Chapter 24 - 23

Chapter 24: Chapter 23 After his sparring session with Instructor Sorin, Lumberling made his way down a quiet corridor to the dojo’s modest library, where the skill manuals were stored. The scent of aged paper and polished wood lingered in the air. "Excuse me," he said to the man shelving books. "I’m here to read the skill manual I rented." The librarian turned, adjusting his spectacles. "Name and the manual you’re here for?" "Lumberling. I enrolled this morning. I’m looking for The Pikeman’s Art." The man scanned a ledger, then gave a nod. "Found it. Please wait here a moment." He disappeared into a back room and returned shortly with a worn, leather-bound tome. "Remember the rules," the librarian said as he handed it over. "Do not share it. It may be a copy, but damage will be charged." Lumberling gave a respectful nod and found a quiet table. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the book, heart quickening with hope. The early Chapters described the origin of the style, its philosophy, and ideal practitioners. There was a short section on specialization—thrust-focused combat, battlefield spacing, and group coordination. But then... that was it. He flipped the pages again. Nothing on how to break through limits. Nothing on improving one’s potential. Just detailed explanations of the form and its discipline. "That’s it? No way. Did I miss something?" He reread the manual, twice, then a third time. But the content never changed. No secret techniques. No hidden insights. Just a solid, basic introduction to the art of the pike. "Hah... What was I expecting? At least I know now I can’t rely on this." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Maybe Instructor Sorin can help." ’There’s still so much I don’t know about this world. No need to feel down. My chance will come when the time is right.’ Day by day, he trained. Tirelessly. But despite hours of practice, not a single point was added to his [Beginner Spearmanship Lv3]. When he asked Instructor Sorin for guidance, the reply was firm and unflinching: "Either you haven’t truly understood the skill, or you’ve reached the limits of your potential." It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. But he kept going anyway. The dojo was a wide, open space—filled with the scent of sweat and aged pine, its floors worn smooth by years of repetition. The air echoed with the steady rhythm of wood-on-wood, the quiet grunts of effort, the occasional thud of a misstep. The others moved like shadows compared to him. There were eight of them—older, faster, stronger. Some practiced in pairs, some alone. A few glanced at Lumberling now and then, not with anger, but not with kindness either. Just distant looks, like he was a stranger they had no reason to care about. And maybe he was. They never spoke to him. He never asked for their names. He only knew them by the sound of their movements—the girl who always moved fast and light, the tall man who hit like thunder, the quiet one whose eyes never blinked during sparring. Lumberling kept his head down and trained. He was here for one reason: to get stronger. Master Sorin observed in silence, arms folded, his gray hair tied back. His sharp eyes swept the floor but lingered most often on Lumberling. He rarely spoke. But one evening, when class had ended and Lumberling stayed behind alone, Sorin approached. "You don’t move like someone with talent," he said. Lumberling paused. "I don’t?" "You move like someone who refuses to stop." It wasn’t clear if it was a compliment. But Lumberling took it that way. He stayed late again the next day. And the day after that. Months passed. His arms ached daily. His movements sharpened little by little. Yet still... no experience gain. He checked again. Beginner Spearmanship Lv3 (0/1000) ’It’s still too early to judge. Keep going.’ He extended his stay by three more months. Another 55 gold coins. A heavy price—but he paid it without hesitation. Time passed. Weeks turned into months, and though Lumberling trained nearly every day, little had changed on the surface. He still arrived early, left late, and said few words to the others. The dojo echoed with the sound of wooden spears striking against dummies and the floor. The rhythm was uneven—some fast, some slow—but the intent was always the same: to improve. Lumberling stood at the far end, sweat rolling down his face as he repeated the same thrust for the fiftieth time. His movements weren’t smooth yet, and his feet still fumbled the steps now and then. But he didn’t stop. The others around him—eight students in total—were sharper, stronger, more polished. They had been here longer and it showed. Lumberling didn’t talk to them much. They didn’t talk to him either. No one disliked him, but no one seemed to care about him either. Except Henry. Henry was the tall one, always relaxed but steady in his strikes, a Knight Apprentice stage too, on his early thirty’s. One day, during a short break, he walked over and said, "Your backhand swing is too close. You’re crowding yourself." He didn’t wait for permission. He just picked up his own spear and showed Lumberling the motion—clean and controlled. Lumberling adjusted his form. It felt better. After that, he gave Lumberling a few more tips over the weeks. Nothing deep. Nothing personal. Just advice, when he felt like it. Lumberling appreciated it, even if their conversations never lasted more than a minute or two. Then, one afternoon, something different happened. Most of the others had left early. Only a few students remained, including Stacy. Lumberling had seen her many times before—quick on her feet, focused, rarely speaking. Today, though, she looked frustrated. Lumberling watched from the corner, then slowly walked over. "You’re rushing the turn," he said. "Your front foot’s landing too early." Stacy gave him a quick look. Not angry, just surprised. "Show me." she said. He did. Slow and deliberate. She tried again. Still rough. But better. "Hm. Thanks," she muttered. Lumberling nodded and went back to his own training. They didn’t speak again that day. Or the next. She didn’t avoid him. But she didn’t come to him either. And that was fine. Lumberling kept training. Henry would still offer a comment every now and then. Stacy stayed focused on her own work. The others remained in their own circles. But the silence wasn’t as heavy anymore. Lumberling wasn’t part of the group—but he wasn’t completely outside it either. Months passed. Josh, one of the students, finally advanced to Knight Page. His family—wealthy merchants—had supported his five-year journey here. It was his last day with them. Lumberling watched from a distance. He still hadn’t gained a single point. ’If I can’t break this wall, the rest of my skills will hit the same limit.’ He clenched his fists. ’Keep going. This is not where I stop.’ Lumberling moved through his drills near the far end, sweat dripping from his jaw, breath steady but shallow. He adjusted his grip mid-swing, correcting an error he saw in Genley’s form earlier that day. It felt better. Tighter. Sharper. His body hurt, but that was normal now. The others were here, too. Always ahead of him, always training harder—or maybe just better. Jack and Fiona, both at the Quasi-Knight stage, sparred in short bursts, their speed almost too fast to follow. Jack’s strikes were wide and punishing, Fiona’s clean and methodical. She moved like someone with purpose—never flashy, but never off balance. She spoke with Lumberling once or twice. Just in passing. A comment on footwork. A nod of approval. She wasn’t cold. Just distant. Still, he could tell—she noticed him. He knew her story, same as everyone. A noble’s bastard child. Treated with quiet respect, never directly challenged. Most spoke to her carefully. Not because they liked her—but because of who her blood tied her to. Lumberling didn’t treat her any different. He just bowed like he would to anyone else, then went back to training. Aaron, Stacy, and Genley, all Knight Pages like him, trained in a tighter group. Their movements were solid, practiced, confident. Lumberling learned a lot just by watching—how Aaron kept his guard high even while stepping back, how Stacy used her reach to pressure, how Genley shifted his weight before every strike. Henry, the Knight Apprentice, helped when he felt like it. A nod here, a tip there. Lumberling never asked for anything. But Henry gave it anyway. Over time, Lumberling started to understand something else. They were all backed by nobles. Sponsorships. Promises. Paths laid out before them. Once they became full Knights, they would serve noble houses—some as protectors, some as champions. It was the natural order. Power served power. But none of that changed his focus. He didn’t come here to be recognized. He came here to grow stronger. As the others began to finish for the day, Lumberling remained. He worked through his final set—tight, deliberate strikes, feet sliding smoothly between positions. As he finished, Fiona walked past him toward the exit. She slowed for half a second, just enough to glance his way. "You’re consistent," she said. "That’s harder than talent." Then she was gone. Lumberling stood still for a moment, unsure what to make of her words. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just lowered his spear, wiped the sweat from his brow, and got ready to repeat the drill one more time.