the start of my legend—HAHAHA!" He cringed at his own theatrics, mimicking a line from some novel he’d read. Still, the moment was genuine. Then a voice spoke behind him. "Lumberling? What are you doing here?" He froze, tense, expecting a reprimand—or worse. But the voice was familiar. He turned. "Uncle Drake! I—sorry. I saw how well your group trained compared to ours. Our instructors aren’t really... teaching. So I came here instead." Uncle Drake studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Those two again. I’ll talk to them." That didn’t ease Lumberling’s worries. What if they retaliated? Still, he took a chance. "Um, Uncle Drake... can I keep training here? I won’t get in the way, I promise. And if you need anything, I’ll do it." Drake raised an eyebrow. "Of course not." Lumberling’s heart sank. Then Drake continued, "It’s better if you join us. Come on—I’ll teach you something useful." Lumberling blinked, then grinned. He followed Uncle Drake into the training area, feeling like he’d just won the lottery. Drake corrected his posture, showed him how to balance, how to thrust and reset. They trained together for an hour before the older man left to handle his own duties. Even alone, Lumberling continued. By evening, his body was completely spent. Still, he managed to chop vegetables during dinner prep and scarfed down his meal before collapsing onto his thin sleeping mat. No pillow, no blanket, but he slept like a rock. He woke up the next morning sore all over. Muscles stiff, joints aching. Still, he forced himself up, washed with a damp cloth, and changed into his training clothes—the only spare set issued to them, along with a cheap set of leather armor. He couldn’t blame his body’s previous owner for having nothing. An orphan shoved into the army—what choice did he have? Breakfast was mung bean soup and hard bread. Not great, but seasoned well enough to be edible. After eating, the recruits began their daily run—15 kilometers minimum. He didn’t know how this world measured distance, but they had some kind of tool for it. After a short break, they resumed weapon training. Uncle Drake had said he’d speak to the instructors, but nothing changed. The trainers ignored them again. So Lumberling quietly slipped away and joined Drake’s group like before. Drake didn’t object. In fact, he taught Lumberling personally a few more times. This routine continued for a week. Lumberling focused solely on spear basics. He wasn’t talented, but his stubbornness paid off. He slowly grew more confident. One morning, as he walked to the training grounds, an arrow zipped past—just three meters ahead. He froze, heart racing, before a young soldier ran over and picked up the arrow. "Excuse me," Lumberling called. "Is there a training ground for bows nearby?" The young man eyed him, then his spear. "Yeah. Near the yard. Why?" "My father was a hunter. I think I’d be better with a bow than a spear." A lie—but a convincing one. "Not forbidden," the soldier said, shrugging. "But I’m not the one to give permission. Talk to the instructor." "Thank you, sir," Lumberling said, laying the flattery on thick. He followed the soldier and found the archery ground. Soldiers practiced at targets 20 to 30 meters away. He waited until one instructor finished with a student, then approached. "Excuse me, sir. I’d like to train here. My father was a hunter—I’m more suited to a bow." The instructor barely glanced at him. "Yeah, sure." Lumberling smiled and grabbed a bow from the rack. He tested several until he found one he could actually draw. Then he stepped to the firing line and observed the others. He mimicked their posture and form. Straight back. Left arm steady. Draw the string slowly. Aim. His first arrow hit the wooden log—not the bullseye, but a hit nonetheless. He repeated the process, experimenting with distance and control. At 5–8 meters, he was accurate enough. Beyond that? Not yet. Still, he didn’t let it discourage him. After lunch, he trained again with Uncle Drake and the spear. Maybe learning two weapons at once was reckless, but he didn’t care. He was committed. His hands grew rough and calloused. His muscles throbbed every morning. But something inside him burned—he wanted to grow stronger. Even on rest days, he trained. This wasn’t the fantasy world he had hoped for—but it was his world now. ’At least I’m alive. At least I’m eating.’ A month passed. Then, new orders came: they were marching to war again. "Ah, shit. Here we go again." Lumberling stayed near the back of the formation, hoping he could flee if things got bad. "Enemies ahead! Raise your spears!" The two armies clashed. Chaos erupted. Lumberling readied his bow, looking for an isolated target. He spotted one: a soldier separated from his allies. He crept to within 15 meters—his best range. He nocked an arrow, took aim, and fired. The arrow struck the man’s leg. He cried out. Lumberling fired again—this time, a clean hit to the head. His first kill. "My first kill, amigo. This doesn’t seem too hard." Suddenly, a strange sound echoed in his ears—like a notification from a video game. (The fallen D**** ***’s essence is activating. A portion of the D**** ***’s skill has been obtained. ’Essence Devour’ skill and ’Status Window’ successfully merged.) Lumberling’s soul trembled. A dark, purplish smoke rose from the fallen enemy and flowed into him. (You have devoured the infantry soldier’s essence. 5 essences absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the soldier’s memories and experience.) A blurred memory flashed through his mind. Unclear, fragmented. He felt a rush of strength—his body surged with energy. ’Here it is. My cheat. Finally.’ He had expected something when he was reincarnated. Every novel said so. And now, it had come. He didn’t yet know what it meant—or how far it could go. But he knew one thing: he was going to survive. More enemies surged forward, and Lumberling raised his bow again, ready to fight. Lumberling aimed his arrow again and released it. He wasn’t proficient, but at least he was at a "safe" distance. He moved through the battlefield, searching for a position that gave him some cover and made him less noticeable. He found a tree that offered both and took shelter behind it, releasing arrows whenever an opportunity presented itself. He rarely fired, keeping his presence hidden from the enemy, and constantly scanned his surroundings for any signs of danger. Time passed. He managed to take down two more enemy soldiers with careful shots. His stomach churned from the stench and the sight of gore—the battlefield soaked in blood, entrails strewn across the mud. He felt like puking but held it in, forcing himself to stay focused. Then, he saw another chance. An enemy soldier, unaware of his presence, walked into view. Lumberling let loose an arrow, hitting the soldier in the shoulder. He fired again. And again. A third, then a fourth shot—until a wisp of purple smoke spiraled toward him. (You have devoured the Infantry soldier’s essence. 5 essences absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Infantry soldier’s memories and experiences.) Another memory fragment stabbed into his mind. A blurred image of a family—faces half-forgotten—flashed before his eyes. But he had no time to dwell on it. Something stirred behind him. Instinct screamed. He ducked—and just in time. A spear thrust past where his back had been, grazing his shoulder. Pain flared and blood trickled down his arm as he spun around, dropping his bow and reaching for his own spear. "Hehe, you sure are lucky to dodge that," a gruff voice said in a language Lumberling didn’t recognize. But the tone was unmistakably mocking. "Shit, where did this fucker pop out from?" he muttered, eyes locking onto the enemy. The enemy soldier was a veteran—Lumberling could tell immediately. He wore full leather armor and carried a spear and a small round shield. He stood tall, maybe 6’2", muscular and poised, his stance calm and confident. Lumberling’s heart dropped. He knew he was outmatched. Still, he took a deep breath, gripping his spear tighter and settling into a defensive stance, recalling the basics from his training. The enemy smirked, entering a stance of his own. Time seemed to slow. Neither moved. They just watched each other. Then, Lumberling shouted, "Attack now!" The enemy flinched, startled, instinctively twisting to raise his shield toward his back. But nothing came. He turned his head—and Lumberling was gone. The veteran’s eyes widened as he saw Lumberling sprinting away across the field. Veins bulged on his forehead. Fury twisted his face. With a roar, he gave chase. ’Fuck! He’s following me?’ Lumberling cursed under his breath. This was not part of the plan. He’d never intended to fight the veteran. He wasn’t delusional—one clash would be all it took for him to die. He zigzagged through the chaos, trying to pass by friendly soldiers in the hope they’d intercept the spearman. But the veteran cut them down effortlessly, pushing forward like an unstoppable force. Lumberling’s lungs burned. His legs screamed in protest. But he kept running, dodging and weaving, refusing to stop. Panic clawed at his chest as the enemy drew closer. Then—hope. He spotted a familiar figure in the distance. "Uncle Drake! Help me!" Lumberling screamed. Drake turned just in time, eyes narrowing as he saw Lumberling sprinting toward him with a spearman hot on his heels. Without hesitation, Drake raised his spear. "Duck!" he barked. Lumberling obeyed instantly, diving forward in full trust. A sharp whistle cut through the air. He didn’t see it—but he heard the sickening impact behind him. The enemy stopped chasing. Lumberling rolled on the ground and glanced back, breath ragged—only to see the enemy spearman collapsed, Drake’s spear buried deep in his chest. For a moment, all he could do was stare, his heart pounding louder than the screams of war around him. He was still alive.