Chapter 99 - 98: The First Step, The Final Rites

Chapter 99: Chapter 98: The First Step, The Final Rites The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the land in a slanted gold as Lumberling and Skitz emerged from the tree line, the battered scent of war still clinging to them, ash, blood, and smoke trailing in their wake. They stepped into the clearing that marked the edge of the battlefield’s perimeter, and stopped. A ripple of aura hit Lumberling like a shift in the wind. Not dangerous. But heavy. Alive. New. "What the..." Skitz muttered beside him, eyes narrowing. Ahead, near the base camp’s perimeter fires, stood Aren. Or what had been Aren. The hobgoblin youth had grown taller, by at least half a head. His shoulders had broadened, his muscle mass thickened and defined. Gone was the gangly, quick-footed figure of before. What now stood there was a war-born shape, hardened by scars and sharpened by battle. His skin held a deeper green, a copper undertone gleaming in the sunset. His jawline was stronger. But more than his body, his presence had changed. Focused. Tempered. Commanding. A Warlord’s aura. A Knight Apprentice’s force. Lumberling’s eyes widened faintly. "...He did it," he murmured. Skitz blinked. "Is that...?" "Aren," Lumberling confirmed, stepping forward slowly. The young hobgoblin turned as they approached. His eyes were calmer than before. He wasn’t grinning. Not basking in glory. Just standing, quiet, anchored, alive. "I couldn’t protect them," he said softly, before anyone could speak. His gaze didn’t meet theirs yet. "I wasn’t strong enough. I was supposed to be." Lumberling stopped before him. He said nothing at first, merely studying the warrior. He felt it, the power simmering beneath Aren’s skin. Like a forge just stoked to life. Earned. "No one becomes strong enough by avoiding loss," Lumberling said finally, voice low. Aren slowly nodded. "I remembered everything... what that strange man did. How helpless I felt." His hand tightened into a fist. "I wanted to run. I almost did. But then, something clicked. My heart burned. My mind cleared. It... happened." Lumberling smiled faintly. "That’s what happens when you stop holding back." Aren looked up, jaw set. "I won’t hesitate again." Lumberling put a hand on his shoulder. "You’ve earned your evolution. Hobgoblin Warlord. But don’t let the power numb you. It’s a tool. Not your identity." A beat passed. Then Skitz clapped his hands loudly. "Touching as this is," he said dryly, "we’ve still got a field of dead idiots and loot waiting to be stripped." Lumberling exhaled through his nose. "Right." Shortly After. The Duskspire Legion spread across the field with grim efficiency. No celebration, no words. Just practiced silence as armor was stripped, packs opened, bodies rolled. Sengolio soldiers had carried decent gear, half-plate armor, standard-issue sabers, shortbows, and rations. But more importantly: horses, coin purses, and several crates of dried food and bottled water were found near the command post. Skitz flipped a pouch and whistled. "Two hundred gold. Not bad. They had a quartermaster." Trask held up a torn map scroll from the command building. "Supply routes. Could be useful." Gorrak and Rogar oversaw the sorting, dividing weapons and armor into what could be repurposed for training or melted down. Then came the hard part. They carried the bodies gently. Three elite kobolds, veterans who had followed Lumberling from the raids. Each bore jagged wounds from their final stand. One still had his axe in hand, even in death. And two hobgoblins, young but brave. Loyal. Aren walked beside them in silence, his new stature seeming heavier now. Like he understood the weight of leadership for the first time. They wrapped the fallen in thick cloth, marked their names in the Duskspire records, and placed them atop the spare horses for burial rites back at the base. As the sun dipped behind the hills, and the last of the battlefield was stripped clean, Lumberling stood at the edge, arms folded, watching. He didn’t speak. But in his chest, something shifted. The war was not over. The real enemies had yet to show their faces. And now, the shadows whispered of other worlds... of cultivation. But for tonight, he would honor the dead. And train the living. ..... That Night, in an empty room. The candles had long since burned low, casting the stone chamber in a sleepy amber haze. Everyone else had retired. Victory celebrations would come tomorrow. For now, silence reigned. But Lumberling didn’t sleep. He sat cross-legged in the room alone, his spear resting nearby, his breath steady but heart... thrumming. Not from battle. From possibility. The memories of Nie Fenghun had settled into his mind like ink bleeding into parchment. Fragmented. Incomplete. But vivid. And precious. "Two cultivation manuals," he whispered to himself. The Imperial Mindseal Meditation. A cultivation method once reserved for princes of the Jade Court. High-quality. Elegant. Balanced. Designed to refine spirit and calm the mind while building internal energy. It wasn’t flashy, but it was stable. A core foundation meant for those groomed to rule. And then... The Ironblood Tempering Scripture. Crude. Ruthless. Painful. But effective. A body-refining method from a fallen sect called the Red Hammer Gate. Built for warriors who tempered themselves against the grindstone of war and hardship. These manuals were once complete, capable of guiding a cultivator through higher realms, but Lumberling had only absorbed fragments of Nie’s memories, limiting his knowledge to the Qi Awakening Realm. ’In this world Nie never completed them,’ Lumberling thought. ’He only reached the first realm. The Body Tempering Realm... Bone and Tendon Fortification stage.’ Still, it had made him strong. Strong enough to clash with Peak Knight Apprentices. Strong enough to flatten elite warriors with a palm. And arrogant enough to think himself untouchable. In his last life, Nie had reached the third realm, Meridian Opening. That was equivalent to Knight Two Stage in this world. But that wasn’t what mattered most now. What mattered was that Lumberling had absorbed the manuals, and the foundation. Even if fractured... it was enough. A second path had opened before him. Not magic. Not knighthood. Cultivation. And it thrilled him. His fist clenched involuntarily. He could feel it, like a door had cracked open behind his mind. Qi Adaptation. A divine blessing. The words alone sent a chill down his spine. Not just essence. Not just memory. But something higher, a gift, or perhaps a curse, carved from a being of power. And that made him pause. If his Essence Devour skill could absorb even a fragment of a divine blessing, then it was more than just a skill. It was something capable of biting into the divine. Nie Fenghun had screamed about being chosen. About his greatness. And Lumberling had taken it all from him. The memory was still sharp: Nie’s outstretched hand, his cry of rage and disbelief, the spear through his heart. "I killed him," Lumberling murmured. That thought... unnerved him more than anything else tonight. Because in Nie’s memories... he’d seen a figure. A voice without form. Something vast. Not a man. Not a god he recognized. Something older. Alien. "Survive. Adapt. Rise again." That was all it had said before sending the prince into this world. He sighed and leaned back. ’Enough.’ Thinking in circles changed nothing. He wasn’t Nie. He wasn’t from the Cultivation World. But now, the seed of that world lived inside him. His gaze hardened. ’So this is cultivation.’ From the fragment memories he absorbed, he recalled there were seven major cultivation realms, each divided into four distinct minor stages. 1. Body Tempering Realm Minor realms: - Skin & Muscle Hardening (Knight Page Level) - Bone & Tendon Fortification (Knight Apprentice Level) - Organ Reinforcement (Early Quasi-Knight Level) - Meridian Conditioning (Peak Quasi-Knight Level) 2. Qi Awakening Realm (Knight One Stage Level) Minor realms: - Qi Sensing - Qi Gathering - Qi Circulation - Qi Control 3. Meridian Opening (Knight Two Stage Level) (A detailed breakdown of the minor realms can be found in the ’Power Systems’ section of the Auxiliary Volume.) 4. Core Formation (Knight Three Stage Level) 5. Soul Refinement (Knight Four) 6. Heaven Defying (Knight Five) 7. Immortal Ascension... His breath deepened as he stared at the first step. He hadn’t begun. Not yet. But now, he had the manuals. Now, he had the spark. Now... he had the choice. Lumberling stood slowly, eyes bright under firelight. Nie Fenghun wanted to rule worlds. Lumberling wanted to survive them. And eventually, shape them. ..... Outskirts of Greyvale - Burial grounds near the Hollow Pines The sun was a faint smear of gold behind the overcast sky, and the wind carried the scent of pine, dry earth, and lingering ash. A clearing had been carved into the soil just outside the city, a quiet, forgotten place between two old hills. The kind of ground where the world didn’t scream, didn’t watch. It simply was. Here, Duskspire buried its dead. Five mounds had been dug with care. The soil was dark, damp, freshly turned. Cloth-wrapped forms lay beside each grave, three elite kobolds and two hobgoblins. Their bodies had been cleaned. Armor scrubbed. Weapons laid beside them as tribute. Lumberling stood at the head of the burial site, the wind pulling at his cloak. The rest of the core squad stood in silence, Skitz, Aren, Rogar, Gorrak, Trask, each holding a helmet, a blade, or a piece of gear that belonged to the fallen. No one spoke. Because nothing needed to be said. These weren’t mere foot soldiers. They had names. Had stories. Had been trained personally by Duskspire’s commanders. They had eaten around the same fires. Bled on the same floors. They had learned five disciplines, fought alongside Quasi-Knights, and still, they fell. Lumberling stepped forward. He didn’t carry a speech. Only truth. "They were not fodder," he said, his voice steady, carried by the wind. "They were not tools. They were part of this blade we’re sharpening... and we’ve dulled it today." He looked down at the wrapped body of Orlen, one of the kobolds who had fought without retreat. "These five weren’t born strong," Lumberling continued. "But they chose to become more. That choice, that courage, is worth more than power." He crouched by one of the graves and lowered a small iron badge onto the shroud, Duskspire’s mark. "I don’t care if the world forgets them," he said quietly. "We won’t." Skitz, for once, said nothing. A long moment passed. Only the wind moved now, and the slow rhythm of spades filling in the earth. Thump. Thump. Thump. One by one, they buried them. No rituals. No priests. Just warriors honoring warriors. When it was done, five mounds stood like scars across the clearing. Aren placed his old spear, a cracked, battered thing, into the dirt before the hobgoblin graves. "I’ll carry something better now," he murmured. "Because they can’t." Gorrak crossed his arms and whispered a prayer, voice low and gravelled. Trask unslung a flask, poured a line of wine across the graves, then drank the rest without a word. Lumberling lingered at the edge, staring at the dirt. These were not the first. They wouldn’t be the last. But the pain didn’t lessen with repetition. ’No matter how far I rise, I’ll still bury my own.’ He turned from the graves and faced the others. "Burn this place into memory," he said. "Because we don’t forget our fallen." "And we never waste the lives they paid forward." The wind howled once through the trees, like breath drawn by the earth itself. Then they left. Five markers behind them. But no silence in their hearts.