Chapter 23 - 22

Chapter 23: Chapter 22 Late into the night, Lumberling opened his eyes. He slipped out of bed, pulled on a hooded cloak, and fastened a plain mask to his face. Without a sound, he left the inn and vanished into the winding back alleys of Novgord. After a long walk under flickering torchlight and damp cobblestone streets, he stopped in front of an unmarked wooden door at the back of a dilapidated tavern. He knocked twice. A peephole slid open. "I’m here for the silent auction," he whispered. The eye behind the slit narrowed before the door creaked open. A hulking man with a scar across his nose looked him over. Lumberling handed over three silver coins. The man nodded and stepped aside. Inside, Lumberling passed through a tight corridor and opened another door. He emerged into a hidden auction hall—a dark, wide chamber humming with murmured anticipation. Chandeliers swayed overhead, casting warped shadows over rows of seats filled with cloaked attendees. He walked directly to a waiting staff member and handed over a black scroll. "Please wait while we verify the item’s authenticity," the staff member said, bowing politely. Lumberling nodded and stepped back, observing the crowd. Nobles, merchants, commoners, even a few Knights—all masked, all hushed. After several tense minutes, the staff returned. "The item has been verified, sir. As per our terms, we will take a twenty-five percent commission on the final sale." Lumberling gave a small nod and found a corner seat. His pulse was steady, but his mind churned. That scroll—looted from Decurion Rex—was a forbidden artifact used to force someone into slave, partnered with the black iron collar. Selling it wasn’t just risky; it was treasonous. But he needed the coin to pay for his dojo tuition. And this black-market auction was the only place willing to take something like it. The auction began. Enchanted items, cursed weapons, and artifacts of power went under the hammer—many of them imbued with strange effects. One collar mirrored the properties of the black iron slave collar that Lumberling possess. Others invoked bizarre powers: curses bound to tokens, mental domination trinkets. Then his scroll appeared. A brief silence fell over the hall before bidding erupted. Lumberling sat still, saying nothing, as masked nobles outbid each other in increasing desperation. When it ended, his scroll sold for eight platinum coins. He didn’t leave. Not yet. He wanted to observe more, to learn what else this shadowed world had to offer. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer said with a flair, "we present to you our slaves!" The atmosphere shifted. Faces turned greedy, eyes gleamed with hunger. One by one, the enslaved were paraded out. Sengolio soldiers in chains. Captured Knights, mostly at the Knight Page level, each shackled with the black iron collars. Even monsters—tamed and broken—were sold off to the highest bidder. "A Knight Page from the Sengolio Empire," the auctioneer announced, "fifty-four years of age. We start the bidding at ten platinum coins!" Lumberling leaned back, tense. They’re selling Knights. That wasn’t just illegal—it was deeply unsettling. Those Knights were the same stage as him, but was treated as such. ’Good thing I left the Ryazan Fortress, would that be also my fate if I was captured?’ Then the next item appeared. And the room exploded. "Is that an elf?!" "No way! Look at those ears!" "What beauty—look at her skin!" "She’s not human?" "Idiot, that’s an elf!" Standing on the platform was a girl—slender, taller than average, long silver hair, and luminous green eyes filled with terror. Her ears were long and pointed. She looked barely more than a teen, trembling as she stood in the auctioneer’s spotlight. "She is indeed an elf!" the announcer bellowed. "Captured at sea while trying to escape through one of our coastal vessels. Elves are a rare species from across the ocean far beyond our empire, known for their otherworldly beauty and lifespans of a thousand years! This, my friends, is a once-in-a-lifetime acquisition!" The room erupted again, louder this time—nobles shouting, shoving, demanding bids. Fights broke out. Platinum coins flew like sparks. She didn’t cry. That’s what unsettled him the most. She just stared at the crowd with hollow defiance. No tears. Just quiet terror. Lumberling stood quietly, gaze steady. Pity flickered in his heart, but he turned away. It was not his business. Someday, when he had the strength to rewrite the rules, maybe then. He collected his six platinum coins—post-fee—and left quietly, slipping back through the alleys to the inn. The next morning, as he ate his breakfast, he overheard gossip at every table. "They sold an elf last night—can you believe it?" "What’s an elf again? Some kind of monster?" "No, no, they’re like... forest spirits. Beautiful. Magical. Live forever!" The news spread like wildfire. On every street corner, at every market stall, the city buzzed with the rumor. ’Elves are real.’ Lumberling thought, chewing thoughtfully. ’If goblins exist, and now elves... then what else? Dwarves? Dragons? Beastmen?’ He shrugged to himself. Interesting, but not urgent. Right now, his priority was growth. Power. And for that, he needed the dojo. He arrived at the dojo gates just before midday. Two guards blocked his path. "State your business," one barked. "I’m here to enroll." They eyed him with bored contempt. He looked like a commoner. An easy mark. "That’ll be a few silver coins to enter," the second one said. "Since when?" Lumberling asked flatly. "New rule," the guard said with a smirk. "Our rule." Lumberling’s eyes turned cold. "I see." "You don’t like it? Try getting in without hands." Without another word, Lumberling picked up a fist-sized stone from the ground and crushed it into dust with one hand. The guards flinched. Before they could speak, he wrapped his arms around their necks in a friendly grip, like an old drinking buddy pulling them close. But his voice was ice. "Let’s not play this game again," he whispered. "Next time, I won’t be so polite. Understood?" "Y-yes, sir," they stammered. Lumberling released them and walked inside. At the front desk, a woman lazily reading a book barely looked up. "Enrollment?" she asked. "Yes." She handed him a form without glancing his way. He filled it out: name, age (he lied, writing 25), origin, parental names. She skimmed the paper. "How long are you training?" "Three months." "Skill?" "Spearmanship." "Manual level?" "Low-tier." She looked at him sharply. "Low-tier costs more. You sure?" "I’m sure." "Training with an instructor?" "Yes." She shrugged. "Fifty-five gold total. Thirty for the manual, twenty-five for instruction. Sign these—dojo rules." Lumberling read the fine print: no leaking manual contents, no fights outside sparring, no theft, no copying techniques. Violators would be hunted by the dojo. He signed and was led to the training area. The spear training room was a wide, open space divided into wooden floors and sparring mats. Eight students stood in a semi-circle around an instructor. Six men, two women. Two Quasi-Knights. One Knight Apprentice. Three Knight Pages. Two still unranked. The man leading them was middle-aged, his energy calm and unreadable. Lumberling’s instincts—honed by monsters—told him the instructor was dangerous. The man turned to him and smiled warmly. "Come join us," said the middle-aged man with a light beard, his tone warm and inviting. He stood near a rack of practice weapons lined neatly along the wall—spears of varying lengths, some worn from use, others gleaming like new. Lumberling approached respectfully. "What’s your name, young man?" "I’m Lumberling. How should I address sire?" he asked, bowing slightly. "Just call me Instructor Sorin," the man replied with a friendly nod. "The servant mentioned this is your first time here." "That’s right, Instructor Sorin. I traveled from a faraway place for the opportunity to train in this dojo." "Hmm. To better tailor your training, tell me—have you practiced spearmanship before, or is this your first time learning it?" "I’ve trained in spearmanship since I was young, Instructor Sorin." Sorin gave him a brief glance, as if weighing something behind his eyes. "A twenty-five-year-old Knight Page. Alright, make yourself comfortable. I’ll speak with you again after I finish with the others." Something about Sorin’s calm grated at Lumberling. He wasn’t just staff—he was watching, weighing. Like a hawk in a borrowed robe. Lumberling nodded and took a seat near the wall. Of course, he had lied about his age—claiming to be twenty-five instead of nineteen. He looked mature enough that no one would question it. He couldn’t afford the kind of attention he might draw. The dojo smelled of oiled wood and sweat. Its polished floor was scarred by countless drills. Along one wall hung faded banners, each bearing a different crest. A faint outline of old battle formations was etched into the wooden floor—faint, but still visible under the afternoon light. Lumberling observed as Sorin demonstrated spear forms with fluid precision. The students mimicked him, some with discipline, others with struggle. One of them, a young Quasi-Knight, looked particularly clumsy with her strikes. ’Maybe it’s her second skill,’ he thought, noting how she hesitated with every move. She was young, maybe a bit older than him, and the others treated her with careful politeness. Too careful. ’A noble, perhaps? But why is she here?’ Eventually, Sorin returned. "To begin," he said, "I need to gauge your current level. And the quickest way to do that—" "Is to spar?" Lumberling asked, rising. Sorin grinned. "Exactly. Pick up your weapon." Lumberling gripped his spear with both hands and stepped onto the worn ring, marked faintly with chalk lines. Sorin stood across from him—unarmed, bare-handed, his stance loose and relaxed. Yet there was something in his stillness that hinted at coiled strength. "Go on," Sorin said. "Don’t hold back. I may look old, but I’m not that easy to hit." Lumberling knew he was facing a true Knight, a Knight One stage. He didn’t stand a chance, but he welcomed the test. He exhaled, crouched low, and sprang forward, thrusting at Sorin’s head. Sorin read the move in an instant. ’Quick, but predictable,’ he thought. But just before the strike landed, the spear shifted—angling low toward his leg. A feint. ’Impressive.’ Sorin leaned out of the way, dodging with ease. Lumberling flowed into a spinning sweep at his legs, but Sorin simply stepped back, letting the blow pass with a casual grace. Another thrust came, and again, Lumberling shifted the angle mid-motion—this time jabbing at Sorin’s shadow against the wall. A trick. Almost a good one. Sorin didn’t bite. He leaned aside, then stepped in and tapped Lumberling’s wrist with two fingers. It was enough. The young man stumbled. "You’re not fighting to win," Sorin said calmly. "You’re fighting to survive." "I always fight to stay alive," Lumberling replied. "That’s all I’ve ever had to do." He launched forward again, faking high, swinging low. A quick kick shot toward Sorin’s knee, followed by a sudden stab. Sorin flowed around it all like water. "You use the ground well," he commented, noting the scattered dust and loose dirt being stirred beneath their feet. "Every move has intent." Lumberling didn’t answer. He twisted his spear in a wide arc, scooped up a handful of dirt—and hurled it at Sorin’s face. Sorin flinched. Just for a blink. The spear came flying at his throat. Smack. In one smooth motion, Sorin twisted his body, knocked the spear aside, stepped into Lumberling’s guard, and swept him off his feet. The young man hit the floor hard. Before he could rise, Sorin placed a foot over the fallen spear. He looked down, expression unreadable. Then offered a hand. "You’re clever," he said. "Messy. Wild. But smart. You fight like someone who’s never had a teacher..." Lumberling took the hand, and Sorin pulled him up in one strong, steady motion. "...and never needed one," Sorin finished. "Lucky for you, you have one now." Lumberling stood in silence, catching his breath. ’He dodged everything. Not a single strike landed. So this is a Knight One.’ "Your technique is... unorthodox," Sorin said. "Did you train alone?" "Yes, Instructor. I’ve been hunting monsters to improve my spearmanship." In truth, Lumberling’s style was a blend of necessity. Bits from the memories he absorbed, watching human fighters, tricks from monsters, and tactics born of instinct and desperation. Uncle Drake, Orrin, and Eldric had trained him, but their own specialties lay elsewhere. "I see. That explains the rawness. And your physique is above average too compared to other Knight Pages." Sorin nodded thoughtfully. "What I am about to teach you is a skill called Pikeman’s Art. You might be already aware, but even with different skills as long as the foundations are the same, you can integrate them." "You might have a different name for your skill but most of them have similarities, just different qualities. So, it would be up to you whether to integrate the Pikeman’s Art into your skill and upgrade it or the other way around." "Can you tell me more about it? It sounds like a soldier’s discipline." "It is. Used by most Knight Soldiers," Sorin replied. "Pikeman’s Art focuses on long weapons—spears, pikes, halberds. It teaches reach control, footwork, grip variation, and formation adaptability. It shines in both group formations and duels." "I’d like to integrate my current skill into Pikeman’s Art," Lumberling said without hesitation. Sorin raised an eyebrow. "Quick decision. Most students try to keep their original skill as the core." "Why? Isn’t Pikeman’s Art a higher tier skill?" "Pride, mostly," Sorin shrugged. "Some want to honor their family’s style. Others are simply too used to their technique to change it. And some believe they can elevate a mediocre-tier skill by tacking a better one onto it." "If it makes me stronger, I don’t mind." Sorin smiled. "That’s the right mindset. Let’s begin. Since your body’s already well-trained, we’ll skip ahead. I’ll teach you the foundational stances and grip transitions first." Lumberling nodded and began copying Sorin’s movements with full concentration. Not far off, a group of students whispered. "Hey, check out the new guy," said a blue-haired youth. "He’s pretty decent-looking." "Think he’s got noble backing?" asked Kenley, a burly man watching from the edge. "Doubt it," another muttered. "Look at his footwork—wild and unrefined. Merchant kid, maybe." Others just watched in silence, eyes curious.