Chapter 24

Three more months passed.

Still no progress.

Eight months of sweat. Pain. Discipline.

And nothing.

Lumberling sat on the dojo floor, drenched in sweat. He had done everything—memorized the manual, followed every instruction, even asked for help.

Yet no breakthrough.

'Is this really my limit?'

The thought clawed at him. This was the first time in this world—unlike in his past life—where his efforts didn't lead to a result.

'Maybe spearmanship isn't for me. I can devour skills. I have options. Why waste time here?'

The temptation to move on was strong. Too strong.

That's when the raven came.

It landed on the windowsill, carrying a small letter sealed with wax.

Lumberling took it gently, gave the bird a scrap of jerky, and unfolded the note.

"Good day, My Lord,

I hope this finds you well. I am proud to report that the tribe has grown to 214. Thanks to your teachings and the weapons we gained through trade, hunting casualties are at an all-time low. We now have equipment for blacksmithing, sewing, and construction. While we still lack a true blacksmith, craftsmen have begun to emerge.

Three goblins have evolved into hobgoblins, and two kobolds have undergone evolution as well. They await your return to receive names.

Most importantly, I, too, have evolved. It was painful. I nearly died. But I endured.

I have fulfilled your order.

We await your return.

—Skitz."

Lumberling smiled, folding the letter carefully.

Every month, Skitz sent him updates—progress reports, requests for advice.

That village, that tribe… it was his pride. His anchor.

'What am I doing? There is more to strength than just numbers. More to growth than ticking up a stat.'

Lumberling clenched the letter tightly, then slowly loosened his grip. His eyes drifted to the practice floor, to the spot where he'd been training earlier. The sweat-stained mats. The faint scuffs left by his repeated steps. The wooden spear leaning against the wall like a silent companion.

He had trained harder than he ever had in his life. No gains. No level up. No fanfare. But also—no regrets.

Skitz had evolved. The village had grown. They were learning to live, to build, to thrive.

And yet here he was, sulking like a child because he didn't get a shiny new skill level.

"I didn't come here for that," he muttered.

Lumberling stood, folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his tunic. He walked back toward the center of the dojo. The sun outside cast a slanted light across the floorboards, long and golden. A few students were still sparring in the distance, but he didn't see them. He only saw the spot where he had always trained. Alone. Quiet. Focused.

He picked up his training spear again.

He adjusted his stance.

And he moved.

Not with hope for a level-up. Not for recognition. But because his body knew the path, and his will hadn't broken.

Evening fell over the dojo, casting long shadows across the floor. Most of the others had finished training and left, their laughter fading down the hallway. Only Lumberling remained, running drills again and again.

His spear moved in clean lines, but something felt off. Too slow. Too stiff. It wasn't the way he used to fight.

He had learned in the mud. In smoke and blood. As a soldier. Not a knight.

His spear back then was just a tool—to kill or to keep himself alive. There was no form. Just instinct.

But that kind of fighting had its limits. That's why he came here.

Still, the wall stayed.

He'd watched his companions. Copied Jack's footwork. Fiona's grip. Stacy's reach control. He tried to make their skills part of his own. And yet, his progress came in inches, not leaps.

It was Henry who finally said something.

"You're forcing yourself to be something you're not," Henry had told him one day. "You can't just wear someone else's sword and expect it to fit your hand."

Then he offered a spar.

Henry fought barehanded, as he always did with Lumberling. No real weapons. No armor. Just movement, technique, and control.

Lumberling came at him hard.

He feinted low, jabbed high, swept the spear across the floor to trip him. He moved fast, tried tricks, used angles, even kicked at Henry's knee when he got too close. Every movement had one purpose: survive and strike back.

But Henry read him too well.

He slipped past the strikes, knocked the spear off balance, and sent Lumberling to the floor with a clean push.

They went again.

And again.

And every time, Lumberling pushed himself harder. His breathing grew heavy, his muscles ached, but his spear kept moving. Fast. Desperate. Raw.

Until Henry disarmed him cleanly, stopping the final strike with a firm grip and twisting the weapon from his hands.

It was over.

Lumberling stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping off his chin. He didn't say anything.

Henry tossed the spear back to him.

"You're not weak," he said. "You're just not listening to your own strength."

Then he walked away.

He continued training. Alone most nights.

Months passed.

Step. Swing. Reset.

Lumberling remembered Sorin's words: "You move like someone who refuses to stop."

That was true. That was who he was.

And if this wall didn't break today, then he would be here tomorrow.

And the day after.

And the day after that.

Not because he was weak—but because he refused to stay weak.

One evening.

"Hey, Lumberling! We're having a feast tonight—want to come?" Jack called out.

"Don't bother. He won't," said Fiona, knowing well about him.

"Seriously, what's his deal?" Aaron chimed in. "Would it kill him to take a break?"

"Yeah, like training more will even help at this point," Kyle added with a shrug. "I'd rather enjoy life a little."

Stacy, who usually stayed quiet, spoke up softly. "He's been at it for almost a year now. The only time I see him stop is to eat or sleep. He's… really dedicated."

"Dedicated? Please." Genley scoffed. "He's been swinging that stick around like a madman for months. And for what? Barely any progress."

Henry, the one among them who knew Lumberling best, gave a small sigh. "Just let him be. He's not hurting anyone. Lumberling, if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

Jack clapped his hands. "Alright, let's go. My treat tonight!"

"Woohoo! I'm eating till I drop," someone cheered as laughter trailed off with the group.

Fiona lingered a moment, casting a glance back at the training ground. "What's the point in training that much? Just move on and pick a different skill already." Then she turned and followed the others.

—

Lumberling remained silent, focused.

He hadn't heard them—or perhaps he had, and simply didn't care.

His arms moved with relentless rhythm, the wooden spear in his hands blurring through the air. He had trained like this every day for nearly a year. Unlike before, when he'd cycled through various skills, he now focused solely on Spearmanship. And yet… no level-ups. No progress. Just sweat, repetition, and grit.

But he kept going.

His breath came slow and steady. The spear wasn't just a weapon anymore—it was an extension of him.

'I am the spear, and the spear is me.'

He moved across the training ground like a dancer lost in rhythm. Anyone watching would've seen a man whose spear flowed like liquid, whose steps were neither martial nor elegant—but something in between. Something precise.

Then… time seemed to slow.

His senses sharpened. Every shift in the wind, every heartbeat in his chest became clear. His movements grew lighter, sharper. His mind grew still.

'What is this?'

He didn't stop. He closed his eyes and let his body take over.

He felt the weight of every past battle—the struggles, the pain, the essences he had consumed, the countless hours of training. All of it surged through him, as if something within had finally clicked into place.

He wasn't pushing anymore. He was flowing.

And then, something inside him shifted.

'Strength is not muscle—it is precision.

Speed is not haste—it is timing.

The spear is not held—it is wielded with understanding.'

A pulse of clarity echoed through him.

There was no great noise. No explosion of power. No sudden glow.

He felt it—deep in his bones. A subtle click, like a door opening just a crack after being shut for years. The tension in his muscles became alignment. The awkwardness between each strike vanished.

When Lumberling opened his eyes, the world had returned to normal—but he was not the same.

[Beginner Spearmanship has reached Level 4. Power +173]

[Beginner Spearmanship has evolved into Beginner Pikeman's Art Lv. 4]

He stared at the text in front of him.

Relief. Joy. Disbelief. Pride.

Then—

"I fucking did it! WHAHAHAHAHA!"

His laughter rang through the empty hall like a madman's cry of triumph. He jumped, spun, and whooped with giddy energy, ignoring the ache in his body.

"I did it! I broke through!—BUWHAHAHA!"

"Eleven months," he whispered. "Eleven damn months."

And just as suddenly as it came, his energy gave out.

His vision blurred. The exhaustion hit like a falling wall.

He collapsed to the floor with a thud, a smile still on his face.