The thought rang through Caleb's mind as he stood before Deadfall's main gates. Morning mist still clung to the ground, giving the world beyond the walls an ethereal quality. His breath formed small clouds in the cool air.
The guards on duty barely glanced his way. They leaned on their spears with the bored confidence of men who faced no real threats, their conversation continuing uninterrupted by his presence. Just another hopeful heading out to test themselves against the green depths. Nothing noteworthy about that. Their indifference stung less than it might have weeks ago. Better to be dismissed than scrutinized.
Beyond the gates, the packed earth of Deadfall's streets gave way to a muddy track that wound toward the forest. Caleb paused at this threshold, looking back one last time. The Hearthsong Inn's distinctive slate roof rose above the other buildings, a point of reference for warmth and safety in this frontier settlement.
Then he turned to face what lay ahead.
The air itself changed at the forest’s edge, the town's signature scents of wood smoke and commerce giving way to the rich odor of damp earth, decaying leaves, and the pleasant tang of pine. The Virethane Forest rose before him like a living wall, a silent, green ocean of wood and shadow. Towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock, their trunks thick as houses, disappeared into a canopy so dense it created its own twilight. Moss draped like a winter cloak hung from every branch in tattered shrouds.
He took his first step onto the sodden path, his boot sinking with a soft squelch as the ground fog parted around his legs. He moved deeper, his hand bracing against the slick, moss-covered bark of a spruce to negotiate a dip in the path. Ferns, heavy with dew, brushed against his pant legs, leaving streaks of cold moisture.
The sounds of the village vanished, replaced by the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears and the rush of his own breathing. With each step, the only other sounds were the drip of condensation from impossibly high branches, the occasional crack of settling wood, and the sigh of wind through the canopy.
The quiet was a pressure against his eardrums, amplifying every rustle of his clothes and the sucking sound of his boots in the mud.
The spear in his grasp helped ground him. The cuirass pressed into his diaphragm as he breathed, a persistent reminder of the limited protection it offered.
He thought of Evelynn, safe in another world he could never return to. Of Katie and Jack, impossibly distant. The grief was a constant ache now, a burden he had learned to endure. And now he had new responsibilities. Cassia's maternal concern. Felicity's professional faith. Even Leo's desperate need for a protector. He couldn't afford to wallow when others depended on him.
He was an adventurer with a sanctioned contract, a clear objective, and a job to do.
The path to the quarry wound north, according to the map he had memorized from the Adventurer's Guild. Far enough from Deadfall that help wouldn't come if he screamed.
Okay, a three-mile commute to the project site, he told himself, forcing his mind into comfortable patterns. Current time: approximately an hour past dawn. ETA at current pace: forty-five minutes. Environmental hazards: moderate to severe.
The mental framework helped. It reframed the wilderness as a problem to be solved. The project kickoff meeting had officially begun. Agenda item one: Don't Get Eaten. He'd worry about the deliverables later.
His [Observation] ramped up, capturing every detail with the rigorous analysis he once applied to spreadsheets. He knelt, his eyes locking onto a series of prints in the damp earth. The sight triggered a memory as if it had happened a moment ago: Meriel's touch led a young Thal's eyes to a matching print. Her calm, steady voice sounded in his memory. “Three toes, spread wide like a fan. That is a fernhorn, my love. Always look at the depth. The forest tells you its stories if you know how to listen.”
Fresh tracks in the mud. Three-toed, splayed pattern. Size suggests fernhorn stag, adult male based on the depth of impression. Heading northwest, approximately six hours old based on water accumulation in the depressions.
He stepped over a fallen log thick as his torso, its surface carpeted with what looked like dark, rubbery ears growing directly from the rotting wood. Another flicker of knowledge from Thal's mother identified it: woodear fungus, F-Tier, minor stamina restoration properties. He stored the location away mentally. Future harvesting opportunity, assuming he survived the current project.
The path curved around a massive root buttress, and Caleb had to press himself against the damp bark to squeeze through. The tree's trunk disappeared into the mist above, its circumference easily the size of a wagon. How old was it? Centuries? Millennia? In his world, this would be a protected landmark with guided tours and a gift shop. Here, it was just Tuesday.
A branch snapped somewhere to his left.
Caleb froze, both hands gripping his spear tightly. His mana-enhanced perception swept outward, feeling for any sign of aura or energy. There—ten yards away, moving parallel to the path. Too small for a predator. Probably.
He waited, counting breaths. The presence moved on, whatever it was uninterested in him. He resumed walking but didn't stop clenching his spear.
Environmental data point logged: medium-sized fauna, non-aggressive behavior pattern. Possibly herbivorous. Add to threat assessment matrix as low priority.
The mechanical framing was ridiculous, he knew. But his heart rate steadied, and the tremor in his hands subsided. It worked. He became a project manager conducting a preliminary site assessment to ignore the fact he was stumbling through a monster-infested forest.
And any good project manager identifies and mitigates risk. His current risk profile was unacceptable. His primary asset was his spear. His primary liability? His own two feet. If an unexpected variable—a predator, another ambush—appeared, his mobility options were limited to "run" and "run slightly faster." Not good enough.
He stopped, leaning against a trunk coated in moss. Time for some on-the-job training.
His [Perfect Memory] replayed Captain Hatch’s demonstration in his mind, providing a complete sensory record of the event. He could feel the memory of Hatch’s Stamina pooling in his legs, the explosive release, the effortless glide.
Observation is the first step to understanding. The captain's words were a clear directive.
Caleb took a ready stance on the muddy path, mimicking the captain’s posture. He concentrated inward, reaching for the diffuse warmth of Stamina suffused throughout his muscle and bone. With his Intent, he tried to gather that energy, pulling threads of it from his arms and torso and concentrating the flow into his legs, stepping forward.
Instead of gliding, he lurched.
His right foot shot a few feet in a clumsy, uncontrolled spasm that nearly sent him sprawling into the mud. The motion felt like triggering a knee-jerk reflex.
Performance review: needs improvement, he thought, catching his balance. He replayed the memory of Hatch’s demonstration, along with the captain's explicit warning. A controlled detonation, not a sustained charge. The logic felt wrong to his project-manager persona. A quick jolt was wasteful. Why not just flood the muscles with Stamina and keep them empowered for the duration, like a fully charged battery?
He tested his theory, focusing his Intent on creating a sustained concentration of Stamina in his legs. He commanded the Stamina from his entire system to converge into his legs, holding it there. His arms and chest felt oddly dull, while his legs grew unnaturally dense and hot, humming like overloaded engines. He took a step.
The world blurred. It worked. He shot forward a full ten yards in a smooth, controlled burst of speed.
A translucent blue window shimmered into existence before him.
[New Ability Gained: Dash (F) - Novice]
A fierce grin cut across his face. See? More efficient.
The triumph was short-lived.
Searing fire erupted in his calves and thighs. The muscles, moments ago humming with power, seized violently. He cried out, his legs buckling beneath him. He crashed to the ground, his body a tangle of limbs. The pain was excruciating, a deep, grinding agony as every fiber in his legs locked into an unforgiving cramp. His control over his Stamina broke, the energy dispersing back through his body.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
He lay there gasping, frantically massaging his legs through the worst charley horse of his life. He worked his thumbs deep into the knotted muscles, trying to force them to release. Minutes passed, each one a slow torment, before the agony subsided into a dull, throbbing ache.
He pushed himself up, leaning against a tree, his legs still trembling with the aftershocks. The sheer foolishness of the decision forced a laugh out of him. He had a crystal-clear memory of Captain Hatch's life-or-death warning and, with the confidence of someone who thought they knew better, had ignored it completely. What kind of project manager hears a direct warning from the lead engineer and decides to ignore it? The choice was pure intellectual arrogance, an assumption that his Earth-based logic could outsmart the fundamental physics of this world. The pain was a harsh and necessary lesson.
[Savant of the Mind] connected the fiery pain to his flawed premise. He’d treated his legs like a battery to be filled, but the result felt more like an engine redlining until its pistons seized. The energy wasn't meant to be stored in the muscle; it had to be ignited and vented in a single, controlled burst. Leaving it there overtaxed the tissue, burning it out from the inside.
The concept of a controlled release and return brought up a different memory. Eight years old on a sunny afternoon, holding a bright red yo-yo. He remembered the satisfying schwish as he threw it, the string unspooling, the plastic disk descending. He felt the subtle tug as it reached the end of the string, the exact moment to flick his wrist and bring it spinning back to his palm.
[Savant of the Body] seized the analogy. The flow of Stamina was the yo-yo. It had to flow out, suffusing the muscles completely, just like the yo-yo reaching its lowest point. That moment of full saturation was the window to act. And just as the yo-yo began its return trip instantly, he had to retract the Stamina just as quickly. A single, fluid motion. Out, act, in.
He pushed himself shakily to his feet, his legs still unsteady. Took the stance again. He visualized the yo-yo. With his Intent, he gathered the Stamina from his limbs and torso, concentrating it into his legs. He felt them become supercharged as the energy suffused the muscles—the yo-yo hitting the end of its string.
Now.
He pushed off, and as his body moved, he released the concentration, letting the Stamina recede back to its natural, diffuse state throughout his body. The motion was clean. He moved forward.
Two yards.
He stopped, standing perfectly balanced. The technique felt right, free of lurching or pain, just... insufficient. He tried again, pushing harder this time, and managed three. It was like a yo-yo that went down and came right back up, the motion complete but not achieving his purpose. What was he missing? He analyzed the failure. The Stamina he'd injected had been consumed by the initial push, leaving nothing for the rest of the movement. He'd done a basic "down and up" trick, but [Dash] required something more.
The memory shifted. The "sleeper." The trick where the yo-yo spun at the end of the string, seemingly defying gravity.
That was the key.
The sequence was out, sustain, in. He had to inject the initial burst, then continue feeding a smaller, precise stream of Stamina for the entire duration of the movement, all while preparing to pull it all back the instant the movement was complete.
Mind, body, and energy had to work in concert.
He took a deep breath. He gathered an initial concentration of Stamina into his legs. As he stepped forward, he maintained the systemic draw, pulling a continuous, fine thread of energy from the rest of his body to sustain the motion. The world around him became a green-and-brown smear. For a single, exhilarating second, he was pure momentum. Then, his lead foot planted firmly on the path ten yards away.
The instant the movement ended he released the mental hold, allowing the concentrated energy to flow back out, re-saturating his entire system. He stood perfectly still, breathing steadily, his body left with only the quiet hum of exhausted muscles and the hollowness of a depleted energy reserve.
[Your proficiency with Dash (F) has increased to Practiced.]
A grim smile touched his lips. New skill fully acquired. Integration into current operational parameters: complete. He spent the next few minutes practicing, each attempt a little smoother, a little more controlled, until the burn in his legs and the dip in his Stamina told him to stop. This was a limited resource, to be deployed strategically. He continued his walk toward the quarry, the new Ability a small but significant part of his arsenal.
Forty minutes later, the forest began to change. The undergrowth thinned. The mighty spruces—or at least their Veraxian equivalent—gave way to younger growth. Through gaps in the canopy, he caught glimpses of grey stone rising like broken teeth.
The old quarry.
Caleb approached the forest edge with deliberate caution, using a thick maple trunk as cover. The trees ended abruptly, as if someone had drawn a line and declared "no further." Beyond lay a rough clearing of trampled grass and scrub brush, maybe fifty yards wide. Past that rose the quarry proper—a massive horseshoe of carved stone faces, each one showing the bite marks of picks and chisels.
It was far larger than he expected, easily three hundred yards across at its widest point. The floor was a chaotic maze, but its most dominant feature was an overgrown spine of waste rock. This "spoil ridge" rose like a jagged earthen wall, effectively bisecting the quarry floor and isolating the southern tip from the rest of the pit.
Rusted mining carts lay overturned like dead beetles. Sections of narrow-gauge track emerged from the grass only to disappear again, a skeleton of industry consumed by nature. Decaying tools lay scattered where they'd been dropped—hammers, picks, a wheelbarrow with a tree growing through its rusted bottom. He didn't know what had happened here, but it looked like they had abandoned it in a hurry long ago.
There was a silence that differed from the forest's living quiet. It was dead air, a stillness where not even the buzz of insects or the rustle of a foraging mouse broke the hush. It felt wrong. Expectant.
Movement caught his eye. Far to the north, at the base of the eastern wall where shadows pooled despite the morning light. A cave mouth partially hidden by a rockfall. As he watched a figure emerged.
The feral goblin moved on all fours, its gait mixing the worst aspects of human and animal locomotion. Even from this distance Caleb could see the unnatural length of its limbs, the way its spine curved wrong, the complete absence of anything resembling clothes or tools. It paused at the cave entrance, pale eyes scanning the northern sector, then disappeared back into the darkness.
Primary den located. One confirmed, likely more inside.
Caleb retreated deeper into the treeline, then began circling the quarry's perimeter. His knowledge of [Stealth] guided his movements—foot placement to avoid dry twigs, using wind direction to stay downwind, timing his motion to coincide with ambient forest sounds. Every fifty yards he stopped to observe and document.
He was rewarded for his efforts.
[Your proficiency with Stealth (F) has increased to Practiced.]
He filed the notification away and continued his sweep of the perimeter, eyes cataloging every detail.
He found his observation post on a small rise to the east, covered in sword ferns, offering clear sightlines of the southern sector while providing concealment. Setting down his pack, he pulled out the oilcloth parcel Cassia had provided. He ate some of the smoked meat and dense travel bread mechanically, leaving the small pot of preserved fruit for later. His eyes never left the quarry as he worked to assuage his hunger, turning the quarry into a mental map.
Over the next few hours as Cinder joined Aurum in the sky, patterns began to emerge through moments of heart-stopping panic.
Once, a pair of goblins broke from the main group, their chittering conversation growing louder as they snuffled along a path that would take them just feet from his fern-covered hiding spot. Caleb flattened himself against the damp earth, slowing his breath to a crawl, feeling the vibration of their steps through the soil. They passed without noticing, but the proximity left a sheen of sweat on his brow.
He remained motionless long after they were gone, letting the adrenaline drain away. The encounter was a necessary reminder: he couldn't afford a direct confrontation with the pack. His sole advantage was intelligence. He needed to be surgical.
Most activity centered on the cave mouth at the far northern end, but one particular goblin caught his attention. Smaller than the others, possibly younger or just weaker. It bore fresh scratches on its hide, wounds possibly inflicted by its own pack mates. When the others emerged, it retreated. When they ate, it waited. Classic outcast behavior.
More importantly, it had a routine that took it away from the safety of the den.
Every twenty to thirty minutes, the smaller goblin would leave the main group. It skittered along the base of the eastern wall, moving away from the cave until it disappeared behind the massive spoil ridge. This mound completely screened that area from the main den's line of sight, creating a pocket of total privacy.
Caleb shifted his position to see behind the ridge. There, in the isolated southern cul-de-sac, a spring-fed pool had formed in a deep depression.
The goblin was isolating itself to drink in peace. To reach that pool it had to put a massive wall of earth and stone between itself and its kin. It was a trek that rendered it blind and deaf to the main pack… and them to it.
Phase One: Positioning. He would descend into the southern pocket before the goblin's next run. The giant berm would act as a sound barrier, dampening the noise of the struggle.
Phase Two: Engagement. Wait behind a boulder at the pool. [Dash]. [Breaching Thrust].
Phase Three: Verification. Confirm the kill, harvest proof, immediate extraction before the pack noticed its absence.
He could do this.
Caleb checked his equipment one final time. Speartip, sharp. Cuirass straps, secure. Healing potion, accessible. Everything in its place, everything with a purpose.
The smaller goblin was stirring near the cave, beginning its shuffle toward the ridge. Right on schedule. Caleb rose from his concealment and advanced on the ambush point, moving down into the southern pocket and tucking into his hiding place. He noted a slight vibration in the spear shaft and consciously tightened his grip until the tremor ceased. His pulse was an insistent drum against his ribs, but he matched his breathing to its rhythm, mastering it.
This was about executing a plan with professional competence, proving he could survive through preparation and planning alone.
The goblin rounded the spoil ridge and reached the pool, lowering its grotesque head to drink. Caleb settled into position behind the boulder, spear braced, body set. He knew the pattern. The creature would remain vulnerable, lapping at the water, for roughly thirty seconds.
He wouldn't wait that long. He needed to strike while it was blind to the world.
Fifteen seconds, he decided. Let it settle. Then end it.
He drew a slow breath, held it, and began the count.
The quarry and forest had gone silent around him, as if the Virethane itself was watching. Waiting to see if this strange newcomer would join the ranks of predators or become just another set of bones scattered across the quarry floor.
Twelve.
His grip tightened on the ash wood shaft.
Eight.
The goblin shifted, its claws scraping against the rock. Caleb tensed, his legs loading with potential energy.
Five.
The goblin snapped its head up, water dripping from its needle teeth.
Three.
It turned.
Chapter 25 TLDR: She was more surprised. :)
Chapter 25 revision, after Caleb shows Felicity he achieved Adept rank