New Threat

Time went on, and Charlie kept himself busy.

He worked hard within the walls, completing his chores, training, and preparing himself for the day he could begin cultivating. Unfortunately, the pillar wouldn't allow it yet—no one under the skeletal age of twelve could cultivate. The rule frustrated Charlie, but he channeled his energy into other tasks, knowing his time would come soon enough.

Meanwhile, the world outside grew harsher.

The war with the warlord's faction dragged on. Battles were bloody, and casualties piled up on both sides. Each skirmish took its toll—not just in lives, but in morale.

People died.

Charlie only saw glimpses of the war's brutality. Men and women who left to fight didn't return, their names whispered in grief and loss. The war wasn't heroic or glorious; it was slow, grinding, and relentless.

But the settlement endured.

Then his father made an announcement that changed everything. He ended the isolationist policies and officially named the settlement New Dakota. It was more than just a name—it was a declaration of purpose. New Dakota would stand for law and order, for safety and survival.

In New Dakota, those who contributed had value. Those who sacrificed would be honored. If you paid the ultimate price, your family wouldn't be abandoned. They'd receive food, a place near the wall, and protection under the settlement's laws. It wasn't luxury, but it was a future.

Still, Gretchin's stories painted a darker picture of the world beyond the settlement's walls.

Her scouting trips revealed settlements that hadn't lasted, places that had crumbled under the weight of their own weakness.

"There are no rules out there," she said once, after returning from a particularly grim mission. "If you don't have someone strong enough to protect you, you're nothing. The strong take what they want, and the weak… well, they're just left to deal with it."

Her tone was calm, but her words lingered in Charlie's mind.

Gretchin never went into unnecessary detail, but Charlie could imagine the rest: families left defenseless, children taken or abandoned, entire settlements governed by fear and violence. In most places, survival wasn't about fairness or cooperation—it was about brute strength.

In contrast, New Dakota was an oddity.

Charlie's father had built something rare: a settlement where strength wasn't just about power, but about protection. Where rules existed not to exploit, but to uphold. But even as New Dakota grew, Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that it was a fragile peace, one that could be shattered at any moment by the dangers outside.

And then, the goblins came.

It started with a hunting party vanishing—five skilled individuals, including an elite hunter. When they didn't return, many assumed the warlord's forces were responsible. Charlie's father sent a group of cultivators to investigate. What they found was far worse.

The goblins had arrived.

These weren't the goblins of stories or myths. This was a savage, brutal race, ruled by hunger and cunning. Goblins didn't live in isolation—they thrived in numbers.

There was no such thing as one goblin.

They moved in packs, with body cultivators forming the bulk of their forces. Their raw power and speed turned even a single goblin into a formidable opponent. But then there were the "kings."

King goblins were rare, towering over their kin in size and intelligence. Unlike the others, these goblins possessed physiques suited for spirit cultivation. They wielded energy with precision and lethality, commanding their warbands with terrifying efficiency. Fighting a single king goblin was like facing an elite human cultivator. Fighting a king leading a warband? That was a nightmare.

Goblins relied on large numbers to overwhelm their enemies, their ability to reproduce quickly ensuring their population always grew. They were omnivores, but they had a particular preference for the flesh of other races.

For humanity, fighting goblins was brutal.

Humans had no natural advantages. They didn't breed quickly, they lacked natural affinities, and their physiques were weaker compared to the other races emerging in this mana-infused universe. The pillars had given humans techniques, but cultivation took time—time humanity didn't have.

Charlie overheard the whispers of hunters who had barely survived encounters with goblins. They spoke of the goblins' speed, their savagery, and their coordination. They didn't just kill—they consumed and grew stronger with every victory.

More people died.

But even as the threat grew, New Dakota continued to expand. Families fleeing the chaos sought refuge behind its walls, drawn by the promise of safety and order. The population swelled, but so did the strain. More mouths to feed, more people to protect, and more eyes watching the horizon for the next danger.

The danger wasn't limited to goblins or warlords. Beasts were evolving too. Those that developed cores were especially dangerous, and the Ashes Empire's warning rang clear: humans needed to bond with the offspring of core beasts to stand a chance in this brutal world. Core beasts weren't just stronger—they carried traits and power that could make or break a bond.

Eventually, Charlie's father sat him and Amber down for a serious talk.

"The pillars gave us a timeline," he said, his tone calm but resolute. "Humanity has ten years. That's how long we have before beasts start developing cores on a broader scale. Outliers already exist, but this is our window. If we can survive the next decade, we'll have a chance to stand on even ground. But it's going to be hard—harder than anything we've faced so far."

Charlie didn't need his father to elaborate. He'd seen enough to understand what was coming. Survival wouldn't just be about holding the walls—it would be a fight to determine whether humanity had a place in this evolving, brutal world.

The jungle didn't care about laws, principles, or fairness.

It cared about strength.