CHAPTER 52: CHAPTER 51

After the wounded were treated and the flames of the pyres had dimmed to glowing coals, Lumberling called for Skarn. The sun was low, casting long shadows over the scorched dirt.

Skarn approached, blood still staining his leather straps and fur-lined pauldrons. He dropped to one knee, head bowed. "You called for me, my Lord?"

Lumberling nodded. "You fought with honor. You commanded your cavalry well. Your leadership saved many lives."

Skarn didn’t respond with words—only thudded a fist to his chest.

"You’ve earned a reward," Lumberling continued. "And more than that... you’ve earned my trust."

"Skarn," Lumberling said, brushing off his hands, "I’ve decided to give you a gift."

The captain blinked. "My Lord?"

Just as he had done with Gobo1 and Gorrak, Lumberling performed the essence ritual. After a renewed pledge of loyalty, he guided Skarn to the captured wolves.

One by one, he transferred their essence—including the crippled Alpha Dire Wolf’s—into Skarn.

Skarn gritted his teeth, eyes wide. His muscles trembled, body absorbing strength not his own. Steam rose from his skin.

Then, suddenly—he exhaled, long and low. The glow faded.

He stood, taller now. His presence had changed—more primal, more commanding. The essence had taken root.

"I... I can feel it," Skarn whispered, flexing his arm. "The rage. The strength. The clarity."

"You’re evolving," Lumberling said simply. "Berserker."

Skarn dropped to one knee again—but this time, not as a soldier.

As a sworn blade.

"I offer my strength to you once more, my Lord. My mind. My life. So long as I stand, your will is mine to carry."

Lumberling placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then rise, Captain Skarn. Berserker of the Boar cavalry. You are no longer just a warrior—you’re one of my pillars now."

Lumberling watched him, though his eyes drifted elsewhere. ’After he evolves, that makes five captains evolved... only Vakk remains.’

.....

By midday, the mood in the village had shifted. What began as solemn silence gave way to murmurs—then cheers.

Lumberling stepped outside, already suspecting the cause.

The training grounds were crowded. Goblins and kobolds stood in awe, looking at the newly evolved soldiers lined up before them.

Seventeen in total—seven Hobgoblins, ten Elite Kobolds. All of them kneeling now.

"Greetings, my Lord," they chorused. "We ask that you bestow us our names."

"You’ve done well," Lumberling said. "Some of our brothers aren’t here to see this day... but we honor them."

Cheers erupted. The village brightened, the weight of grief lifted just slightly by joy and pride.

But the surprises weren’t over.

A ripple moved through the crowd as they turned toward a heavy presence approaching. A figure emerged from the crowd—stronger, larger, a predator.

The goblins and kobolds nearby took a step back instinctively.

"His aura... it changed," murmured Tarnix, his hand gripping his dagger’s hilt without realizing it.

"He’s not just stronger," said Vakk, his eyes narrowed. "He’s something else now."

Even the boars in the nearby pens stirred uneasily, hooves scraping the ground.

Skarn dropped to one knee, panting, chest heaving from the raw force of the transformation. But in his eyes, there was no confusion.

Only fire.

"I’ve been waiting," Lumberling said, smiling.

"My Lord." Skarn bowed deeply.

"How does it feel to be a berserker?"

"It feels... incredible. I’ll serve you better than ever."

’So he was already on the verge of evolving...’ Lumberling had understood that simply giving essence to his subordinates wasn’t enough to trigger evolution—it only accelerated the process. Unless they had already met the hidden conditions, no amount of essence would push them past that threshold.

It was much like his own growth. Absorbing essence allowed him to reach his current limits faster, but once he hit a bottleneck, further absorption would only enhance his physical body—not push him to the next tier.

But not everyone was constrained the same way. Some, like Skitz, seemed to possess deeper potential. With his aptitude and hunger, Lumberling believed Skitz might continue absorbing essence without pause—until he reached power rivaling even a full-fledged Knight 1.

He glanced over the crowd—the new evolutions, the veterans, the wounded—and raised his hand.

"Enough ceremony. Tonight, we celebrate!"

That night, Lumberling gave seventeen new names. Seventeen new blades to strengthen the dream they were building.

But in the back of his mind... the war was not over.

The wolves would not be the last threat to test their strength.

That evening, the village square was lit with firelight and the scent of roasted meat. Skitz had insisted they honor both the fallen and the living. Crude mugs carved from horn clinked. A stew pot the size of a barrel boiled at the center, filled with dire wolf meat and wild root vegetables.

Skitz stood atop an overturned crate, raising a mug. "To the dead we mourn, and to the living who still have to wash blood out of their hair!"

Laughter echoed—rough, short, but real.

Tarnix groaned. "Izzek nearly glued his own hand to a spearshaft earlier. Should we toast that too?"

"Only if it still functions!" shouted Gobo2, drawing more laughter.

Even the vice-captains cracked smiles. For a brief moment, the weight of battle lifted.

Skarn sat slightly apart, still adjusting to his new strength. A few goblins cautiously approached, offering bowls of food or nods of respect.

"You’re... not gonna bite us now, right?" Gobo1 asked, wide-eyed.

Skarn let out a low chuckle. "Not unless you drink all the ale."

.....

Five Days Later

"So, the wolves were spotted near the Rocky Mountains?"

"Yes, my Lord. The scouts we sent saw them near the area," Krivex reported.

"They’re keeping their distance, but it’s still within our territory. It doesn’t look like they’re planning to give up anytime soon," Lumberling muttered, tapping his finger against the war table.

"Their numbers might’ve dropped sharply, but the ones that remain are likely the strongest—what’s left of their elite pack," Skitz added grimly.

"And they wouldn’t dare attack our village again, not after what happened. If they strike next, it’ll be on their terms—out there, in the forest," he continued.

"That’s fine," Lumberling said, folding his arms. "If they won’t come to us, then we’ll just meet them on ground where we can plan more freely. The forest gives us options—traps, terrain, flanks. Let’s use it."

He turned toward the captains. "Return to training your squads. No one leaves the village for hunting patrols—we have enough food stocked for now. Until further notice, we stay put and prepare."

"Understood, my Lord," the captains replied in unison, then scattered to resume their duties.

Lumberling remained for a moment, watching them leave. Then he turned toward one figure still waiting by the doorway.

"Vakk," he called. "I need to speak with you tomorrow—after your training."

"Yes, my Lord," Vakk replied, bowing respectfully before hurrying off.

The day passed in quiet but relentless rhythm. Lumberling spent the morning sparring with Skitz and personally inspecting soldier drills.

As night began to fall, Lumberling headed back toward the main hall but paused by the hearth where Jen sat curled beside Old Man Dan. Her hands were tightly wrapped around a wooden carving—something she’d been whittling.

When she saw Lumberling, she sprang up and hugged him, small arms clinging tightly around his waist.

"Brother..." she whispered. "Please don’t go out too long. I don’t like it when you’re gone."

Lumberling patted her head gently. "I’ll be alright. You trust me, right?"

She nodded into his chest but didn’t let go. Dan gave him a knowing glance, saying nothing.

"They won’t attack again soon," Lumberling reassured her. "We’ve got walls, weapons, and smart people watching."

Jen looked up at him, her eyes shimmering. "Even smart people die."

That one hit deeper than he expected. He crouched down to her level, looked her in the eyes, and smiled.

"That’s why I’m teaching others to be smart too. So next time... fewer people have to."

.....

The sun dipped low behind the treetops as Lumberling entered the holding pens, carrying a small satchel of herbs and a worn book bound in beast hide. The air inside was thick with musk and the sharp tang of blood.

He crouched near the injured Dire Wolf—the pregnant one. Its pale eyes tracked him, wild and wary, but it no longer bared its teeth.

"Still hostile, huh," he muttered, kneeling beside it.

From his satchel, he pulled out a leaf-wrapped poultice and gently unwrapped the crude stitches he’d applied days earlier. The wound was starting to scab, but infection lingered. Lumberling cleaned it again with warm water and ground resin, then flipped open the book and scanned a page.

Gestation cycle... approximately three moons... signs of discomfort in the final weeks...

He glanced at the she-wolf’s belly, gently placing his palm against the swollen abdomen. A faint twitch answered back. Still alive.

"You’ve got time," he whispered, more to himself. "We’ll get through this. Maybe your pups can be something more."

As he redressed the wound and placed fresh cloth under the wolf’s body, a thought surfaced—if this worked, if the cubs accepted him from birth, they could be trained, even bonded. Not tamed. Not like pets. But partners.

"Back in my old world, a plan like this would’ve been laughed out of the room. Too risky. Too expensive. HR would’ve handed me a warning letter just for suggesting we ’raise wolves.’"

But here? Here, the rules bent around willpower and blood.

He checked in with the injured soldiers afterward, re-wrapping bandages, applying herbs, giving them quiet nods of encouragement. As of now, he was still the best doctor in the village.