At dawn, after a night too restless to be called sleep, Luc stood at the edge of Greenwood Forest. Fog curled between the trees like smoke from a forge, thick and clinging. He squared his shoulders, pretending his hands weren't trembling. Rorik's words clanged in his mind: this forest was the anvil—and he, the unfinished blade. Three days alone. No fire, no backup, no mana.
Just like his earlier journey to greenwood, however this time, a new goal, a new resolution. Survive, scout, return. That was the quest—anything more was on him. If he cracked now, he'd splinter, not sharpen. Luc inhaled through his nose, slow and steady like Rorik had shown him, and stepped into the trees.
Stepping past the threshold of the entrance, he felt the shift immediately. The forest air felt weightier than memory—each inhale pressed cool against his lungs, and the fine hairs on his neck prickled.. The hum of latent energy seemed to resonate with every step he took. His breath fogged in the cold morning air, and every rustle of leaves or snap of twigs sent jolts of tension through his body. He forced himself to focus.
The quest had mentioned wolf tracks, goblins, hobgoblins, even Owlbears—creatures he'd only read about. Survival was the only goal here.
But survival wasn't enough for Luc. He had to grow, to prove himself—to Rorik, to the guild, to his father and the world that abandoned those like him. And most of all, to Caelum, who had betrayed his trust, it was about proving to himself that he was no less than Caelum, this other half.
----
By midday, Luc stumbled upon the first signs of goblin activity. The damp earth underfoot carried an acrid, metallic tang—exactly as Sir Wilfred had warned him during sword drills back at Steelhart Duchy. His pulse fluttered. I can do this… he reminded himself, though a second thought hissed, But what if I fail?
Tracks crisscrossed the dirt trail—some fresh, others half-erased by time. He knelt, trying to inspect them, trembling as his fingers pressed the faint outline of the deeper print. It felt familiar, "Must be… No, perhaps just a bigger foot," he told himself, brow furrowed with doubt—until a ragged hoof-like groove forced a sharp intake of breath: a goblin rider. A second-tier beast, one of the few kinds of monsters he encountered on his way to greenwood city.
Goblin riders… Luc thought, mind sharpening like a whetstone on steel. No room for guessing. Wolves strapped with riders—"Sir Wilfred said they are rare goblin variants, rarer than hobgoblins, only appearing as part of a unit in a larger organised encampment."
He forced his breathing to steady, carefully climbing a tree closeby. He scanned the forest for signs of life. The dense trees cast shadows across the trail, their shapes dancing as if alive. The faint rustling of leaves overhead mingled with distant, guttural chatter, sending a shiver down his spine.
Something about the scene felt wrong—more than just the presence of goblin riders. There seemed to be larger footprints along the trail, something much larger than a wolf. A second tier beast, perhaps a third tier.
A rustling in the bushes yanked his thoughts back to the present. His hand darted to his sword as he pressed his back against the bark of a nearby tree. His pulse thundered in his ears.
A goblin emerged from the undergrowth, its greenish skin mottled with dark streaks that caught the faint light filtering through the trees. Its hunched form moved with a predator's wary grace, every step deliberate as its clawed fingers flexed around a crooked blade. The faint, rancid odor of the creature reached Luc before it fully stepped into view, a sharp contrast to the earthy smells of the forest. It sniffed the air, its beady eyes darting around in search of prey, its cunning known to be more than a fox. Luc remained still, his breathing shallow. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword. Not yet, too soon.
Adrenaline surged—but instead of panic, it brought clarity. His breathing slowed, fingers steady on the hilt. Every leaf shimmered with detail. The goblin's pacing, the slight drag of its right foot, the arc of its shoulder—he tracked it all as if reading a sparring manual. The goblin's crooked blade glinted faintly in the dappled sunlight as it prowled closer, oblivious to Luc's presence. Luc waited until the creature was nearly below him. His new silver sword, ready to slay its first prey.
He exhaled once—a silent cue—and pushed off the oak's lowest bough, muscles coiled with precision, and slight panic. The earthy, nutty scent of oak filled his nostrils as his stomach tumbled. Time stretched—branches whipped past, wind roared in his ears—and the silver blade in his hand pointed straight down, tip aimed at the goblin's skull. He'd tried this leap countless times back at Steelhart, swinging at straw dummies with Caelum, because the move looked impossibly cool—even if it was wildly impractical.
He felt the sickening crunch before he saw it: the sword's point bit through bone in a single, brutal thrust. A hot spray of gray matter splattered onto moss and leaf litter below. Luc's legs went rubbery; he gagged, bile rising as he skidded to a halt against the trunk. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the forest's silence.
He pressed trembling fingers to his mouth, tasting copper and moss. A queasy wave rolled over him, and he closed his eyes, forcing breath in—hold—out like Rorik had taught. He forced himself to nod, though every nerve screamed that he'd gone too far.
The goblin gave a short, wet gasp—then went still. Luc exhaled shakily, the cold calm cracking now that it was over. His legs buckled as he slid down the bark. "One...one down," he whispered, sweat sliding down his temple.
Goblins always travel in packs—if one was here, more weren't far off. Luc's ears strained for the snap of a twig or the hiss of a nearby goblin, but the forest held its breath. His heart still hammered from the leap, and the sword's echo of bone crack made him queasy.
Hands shaking, he dragged the body into the shadow of the oak's low boughs, burying it in bracken and hoping the tree's sweet, nutty scent would mask the coppery stench of goblin blood. He'd killed a wolf once with a trap, but this up-close, face-to-face ending felt… different. Wilder. Bloodier.
Collapsing cross-legged, Luc pressed fingers to his temples and tried to remember Rorik's rhythm: Breath inhale… hold… channel… exhale. Each cycle sent a faint tingle under his skin—the calm of his Nullfield skill at work, absorbing ambient mana—from roots, mist, even the goblin's blood—into the strange null-space under his skin. Instead of pain, he felt a soft warmth unfurl through his chest, like a lullaby against his nerves.
He pictured the little barrier his Nullfield wove—an invisible shield that scooped up stray mana and kept it from burning him. Then he recalled Rorik's words on the Refined Dragon Body technique, how to coax strength from the body itself. Luc let the slow, steady pull of each breath stretch his spine, felt his muscles settle into ease. The forest's hush seemed to welcome the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
When at last he opened his eyes, they were steadier. Climbing back into the oak's branches, he crouched among the leaves, sword at the ready—both wits and his odd skill primed for whatever came next.
----
That evening, as Luc rested in the hollow of an ancient Oak tree, Rorik's voice haunted him once more.
"This ain't about heroics, lad," Rorik had said, his thick fingers jabbing at Luc's chest. "The forest don't care about yer pride. All it cares about is whether yer strong enough to walk out alive. Three days. That's all ya need to do. If ya complete the quest, fine. But don't you dare die tryin' to prove somethin'."
Luc had clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "I'm not just going to survive. I'll complete the quest and come back stronger."
Rorik had laughed then, a sound equal parts humor and exasperation. "Fine, lad. Be stubborn, but remember. Strength ain't about swingin' a sword, lad. It's knowin' when not to."
----
As night crept in, the sun going into hiding, Luc could still hear rustles of leaves, from the movement of large groups nearby, he knew, this was no time to play the hero, he had to prove his worth to the world, and a dead man tells no tales… he had to survive.
Tired and trembling, Luc's hand went to the edge of his vision—his status panel flickered open for a heartbeat:
Status Open
----
Name: Luc {Luc SteelHart}
Race: Human
Innate Talent: Mana Exile
Innate Ability:
- Nullfield
Creates a field that nullifies all mana in close proximity, providing immunity to mana-based attacks. Allows users to directly absorb mana from magic beast flesh and blood.
Passive Abilities:
- Sword Mastery III
- Dragon Body I
Active Abilities:
- Dragon Body Technique I
----
"Th-third tier… Sword Mastery?" Luc's throat constricted, and he blinked against the sudden sting of tears. His fingers hovered over the status panel, quivering so hard the light wavered.
A ragged laugh broke free, hollow and sharp. "Why… why did Father send me away?" Each word scraped past clenched teeth. The rough bark pressed into his forehead as he leaned in, arms wrapping around his ribs to hold back another sob. "If he'd known I could do this…" His voice cracked. A single tear slipped between bark and cheek.
He hunched forward, elbows on bent knees. The wind whispered through leaves above, but all he heard was the echo of every doubt he'd ever swallowed. His chest trembled, and a hiccup rattled loose. "Mom… would you have stopped him? Would you have said, 'Wait—he's not useless!'?" The question floated off into the night.
Luc wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve—damp, gritty with oak dust. He swallowed, throat raw, and forced himself to meet his own reflection in the panel's glow. "I practiced every day. Even when it hurt. Even when I wanted to quit." His voice was small, fraying at the edges.
He straightened with a shudder, pressing his palm flat against the tree's trunk. Rough ridges cut into his palm, grounding him. "I'm not weak. I—"
His breath caught, and the world tilted. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight he tasted iron. When he opened them, the forest seemed to hold its breath with him.
A fresh wave of tears blurred the status lines. He slid down until he sat cross-legged, back against the oak's hollow. "But it's too late now, isn't it?" His voice was a ghost of a whisper. "He never gave me a chance."
Silence wrapped around him, thick as moss. Luc drew in a shuddering breath—nose filling with the sap-sweet scent of oak, mouth tasting salt. "I'll show him," he rasped, fists curling in his lap, knuckles white. "I'll show them all."
The panel dimmed at last as his Nilfield drifted him toward sleep. His sobs slowed to one last, soft catch in his throat. Then, a fierce smile quivered on bruised lips: "Third tier… at thirteen. I did it."
Fatigue finally claimed him just past midnight, Luc slipping into a restless doze in the hollow of the oak. Even asleep, fear and relief tangled in his dreams, coiling like smoke in his mind until dawn's pale light pried his eyes open again.
----
The second night proved even harsher. Every crack of twig and whisper of wind dragged him from slumber, leaving Luc more hollowed-out by sunrise than if he'd never slept at all.
Now, on the third day, his body was aching. He had narrowly escaped a dire wolf the previous night, its feral instincts disrupted when his strange ability absorbed its weak mana attack. Exhausted and running low on supplies, he pushed forward. His blade was dull from constant use, his mind frayed by the unrelenting tension of the forest.
When he finally emerged onto a small cliff, the sight below stole the breath from his lungs.
A sprawling goblin encampment sprawled across the valley, crude tents clustered together like a hive. Fires burned in scattered pits, casting flickering shadows over the scene. Goblins moved among them, their chatter and snarls carrying faintly on the wind.
At the heart of the camp towered a Commander Orc, an elite second-tier beast whose greenish-gray skin gleamed in the firelight. Jagged scars mapped a history of brutal battles across its thick, corded muscles. Crimson eyes burned with a cunning intelligence rare for its kind, and the massive rune-etched axe it carried rested casually on one shoulder.
Even as it barked orders in a guttural tongue, its every movement exuded a dangerous calm that sent a chill down Luc's spine. Flanking it were a pair of goblin mages, their hands glowing faintly with pulsing mana, and two goblin riders perched on snarling wolves.
Flanking the goblins, massive Owlbears paced the perimeter, their golden eyes flickering toward the campfires as if barely restrained. He remembered reading Owlbears didn't tolerate company—never mind goblins. If they stood guard here, someone or something had bent them to its will.
Luc's gaze settled at the camp's center, where a crude stone altar held a glowing mana crystal. Its light pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat, bathing the orc and goblins in an otherworldly glow. Even from this distance, Luc felt waves of raw energy ripple through the air as though the crystal itself were alive.
"This might be it," he murmured, his stomach twisting. "The thing that's keeping them in line. That crystal… or whatever controls it."
The mana crystal thrummed with a power that seemed almost alive, its light casting an unnatural glow over the camp. Luc couldn't shake the feeling that it was watching him, that it knew he was there.
The realization chilled him to his core. The Commander Orc wasn't the true threat, neither was it the Owlbear—something far stronger was at work. A fourth-tier beast, perhaps even higher. Whatever it was, it had created this unnatural alliance, bending the will of disparate creatures to serve its purpose.
"A fourth-tier? Isn't that the kind of monster only elite mercenaries of B-rank hunt in groups."
Rorik's words came rushing back to him, Strength ain't about swingin' a sword, it's knowin' when not to. And this moment, is the moment. Luc carefully took a step back, he had succeeded in his scouting quest, there was no need to take a risk, however fate had a different plan for him.
As he pulled his leg back from the cliff's edge, his heel nudged a loose stone.
Clink—crack—
Luc's breath caught. The stone scraped downward, faster, louder—each bounce a thunderclap in his chest. "No—" A boulder lurched free. Crashing. Splintering. The forest roared with it. His body locked, brain screaming move, MOVE, but his legs wouldn't obey. A low rumble followed. His eyes widened in horror as a boulder, the size of a child's coffin, tumbled free and crashed down the cliffside. It struck a jagged ledge, shattered, and split into a cascade of thunderous noise.
Below, the camp erupted.
Goblin heads snapped upward. The Owlbears turned in unison, nostrils flaring. One bellowed, its roar splitting the valley like a warhorn. The Commander Orc raised its head—its burning red gaze locked directly on Luc.
For one impossible heartbeat, the world held still.
Then chaos broke.
The Owlbears charged, snarling as they bounded toward the cliff. Goblin riders scrambled onto their wolves. The two goblin mages began chanting, glowing sigils flickering beneath their feet.
Luc stumbled back from the ledge, breath catching in his throat. His heartbeat thudded in his ears louder than the stampede below. His scouting mission was complete. He'd done what Rorik asked. But now the forest itself had turned against him, every path ahead thick with claws and fangs and fury.
There was no time left.
Luc turned and bolted, instinct shredding through thought. The ground blurred beneath him. Branches slapped at his face, breath tore through his throat. Behind him: snarls, roars, crashing limbs. He didn't count, didn't think—he just ran. The trees closed in, and the forest was no longer a test—it was a beast, and it was hunting.
And behind him, hell followed.