"The Sengolio Empire sent an army through the Multan Fortress," the bandit said, his voice shaky. "Marquess Faythorn, Ravencourt, and Myzareth were all killed. Marquess Durnevan was gravely wounded. The counties nearby are burning—war has broken out. We escaped from Durnevan County."
Lumberling stiffened.
A single Marquess was no pushover. They were all at least Knight Stage 3, elite protectors of the empire's borders. For three to fall meant the Sengolio Empire had sent multiple Knight Stage 3 combatants—or worse.
"The Multan Fortress… was overrun?" Lumberling asked. "When?"
"Two months ago," the man replied. "Word is that the Sengolio army is being led by a Knight Stage 4."
Lumberling's eyes narrowed. A Knight Stage 4… That wasn't just any commander. That was an Imperial Legate—a living weapon just one step below the emperor. Only a Knight Stage 5, typically the emperor himself, could match such power. And history was clear: if an empire ever produced more than one Knight Stage 5, it often led to civil war over the throne.
If the Sengolio Empire had deployed a Legate, then this war wasn't like the past border skirmishes—it was full-scale invasion. The implications settled heavily in Lumberling's chest. Refugees would pour into the region. Bandit activity would surge. Trade routes would collapse.
He had to prepare. His merchant network, the goblin village, even the people under his care—everything was about to be tested.
He glanced down at the bearded man trembling at the tip of his spear.
Lumberling didn't hesitate. He drove the spear through his heart.
The man's eyes widened. A breath escaped. Then silence.
(You have devoured the Knight Page's essence. 55 essence absorbed. Absorbing a portion of the Knight Page's memories and experiences.)
A flicker of knowledge surged through Lumberling's mind—a passive skill in swordsmanship. But since he hadn't yet broken through his current limit, the skill's experience bar remained stuck. He could feel the knowledge just out of reach, like trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue.
Still, the insights weren't wasted. They would serve as a foundation once he broke through. For now, he filed it away and scanned the forest one last time. No witnesses. No survivors.
He vanished into the trees.
On the lower slopes of the mountain, two figures crouched low in a thicket of bushes.
"Grandpa… where's Brother?" Jen whispered, clinging to his cloak.
"Jen," the old man gently corrected, "from now on, you must call him Lord. And don't worry—our Lord is strong. Nothing will happen to him."
"Okay, Grandpa."
"It's alright, you can call me Brother."
They both jumped at the voice behind them. But once they recognized it, relief flooded their faces.
"Brother!" the girl cried, leaping into Lumberling's arms.
He smiled and caught her, steadying her with one arm as he gently patted her head.
"You did well, Jen. You protected your grandfather."
"Mhm." She nodded proudly, burying her face in his shoulder.
Lumberling glanced at the old man and nodded. "Let's move. It's not safe here."
The trio traveled through the forest, heading directly toward the goblin village. Lumberling decided to introduce the old man and the girl to Uncle Drake and the village chief later, after they had time to adjust to the environment.
Days passed until they stood before a fortified settlement nestled in the wilderness. Towering five-meter wooden walls encircled the village, with archers posted along the ramparts. A tall gate loomed ahead, leaving only the front and rear gates as viable entry points.
Lumberling silently nodded in appreciation. While many of the strategic suggestions had come from him, Skitz was the one who had executed them. In a monster-infested forest, minimizing entry points made defense far more manageable. He also noticed concealed traps scattered around the perimeter. Instead of spreading their resources thin, Skitz had heavily reinforced the gates—just as instructed. Lumberling had also ordered the construction of an underground escape route in case of emergencies, and he was sure Skitz had followed through.
Even his companions were taken aback by the sight.
They had seen real cities and military forts before, yet the knowledge that monsters lived behind these walls filled them with awe. The old man had steeled himself for the worst—a dismal, rundown shantytown—but what he saw was a thriving village that defied all expectations.
"Stop right there!" came a rough voice.
A goblin stood on the wall, shouting in broken human tongue. Though his accent was thick and his pronunciation crude, his words were understandable. Lumberling blinked in surprise. It seemed Skitz had begun training some of the goblins in language—an unexpected yet clever initiative. Even more impressive, the goblin hadn't attacked on sight, but opted to communicate first.
"Why are you here, humans?"
Before the goblin could say more, a hand tapped his shoulder. He turned—and froze.
Behind him stood all the village leaders.
The old man nearly forgot to breathe. Goblins and kobolds, each as tall or taller than humans, lined up at the gates. They wore iron armor, their weapons sheathed but ever ready. Their presence radiated power—and danger. The aura of the goblin in the center was so intense that it rivaled, or perhaps even surpassed, that of Lumberling.
They were all smiling—but it wasn't comforting. Even the little girl clutched Lumberling's sleeve, stiff with fear.
"I apologize for my subordinate, my Lord," said a familiar voice. "He was born only months ago and didn't recognize you."
"It's alright," Lumberling replied, smiling as he took in the evolved goblins and kobolds before him.
"Open the gates!" Skitz commanded.
The gates groaned open. As they walked forward, Skitz and the others descended and knelt on one knee in unison.
"Welcome back, our Lord."
Lumberling glanced at the familiar faces kneeling before him. Some he recognized immediately—Skitz, the ever-reliable vice commander; Gobo1 and Gobo2, the spirited twins; Takkar, the proud kobold warrior; Vakk and Skarn, two of the earliest elites. Beside them stood a hobgoblin he didn't recognize, clearly promoted in his absence. Behind the captains, four unfamiliar elite kobolds and two hobgoblins stood tall—newly evolved vice-captains, judging by their aura and posture.
"Good job fortifying the village," Lumberling said. "You've exceeded my expectations. I'll reward you later."
"It is my honor, my Lord," Skitz replied with a deep bow.
The old man watched in stunned silence, trying to make sense of the scene. A goblin—Skitz—was speaking fluent human language. If not for his gray skin and pointed ears, he might have mistaken him for a human noble. His posture, confidence, and articulation were uncanny. It challenged everything the old man thought he knew about monsters.
"Brother," the little girl whispered, tugging on Lumberling's sleeve, "who are they? They won't hurt us, right?"
Lumberling smiled and pinched her nose. "Ow!"
"Silly," he said warmly. "They won't. They're just like you—they serve me. From now on, we'll be living with them."
Though still cautious, the girl no longer trembled. Her earlier fear, sparked by the oppressive aura of the evolved monsters, had faded, replaced by innocent curiosity. Lumberling noted the change with silent pride—her heart was strong.
"Rise," he commanded. "Skitz, give me a report of what's happened while I was away. We'll hold your naming ceremony tonight."
He turned to the hobgoblins and kobolds behind him. Among monsterfolk, receiving a name from their Lord was a sacred rite, a symbol of recognition and loyalty.
"Oh, and Skitz," he added, "prepare rooms for my companions—close to mine."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Also, prepare a feast. I want everyone present tonight. Recall the hunters."
"At once."
The captains bowed and dispersed to carry out the orders, leaving Skitz to escort his Lord and guests on a walk through the village.
They passed sturdy wooden homes, well-maintained and lined in orderly rows. There were farmlands on the fringes, training barracks and grounds, a blacksmith area still struggling to produce quality weapons, and even a sewing facility. Nearby stood a barn housing four horses, a butcher shed, livestock pens, a boar enclosure, and signs of expanding construction all around.
'They remembered everything.' Lumberling thought. He had left behind sketches and blueprints… and they turned it into a world.
As Skitz led them through the village, Lumberling's boots crunched over stone-paved paths—paths that didn't exist when he left. Buildings stood taller now, their structures reinforced with timber frames, mud-brick filling, and sloped thatch roofs. Orderly rows of homes lined one side, while in the distance, a new blacksmith shed belched weak smoke.
Lumberling paused in front of a modest infirmary with a wooden sun symbol carved above the door.
"This wasn't here before," he said, narrowing his eyes as he studied the clean, open design.
"No, my Lord," Skitz replied proudly. "We built it after the last winter. Too many goblins froze or fell ill. You said to protect our strength—so we made a place to do that."
"Good," Lumberling murmured. "Very good."
A few steps later, they passed rows of latrines tucked discreetly near a flowing stream, fenced with planks and bamboo.
The old man blinked, surprised. "You have… sanitation?"
Skitz tilted his head. "Yes. Clean water, clean food, clean butts. That was one of Lord Lumberling's decrees."
The old man chuckled under his breath, a rare glimmer of amusement in his weary eyes. "I've been to noble keeps less thoughtful than this."
They passed the training grounds next, where several goblins practiced sparring. A kobold instructor barked commands in their native tongue, but his rhythm and form carried a strange grace—like a soldier.
Jen's eyes widened.
"Brother, is that a school?"
Lumberling glanced over. A row of young goblins were gathered under a shaded area, listening to another goblin scrawl symbols in charcoal onto a bark tablet.
"It's not a school yet," he said with a grin. "But it's getting close."
The girl tugged on her grandfather's sleeve. "Can I study with them too?"
The old man smiled gently. "If the Lord permits, then yes."
"Of course," Lumberling said, voice warm. "They could use a clever girl like you."
They turned a corner and came upon a small livestock pen. Pigs and boars rooted lazily in the mud. Nearby, a few chicken-like forest birds clucked in handmade cages. A goblin farmer was cutting grass and tossing it into the pens.
"You have farms… livestock… you even raise horses," the old man murmured in awe. "I expected—"
"A swamp, a few mud huts, and a bunch of snarling monsters?" Lumberling finished for him, smirking.
The old man nodded slowly. "Something like that."
Lumberling didn't say anything right away. He just stood still for a moment, looking over the fields where goblins and kobolds worked side by side. Some laughed. Others sang. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't elegant.
But it was theirs.
"It's not much," he said finally. "But it's a beginning."
The old man looked at him, eyes squinting beneath age-wrinkled lids. "No, my Lord. This is more than a beginning. This is a miracle."